ACT FOURTH.
Garden-room at Dr. Wangel’s. Doors right and left. In the back, between the two windows, an open glass door leading out to the verandah. A portion of the garden is seen below. A sofa and table in front on the left. To the right a piano, and farther back a large flower-stand. In the middle of the floor a round table with chairs about it. On the table, a rose-bush in bloom, and other plants in pots about the room. It is forenoon.
Boletta is seated on the sofa by the table, left, working at a piece of embroidery. Lyngstrand sits on a chair at the upper end of the table. Ballested is seated in the garden, painting. Hilda stands beside him, looking on.
Lyngstrand.
[Sits silent awhile with his arms on the table, watching Boletta at work.] It must be very difficult to sew edging like that, Miss Wangel.
Boletta.
Oh no, it’s not so difficult, if only you are careful to count right——
Lyngstrand.
Count? Have you to count?
Boletta.
Yes, the stitches. Look here.
Lyngstrand.
Why, so you must! Fancy! It’s almost a kind of art. Can you draw too?
Boletta.
Oh yes, when I have a copy before me.
Lyngstrand.
Not unless?
Boletta.
No, not unless.
Lyngstrand.
Then it’s not really art after all.
Boletta.
No, it’s more of a—a knack.
Lyngstrand.
But I should think, now, that you could probably learn art?
Boletta.
Even though I have no turn for it?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, in spite of that—if you could be always with a real born artist——
Boletta.
Do you think I could learn from him?
Lyngstrand.
I don’t mean “learn” in the ordinary sense. But I think it would come to you by degrees—by a sort of miracle, Miss Wangel.
Boletta.
That is a strange idea.
Lyngstrand.
[After a pause.] Have you thought much—I mean—have you thought at all deeply and seriously about marriage, Miss Wangel?
Boletta.
[Glances at him.] About——? No.
Lyngstrand.
I have.
Boletta.
Indeed; have you?
Lyngstrand.
Yes. I very often think about things of that sort; and particularly about marriage. And then I have read a good deal on the subject too. I think marriage may be counted a sort of miracle: the woman is transformed, as it were, by degrees, and comes to resemble her husband.
Boletta.
Acquires his interests, you mean?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, that’s just it!
Boletta.
Well, but what about his abilities?—his talent and skill?
Lyngstrand.
H’m—well—I wonder whether they, too, wouldn’t——
Boletta.
Then do you think that what a man has mastered by reading—or by his own thought—can be passed on in this way to his wife?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, that too; by degrees; as if by a miracle. But of course I know that this could only happen in a marriage that is faithful, and loving, and really happy.
Boletta.
Has it never occurred to you that perhaps a husband might be absorbed in the same way into his wife? Might come to resemble her, I mean.
Lyngstrand.
A husband? No, I have never thought of that.
Boletta.
But why not the one as well as the other?
Lyngstrand.
No; a man has his vocation to live for, you know. And that is what makes a man so strong and resolute, Miss Wangel. He has his life-work.
Boletta.
Every man?
Lyngstrand.
Oh no. I was thinking mainly of artists.
Boletta.
Do you think it right for an artist to marry?
Lyngstrand.
Most certainly; if he can find some one he really loves——
Boletta.
Even then it seems to me that he should rather live for his art alone.
Lyngstrand.
Of course he must; but he can quite well do that even if he marries.
Boletta.
But what about her, then?
Lyngstrand.
Her? Who——?
Boletta.
The woman he marries. What is she to live for?
Lyngstrand.
She too must live for his art. I should think that must be such happiness for a woman.
Boletta.
H’m,—I am not so sure——
Lyngstrand.
Oh yes, Miss Wangel, believe me. It is not only all the honour and glory she enjoys through him; that, I should say, is almost the least part of it. But that she can help him to create,—that she can lighten his labour by being ever at his side, and tending him, and making life thoroughly comfortable for him. It seems to me that must be such a delight for a woman.
Boletta.
Oh, you don’t realise how selfish you are!
Lyngstrand.
Am I selfish? Good heavens——! Oh, if you only knew me a little better——. [Bends forward towards her.] Miss Wangel,—when I am gone,—and I shall be soon——
Boletta.
[Looks at him sympathetically.] Oh don’t get such melancholy thoughts into your head.
Lyngstrand.
I don’t see that it is so very melancholy.
Boletta.
How do you mean?
Lyngstrand.
I shall be starting in about a month, first for home, and soon afterwards for the South.
Boletta.
Oh, I see. Yes, yes.
Lyngstrand.
Will you think of me now and then, Miss Wangel?
Boletta.
Yes, gladly.
Lyngstrand.
[Joyfully.] Oh, do you promise me that?
Boletta.
Yes, I promise.
Lyngstrand.
Solemnly, Miss Boletta?
Boletta.
Solemnly. [Changing her tone.] Oh, but what is the use of all this? Nothing can ever come of it.
Lyngstrand.
How can you say that? It would be such a joy to me to know that you were at home here thinking of me.
Boletta.
Yes, but what more?
Lyngstrand.
Well, I am not quite certain about anything more——
Boletta.
Nor I. So many things stand in the way; every possible thing stands in the way, it seems to me.
Lyngstrand.
Oh, some miracle or other might happen. A happy turn of fate—or something of that sort. For I am convinced that fortune is on my side.
Boletta.
[With animation.] Yes, that is right! Surely you[you] think so!
Lyngstrand.
Yes, I am perfectly convinced of it. And then—in a few years—when I come home again a famous sculptor, with plenty of money, and as well as possible——
Boletta.
Yes, yes; let us hope you will.
Lyngstrand.
You may be quite sure of it—if only you think faithfully and warmly of me while I am away in the South. And that you have promised to do.
Boletta.
Yes, I have. [Shakes her head.] But nothing will ever come of this, all the same.
Lyngstrand.
Yes, Miss Boletta, this at least will come of it, that I shall make the easier and quicker progress with my group.
Boletta.
Do you think so?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, I feel it within me. And I think it will be stimulating for you too,—here in this out-of-the-way place—to know that you are, as it were, helping me to create.
Boletta.
[Looks at him.] Well—but you, on your side?
Lyngstrand.
I——?
Boletta.
[Looks out towards the garden.] Hush! Let us talk of something else; here comes Mr. Arnholm.
[Arnholm is seen in the garden, on the left. He stops and speaks to Ballested and Hilda.
Lyngstrand.
Are you fond of your old teacher, Miss Boletta?
Boletta.
Am I fond of him?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, I mean do you like him?
Boletta.
Oh yes, I do indeed; he is such a good friend and adviser. And he is always so ready to help you whenever he can.
Lyngstrand.
Is it not strange that he has never married?
Boletta.
Do you think it so strange?
Lyngstrand.
Yes; they say he is well off.
Boletta.
I suppose he is. But it may not have been very easy for him to find any one who would have him.
Lyngstrand.
Why?
Boletta.
Oh, he has been the teacher of nearly every girl he knows. He says so himself.
Lyngstrand.
But what does that matter?
Boletta.
Why, of course, one doesn’t marry a man who has been one’s teacher!
Lyngstrand.
Don’t you think a girl could possibly love her teacher?
Boletta.
Not after she is quite grown up.
Lyngstrand.
Dear me! How odd!
Boletta.
[Warningly.] Hush, hush!
[Ballested, who has meanwhile collected his things, carries them out through the garden to the right. Hilda helps him. Arnholm comes up into the verandah and enters the room.
Arnholm.
Good morning, my dear Boletta. Good morning Mr.——Mr.——h’m!
[He looks annoyed, and nods coldly to Lyngstrand, who rises and bows.
Boletta.
[Rises and goes to Arnholm.] Good morning, Mr. Arnholm.
Arnholm.
How are you all here to-day?
Boletta.
Thanks, very well.
Arnholm.
Has your step-mother gone to bathe to-day again?
Boletta.
No, she is up in her room.
Arnholm.
Not quite well?
Boletta.
I don’t know. She has locked herself in.
Arnholm.
H’m—has she?
Lyngstrand.
Mrs. Wangel seemed very much upset about that American yesterday.
Arnholm.
What do you know about it?
Lyngstrand.
I told Mrs. Wangel that I had seen him in the flesh, going round behind the garden.
Arnholm.
Oh indeed.
Boletta.
[To Arnholm.] You and father sat up late last night, did you not?
Arnholm.
Yes, pretty late. We had an important question to discuss.
Boletta.
Did you get in a word with him about me and my affairs?
Arnholm.
No, my dear Boletta. I could not manage it; he was so absorbed in something else.
Boletta.
[Sighs.] Ah yes,—he always is.
Arnholm.
[Looking significantly at her.] But remember, you and I are to have another talk about these things, presently.—Where is your father now? Has he gone out?
Boletta.
I think he must be down at the surgery. I’ll go and fetch him.
Arnholm.
No thank you, don’t do that. I would rather go down to him.
Boletta.
[Listening to the left.] Wait a moment, Mr. Arnholm. I think I hear father coming downstairs. Yes. He must have been up attending to her.
Dr. Wangel enters by the door on the left.
Wangel.
[Holds out his hand to Arnholm.] Ah, my dear friend, are you here already? It’s good of you to come so early; there are still several things I want to discuss with you.
Boletta.
[To Lyngstrand.] Shall we join Hilda in the garden for a little while?
Lyngstrand.
With all the pleasure in life, Miss Wangel.
[He and Boletta go down into the garden, and out among the trees in the background.
Arnholm.
[Who has been following them with his eyes, turns to Wangel.] Do you know much about that young man?
Wangel.
No, very little.
Arnholm.
Then do you like him to be so much with the girls?
Wangel.
Is he much with them? I really hadn’t noticed it.
Arnholm.
Don’t you think you ought to keep an eye on that sort of thing?
Wangel.
Yes, no doubt you are right. But, bless my soul, what is a poor fellow to do? The girls have got so accustomed to look after themselves; they will not listen to a word, either from me or from Ellida.
Arnholm.
Not even from her?
Wangel.
No. And besides, I cannot expect her to interfere in such matters; it is not at all in her way. [Breaking off.] But that was not what we were going to talk about. Tell me—have you given any more thought to it?—to all that I told you last night?
Arnholm.
I have thought of nothing else, ever since we parted.
Wangel.
And what do you think I ought to do in the matter?
Arnholm.
My dear Doctor, I think that you, as a physician, ought to know better than I.
Wangel.
Oh, if you only knew how difficult it is for a physician to form a valid judgment in the case of a patient he loves so dearly! And this is no common disorder either—no case for an ordinary physician, or for ordinary remedies.
Arnholm.
How is she to-day?
Wangel.
I have just been up to see her, and she appeared to me quite calm. But behind all her moods something seems to be hidden that eludes me entirely. And then she is so variable—so incalculable—so subject to sudden changes.
Arnholm.
No doubt that is due to her morbid state of mind.
Wangel.
Not entirely. The germ of it all is innate in her. Ellida belongs to the sea-folk; that is the trouble.
Arnholm.
What do you mean precisely, my dear Doctor?
Wangel.
Have you not noticed that the people who live out by the open sea are like a race apart? They seem almost to live the life of the sea itself. There is the surge of the sea—and its ebb and flow too—both in their thoughts and in their feelings. And they never bear transplantation. No, I should have thought of that before. It was a positive sin against Ellida to take her away from the sea and bring her in here!
Arnholm.
Have you come to look at it in that light?
Wangel.
Yes, more and more; but I ought to have known it from the first. Oh, I did really know it then too, but I would not acknowledge it to myself. I loved her so much, you see! And consequently I thought first of myself. In fact, I was utterly and unpardonably selfish.
Arnholm.
H’m,—I am afraid every man is a trifle selfish under those circumstances. But I can’t say that I have noticed that vice in you, Dr. Wangel.
Wangel.
[Wandering uneasily up and down.] Oh yes! And I have been so since, as well. I am so much, much older than she; I ought to have been to her like a father and a guide in one. I ought, to have done my best to develop and clarify her intelligence. But unfortunately I have done nothing of the sort. I have not had energy enough, you see! And in fact I preferred to have her just as she was. But then she grew worse and worse, and I was at my wits’ end to know what to do [Lower.] That is why I turned to you in my perplexity, and asked you to come to us.
Arnholm.
[Looks at him in astonishment.] What! Was that why you wrote to me?
Wangel.
Yes; but don’t say anything about it.
Arnholm.
My dear Doctor,—what in the world—what good did you suppose I could do? I don’t understand.
Wangel.
No, of course you do not; I had got upon a wrong scent. I fancied that Ellida had once cared for you, and that she still had a secret leaning in your direction. So I thought it might perhaps do her good to see you again, and have a talk with you about home and old times.
Arnholm.
Then it was your wife you meant when you wrote that some one here was waiting and—and perhaps longing for me!
Wangel.
Yes; who else?
Arnholm.
[Quickly.] Of course, of course.—But I did not understand you.
Wangel.
Naturally not, as I said before. I was on an entirely wrong scent.
Arnholm.
And you call yourself selfish!
Wangel.
Oh, I had such a great error to atone for. I felt I had no right to reject any expedient that could possibly ease her mind a little.
Arnholm.
What do you take to be the real explanation of the power this stranger exercises over her?
Wangel.
H’m, my dear friend—there may be sides to that question that don’t admit of explanation.
Arnholm.
Something inexplicable in itself, do you mean? Entirely inexplicable?
Wangel.
Inexplicable for the present, at any rate.
Arnholm.
Do you believe in such things?
Wangel.
I neither believe nor disbelieve. I simply do not know. So I suspend my judgment.
Arnholm.
But tell me one thing: that strange, uncanny idea of hers about the child’s eyes——
Wangel.
[Eagerly.] I don’t in the least believe that about the eyes! I will not believe any such thing! It must be pure imagination on her part; nothing else.
Arnholm.
Did you notice the man’s eyes when you saw him yesterday?
Wangel.
Yes, certainly I did.
Arnholm.
And you found no sort of likeness?
Wangel.
[Evasively.] H’m—upon my soul I don’t know what to say. It was not quite light when I saw him; and besides, Ellida had talked so much about this likeness beforehand—I don’t think it was possible for me to observe him without any bias.
Arnholm.
No, no; very likely not. But then the other point: that all this dread and unrest came upon her just at the very time when this stranger would seem to have been on his way home?
Wangel.
Well you see—that again is a belief she must have imagined and dreamt herself into, since the day before yesterday. It did not come upon her at all so suddenly—so instantaneously—as she now maintains. But since she heard from this young Lyngstrand that Johnston or Friman—or whatever he is called—was on his way home three years ago—in March—she has evidently persuaded herself that her mental trouble came on in the very same month.
Arnholm.
And did it not?
Wangel.
Not at all. There had been unmistakable symptoms of it long before that.—It is true she happened—by chance—to have a rather severe attack precisely in the month of March, three years ago——
Arnholm.
Well then——!
Wangel.
Oh, but that is quite easily accounted for by the circumstances—the condition—she happened to be in at that time.
Arnholm.
The indications may be read in either way, then.
Wangel.
[Wringing his hands.] And to be powerless to help her! To be at the end of one’s resources! To see no sort of remedy——!
Arnholm.
What if you made up your mind to a change of residence—to move to some other place, where she might live under conditions that seemed to her more home-like?
Wangel.
My dear fellow, do you think I haven’t suggested that to her? I proposed that we should move out to Skioldvik. But she will not.
Arnholm.
Not that either?
Wangel.
No. She thinks it would be useless; and I daresay she is right too.
Arnholm.
H’m—do you think so?
Wangel.
Yes; and besides—on considering the matter more closely—I really don’t see how I could manage it. I scarcely think I should be justified, on the girls’ account, in moving to such an out-of-the-way corner. After all, they must live where there is at least some chance of their one day being able to marry.
Arnholm.
To marry? Have you that so much on your mind already?
Wangel.
Why, yes, of course; I must think of that too! But then—on the other hand—the thought of my poor suffering Ellida——! Oh, my dear Arnholm—wherever I turn, I seem to stand between fire and water!
Arnholm.
There may, perhaps, be no need for you to trouble about Boletta——[Breaking off.] I wonder where she—where they have gone?
[He goes up to the open door and looks out.
Wangel.
[Beside the piano.] Oh I should be so glad to make any possible sacrifice—for all three of them.—If only I knew what!
Ellida enters by the door on the left.
Ellida.
[Rapidly to Wangel.] Be sure you do not go out this morning.
Wangel.
No no, certainly not; I will stay at home with you. [Points to Arnholm, who approaches.] But you haven’t said good morning to our friend?
Ellida.
[Turns.] Oh, are you there, Mr. Arnholm? [Holds out her hand.] Good morning.
Arnholm.
Good morning, Mrs. Wangel. You have not gone for your bathe to-day as usual?
Ellida.
No, no, no! I couldn’t think of it to-day. Won’t you sit down for a moment?
Arnholm.
No thank you—not just now. [Looks at Wangel.] I promised the girls I would join them in the garden.
Ellida.
Heavens knows whether you’ll find them in the garden. I never know where they may have got to.
Wangel.
Oh yes, they are probably down by the pond.
Arnholm.
I daresay I shall find them.
[He nods and passes across the verandah into the garden, and out to the right.
Ellida.
What o’clock is it, Wangel?
Wangel.
[Looks at his watch.] It’s a little past eleven.
Ellida.
A little past; and at eleven or half-past to-night the steamer will be here. Oh, if it only were over!
Wangel.
[Goes closer to her.] Dear Ellida, there is one thing I should like to ask you about.
Ellida.
What is it?
Wangel.
The night before last—up at the Prospect—you said that during the past three years you had often seen him bodily before you.
Ellida.
So I have. I assure you I have.
Wangel.
Well, but how did you see him?
Ellida.
How did I see him?
Wangel.
I mean—what did he look like when you appeared to see him before you?
Ellida.
Why, my dear Wangel,—you know yourself now what he looks like.
Wangel.
And he looked like that when you seemed to see him?
Ellida.
Yes, he did.
Wangel.
Exactly as you saw him in reality last evening?
Ellida.
Yes, exactly.
Wangel.
Then how did it happen that you did not at once recognise him?
Ellida.
[Starts.] Did I not?
Wangel.
No. You yourself told me afterwards that at first you did not in the least know who the stranger was.
Ellida.
[Impressed.] Yes, I really believe you are right! Was not that strange, Wangel? Think of my not knowing him at once!
Wangel.
It was only by his eyes, you said——
Ellida.
Oh yes—his eyes! His eyes!
Wangel.
Well, but up at the Prospect you said that he had always appeared to you just as he was when you parted, ten years ago.
Ellida.
Did I say that?
Wangel.
Yes.
Ellida.
Then he must have looked at that time much as he does now.
Wangel.
No. You gave quite another description of him on the way home, the night before last. Ten years ago he had no beard, you said. He was quite differently dressed too.[too.] And the breast-pin with the pearl in it——? He wore nothing of the sort yesterday.
Ellida.
No, he didn’t.
Wangel.
[Looks intently at her.] Now think a little, dear Ellida. Perhaps you cannot remember now what he looked like when you parted from him at Bratthammer?
Ellida.
[Reflectively, closing her eyes for a moment.] Not quite distinctly. No—I can’t at all to-day. Isn’t that strange?
Wangel.
Not so very strange. A new and real figure has presented itself to you, and that obscures the old one—so that you can no longer see it.
Ellida.
Do you think so, Wangel?
Wangel.
Yes; and it obscures your morbid illusions too; so it is a good thing the reality has shown itself.
Ellida.
Good! Do you call it a good thing?
Wangel.
Yes; its coming—may be your salvation.
Ellida.
[Seats herself on the sofa.] Wangel—come here and sit by me. I must tell you all my thoughts.
Wangel.
Yes do, dear Ellida.
[He seats himself on a chair at the other side of the table.
Ellida.
It was really a great misfortune—for both of us—that we two, of all people, should come together.
Wangel.
[Starts.] What do you say?
Ellida.
Oh yes it was—and it could not but be. It could lead to nothing but unhappiness—especially considering the way we came together.
Wangel.
Why, what was wrong with the way——?
Ellida.
Listen now, Wangel,—it is useless for us to go on any longer lying to ourselves—and to each other.
Wangel.
Are we doing so? Lying do you say?
Ellida.
Yes, lying. Or at any rate—concealing the truth. The truth—the sheer unvarnished truth is this: you came out there and—bought me.
Wangel.
Bought——Did you say—bought?
Ellida.
Oh, I was not a bit better than you. I joined in the bargain. I went and sold myself to you.
Wangel.
[Looks at her, deeply pained.] Ellida,—have you the heart to say so?
Ellida.
Why, what else can you call it? You could not bear the void in your house; you looked about for a new wife——
Wangel.
And for a new mother for the children, Ellida.
Ellida.
That too, perhaps—incidentally, as it were. Although—you did not in the least know whether I was fit to be a mother to them. You had only seen me and spoken with me once or twice. But you took a fancy to me, and so——
Wangel.
Well, you may give it what name you please.
Ellida.
And I, for my part——. There was I, helpless and forlorn, and utterly alone. What more natural than that I should accept the bargain—when you came and offered to maintain me all my life.
Wangel.
I assure you I did not think of it in that light, my dear Ellida. I asked you honestly if you would share with me and the children the little I could call my own.
Ellida.
Yes, you did. But, little or much, I ought not to have accepted! I should never have accepted at any price! I should never have sold myself! Better the meanest labour—better the deepest poverty—of my own free will—by my own choice!
Wangel.
[Rising.] Then have the five or six years we have lived together been utterly wasted for you?
Ellida.
Oh, you must not think that, Wangel! I have had all from you that any one could possibly desire. But I did not come into your home of my own free will,—that is the thing.
Wangel.
[Looks at her.] Not of your free will?
Ellida.
No; it was not of my own free will that I cast in my lot with yours.
Wangel.
[Softly.] Ah, I remember—the phrase he used yesterday.
Ellida.
The whole secret lies in that phrase. It has thrown a new light on things for me; so that I see it all now.
Wangel.
What do you see?
Ellida.
I see that the life we two lead with each other—is really no marriage at all.
Wangel.
[Bitterly.] There you are right. The life we now lead is no marriage at all.
Ellida.
Nor the life we led before; never; not from the outset. [Looks straight before her.] The first—that might have been a real and true marriage.
Wangel.
The first? What “first” do you mean?
Ellida.
Mine,—with him.
Wangel.
[Looks at her in astonishment.] I cannot understand you at all!
Ellida.
Oh my dear Wangel,—do not let us lie to each other; nor to ourselves.
Wangel.
No, of course not! But what then?
Ellida.
Why, don’t you see—we can never get away from this—that a voluntary promise is to the full as binding as a marriage.
Wangel.
Why, what in the world——!
Ellida.
[Rises impetuously.] Let me leave you, Wangel!
Wangel.
Ellida——! Ellida——!
Ellida.
Yes, yes—you must let me! I can assure you there will be nothing else for it in the end—after the way we two came together.
Wangel.
[Controlling his emotion.] So it has come to this!
Ellida.
It had to come to this; no other end was possible.
Wangel.
[Looks sorrowfully at her.] So even in our daily life together I have not won you. You have never, never been wholly mine.
Ellida.
Oh Wangel—if only I could love you as I gladly would! As tenderly as you deserve! But I feel quite clearly—it will never be.
Wangel.
A divorce then? It is a divorce,—a formal, legal divorce,—that you want?
Ellida.
My dear, you do not understand me at all. It is not the forms that I care about. These external things seem to me to matter nothing. What I wish is that we two should agree, of our own free will, to release each other.
Wangel.
[Bitterly, nods slowly.] To cancel the bargain,—yes.
Ellida.
[Eagerly.] Precisely! To cancel the bargain.
Wangel.
And after that, Ellida? Afterwards? Have you thought of the outlook for both of us? What shape will our lives take—both yours and mine?
Ellida.
We must not let that influence us. The future must shape itself as best it can. This that I am begging of you, Wangel,—this is the chief thing! Set me free! Give me back my full freedom.
Wangel.
Ellida—this is a terrible demand you make upon me. Let me at least have time to collect myself and come to a resolve. Let us discuss the matter more thoroughly. And do you, too, give yourself time to reflect what you are doing!
Ellida.
But there is no time to waste on all that. You must give me back my freedom this very day.[day.]
Wangel.
Why to-day?
Ellida.
Because it is to-night that he is coming.
Wangel.
[Starts.] Coming! He! What has the stranger to do with this?
Ellida.
I want to meet him in full freedom.
Wangel.
And what—what do you intend to do then?
Ellida.
I do not want to take refuge in the plea that I am another man’s wife—or that I have no choice left me. For then my decision would decide nothing.
Wangel.
You talk of choice! Choice, Ellida! Choice in this matter!
Ellida.
Yes, choose I must—freely choose either course. I must be free to let him go away alone—or—to go with him.
Wangel.
Do you understand what you are saying? Go with him! Place your whole fate in his hands!
Ellida.
Did I not place my whole fate in your hands? And that—without thinking twice.
Wangel.
That may be. But he! He! A total stranger! A man you know so little about!
Ellida.
I knew perhaps even less of you; and yet I went with you.
Wangel.
At least you knew pretty well what kind of life you were entering upon. But now? Now? Reflect! What do you know now? Nothing whatever: not even who he is—or what he is.
Ellida.
[Looking straight before her.] That is true. But that is just the terrible thing.
Wangel.
Yes, terrible indeed——
Ellida.
And that is why I feel as if I must give way to it.
Wangel.
[Looks at her.] Because it seems to you terrible?
Ellida.
Yes, just because of that.
Wangel.
[Nearer.] Tell me, Ellida—what do you really mean by “terrible”?
Ellida.
[Reflects.] I call a thing terrible—when it both frightens and fascinates me.
Wangel.
Fascinates?
Ellida.
Most of all when it fascinates me—I think.
Wangel.
[Slowly.] You are akin to the sea.
Ellida.
There is terror in that too.
Wangel.
And in yourself no less. You both frighten and fascinate.[[21]]
Ellida.
Do you think so, Wangel?
Wangel.
I see that I have never really known you; never thoroughly. I am beginning to understand that now.
Ellida.
And therefore you must set me free! Loose me from every tie to you and yours! I am not the woman you took me for; you see that now yourself. Now we can part in mutual understanding—and of our own free will.
Wangel.
[Gloomily.] It would perhaps be best for us both—to part. But for all that, I cannot! To me it is you that are “terrible,” Ellida. And fascinating—that you are above all things.
Ellida.
Do you say so?
Wangel.
Let us try to get through this day with no false step—to act calmly and collectedly. I cannot release you and let you go to-day. I must not—for your own sake, Ellida. I assert my right and my duty to protect you.
Ellida.
Protect? What is there to protect me against? It is not any outward force or violence that threatens me. The terrible thing lies deeper, Wangel! The terrible thing is—the fascination I feel in my own mind; and what can you do against that?
Wangel.
I can strengthen and support you in resisting it.
Ellida.
Yes—if I had the will to resist it.
Wangel.
Have you not the will?
Ellida.
Oh, that is just what I don’t know!
Wangel.
To-night all will be decided, dear Ellida——
Ellida.
[Breaks out.] Yes, think of it——! The decision so near! The decision for all time!
Wangel.
——and then to-morrow——
Ellida.
Yes, to-morrow! Perhaps I shall have forfeited my true future!
Wangel.
Your true——?
Ellida.
A whole, full life of freedom forfeited—forfeited for me! And perhaps—for him too.
Wangel.
[In a lower tone, seizing her by the wrist.] Ellida,—do you love this stranger?
Ellida.
Do I——? Oh how can I tell! I only know that to me he is terrible, and that——
Wangel.
——and that——?
Ellida.
[Tears herself away.]——and that I feel as though my place were with him.
Wangel.
[Bows his head.] I begin to understand.
Ellida.
And what help, what remedy have you to offer me?
Wangel.
[Looks sorrowfully at her.] To-morrow—he will be gone. Then you will be safe from disaster; and then I promise to release you and let you go. We will cancel the bargain, Ellida.
Ellida.
Oh Wangel——! To-morrow—it will be too late——!
Wangel.
[Looks out towards the garden.]] The children! The children——! Let us at least spare them—for the present.
Arnholm, Boletta, Hilda, and Lyngstrand appear in the garden. Lyngstrand takes leave without entering the house, and goes out to the left. The others come into the room.
Arnholm.
Ah, I can tell you we have been laying great plans——
Hilda.
We want to go out on the fiord this evening, and——
Boletta.
No, no, don’t tell!
Wangel.
We two have also been laying plans.
Arnholm.
Ah—really?
Wangel.
To-morrow Ellida is going to Skioldvik—for a time.
Boletta.
Going away——?
Arnholm.
That is very wise, Mrs. Wangel.
Wangel.
Ellida wants to go home again; home to the sea.
Hilda.
[With a little rush towards Ellida.] Are you going away? Going away from us!
Ellida.
[Startled.] Why, Hilda! What is the matter with you?
Hilda.
[Restraining herself.] Oh, nothing at all. [In a low tone, turning from her.] Go by all means!
Boletta.
[Anxiously.] Father, I can see—you are going away too—to Skioldvik!
Wangel.
No, certainly not! I shall perhaps run out now and then——
Boletta.
And home again——?
Wangel.
Yes, home——
Boletta.
——now and then, I suppose!
Wangel.
My dear child, it must be so. [He walks away.
Arnholm.
[Whispers.] I have something to say to you by-and-by, Boletta.
[He goes over to Wangel. They converse in a low tone by the door.
Ellida.
[Softly to Boletta.] What was the matter with Hilda? She seemed quite beside herself!
Boletta.
Have you never seen what Hilda has been thirsting for, day after day?
Ellida.
Thirsting for?
Boletta.
Ever since you came into the house!
Ellida.
No, no,—what is it?
Boletta.
One word of affection from you.
Ellida.
Ah——! What if there were work for me to do here!
[She clasps her hands above her head and looks immovably before her, as if a prey to conflicting thoughts and moods.
[Wangel and Arnholm come forward conversing in whispers.
[Boletta goes and looks into the side room on the right. Then she throws the door wide open.
Boletta.
Well, father dear—dinner is on the table,——
Wangel.
[With forced composure.] Is it, child? That’s right. Come along, Arnholm! We will drink a parting cup with—with “the lady from the sea.”
[They go towards the door on the right.