ACT FIFTH.
The remote corner of Dr. Wangel’s garden, by the carp-pond. Deepening summer twilight.
Arnholm, Boletta, Lyngstrand, and Hilda, in a boat on the fiord, are punting along the shore from the left.
Hilda.
Look, we can easily jump ashore here!
Arnholm.
No no, don’t do it!
Lyngstrand.
I can’t jump, Miss Hilda.
Hilda.
Can’t you jump either, Mr. Arnholm?
Arnholm.
I would rather not.
Boletta.
Let us land at the bathing-house steps.
[They punt the boat out to the right.
At that moment Ballested appears from the right, on the footpath, carrying music and a French horn. He greets those in the boat, turns, and talks to them. Their answers are heard farther and farther off.
Ballested.
What do you say?—Yes of course it’s in honour of the English steamer. It’s her last trip this year. But if you want to enjoy the music you mustn’t put off too long. [Calls out.] What? [Shakes his head.] Can’t hear what you say!
[Ellida, with a shawl over her head, comes in from the left, followed by Dr. Wangel.
Wangel.
But, my dear Ellida, I assure you there is ample time.
Ellida.
No, no,—there is not! He may come at any moment.
Ballested.
[Outside, by the garden fence.] Ah, good evening, Doctor! Good evening, Mrs. Wangel!
Wangel.
[Notices him.] Oh, are you there? Is there to be music to-night again?
Ballested.
Yes. The Musical Society proposes to show what it can do. There’s no lack of festive occasions at this season. To-night it’s in honour of the Englishman.
Ellida.
The English steamer! Is it in sight already?
Ballested.
Not yet; but you see it comes down the fiord among the islands. It is on you before you know where you are.
Ellida.
Yes,—that is true.
Wangel.
[Partly to Ellida.] This is the last trip. After to-night we shall see no more of it.
Ballested.
A melancholy thought, Doctor. But that’s why we are turning out in its honour, as I said before. Ah yes, ah yes! The happy summer-time is drawing to a close. “Soon will all the straits be ice-bound,” as they say in the tragedy.[[22]]
Ellida.
All the straits ice-bound,—yes.
Ballested.
Mournful reflection! For weeks and months now we have been joyful children of the summer; it is hard to reconcile oneself to the dark days. At first, that is to say; for people can alcli—ac—climatise themselves, Mrs. Wangel. Yes they can indeed.
[He bows and goes out to the left.
Ellida.
[Looks out across the fiord.] Oh this torturing suspense! This intolerable last half-hour before the decision!
Wangel.
Then you are still bent on speaking with him yourself?
Ellida.
I must speak with him myself; for I must make my choice of my own free will.
Wangel.
You have no choice, Ellida. You cannot be allowed to choose—I will not allow you.
Ellida.
You can never prevent my choosing; neither you nor any one else. You can forbid me to go away with him—to cast in my lot with him—if I should choose that. You can forcibly detain me here, against my will. That you can do. But the choice in my innermost soul—my choice of him and not of you,—in case I should and must choose so,—that you cannot prevent.
Wangel.
No, you are right; I cannot prevent that.
Ellida.
And then I have nothing to help me to resist! At home here there is nothing whatever to attach and bind me. I am utterly without root in your house, Wangel. The children are not mine—their hearts, I mean. They have never been mine.—When I go away—if I do go away—either with him to-night or out to Skioldvik to-morrow,—I have not a key to give up, not a direction to leave behind me, about anything in the world. You see how utterly without root I am in your house; how I have stood entirely outside of everything from the very first moment.
Wangel.
You yourself willed it so.
Ellida.
No, I did not. I had no will one way or the other. I have merely let everything remain as I found it the day I came. It is you—and no one else—who have willed it so.
Wangel.
I meant to do what was best for you.
Ellida.
Oh yes, Wangel, I know that so well! But now all this must be paid for; it will have its revenge. There is nothing here now that has any binding power over me—nothing to support—nothing to help me. There is no counter-fascination for me in what should have been the dearest treasure of our common life.
Wangel.
I see that well enough, Ellida; and so from to-morrow you shall have your freedom again. Hereafter you shall live your own life.
Ellida.
You call that my own life! Oh no, my own true life slid into a wrong groove when I joined it to yours. [Clenches her hands together in fear and agitation.] And now—to-night—in half an hour—the man I have forsaken will be here—the man to whom my faith should have been inviolable, as his has been to me! Now he is coming to offer me—for the last and only time—a chance of beginning life afresh—of living my own real life—the life that at once frightens and fascinates me—and that I cannot forgo. Not of my own free will!
Wangel.
That is just why you require your husband—and your physician also—to take the power out of your hands, and to act on your behalf.
Ellida.
Yes, Wangel, I understand that very well. Oh, there are times, you may be sure, when I feel as though there would be safety and peace in clinging close to you, and trying to defy all the powers that frighten and fascinate me. But I cannot do it. No, no,—I cannot do it!
Wangel.
Come, Ellida—let us walk up and down a little.
Ellida.
I should like to; but I dare not. You know he said that I was to wait for him here.
Wangel.
Do come. You have plenty of time yet.
Ellida.
Do you think so?
Wangel.
Ample time, I assure you.
Ellida.
Let us walk a little then.
[They go out in front, to the right. At the same moment Arnholm and Boletta appear by the upper bank of the pond.
Boletta.
[Catching sight of the retreating figures.] Look there——!
Arnholm.
[Softly.] Hush! Let them go.
Boletta.
Can you understand what has been passing between them these last few days?
Arnholm.
Have you noticed anything?
Boletta.
Have I noticed——!
Arnholm.
Anything particular?
Boletta.
Oh yes; many things. Have you not?
Arnholm.
Well, I don’t quite know——
Boletta.
Yes, I am sure you have; only you won’t admit it.
Arnholm.
I think it will do your stepmother good to take this little trip.
Boletta.
Do you?
Arnholm.
Yes; I fancy it would be a good thing for every one if she were to get away a little now and then.
Boletta.
If she goes home to Skioldvik to-morrow, she will certainly never come back again.
Arnholm.
Why, my dear Boletta, what have you got into your head?
Boletta.
I am perfectly convinced of it. Just you wait! You shall see—she won’t return. Not while Hilda and I are at home, at any rate.
Arnholm.
Hilda too?
Boletta.
Well, perhaps Hilda might not matter so much. She is hardly more than a child yet; and I believe in her heart she worships Ellida. But with me it is different, you see; a stepmother who is not so very much older than oneself——
Arnholm.
My dear Boletta—you may not have so very long to wait before leaving home.
Boletta.
[Eagerly.] Do you think so? Have you spoken to father about it?
Arnholm.
Yes, I have done that too.
Boletta.
Well—and what did he say?
Arnholm.
H’m—your father is so absorbed in other thoughts just now—-
Boletta.
Yes, yes, that is just what I told you.
Arnholm.
But so much I ascertained from him, that you must not count upon any help from that quarter.
Boletta.
Not——?
Arnholm.
He put his position quite clearly before me, and showed that anything of the kind was a sheer impossibility for him.
Boletta.
[Reproachfully.] Then how could you have the heart to stand there and make game of me?
Arnholm.
Indeed I did not, dear Boletta. It depends entirely upon yourself whether you will leave home or not.
Boletta.
Depends upon me, you say?
Arnholm.
Whether you will go out into the world and learn all that your heart desires. Whether you will take part in all that, at home here, you so long for. Whether you will live your life under happier conditions, Boletta. What do you say?
Boletta.
[Clasping her hands.] Oh how glorious——! But all this is utterly impossible. If father neither will nor can——There is no one else in the whole world that I can turn to.
Arnholm.
Could you not let your old—your former tutor come to your aid?
Boletta.
You, Mr. Arnholm? Would you really——?
Arnholm.
Stand by you? Yes, with the greatest of pleasure, both in word and deed; that you may rely upon. Do you accept my offer then? Tell me! Do you consent?
Boletta.
Do I consent? To leave home—to see the world—to learn something really worth knowing—to do everything that has seemed to me most delightful and impossible——?
Arnholm.
Yes, all this is now within your reach, if only you will.
Boletta.
And you will help me to this unspeakable happiness. Oh—but tell me—can I accept so great a gift from a stranger?
Arnholm.
You can quite well accept it from me, Boletta. From me you may accept anything.
Boletta.
[Seizes his hands.] Yes, I really think I may. I don’t know how it is, but——[With an outburst of emotion.] Oh—I could both laugh and cry for joy!—for sheer happiness! Oh—to think that I shall learn what life is, after all; I was beginning to be so afraid that it would slip away from me.
Arnholm.
You need not be afraid of that, dear Boletta. But now you must tell me quite frankly whether there is anything—any tie that binds you here?
Boletta.
Any tie? No, none.
Arnholm.
None at all?
Boletta.
No, none whatever. That is,—of course father is a tie—in a way. And Hilda too. But——
Arnholm.
Well—your father you will have to leave sooner or later; and Hilda too will one day take her own path in life; that is only a question of time. But otherwise there is nothing to bind you, Boletta? No engagement of any sort?
Boletta.
No, nothing of the kind. So far as that is concerned, I can quite well go wherever I please.
Arnholm.
Well then, if that is the case, my dear Boletta—you shall come away with me.
Boletta.
[Claps her hands.] Oh great heavens—what a joy to think of!
Arnholm.
I hope you have full confidence in me?
Boletta.
Yes, indeed I have.
Arnholm.
And you can place yourself and your future fully[fully] and fearlessly in my hands, Boletta? You feel you can, do you not?
Boletta.
Oh yes, certainly! Why should I not? Can you doubt it? You, my old tutor—my tutor in the old days, I mean.
Arnholm.
Not only because of that. I do not lay so much stress on that side of the matter. But—well—since you are free then, Boletta—since there is no tie that binds you,—I ask you—if you would be willing—willing to unite yourself to me—for life?
Boletta.
[Starts back in fear.] Oh—what are you saying?
Arnholm.
For your whole life, Boletta. Will you be my wife?
Boletta.
[Half to herself.] No, no, no! This is impossible! Utterly impossible!
Arnholm.
Is it so utterly impossible for you to——?
Boletta.
You surely cannot mean what you are saying, Mr. Arnholm? [Looks at him.] Or——Perhaps——Was this what you had in mind when—when you proposed to do so much for me?
Arnholm.
Now you must listen to me a little, Boletta. It appears I have taken you quite by surprise.
Boletta.
Oh, how could such an offer—from you,—how could it fail to—to surprise me?
Arnholm.
No doubt you are right. You did not know, of course,—you could not know, that it was for your sake I came here just now.
Boletta.
Did you come here for—for my sake?
Arnholm.
Yes, I did, Boletta. I got a letter from your father this spring—and in it was a phrase which led me to believe—h’m—that you had kept your former tutor in—in a little more than friendly remembrance.
Boletta.
How could father say such a thing?
Arnholm.
It appears that was not what he meant at all. But in the meantime I had accustomed myself to the thought that here was a young girl waiting and longing for me to come again.—No, you mustn’t interrupt me, dear Boletta! And, you see,—when a man, like myself, is no longer in the first flush of youth, such a belief—or illusion—makes an exceedingly strong impression. A vivid—a grateful affection for you grew up within me. I felt I must come to you; see you again; tell you that I shared the feelings which I imagined you entertained for me.
Boletta.
But now, when you know that it was not so! That it was a mistake!
Arnholm.
That makes no difference, Boletta. Your image—as it dwells in my heart—will always remain coloured and thrown into relief by the feeling that mistake aroused in me. Perhaps you cannot understand this; but so it is.
Boletta.
I never dreamed that anything of the kind was possible.
Arnholm.
But now that you see it is——? What do you say, Boletta? Can you not make up your mind to—to be my wife?
Boletta.
Oh, it seems so utterly impossible, Mr. Arnholm. You, who have been my teacher! I cannot imagine myself standing in any other kind of relation to you.
Arnholm.
Well, well—if you feel absolutely sure that you cannot—then the relation between us remains unaltered, my dear Boletta.
Boletta.
How do you mean?
Arnholm.
Of course I stand to my proposition, none the less. I will take care that you get away from home and see something of the world. I will enable you to learn what you really want to, and live in security and independence. Your more distant future, too, I will provide for, Boletta. In me you will always have a firm, steadfast friend to rely upon. Be sure of that!
Boletta.
Oh dear—Mr. Arnholm—all this has become quite impossible now.
Arnholm.
Is this impossible too?
Boletta.
Yes, surely you can see it is! After what you have said to me—and after the answer I have given you——. Oh, you must surely understand that I cannot accept such great favours from you! I can accept nothing in the world from you; never after this!
Arnholm.
Then would you rather stay at home here and let life slip away from you?
Boletta.
Oh, it is torture to think of it!
Arnholm.
Will you renounce all hope of seeing something of the outer world? Renounce your chance of taking part in all that you say you are thirsting for? Can you know that life has such infinite possibilities—and yet be content to realise no single one of them? Think well, Boletta.
Boletta.
Yes, yes—you are quite right, Mr. Arnholm.
Arnholm.
And then—when your father is no longer with you—you might find yourself helpless and alone in the world. Or you might have to give yourself to another man—whom you—possibly—might not be able to care for, any more than for me.
Boletta.
Oh yes,—I see quite well how true it is—all that you say. But still—!——Or perhaps, after all——
Arnholm.
[Quickly.] Well!
Boletta.
[Looks at him, undecided.] Perhaps it might not be utterly impossible after all——
Arnholm.
What, Boletta?
Boletta.
That I might—perhaps agree to—what—what you proposed to me.
Arnholm.
Do you mean that perhaps you might——? That at least you would grant me the happiness of coming to your aid as a faithful friend?
Boletta.
No, no, no! Never that! That would be absolutely impossible now. No—Mr. Arnholm—I had rather you should take me——
Arnholm.
Boletta! Will you——!
Boletta.
Yes,—I think—I will.
Arnholm.
You will be my wife?
Boletta.
Yes; if you still think you—ought to take me.
Arnholm.
If I think——! [Seizes her hand.] Oh thanks, thanks, Boletta! What you have been saying—your hesitation at first—that does not alarm me. If I do not fully possess your heart as yet, I shall know how to win it. Oh Boletta, how I will treasure you!
Boletta.
And I am to see the world; to take part in its life; you have promised me that.
Arnholm.
And I hold to it.
Boletta.
And I am to learn everything I want to.
Arnholm.
I myself will be your teacher, as in the old days, Boletta. Think of the last year you were my pupil——
Boletta.
[In quiet self-absorption.] Fancy,—to know oneself free—to go out into the unknown world! And then to have no care for the future; no constant fears about miserable money——
Arnholm.
No, you shall never have to waste a thought on such things. And, my dear Boletta, that is a good thing too, in its way—isn’t it now?
Boletta.
Yes, it is indeed. I know it is.
Arnholm.
[Putting his arm round her waist.] Oh you shall see how cosily and comfortably we will arrange our life! And what peace and confidence there will be between us, Boletta!
Boletta.
Yes, I begin to——. I really think—that we ought to get on together. [Looks out to the right, and hurriedly disengages herself.] Ah! Please don’t say anything about it!
Arnholm.
What is the matter, dear?
Boletta.
Oh, it’s that poor——[Points.] Over there.
Arnholm.
Is it your father——?
Boletta.
No, it’s the young sculptor. He is walking over there with Hilda.
Arnholm.
Oh, Lyngstrand. Why should you trouble about him?
Boletta.
Oh you know how delicate and ill he is.
Arnholm.
Yes, if it isn’t all his imagination.
Boletta.
No, it is real; he cannot live long. But perhaps it is best for him.
Arnholm.
How best for him, my dear?
Boletta.
Well because,—because I don’t think much would come of his art in any case.—Let us go before they come.
Arnholm.
By all means, my dear Boletta.
[Hilda and Lyngstrand appear beside the pond.
Hilda.
Hi! Hi! Won’t you condescend to wait for us?
Arnholm.
Boletta and I would rather go on ahead.
[He and Boletta go out to the left.
Lyngstrand.
[Laughs quietly.] It is quite amusing here just now; everybody goes in couples; always two and two together.
Hilda.
[Looks after them.] I could almost swear that he is making love to her.
Lyngstrand.
Really? Have you seen anything to make you think so?
Hilda.
Oh yes. It’s easy to see it—if you keep your eyes about you.
Lyngstrand.
But Miss Boletta will not have him. I am sure of that.
Hilda.
No. She thinks he looks so frightfully old; and she’s afraid he’ll soon be bald too.
Lyngstrand.
Ah, I don’t mean only because of that. She would not have him in any case.
Hilda.
How can you know that?
Lyngstrand.
Well, because there is some one else she has promised to keep in her thoughts.
Hilda.
Only to keep in her thoughts?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, while he is away.
Hilda.
Oh, then I suppose it’s you she is to keep in her thoughts.
Lyngstrand.
Possibly.
Hilda.
Has she promised you that?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, only think—she has promised me that! But please, please don’t tell her that you know about it.
Hilda.
Oh, don’t be afraid: I am as silent as the grave.
Lyngstrand.
I think it is so tremendously kind of her.
Hilda.
And then, when you come home again—is it to be an engagement? Are you going to marry her?
Lyngstrand.
No, I scarcely think that would do. You see, marriage is out of the question for me for a few years yet; and then, when I have made my way, she will be a bit too old for me, I fancy.
Hilda.
And yet you want her to go on thinking of you?
Lyngstrand.
Yes; for it would help me so much; as an artist, you understand. And she, having no special vocation of her own in life, can so easily do it.—But it is kind of her, all the same.
Hilda.
Do you think, then, that you can get on quicker with your group if you know that Boletta is thinking of you at home here?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, I imagine so. You see, the knowledge that somewhere in the world a young, exquisite, silent woman is secretly dreaming of one—I think it must be so—so——. Well, I scarcely know what to call it.
Hilda.
Do you mean—thrilling?
Lyngstrand.
Thrilling? Oh yes. It is thrilling I mean; or something of that sort. [Looks at her a moment.] You are so bright, Miss Hilda; really you are very bright, you know. When I come home again you will be just about as old as your sister is now. Perhaps you will look as she looks now; and perhaps you will have grown like her in mind as well. Very likely you will be, as it were, both yourself and her—in one body, so to speak.
Hilda.
Would that please you?
Lyngstrand.
I don’t quite know. Yes, I almost think so. But now—for this summer—I prefer you to be like yourself alone—just exactly as you are.
Hilda.
Do you like me best so?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, I like you exceedingly as you are.
Hilda.
H’m,—tell me,—as an artist—do you think I do right in always wearing light summer dresses?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, I think you do perfectly right.
Hilda.
Then you think bright colours suit me?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, charmingly, to my taste.
Hilda.
But tell me—as an artist—how do you think I should look in black?
Lyngstrand.
In black, Miss Hilda?
Hilda.
Yes, all in black. Do you think I should look nice?
Lyngstrand.
Black is scarcely the thing for the summer-time. But for that matter I am sure you would look extremely well in black too. Yes, you have just the figure for it.
Hilda.
[Gazing before her.] In black right up to the neck—a black ruffle—black gloves and a long black veil behind.
Lyngstrand.
If you were dressed like that, Miss Hilda, I should long to be a painter—so that I might paint a young, lovely, broken-hearted widow.
Hilda.
Or a young girl mourning for her betrothed.
Lyngstrand.
Yes, that would suit you still better. But you can’t wish to dress yourself like that?
Hilda.
I don’t know; I think it is thrilling.
Lyngstrand.
Thrilling?
Hilda.
Thrilling to think of, yes. [Points suddenly to the left.] Oh, look there!
Lyngstrand.
[Looking in the direction indicated.] The big English steamer! And right in at the pier!
Wangel and Ellida appear by the pond.
Wangel.
No, I assure you, my dear Ellida, you are mistaken. [Sees the others.] What, are you two here? She is not in sight yet, is she, Mr. Lyngstrand?
Lyngstrand.
The big English boat?
Wangel.
Yes.
Lyngstrand.
[Pointing.] There she lies already, Doctor.
Ellida.
Ah—! I knew it.
Wangel.
She is come!
Lyngstrand.
Come like a thief in the night, you might say—softly and noiselessly——
Wangel.
You must take Hilda down to the pier. Make haste! I’m sure she would like to hear the music.
Lyngstrand.
Yes, we were just going, Doctor.
Wangel.
We will perhaps come afterwards. We’ll come presently.
Hilda.
[Whispers to Lyngstrand.] Another pair, you see.
[She and Lyngstrand go out through the garden to the left. Distant music of wind instruments is heard out on the fiord during what follows.
Ellida.
He has come! He is here! Yes, yes—I feel it.
Wangel.
You had better go in, Ellida. Let me see him alone.
Ellida.
Oh—it is impossible! Impossible, I say! [With a cry.] Ah—do you see him Wangel!
The Stranger enters from the left and stops on the footpath, outside the garden fence.
The Stranger.
[Bows.] Good evening. I have come again you see, Ellida.
Ellida.
Yes, yes, yes,—the hour has come.
The Stranger.
Are you ready to go with me? Or are you not?
Wangel.
You can see for yourself that she is not.
The Stranger.
I was not thinking of travelling-clothes and trunks and that sort of thing. I have on board with me everything she requires for the voyage; and I have taken a cabin for her. [To Ellida.] I ask you, then, if you are ready to come with me—to come with me of your own free will?
Ellida.
[Imploringly.] Oh, do not ask me! Do not tempt me so!
[A steamer-bell is heard in the distance.
The Stranger.
There goes the warning bell. Now you must say yes or no.
Ellida.
[Wrings her hands.] To have to decide! To decide for all time! To do what can never be undone!
The Stranger.
Never. In half an hour it will be too late.
Ellida.
[Looks timidly and intently at him.] What makes you hold to me so persistently?
The Stranger.
Do you not feel, as I do, that we two belong to each other?
Ellida.
Do you mean because of that promise?
The Stranger.
Promises bind no one: neither man nor woman. If I hold to you persistently, it is because I cannot do otherwise.
Ellida.
[Softly and trembling.] Why did you not come sooner?
Wangel.
Ellida!
Ellida.
[With an outburst of emotion.] Oh—what is it that tempts and allures and seems to drag me into the unknown! The whole might of the sea is centred in this one thing!
[The Stranger climbs over the garden fence.
Ellida.
[Shrinks behind Wangel.] What is it? What do you want?
The Stranger.
I see it—I hear it in your voice, Ellida—it is me you will choose in the end.
Wangel.
[Advances towards him.] My wife has no choice in the matter. I am here to choose for her and—to protect her. Yes, protect her! If you do not get away from here—out of the country—and never come back—do you know what you expose yourself to?
Ellida.
No, no, Wangel! Not that!
The Stranger.
What will you do to me?
Wangel.
I will have you arrested—as a felon! At once! Before you can get on board! I know all about the murder out at Skioldvik.
Ellida.
Oh Wangel,—how can you——?
The Stranger.
I was prepared for that move; and therefore,—[Takes a revolver out of his breast pocket],—I have provided myself with this.
Ellida.
[Throws herself before Wangel.] No, no—do not kill him! Rather kill me!
The Stranger.
Neither you nor him; be easy on that score. This is for myself; I will live and die a free man!
Ellida.
[With increasing agitation.] Wangel! Let me tell you this—tell you in his hearing! I know you can keep me here! You have the power, and no doubt you will use it! But my mind—all my thoughts—all my irresistible longings and desires—these you cannot fetter! They will yearn and strain—out into the unknown—that I was created for—and that you have barred against me!
Wangel.
[In quiet grief.] I see it clearly, Ellida! Step by step you are gliding away from me. Your craving for the limitless and the infinite—and for the unattainable—will drive your mind quite out into the darkness at last.
Ellida.
Oh yes, yes,—I feel it—like black soundless wings hovering over me!
Wangel.
It shall not come to that. There is no other way of deliverance for you; at least I see none. And therefore—therefore I—cancel our bargain on the spot.—Now you can choose your own path—in full—full freedom.
Ellida.
[Gazes at him awhile as if speechless.] Is this true—true—what you say? Do you mean it—from your inmost heart?
Wangel.
Yes,—from the inmost depths of my tortured heart, I mean it.
Ellida.
And can you do it? Can you carry out your purpose?
Wangel.
Yes, I can. I can—because of my great love for you.
Ellida.
[Softly and tremblingly.] And I have come to be so near—so dear to you!
Wangel.
The years of our marriage have made you so.
Ellida.
[Clasps her hands together.] And I,—I have been blind to it!
Wangel.
Your thoughts went in other directions. But now,—now you are set wholly free from me and mine. Now your own true life can return to its—its right grove again. For now you can choose in freedom; and on your own responsibility, Ellida.
Ellida.
[Clasps her head with her hands and gazes fixedly towards Wangel.] In freedom—and on my own responsibility? Responsibility! This—this transforms everything.
[The steamer bell rings again.
The Stranger.
Do you hear, Ellida? The bell is ringing for the last time. Come away!
Ellida.
[Turns towards him, looks fixedly at him, and says with determination in her voice.] I can never go with you after this.
The Stranger.
You will not go?
Ellida.
[Clings to Wangel.] Oh—after this I can never leave you!
Wangel.
Ellida,—Ellida.
The Stranger.
It is all over then?
Ellida.
Yes.[Yes.] Over for all time!
The Stranger.
I see it. There is something here that is stronger than my will.
Ellida.
Your will has no longer a feather’s weight with me. For me you are a dead man, who has come home from the sea—and who is returning to it again. But I am no longer in terror of you: you fascinate me no more.
The Stranger.
Good-bye, Mrs. Wangel! [He vaults over the fence.] Henceforth you[[23]] are nothing but—a bygone shipwreck in my life.
[He goes out to the left.
Wangel.
[Looks at her awhile.] Ellida—your mind is like the sea: it has its ebb and flow. What brought the transformation?
Ellida.
Oh, do you not understand that the transformation came,—that it had to come—when I could choose in freedom.
Wangel.
And the unknown,—it fascinates you no longer?
Ellida.
It neither fascinates nor frightens me. I could have seen into it—gone into it—if I had wished to. I was free to choose it; and therefore I was able to reject it.
Wangel.
I begin to understand you—by degrees. You think and conceive in images—in visible pictures. Your longing and yearning for the sea—the fascination that he—the stranger—possessed for you—must have been the expression of an awakening and growing need for freedom within you—nothing else.
Ellida.
Oh, I don’t know what to say to that. But you have been a good physician for me. You found,—and you had the courage to use,—the right remedy—the only one that could help me.
Wangel.
Yes, in the last extremity of danger, we physicians have courage for much.—But now you will come to me again, will you not, Ellida?
Ellida.
Yes, my dear, faithful Wangel—now I will come to you again. I can now, for now I come to you in freedom—of my own will—and on my own responsibility.
Wangel.
[Looks tenderly at her.] Ellida! Ellida! Oh,—to think that we two can now live wholly for each other——
Ellida.
——and with all our memories in common. Yours—as well as mine.
Wangel.
Yes, all in common, dearest!
Ellida.
And our two children, Wangel——
Wangel.
Ours you call them!
Ellida.
They are not mine yet—but I shall win them.
Wangel.
Ours——! [Kisses her hands joyfully and quickly.] Oh, I thank you for that word more than I can tell.
Hilda, Ballested, Lyngstrand, Arnholm, and Boletta come from the left into the garden. At the same time a number of young townspeople and summer visitors pass along the footpath.
Hilda.
[Half aloud, to Lyngstrand.] Just look,—don’t she and father look like an engaged couple!
Ballested.
[Who has overheard.] It is summer time, little miss.
Arnholm.
[Looks towards Wangel and Ellida.] The English steamer is under way.
Boletta.
[Goes to the fence.] You can see her best from here.
Lyngstrand.
The last trip of the season.
Ballested.
“Soon will all the straits be ice-bound,” as the poet says. It is sad, Mrs. Wangel! And I hear we are to lose you too for a time: you go out to Skioldvik to-morrow, I am told.
Wangel.
No—that plan has come to nothing; this evening we two have changed our minds.
Arnholm.
[Looking from one to the other.] Ah,—really!
Boletta.
[Coming forward.] Father—is this true?
Hilda.
[Going to Ellida.] Are you going to stay with us after all?
Ellida.
Yes, dear Hilda—if you will have me.
Hilda.
[Struggling between tears and joy.] Oh,—can you ask—if I will——!
Arnholm.
[To Ellida.] This is really quite a surprise!
Ellida.
[With a grave smile.] Well, you see, Mr. Arnholm——. Do you remember what we were speaking of yesterday? When you have once for all become a land-animal—you can never find the way back again—out to the sea. Nor to the sea-life either.
Ballested.
Why, that’s just the case of my mermaid!
Ellida.
Very like it, yes.
Ballested.
Only with this difference, that the mermaid—she dies of it. Human beings, on the contrary—they can acclam—accli—matise themselves. Yes, I assure you, Mrs. Wangel, they can ac-cli-matise themselves.
Ellida.
Yes, in freedom they can, Mr. Ballested.
Wangel.
And under full responsibility, dear Ellida.
Ellida.
[Quickly, holding out her hand to him.] That is the secret.
[The great steamer glides noiselessly down the fiord. The music is heard closer inshore.
[8]. “Rector” in the Scotch and Continental sense of headmaster of a school, not in the English sense of a beneficed clergyman.
[9]. Pronounce Mortensgore.
[10]. From this point, and throughout when alone, Rosmer and Rebecca use the du of intimate friendship in speaking to each other.
[11]. In the original, Rebecca here addresses Rosmer as “du” for the first time in Kroll’s presence.
[12]. Pronounce Vangl.
[13]. Pronounce El-lee-da, with accent on the second syllable.
[14]. Pronounce Bal-le-staid.
[15]. Pronounce Sheevë’s
[16]. Pronounce Yensen.
[17]. Pronounce Sholdveek.
[18]. Pronounce Freeman.
[19]. Pronounce Bratt-hammer.
[20]. He has addressed her, as he does throughout, by the familiar du—“thou.” She always uses the formal De in speaking to him.
[21]. For another rendering of the foregoing very difficult passage—especially difficult because of the frequent occurrence of “det grufulde” “the terrible” in other contexts—the reader who is curious in such matters may consult the five-volume edition of Ibsen’s Prose Dramas (vol. v. p. 210), where he will find it discussed in a footnote.
[22]. “Snart er alle sunde lukket.”—Oehlenschläger’s Hakon Jarl.
[23]. Here, for the first time, he uses the formal De.
THE END.
Printed by Ballantyne & Co. Limited
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London
Transcriber’s Note
There are quite a few instances of missing punctuation. The conventional period following the character’s name is sometimes missing and has been added for consistency’s sake without further comment. Those missing from setting and stage direction are also added without comment, since there is no obvious purpose to be served by the omission. However, the restoration of punctuation missing from dialogue is noted below, since the punctuation is frequently expressive. Several instances of dubious ‘?’ marks have been corrected, based on context.
As noted below, on p. [62], there is apparently a missing word in the phrase ‘And even it were so...’, most likely ‘if’.
Volume I of this series included errata for each succeeding volume, and noted the following for Volume IX. Each of these was corrected in printing.
The words ‘stepmother’ and ‘footpath’ both appear hyphenated once, midline. Both have been retained.
Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
| [xix.13] | I can least reconcile myself.[’/”] | Replaced. |
| [4.25] | Madam Hels[te/et]h. | Inverted. |
| [13.26] | makes him well over forty-three[.] | Added. |
| [31.21] | it belongs to a plebeian[:/?] | Replaced. |
| [49.6] | [Re[c/b]ecca goes out | Replaced. |
| [51.23] | to make the plunge at last[.] | Added. |
| [67.29] | to get out o[f] a false and equivocal position | Restored. |
| [81.23] | from li[z/v]ing his life out | Replaced. |
| [118.30] | not a word about it[.] | Added. |
| [124.13] | seats himself on the | Restored. |
| [129.14] | by the window[] And | Bracket added. |
| [159.27] | for this this[,] Rebecca? | Added. |
| [178.16] | Bollet[o/a]. | Replaced. |
| [242.16] | My poor unhappy Ellida[!] | Added |
| [254.2] | a long sea-vo[g/y]age | Replaced. |
| [255.29] | so bright and cheerful | Restored. |
| [258.14] | look at me like that[?/!] | Replaced. |
| [280.25] | Surely [y]ou think so! | Restored. |
| [298.3] | He was quite differently dressed too[.] | Added. |
| [304.25] | give me back my freedom this very day[.] | Added. |
| [325.10] | and your future [f]ully and fearlessly | Restored. |
| [345.2] | Yes[.] Over for all time! | Added. |