“Dear William!”—“H’m! William! No longer Pal!”—“Life is a struggle”—“What the deuce does she mean? What has that to do with us?”—“from beginning to end. Gently as a river in Kedron”—“Kedron! she’s quoting the Bible!”—“our life has glided along. Like sleepwalkers we have been walking on the edge of precipices without being aware of them”—“The seminary, oh! the seminary!”—“Suddenly we find ourselves face to face with the ethical”—“The ethical? Ablative!”—“asserting itself in its higher potencies!”—“Potencies?”—“Now that I am awake from my long sleep and ask myself: has our marriage been a marriage in the true sense of the word? I must admit with shame and remorse that this has not been the case. For love is of divine origin. (St. Matthew xi. 22, 24.)”
The captain had to mix himself a glass of rum and water before he felt able to continue his reading.—“How earthly, how material our love has been! Have our souls lived in that harmony of which Plato speaks? (Phaidon, Book vi. Chap. ii. Par. 9). Our answer is bound to be in the negative. What have I been to you? A housekeeper and, oh! The disgrace! your mistress! Have our souls understood one another? Again we are bound to answer ‘No.’”—“To Hell with all Ottilias and seminaries! Has she been my housekeeper? She has been my wife and the mother of my children!”—“Read the book I have sent you! It will answer all your questions. It voices that which for centuries has lain hidden in the hearts of all women! Read it, and then tell me if you think that our union has been a true marriage. Your Gurli.”
His presentiment of evil had not deceived him. The captain was beside himself; he could not understand what had happened to his wife. It was worse than religious hypocrisy.
He tore off the wrapper and read on the title page of a book in a paper cover: Et Dukkehjem af Henrik Ibsen. A Doll’s House? Well, and—? His home had been a charming doll’s house; his wife had been his little doll and he had been her big doll. They had danced along the stony path of life and had been happy. What more did they want? What was wrong? He must read the book at once and find out.
He finished it in three hours. His brain reeled. How did it concern him and his wife? Had they forged bills? No! Hadn’t they loved one another? Of course they had!
He locked himself into his cabin and read the book a second time; he underlined passages in red and blue, and when the dawn broke, he took “A well-meant little ablative on the play A Doll’s House, written by the old Pal on board the Vanadis in the Atlantic off Bordeaux. (Lat. 45° Long. 16°.)
“1. She married him because he was in love with her and that was a
deuced clever thing to do. For if she had waited until she had fallen
in love with someone, it might have happened that he would not have
fallen in love with her, and then there would have been the devil to
pay. For it happens very rarely that both parties are equally in love.”
“2. She forges a bill. That was foolish, but it is not true that it
was done for the husband’s sake only, for she has never loved him; it
would have been the truth if she had said that she had done it for him,
herself and the children. Is that clear?”
“3. That he wants to embrace her after the ball is only a proof of his
love for her, and there is no wrong in that; but it should not be done
on the stage. “Il y a des choses qui se font mais que ne se disent
point,’ as the French say, Moreover, if the poet had been fair, he
would also save shown an opposite case. ‘La petite chienne veut, mais
le grand chien ne veut pas,’ says Ollendorf. (Vide the long boat at
Dalarö.)”
“4. That she, when she discovers that her husband is a fool (and that
he is when he offers to condone her offence because it has not leaked
out) decides to leave her children ‘not considering herself worthy of
bringing them up,’ is a not very clever trick of coquetry. If they have
both been fools (and surely they don’t teach at the seminary that it
is right to forge bills) they should pull well together in future in
double harness.”
“Least of all is she justified in leaving her children’s education in
the hands of the father whom she despises.”
“5. Nora has consequently every reason for staying with her children
when she discovers what an imbecile her husband is.”
“6. The husband cannot be blamed for not sufficiently appreciating
her, for she doesn’t reveal her true character until after the row.”
“7. Nora has undoubtedly been a fool; she herself does not deny it.”
“8. There is every guarantee of their pulling together more happily
in future; he has repented and promised to turn over a new leaf. So
has she. Very well! Here’s my hand, let’s begin again at the beginning.
Birds of a feather flock together. There’s nothing lost, we’ve both
been fools! You, little Nora, were badly brought up. I, old rascal,
didn’t know any better. We are both to be pitied. Pelt our teachers
with rotten eggs, but don’t hit me alone on the head. I, though a man,
am every bit as innocent as you are! Perhaps even a little more so,
for I married for love, you for a home. Let us be friends, therefore,
and together teach our children the valuable lesson we have learnt
in the school of life.”
Is that clear? All right then!
This was written by Captain Pal with his stiff fingers and slow brain!
And now, my darling dolly, I have read your book and given you my
opinion. But what have we to do with it? Didn’t we love one another?
Haven’t we educated one another and helped one another to rub off our
sharp corners? Surely you’ll remember that we had many a little
encounter in the beginning! What fads of yours are those? To hell with
all Ottilias and seminaries!
The book you sent me is a queer book. It is like a watercourse with
an insufficient number of buoys, so that one might run aground at any
moment. But I pricked the chart and found calm waters. Only, I
couldn’t do it again. The devil may crack these nuts which are rotten
inside when one has managed to break the shell. I wish you peace and
happiness and the recovery of your sound common sense.
“How are the little ones? You forgot to mention them. Probably you
were thinking too much of Nora’s unfortunate kiddies, (which exist
only in a play of that sort). Is my little boy crying? My nightingale
singing, my dolly dancing? She must always do that if she wants to
make her old pal happy. And now may God bless you and prevent evil
thoughts from rising between us. My heart is sadder than I can tell.
And I am expected to sit down and write a critique on a play. God
bless you and the babies; kiss their rosy cheeks for your faithful
old Pal.”
When the captain had sent off his letter, he went into the officers’ mess and drank a glass of punch. The doctor was there, too.
“Have you noticed a smell of old black breeches?” he asked. “I should like to hoist myself up to the cat block and let a good old N.W. by N. blow right through me.”
But the doctor did not understand what he was driving at.