Ellida. Yes, I have heard from him. First I had a few short lines from
Archangel. He only wrote he was going to America. And then he told me
where to send an answer.
Wangel. And did you?
Ellida. At once. I wrote him, of course, that all must be at an end
between us; and that he must no longer think of me, just as I should no
longer think of him.
Wangel. But did he write again?
Ellida. Yes, he wrote again.
Wangel. And what was his answer to your communication?
Ellida. He took no notice of it. It was exactly as if I had never broken
with him. He wrote quite composedly and calmly that I must wait for him.
When he could have me he would let me know, and then I was to go to him
at once.
Wangel. So he would not release you?
Ellida. No. Then I wrote again, almost word for word as I had before; or
perhaps more firmly.
Wangel. And he gave in?
Ellida. Oh, no! Don't think that! He wrote quietly, as before--not a
word of my having broken with him. Then I knew it was useless, and so I
never wrote to him again.
Wangel. And you never heard from him?
Ellida. Oh, yes! I have had three letters since then. Once he wrote to
me from California, and a second time from China. The last letter I had
from him was from Australia. He wrote he was going to the gold-mines;
but since then he has made no sign.
Wangel. This man has had a strange power over you, Ellida.
Ellida. Yes, yes! The terrible man!
Wangel. But you mustn't think of that any more. Never again--never!
Promise me that, my dear, beloved Ellida. Now we must try another
treatment for you. Fresher air than here within the fjords. The salt,
fresh air of the sea! Dear, what say you to that?
Ellida. Oh! don't speak of it! Don't think of it! There is no help in
this for me. I feel that so well. I can't shake it off--not even there.
Wangel. What, dear?--What do you really mean?
Ellida. I mean the horror of it, this incomprehensible power over the
mind.
Wangel. But you have shaken it off--long since--when you broke with him.
Why, all this is long past now.
Ellida (springing up). No; that it is not--it is not!
Wangel. Not past?
Ellida. No, Wangel, it is not past; and I fear it never will be--never,
in all our life.
Wangel (in a pained voice). Do you mean to say that in your innermost
heart you have never been able to forget this strange man?
Ellida. I had forgotten him; but then it was as if he had suddenly come
back again.
Wangel. How long ago is that?
Ellida. It's about three years ago, now, or a little longer. It was just
when I expected the child.
Wangel. Ah! at that time? Yes, Ellida--now I begin to understand many
things.
Ellida. You are mistaken, dear. What has come to me? Oh! I believe
nothing on earth will ever make it clear.
Wangel (looking sadly at her). Only to think that all these three years
you have cared for another man. Cared for another. Not for me--but for
another!
Ellida. Oh! you are so utterly mistaken! I care for no one but you.
Wangel (in a subdued voice). Why, then, in all this time have you not
lived with me as my wife?
Ellida. Because of the horror that comes from the strange man.
Wangel. The horror?
Ellida. Yes, the horror. A horror so terrible--such as only the sea
could hold. For now you shall hear, Wangel.
(The young townsfolk come back, bow, and pass out to the right. Together
with them come ARNHOLM, BOLETTE, HILDE, and LYNGSTRAND.)
Bolette (as she passes by). Well, are you still walking about up here?
Ellida. Yes, it is so cool and pleasant up here on the heights.
Arnholm. We, for our part, are going down for a dance.
Wangel. All right. We'll soon come down--we also.
Hilde. Goodbye, for the present!
Ellida. Mr. Lyngstrand, will you wait one moment? (LYNGSTRAND Stops.
ARNHOLM, BOLETTE and HILDE go out. To LYNGSTRAND.) Are you going to
dance too?
Lyngstrand. No, Mrs. Wangel. I don't think I dare.
Ellida. No, you should be careful, you know--your chest. You're not
quite well yet, you see.
Lyngstrand. Not quite.
Ellida (with some hesitation). How long may it be now since you went on
that voyage?
Lyngstrand. That time when I contracted this weakness?
Ellida. Yes, that voyage you told me about this morning?
Lyngstrand. Oh! it's about--wait a moment--yes, it's a good three years
now.
Ellida. Three years, then.
Lyngstrand. Perhaps a little more. We left America in February, and we
were wrecked in March. It was the equinoctial gales we came in for.
Ellida (looking at WANGEL). So it was at that time--
Wangel. But, dear Ellida--
Ellida. Well, don't let me detain you, Mr. Lyngstrand. Now go down, but
don't dance.
Lyngstrand. No, I'll only look on. (He goes out.)
Ellida. Johnston was on board too, I am quite certain of it.
Wangel. What makes you think so?
Ellida (without answering). He learnt on board that I had married
another while he was away. And so that very hour this came over me.
Wangel. The horror?
Ellida. Yes, all of a sudden I see him alive right in front of me; or,
rather a little in profile. He never looks at me, only he is there.
Wangel. How do you think he looks?
Ellida. Exactly as when I saw him last.
Wangel. Ten years ago?
Ellida. Yes; out there at Bratthammeren. Most distinctly of all I see
his breastpin, with a large bluish-white pearl in it. The pearl is like
a dead fish's eye, and it seems to glare at me.
Wangel. Good God! You are more ill than I thought. More ill than you
yourself know, Ellida.
Ellida. Yes, yes! Help me if you can, for I feel how it is drawing
closer and more close.
Wangel. And you have gone about in this state three whole years, bearing
for yourself this secret suffering, without confiding in me.
Ellida. But I could not; not till it became necessary for your own sake.
If I had confided in you I should also have had to confide to you the
unutterable.
Wangel. Unutterable?
Ellida. No, no, no! Do not ask. Only one thing, nothing more. Wangel,
when shall we understand that mystery of the boy's eyes?
Wangel. My dear love, Ellida, I assure you it was only your own fancy.
The child had exactly the same eyes as other normal children have.
Ellida. No, he had not. And you could not see it! The child's eyes
changed colour with the sea. When the fjord lay bathed in sunshine, so
were his eyes. And so in storm. Oh, I saw it, if you did not!
Wangel (humouring her). Maybe. But even if it were true, what then?
Ellida (in lower voice, and coming nearer). I have seen such eyes
before.
Wangel. Well? Where?
Ellida. Out at Bratthammeren, ten years ago.
Wangel (stepping back). What does it mean?
Ellida (whispers, trembling). The child had the strange man's eyes.
Wangel (cries out reluctantly). Ellida!
Ellida (clasps her hands despairingly about her head). Now you
understand why I would not, why I dared not, live with you as your wife.
(She turns suddenly and rushes off over the heights.)
Wangel (hurrying after her and calling). Ellida, Ellida! My poor unhappy
Ellida!
ACT III
(SCENE.--A more remote part of DOCTOR WANGEL'S garden. It is boggy and
overshadowed by large old trees. To the right is seen the margin of a
dank pond. A low, open fence separates the garden from the footpath, and
the fjord in the background. Beyond is the range of mountains, with its
peaks. It is afternoon, almost evening. BOLETTE sits on a stone seat,
and on the seat lie some books and a work-basket. HILDE and LYNGSTRAND,
both with fishing-tackle, walk along the bank of the pond.)
Hilde (making a sign to LYNGSTRAND). I can see a large one.
Lyngstrand (looking). Where?
Hilde (pointing). Can't you see? He's down there. Good gracious! There's
another! (Looks through the trees.) Out there. Now he's coming to
frighten him away!
Bolette (looking up). Who's coming?
Hilde. Your tutor, Miss!
Bolette. Mine?
Hilde. Yes. Goodness knows he never was mine.
(ARNHOLM enters from between the trees.)
Arnholm. Are there fish in the pond now?
Hilde. There are some very ancient carp.
Arnholm. No! Are the old carp still alive?
Hilde. Yes; they're pretty tough. But now we're going to try and get rid
of some of them.
Arnholm. You'd better try out there at the fjord.
Lyngstrand. No; the pond is--well--so to say--more mysterious.
Hilde. Yes; it's fascinating here. Have you been in the sea?
Arnholm. Yes; I've come straight from the baths.
Hilde. I suppose you kept in the enclosure?
Arnholm. Yes; I'm not much of a swimmer.
Hilde. Can you swim on your back?
Arnholm. No.
Hilde. I can. (To LYNGSTRAND.) Let's try out there on the other side.
(They go off along the pond.)
Arnholm (coming closer to BOLETTE). Are you sitting all alone here,
Bolette?
Bolette. Yes; I generally do.
Arnholm. Isn't your mother down here in the garden?
Bolette. No--she's sure to be out with father.
Arnholm. How is she this afternoon?
Bolette. I don't quite know. I forgot to ask.
Arnholm. What books have you there?
Bolette. The one's something about botany. And the other's a geography.
Arnholm. Do you care about such things?
Bolette. Yes, if only I had time for it. But, first of all, I've to look
after the housekeeping.
Arnholm. Doesn't your mother help you--your stepmother--doesn't she help
with that?
Bolette. No, that's my business. Why, I saw to that during the two years
father was alone. And so it has been since.
Arnholm. But you're as fond as ever of reading.
Bolette. Yes, I read all the useful books I can get hold of. One wants
to know something about the world. For here we live so completely
outside of all that's going on--or almost.
Arnholm. Now don't say that, dear Bolette.
Bolette. Yes! I think we live very much as the carp down there in the
pond. They have the fjord so near them, where the shoals of wild fishes
pass in and out. But the poor, tame house-fishes know nothing, and they
can take no part in that.
Arnholm. I don't think it would fare very well with them if they could
get out there.
Bolette. Oh! it would be much the same, I expect.
Arnholm. Moreover, you can't say that one is so completely out of the
world here--not in the summer anyhow. Why, nowadays this is quite a
rendezvous for the busy world--almost a terminus for the time being.
Bolette. Ah, yes! you who yourself are only here for the time being--it
is easy for you to make fun of us.
Arnholm. I make fun? How can you think that?
Bolette. Well, all that about this being a rendezvous, and a terminus
for the busy world--that's something you've heard the townsfolk here
saying. Yes--they're in the habit of saying that sort of thing.
Arnholm. Well, frankly, I've noticed that, too.
Bolette. But really there's not an atom of truth in it. Not for us who
always live here. What good is it to us that the great strange world
comes hither for a time on its way North to see the midnight sun? We
ourselves have no part in that; we see nothing of the midnight sun. No!
We've got to be good, and live our lives here in our carp pond.
Arnholm (sitting down by her). Now tell me, dear Bolette, isn't there
something or other--something definite you are longing for?
Bolette. Perhaps.
Arnholm. What is it, really? What is it you are longing for?
Bolette. Chiefly to get away.
Arnholm. That above all, then?
Bolette. Yes; and then to learn more. To really know something about
everything.
Arnholm. When I used to teach you, your father often said he would let
you go to college.
Bolette. Yes, poor father! He says so many things. But when it comes to
the point he--there's no real stamina in father.
Arnholm. No, unfortunately you're right there. He has not exactly
stamina. But have you ever spoken to him about it--spoken really
earnestly and seriously?
Bolette. No, I've not quite done that.
Arnholm. But really you ought to. Before it is too late, Bolette, why
don't you?
Bolette. Oh! I suppose it's because there's no real stamina in me
either. I certainly take after father in that.
Arnholm. Hm--don't you think you're unjust to yourself there?
Bolette. No, unfortunately. Besides, father has so little time for
thinking of me and my future, and not much desire to either. He prefers
to put such things away from him whenever he can. He is so completely
taken up with Ellida.
Arnholm. With whom? What?
Bolette. I mean that he and my stepmother--(breaks off). Father and
mother suffice one another, as you see.
Arnholm. Well, so much the better if you were to get away from here.
Bolette. Yes; but I don't think I've a right to; not to forsake father.
Arnholm. But, dear Bolette, you'll have to do that sometime, anyhow. So
it seems to me the sooner the better.
Bolette. I suppose there is nothing else for it. After all, I must think
of myself, too. I must try and get occupation of some sort. When once
father's gone, I have no one to hold to. But, poor father! I dread
leaving him.
Arnholm. Dread?
Bolette. Yes, for father's sake.
Arnholm. But, good heavens! Your stepmother? She is left to him.
Bolette. That's true. But she's not in the least fit to do all that
mother did so well. There is so much she doesn't see, or that she won't
see, or that she doesn't care about. I don't know which it is.
Arnholm. Um, I think I understand what you mean.
Bolette. Poor father! He is weak in some things. Perhaps you've noticed
that yourself? He hasn't enough occupation, either, to fill up his time.
And then she is so thoroughly incapable of helping him; however, that's
to some extent his own fault.
Arnholm. In what way?
Bolette. Oh! father always likes to see happy faces about him. There
must be sunshine and joy in the house, he says. And so I'm afraid he
often gives her medicine which will do her little good in the long run.
Arnholm. Do you really think that?
Bolette. Yes; I can't get rid of the thought. She is so odd at times.
(Passionately.) But isn't it unjust that I should have to stay at home
here? Really it's not of any earthly use to father. Besides, I have a
duty towards myself, too, I think.
Arnholm. Do you know what, Bolette? We two must talk these matters over
more carefully.
Bolette. Oh! That won't be much use. I suppose I was created to stay
here in the carp pond.
Arnholm. Not a bit of it. It depends entirely upon yourself.
Bolette (quickly). Do you think so?
Arnholm. Yes, believe me, it lies wholly and solely in your own hands.
Bolette. If only that were true! Will you perhaps put in a good word for
me with father?
Arnholm. Certainly. But first of all I must speak frankly and freely
with you yourself, dear.
Bolette (looks out to the left). Hush! don't let them notice anything.
We'll speak of this later.
(ELLIDA enters from the left. She has no hat on, but a large shawl is
thrown over her head and shoulders.)
Ellida (with restless animation). How pleasant it is here! How
delightful it is here!
Arnholm (rising). Have you been for a walk?
Ellida. Yes, a long, long lovely walk up there with Wangel. And now
we're going for a sail.
Bolette. Won't you sit down?
Ellida. No, thanks; I won't sit down.
Bolette (making room on seat). Here's a pleasant seat.
Ellida (walking about). No, no, no! I'll not sit down--not sit down!
Arnholm. I'm sure your walk has done you good. You look quite refreshed.
Ellida. Oh, I feel so thoroughly well--I feel so unspeakably happy. So
safe, so safe! (Looking out to the left.) What great steamer is that
coming along there?
Bolette (rising, and also looking out). It must be the large English
ship.
Arnholm. It's passing the buoy. Does it usually stop here?
Bolette. Only for half an hour. It goes farther up the fjord.
Ellida. And then sails away again tomorrow--away over the great open
sea--right over the sea. Only think! to be with them. If one could. If
only one could!
Arnholm. Have you never been any long sea voyage, Mrs. Wangel?
Ellida. Never; only those little trips in the fjord here.
Bolette (with a sigh). Ah, no! I suppose we must put up with the dry
land.
Arnholm. Well, after all, that really is our home.
Ellida. No; I don't think it is.
Arnholm. Not the land?
Ellida. No; I don't believe so. I think that if only men had from
the beginning accustomed themselves to live on the sea, or in the sea
perhaps, we should be more perfect than we are--both better and happier.
Arnholm. You really think that?
Ellida. Yes. I should like to know if we should not. I've often spoken
to Wangel about it.
Arnholm. Well, and he?
Ellida. He thinks it might be so.
Arnholm (jestingly). Well, perhaps! But it can't be helped. We've once
for all entered upon the wrong path, and have become land beasts instead
of sea beasts. Anyhow, I suppose it's too late to make good the mistake
now.
Ellida. Yes, you've spoken a sad truth. And I think men instinctively
feel something of this themselves. And they bear it about with them as a
secret regret and sorrow. Believe me--herein lies the deepest cause for
the sadness of men. Yes, believe me, in this.
Arnholm. But, my dearest Mrs. Wangel, I have not observed that men are
so extremely sad. It seems to me, on the contrary, that most of them
take life easily and pleasantly--and with a great, quiet, unconscious
joy.
Ellida. Oh! no, it is not so. The joy is, I suppose, something like our
joy at the long pleasant summer days--it has the presentiment of the
dark days coming. And it is this presentiment that casts its shadows
over the joy of men, just as the driving clouds cast their shadow over
the fjords. It lies there so bright and blue--and of a sudden.
Arnholm. You shouldn't give way to such sad thoughts. Just now you were
so glad and so bright.
Ellida. Yes, yes, so I was. Oh, this--this is so stupid of me. (Looking
about her uneasily.) If only Wangel would come! He promised me so
faithfully he would. And yet he does not come. Dear Mr. Arnholm, won't
you try and find him for me?
Arnholm. Gladly!
Ellida. Tell him he must come here directly now. For now I can't see
him.
Arnholm. Not see him?
Ellida. Oh! you don't understand. When he is not by me I often can't
remember how he looks. And then it is as if I had quite lost him. That
is so terribly painful. But do go, please. (She paces round the pond.)
Bolette (to ARNHOLM). I will go with you--you don't know the way.
Arnholm. Nonsense, I shall be all right.
Bolette (aside). No, no, no. I am anxious. I'm afraid he is on board the
steamer.
Arnholm. Afraid?
Bolette. Yes. He usually goes to see if there are any acquaintances of
his. And there's a restaurant on board.
Arnholm. Ah! Come then.
(He and BOLETTE go off. ELLIDA stands still awhile, staring down at the
pond. Now and again she speaks to herself in a low voice, and breaks
off. Along the footpath beyond the garden fence a STRANGER in travelling
dress comes from the left. His hair and beard are bushy and red. He has
a Scotch cap on, and a travelling bag with strap across his shoulders.)
The Stranger (goes slowly along by the fence and peeps into the garden.
When he catches sight of ELLIDA he stands still, looks at her fixedly
and searchingly, and speaks in a low voice). Good-evening, Ellida!
Ellida (turns round with a cry). Oh dear! have you come at last!
The Stranger. Yes, at last.
Ellida (looking at him astonished and frightened). Who are you? Do you
seek anyone here?
The Stranger. You surely know that well enough, Ellida.
Ellida (starting). What is this! How do you address me? Whom are you
looking for?
The Stranger. Well, I suppose I'm looking for you.
Ellida (shuddering). Oh! (She stares at him, totters back, uttering a
half-suffocating cry.) The eyes!--the eyes!
The Stranger. Are you beginning to recognise me at last? I knew you at
once, Ellida.
Ellida. The eyes! Don't look at me like that! I shall cry for help!
The Stranger. Hush, hush! Do not fear. I shan't hurt you.
Ellida (covering her eyes with her hands). Do not look at me like that,
I say!
The Stranger (leaning with his arms on the garden fence). I came with
the English steamer.
Ellida (stealing a frightened look at him). What do you want with me?
The Stranger. I promised you to come as soon as I could--
Ellida. Go--go away! Never, never come here again! I wrote to you that
everything must be over between us--everything! Oh! you know that!
The Stranger (imperturbably, and not answering her). I would gladly have
come to you sooner; but I could not. Now, at last I am able to, and I am
here, Ellida.
Ellida. What is it you want with me? What do you mean? Why have you come
here?
The Stranger. Surely you know I've come to fetch you.
Ellida (recoils in terror). To fetch me! Is that what you mean?
The Stranger. Of course.
Ellida. But surely you know that I am married?
The Stranger. Yes, I know.
Ellida. And yet--and yet you have come to--to fetch me!
The Stranger. Certainly I have.
Ellida (seizing her head with both her hands). Oh! this misery--this
horror! This horror!
The Stranger. Perhaps you don't want to come?
Ellida (bewildered). Don't look at me like that.
The Stranger. I was asking you if you didn't want to come.
Ellida. No, no, no! Never in all eternity! I will not, I tell you. I
neither can nor will. (In lower tone.) I dare not.
The Stranger (climbs over the fence, and comes into the garden). Well,
Ellida, let me tell you one thing before I go.
Ellida (wishes to fly, but cannot. She stands as one paralysed with
terror, and leans for support against the trunk of a tree by the pond).
Don't touch me! Don't come near me! No nearer! Don't touch me, I say!
The Stranger (cautiously coming a few steps nearer). You need not be so
afraid of me, Ellida.
Ellida (covering her eyes with her hands). Don't look at me like that.
The Stranger. Do not be afraid--not afraid.
(WANGEL comes through the garden, from the left.)
Wangel (still half-way between the trees). Well, you've had to wait for
me a long while.
Ellida (rushes towards him, clings fast to his arm, and cries out). Oh!
Wangel! Save me! You save me--if you can!
Wangel. Ellida! What in heaven's name!
Ellida. Save me, Wangel! Don't you see him there? Why, he is standing
there!
Wangel (looking thither). That man? (Coming nearer.) May I ask you who
you are, and what you have come into this garden for?
The Stranger (motions with a nod towards ELLIDA). I want to talk to her.
Wangel. Oh! indeed. So I suppose it was you. (To ELLIDA.) I hear a
stranger has been to the house and asked for you?
The Stranger. Yes, it was I.
Wangel. And what do you want with my wife? (Turning round.) Do you know
him, Ellida?
Ellida (in a low voice and wringing her hands). Do I know him! Yes, yes,
yes!
Wangel (quickly). Well!
Ellida. Why, it is he, Wangel!--he himself! He who you know!
Wangel. What! What is it you say? (Turning.) Are you the Johnston who
once...
The Stranger. You may call me Johnston for aught I care! However, that's
not my name.
Wangel. It is not?
The Stranger. It is--no longer. No!
Wangel. And what may you want with my wife? For I suppose you know the
lighthouse-keeper's daughter has been married this long time, and whom
she married, you of course also know.
The Stranger. I've known it over three years.
Ellida (eagerly). How did you come to know it?
The Stranger. I was on my way home to you, Ellida. I came across an old
newspaper. It was a paper from these parts, and in it there was that
about the marriage.
Ellida (looking straight in front of her). The marriage! So it was that!
The Stranger. It seemed so wonderful to me. For the rings--why that,
too, was a marriage, Ellida.
Ellida (covering her face with her hands). Oh!--Wangel. How dare you?
The Stranger. Have you forgotten that?
Ellida (feeling his look, suddenly cries out). Don't stand there and
look at me like that!
Wangel (goes up to him). You must deal with me, and not with her. In
short--now that you know the circumstances--what is it you really want
here? Why do you seek my wife?
The Stranger. I promised Ellida to come to her as soon as I could.
Wangel. Ellida, again--!
The Stranger. And Ellida promised faithfully she would wait for me until
I came.
Wangel. I notice you call my wife by her first name. This kind of
familiarity is not customary with us here.
The Stranger. I know that perfectly. But as she first, and above all,
belongs to me--
Wangel. To you, still--
Ellida (draws back behind WANGEL). Oh! he will never release me!
Wangel. To you? You say she belongs to you?
The Stranger. Has she told you anything about the two rings--my ring and
Ellida's?
Wangel. Certainly. And what then? She put an end to that long ago. You
have had her letters, so you know this yourself.
The Stranger. Both Ellida and I agreed that what we did should have all
the strength and authority of a real and full marriage.
Ellida. But you hear, I will not! Never on earth do I wish to know
anything more of you. Do not look at me like that. I will not, I tell
you!
Wangel. You must be mad to think you can come here, and base any claim
upon such childish nonsense.
The Stranger. That's true. A claim, in your sense, I certainly have not.
Wangel. What do you mean to do, then? You surely do not imagine you can
take her from me by force, against her own will?
The Stranger. No. What would be the good of that? If Ellida wishes to be
with me she must come freely.
Ellida (starts, crying out). Freely!
Wangel. And you actually believe that--
Ellida (to herself). Freely!
Wangel. You must have taken leave of your senses! Go your ways. We have nothing more to do with you. |
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