Chapter V: Part 5

No mistake about it. But then he went into the timber trade or something of the sort. They say he once played Mr. Werle a very nasty trick. They were partners in the Höidal works at the time. Oh, I know old Ekdal well, I do. Many a nip of bitters and bottle of ale we two have drunk at Madam Eriksen’s.

JENSEN.

He don’t look as if he’d much to stand treat with.

PETTERSEN.

Why, bless you, Jensen, it’s me that stands treat. I always think there’s no harm in being a bit civil to folks that have seen better days.

JENSEN.

Did he go bankrupt then?

PETTERSEN.

Worse than that. He went to prison.

JENSEN.

To prison!

PETTERSEN.

Or perhaps it was the Penitentiary. [_Listens._] Sh! They’re leaving the table.

_The dining-room door is thrown open from within, by a couple of
waiters._ MRS. SÖRBY _comes out conversing with two
gentlemen. Gradually the whole company follows, amongst
them_ WERLE. _Last come_ HIALMAR EKDAL _and_ GREGERS WERLE.

MRS. SÖRBY.

[_In passing, to the servant._] Tell them to serve the coffee in the music-room, Pettersen.

PETTERSEN.

Very well, Madam.

[_She goes with the two Gentlemen into the inner room, and
thence out to the right._ PETTERSEN _and_ JENSEN _go out the
same way._

A FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

[_To a THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN._] Whew! What a dinner!—It was no joke to do it justice!

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

Oh, with a little good-will one can get through a lot in three hours.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Yes, but afterwards, afterwards, my dear Chamberlain!

A THIRD GENTLEMAN.

I hear the coffee and maraschino are to be served in the music-room.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Bravo! Then perhaps Mrs. Sörby will play us something.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

[_In a low voice._] I hope Mrs. Sörby mayn’t play us a tune we don’t like, one of these days!

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Oh no, not she! Bertha will never turn against her old friends.

[_They laugh and pass into the inner room._

WERLE.

[_In a low voice, dejectedly._] I don’t think anybody noticed it, Gregers.

GREGERS.

[_Looks at him._] Noticed what?

WERLE.

Did you not notice it either?

GREGERS.

What do you mean?

WERLE.

We were thirteen at table.

GREGERS.

Indeed? Were there thirteen of us?

WERLE.

[_Glances towards HIALMAR EKDAL._] Our usual party is twelve. [_To the others._] This way, gentlemen!

[WERLE _and the others, all except_ HIALMAR _and_ GREGERS, _go
out by the back, to the right._

HIALMAR.

[_Who has overheard the conversation._] You ought not to have invited me, Gregers.

GREGERS.

What! Not ask my best and only friend to a party supposed to be in my honour——?

HIALMAR.

But I don’t think your father likes it. You see I am quite outside his circle.

GREGERS.

So I hear. But I wanted to see you and have a talk with you, and I certainly shan’t be staying long.—Ah, we two old schoolfellows have drifted far apart from each other. It must be sixteen or seventeen years since we met.

HIALMAR.

Is it so long?

GREGERS.

It is indeed. Well, how goes it with you? You look well. You have put on flesh, and grown almost stout.

HIALMAR.

Well, “stout” is scarcely the word; but I daresay I look a little more of a man than I used to.

GREGERS.

Yes, you do; your outer man is in first-rate condition.

HIALMAR.

[_In a tone of gloom._] Ah, but the inner man! That is a very different matter, I can tell you! Of course you know of the terrible catastrophe that has befallen me and mine since last we met.

GREGERS.

[_More softly._] How are things going with your father now?

HIALMAR.

Don’t let us talk of it, old fellow. Of course my poor unhappy father lives with me. He hasn’t another soul in the world to care for him. But you can understand that this is a miserable subject for me. —Tell me, rather, how you have been getting on up at the works.

GREGERS.

I have had a delightfully lonely time of it—plenty of leisure to think and think about things. Come over here; we may as well make ourselves comfortable.

[_He seats himself in an arm-chair by the fire and draws_
HIALMAR _down into another alongside of it._

HIALMAR.

[_Sentimentally._] After all, Gregers, I thank you for inviting me to your father’s table; for I take it as a sign that you have got over your feeling against me.

GREGERS.

[_Surprised._] How could you imagine I had any feeling against you?

HIALMAR.

You had at first, you know.

GREGERS.

How at first?

HIALMAR.

After the great misfortune. It was natural enough that you should. Your father was within an ace of being drawn into that—well, that terrible business.

GREGERS.

Why should that give me any feeling against you? Who can have put that into your head?

HIALMAR.

I know it did, Gregers; your father told me so himself.

GREGERS.

[_Starts._] My father! Oh indeed. H'm.—Was that why you never let me hear from you?—not a single word.

HIALMAR.

Yes.

GREGERS.

Not even when you made up your mind to become a photographer?

HIALMAR.

Your father said I had better not write to you at all, about anything.

GREGERS.

[_Looking straight before him._] Well well, perhaps he was right.—But tell me now, Hialmar: are you pretty well satisfied with your present position?

HIALMAR.

[_With a little sigh._] Oh yes, I am; I have really no cause to complain. At first, as you may guess, I felt it a little strange. It was such a totally new state of things for me. But of course my whole circumstances were totally changed. Father’s utter, irretrievable ruin,—the shame and disgrace of it, Gregers——

GREGERS.

[_Affected._] Yes, yes; I understand.

HIALMAR.

I couldn’t think of remaining at college; there wasn’t a shilling to spare; on the contrary, there were debts—mainly to your father I believe——

GREGERS.

H'm———

HIALMAR.

In short, I thought it best to break, once for all, with my old surroundings and associations. It was your father that specially urged me to it; and since he interested himself so much in me———

GREGERS.

My father did?

HIALMAR.

Yes, you surely knew that, didn’t you? Where do you suppose I found the money to learn photography, and to furnish a studio and make a start? All that costs a pretty penny, I can tell you.

GREGERS.

And my _father_ provided the money?

HIALMAR.

Yes, my dear fellow, didn’t you know? I understood him to say he had written to you about it.

GREGERS.

Not a word about _his_ part in the business. He must have forgotten it. Our correspondence has always been purely a business one. So it was my father that——!

HIALMAR.

Yes, certainly. He didn’t wish it to be generally known; but he it was. And of course it was he, too, that put me in a position to marry. Don’t you—don’t you know about that either?

GREGERS.

No, I haven’t heard a word of it. [_Shakes him by the arm._] But, my dear Hialmar, I can’t tell you what pleasure all this gives me—pleasure, and self-reproach. I have perhaps done my father injustice after all—in some things. This proves that he has a heart. It shows a sort of compunction——

HIALMAR.

Compunction——?

GREGERS.

Yes, yes—whatever you like to call it. Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear this of father.—So you are a married man, Hialmar! That is further than I shall ever get. Well, I hope you are happy in your married life?

HIALMAR.

Yes, thoroughly happy. She is as good and capable a wife as any man could wish for. And she is by no means without culture.

GREGERS.

[_Rather surprised._] No, of course not.

HIALMAR.

You see, life is itself an education. Her daily intercourse with me—— And then we know one or two rather remarkable men, who come a good deal about us. I assure you, you would hardly know Gina again.

GREGERS.

Gina?

HIALMAR.

Yes; had you forgotten that her name was Gina?

GREGERS.

Whose name? I haven’t the slightest idea——

HIALMAR.

Don’t you remember that she used to be in service here?

GREGERS.

[_Looks at him._] Is it Gina Hansen——?

HIALMAR.

Yes, of course it is Gina Hansen.

GREGERS.

——who kept house for us during the last year of my mother’s illness?

HIALMAR.

Yes, exactly. But, my dear friend, I'm quite sure your father told you that I was married.

GREGERS.

[_Who has risen._] Oh yes, he mentioned it; but not that—— [_Walking about the room._] Stay—perhaps he did—now that I think of it. My father always writes such short letters. [_Half seats himself on the arm of the chair._] Now, tell me, Hialmar—this is interesting—how did you come to know Gina—your wife?

HIALMAR.

The simplest thing in the world. You know Gina did not stay here long; everything was so much upset at that time, owing to your mother’s illness and so forth, that Gina was not equal to it all; so she gave notice and left. That was the year before your mother died—or it may have been the same year.

GREGERS.

It was the same year. I was up at the works then. But afterwards——?

HIALMAR.

Well, Gina lived at home with her mother, Madam Hansen, an excellent hard-working woman, who kept a little eating-house. She had a room to let too; a very nice comfortable room.

GREGERS.

And I suppose you were lucky enough to secure it?

HIALMAR.

Yes; in fact, it was your father that recommended it to me. So it was there, you see, that I really came to know Gina.

GREGERS.

And then you got engaged?

HIALMAR.

Yes. It doesn’t take young people long to fall in love——; h’m——

GREGERS.

[_Rises and moves about a little._] Tell me: was it after your engagement—was it then that my father—I mean was it then that you began to take up photography?

HIALMAR.

Yes, precisely. I wanted to make a start, and to set up house as soon as possible; and your father and I agreed that this photography business was the readiest way. Gina thought so too. Oh, and there was another thing in its favour, by-the-bye: it happened, luckily, that Gina had learnt to retouch.

GREGERS.

That chimed in marvellously.

HIALMAR.

[_Pleased, rises._] Yes, didn’t it? Don’t you think it was a marvellous piece of luck?

GREGERS.

Oh, unquestionably. My father seems to have been almost a kind of providence for you.

HIALMAR.

[_With emotion._] He did not forsake his old friend’s son in the hour of his need. For he _has_ a heart, you see.

MRS. SÖRBY.

[_Enters, arm-in-arm with WERLE._] Nonsense, my dear Mr. Werle; you mustn’t stop there any longer staring at all the lights. It’s very bad for you.

WERLE.

[_Lets go her arm and passes his hand over his eyes._] I daresay you are right.

[PETTERSEN _and_ JENSEN _carry round refreshment trays._]

MRS. SÖRBY.

[_To the Guests in the other room._] This way, if you please, gentlemen. Whoever wants a glass of punch must be so good as to come in here.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

[_Comes up to MRS. SÖRBY._] Surely, it isn’t possible that you have suspended our cherished right to smoke?

MRS. SÖRBY.

Yes. No smoking here, in Mr. Werle’s sanctum, Chamberlain.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

When did you enact these stringent amendments on the cigar law, Mrs. Sörby?

MRS. SÖRBY.

After the last dinner, Chamberlain, when certain persons permitted themselves to overstep the mark.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

And may one never overstep the mark a little bit, Madame Bertha? Not the least little bit?

MRS. SÖRBY.

Not in any respect whatsoever, Mr. Balle.

[_Most of the Guests have assembled in the study; servants hand
round glasses of punch._

WERLE.

[_To HIALMAR, who is standing beside a table._] What are you studying so intently, Ekdal?

HIALMAR.

Only an album, Mr. Werle.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

[_Who is wandering about._] Ah, photographs! They are quite in your line of course.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

[_In an arm-chair._] Haven’t you brought any of your own with you?

HIALMAR.

No, I haven’t.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

You ought to have; it’s very good for the digestion to sit and look at pictures.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

And it contributes to the entertainment, you know.

THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.

And all contributions are thankfully received.

MRS. SÖRBY.

The Chamberlains think that when one is invited out to dinner, one ought to exert oneself a little in return, Mr. Ekdal.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Where one dines so well, that duty becomes a pleasure.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

And when it’s a case of the struggle for existence, you know——

MRS. SÖRBY.

I quite agree with you!

[_They continue the conversation, with laughter and joking._

GREGERS.

[_Softly._] You must join in, Hialmar.

HIALMAR.

[_Writhing._] What am I to talk about?

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Don’t you think, Mr. Werle, that Tokay may be considered one of the more wholesome sorts of wine?

WERLE.

[_By the fire._] I can answer for the Tokay you had to-day, at any rate; it’s of one of the very finest seasons. Of course you would notice that.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Yes, it had a remarkably delicate flavour.

HIALMAR.

[_Shyly._] Is there any difference between the seasons?

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

[_Laughs._] Come! That’s good!

WERLE.

[_Smiles._] It really doesn’t pay to set fine wine before you.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

Tokay is like photographs, Mr. Ekdal: they both need sunshine. Am I not right?

HIALMAR.

Yes, light is important no doubt.

MRS. SÖRBY.

And it’s exactly the same with Chamberlains—they, too, depend very much on sunshine,[15] as the saying is.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

Oh fie! That’s a very threadbare sarcasm!

THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.

Mrs. Sörby is coming out——

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

——and at our expense, too. [_Holds up his finger reprovingly._] Oh, Madame Bertha, Madame Bertha!

MRS. SÖRBY.

Yes, and there’s not the least doubt that the seasons differ greatly. The old vintages are the finest.

THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.

Do you reckon me among the old vintages?

MRS. SÖRBY.

Oh, far from it.

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

There now! But me, dear Mrs. Sörby——?

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Yes, and me? What vintage should you say that we belong to?

MRS. SÖRBY.

Why, to the sweet vintages, gentlemen.

[_She sips a glass of punch. The gentlemen laugh and flirt with
her._

WERLE.

Mrs. Sörby can always find a loop-hole—when she wants to. Fill your glasses, gentlemen! Pettersen, will you see to it——! Gregers, suppose we have a glass together. [GREGERS _does not move._] Won’t you join us, Ekdal? I found no opportunity of drinking with you at table.

[GRÅBERG, _the Bookkeeper, looks in at the baize door._

GRÅBERG.

Excuse me, sir, but I can’t get out.

WERLE.

Have you been locked in again?

GRÅBERG.

Yes, and Flakstad has carried off the keys.

WERLE.

Well, you can pass out this way.

GRÅBERG.

But there’s some one else——

WERLE.

All right; come through, both of you. Don’t be afraid.

[GRÅBERG _and_ OLD EKDAL _come out of the office._

WERLE.

[_Involuntarily._] Ugh!

[_The laughter and talk among the Guests cease._ HIALMAR _starts
at the sight of his father, puts down his glass, and turns
towards the fireplace._

EKDAL.

[_Does not look up, but makes little bows to both sides as he passes, murmuring._] Beg pardon, come the wrong way. Door locked—door locked. Beg pardon.

[_He and_ GRÅBERG _go out by the back, to the right._

WERLE.

[_Between his teeth._] That idiot Gråberg!

GREGERS.

[_Open-mouthed and staring, to HIALMAR._] Why surely that wasn’t——!

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

What’s the matter? Who was it?

GREGERS.

Oh, nobody, only the bookkeeper and some one with him.

THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.

[_To HIALMAR._] Did _you_ know that man?

HIALMAR.

I don’t know—I didn’t notice——

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

What the deuce has come over every one?

[_He joins another group who are talking softly._

MRS. SÖRBY.

[_Whispers to the Servant._] Give him something to take with him;—something good, mind.

PETTERSEN.

[_Nods._] I'll see to it. _Goes out._

GREGERS.

[_Softly and with emotion, to HIALMAR._] So that was really he!

HIALMAR.

Yes.

GREGERS.

And you could stand there and deny that you knew him!

HIALMAR.

[_Whispers vehemently._] But how _could_ I——!

GREGERS.

——acknowledge your own father?

HIALMAR.

[_With pain._] Oh, if you were in my place——

[_The conversation amongst the Guests, which has been carried on
in a low tone, now swells into constrained joviality._]

THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.

[_Approaching HIALMAR and GREGERS in a friendly manner._] Aha! Reviving old college memories, eh? Don’t you smoke, Mr. Ekdal? May I give you a light? Oh, by-the-bye, we mustn’t——

HIALMAR.

No, thank you, I won’t——

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Haven’t you a nice little poem you could recite to us, Mr. Ekdal? You used to recite so charmingly.

HIALMAR.

I am sorry I can’t remember anything.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

Oh, that’s a pity. Well, what shall we do, Balle?

[_Both Gentlemen move away and pass into the other room._

HIALMAR.

[_Gloomily._] Gregers—I am going! When a man has felt the crushing hand of Fate, you see——Say good-bye to your father for me.

GREGERS.

Yes, yes. Are you going straight home?

HIALMAR.

Yes. Why?

GREGERS.

Oh, because I may perhaps look in on you later.

HIALMAR.

No, you mustn’t do that. You must not come to my home. Mine is a melancholy abode, Gregers; especially after a splendid banquet like this. We can always arrange to meet somewhere in the town.

MRS. SÖRBY.

[_Who has quietly approached._] Are you going, Ekdal?

HIALMAR.

Yes.

MRS. SÖRBY.

Remember me to Gina.

HIALMAR.

Thanks.

MRS. SÖRBY.

And say I am coming up to see her one of these days.

HIALMAR.

Yes, thank you. [_To GREGERS._] Stay here; I will slip out unobserved.

[_He saunters away, then into the other room, and so out to the
right._

MRS. SÖRBY.

[_Softly to the Servant, who has come back._] Well, did you give the old man something?

PETTERSEN.

Yes; I sent him off with a bottle of cognac.

MRS. SÖRBY.

Oh, you might have thought of something better than that.

PETTERSEN.

Oh no, Mrs. Sörby; cognac is what he likes best in the world.

THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.

[_In the doorway with a sheet of music in his hand._] Shall we play a duet, Mrs. Sörby?

MRS. SÖRBY.

Yes, suppose we do.

THE GUESTS.

Bravo, bravo!

[_She goes with all the Guests through the back room, out to the
right._ GREGERS _remains standing by the fire._ WERLE _is
looking for something on the writing-table, and, appears to
wish that_ GREGERS _would go; as_ GREGERS _does not move,_
WERLE _goes towards the door._

GREGERS.

Father, won’t you stay a moment?

WERLE.

[_Stops._] What is it?

GREGERS.

I must have a word with you.

WERLE.

Can it not wait till we are alone?

GREGERS.

No, it cannot; for perhaps we shall never be alone together.

WERLE.

[_Drawing nearer._] What do you mean by that?

[_During what follows, the pianoforte is faintly heard from the
distant music-room._

GREGERS.

How has that family been allowed to go so miserably to the wall?

WERLE.

You mean the Ekdals, I suppose.

GREGERS.

Yes, I mean the Ekdals. Lieutenant Ekdal was once so closely associated with you.

WERLE.

Much too closely; I have felt that to my cost for many a year. It is thanks to him that I—yes _I_—have had a kind of slur cast upon my reputation.

GREGERS.

[_Softly._] Are you sure that he alone was to blame?

WERLE.

Who else do you suppose——?

GREGERS.

You and he acted together in that affair of the forests——

WERLE.

But was it not Ekdal that drew the map of the tracts we had bought—that fraudulent map! It was he who felled all that timber illegally on Government ground. In fact, the whole management was in his hands. I was quite in the dark as to what Lieutenant Ekdal was doing.

GREGERS.

Lieutenant Ekdal himself seems to have been very much in the dark as to what he was doing.

WERLE.

That may be. But the fact remains that he was found guilty and I acquitted.

GREGERS.

Yes, I know that nothing was proved against you.

WERLE.

Acquittal is acquittal. Why do you rake up these old miseries that turned my hair grey before its time? Is that the sort of thing you have been brooding over up there, all these years? I can assure you, Gregers, here in the town the whole story has been forgotten long ago—so far as _I_ am concerned.

GREGERS.

But that unhappy Ekdal family.

WERLE.

What would you have had me do for the people? When Ekdal came out of prison he was a broken-down being, past all help. There are people in the world who dive to the bottom the moment they get a couple of slugs in their body, and never come to the surface again. You may take my word for it, Gregers, I have done all I could without positively laying myself open to all sorts of suspicion and gossip——

GREGERS.

Suspicion——? Oh, I see.

WERLE.

I have given Ekdal copying to do for the office, and I pay him far, far more for it than his work is worth——

GREGERS.

[_Without looking at him._] H'm; _that_ I don’t doubt.

WERLE.

You laugh? Do you think I am not telling you the truth? Well, I certainly can’t refer you to my books, for I never enter payments of that sort.

GREGERS.

[_Smiles coldly._] No, there are certain payments it is best to keep no account of.

WERLE.

[_Taken aback._] What do you mean by _that_?

GREGERS.

[_Mustering up courage._] Have you entered what it cost you to have Hialmar Ekdal taught photography?

WERLE.

I? How “entered” it?

GREGERS.

I have learnt that it was you who paid for his training. And I have learnt, too, that it was you who enabled him to set up house so comfortably.

WERLE.

Well, and yet you talk as though I had done nothing for the Ekdals! I can assure you these people have cost me enough in all conscience.

GREGERS.

Have you entered any of these expenses in your books?

WERLE.

Why do you ask?

GREGERS.

Oh, I have my reasons. Now tell me: when you interested yourself so warmly in your old friend’s son—it was just before his marriage, was it not?

WERLE.

Why, deuce take it—after all these years, how can I——?

GREGERS.

You wrote me a letter about that time—a business letter, of course; and in a postscript you mentioned—quite briefly—that Hialmar Ekdal had married a Miss Hansen.

WERLE.

Yes, that was quite right. That was her name.

GREGERS.

But you did not mention that this Miss Hansen was Gina Hansen—our former housekeeper.

WERLE.

[_With a forced laugh of derision._] No; to tell the truth, it didn’t occur to me that you were so particularly interested in our former housekeeper.

GREGERS.

No more I was. But [_lowers his voice_] there were others in this house who _were_ particularly interested in her.

WERLE.

What do you mean by that? [_Flaring up._] You are not alluding to me, I hope?

GREGERS.

[_Softly but firmly._] Yes, I am alluding to you.

WERLE.

And you dare——! You presume to——! How can that ungrateful hound—that photographer fellow—how dare he go making such insinuations!

GREGERS.

Hialmar has never breathed a word about this. I don’t believe he has the faintest suspicion of such a thing.

WERLE.

Then where have you got it from? Who can have put such notions in your head?

GREGERS.

My poor unhappy mother told me; and that the very last time I saw her.

WERLE.

Your mother! I might have known as much! You and she—you always held together. It was she who turned you against me, from the first.

GREGERS.

No, it was all that she had to suffer and submit to, until she broke down and came to such a pitiful end.

WERLE.

Oh, she had nothing to suffer or submit to; not more than most people, at all events. But there’s no getting on with morbid, overstrained creatures—that I have learnt to my cost.—And you could go on nursing such a suspicion—burrowing into all sorts of old rumours and slanders against your own father! I must say, Gregers, I really think that at your age you might find something more useful to do.

GREGERS.

Yes, it is high time.

WERLE.

Then perhaps your mind would be easier than it seems to be now. What can be your object in remaining up at the works, year out and year in, drudging away like a common clerk, and not drawing a farthing more than the ordinary monthly wage? It is downright folly.

GREGERS.

Ah, if I were only sure of _that_.

WERLE.

I understand you well enough. You want to be independent; you won’t be beholden to me for anything. Well, now there happens to be an opportunity for you to become independent, your own master in everything.

GREGERS.

Indeed? In what way——?

WERLE.

When I wrote you insisting on your coming to town at once—h’m——

GREGERS.

Yes, what is it you really want of me? I have been waiting all day to know.

WERLE.

I want to propose that you should enter the firm, as partner.

GREGERS.

I! Join your firm? As partner?

WERLE.

Yes. It would not involve our being constantly together. You could take over the business here in town, and I should move up to the works.

GREGERS.

_You_ would?

WERLE.

The fact is, I am not so fit for work as I once was. I am obliged to spare my eyes, Gregers; they have begun to trouble me.

GREGERS.

They have always been weak.

WERLE.

Not as they are now. And besides, circumstances might possibly make it desirable for me to live up there—for a time, at any rate.

GREGERS.

That is certainly quite a new idea to me.

WERLE.

Listen, Gregers: there are many things that stand between us; but we are father and son after all. We ought surely to be able to come to some sort of understanding with each other.

GREGERS.

Outwardly, you mean, of course?

WERLE.

Well, even that would be something. Think it over, Gregers. Don’t you think it ought to be possible? Eh?

GREGERS.

[_Looking at him coldly._] There is something behind all this.

WERLE.

How so?

GREGERS.

You want to make use of me in some way.

WERLE.

In such a close relationship as ours, the one can always be useful to the other.

GREGERS.

Yes, so people say.

WERLE.

I want very much to have you at home with me for a time. I am a lonely man Gregers; I have always felt lonely, all my life through; but most of all now that I am getting up in years. I feel the need of some one about me——

GREGERS.

You have Mrs. Sörby.

WERLE.

Yes, I have her; and she has become, I may say, almost indispensable to me. She is lively and even-tempered; she brightens up the house; and that is a very great thing for me.

GREGERS.

Well then, you have everything just as you wish it.

WERLE.

Yes, but I am afraid it can’t last. A woman so situated may easily find herself in a false position, in the eyes of the world. For that matter it does a man no good, either.

GREGERS.

Oh, when a man gives such dinners as you give, he can risk a great deal.

WERLE.

Yes, but how about the woman, Gregers? I fear she won’t accept the situation much longer; and even if she did—even if, out of attachment to me, she were to take her chance of gossip and scandal and all that——? Do you think, Gregers—you with your strong sense of justice——

GREGERS.

[_Interrupts him._] Tell me in one word: are you thinking of marrying her?

WERLE.

Suppose I were thinking of it? What then?

GREGERS.

That’s what I say: what then?

WERLE.

Should you be inflexibly opposed to it?

GREGERS.

Not at all. Not by any means.

WERLE.

I was not sure whether your devotion to your mother’s memory——

GREGERS.

I am not overstrained.

WERLE.

Well, whatever you may or may not be, at all events you have lifted a great weight from my mind. I am extremely pleased that I can reckon on your concurrence in this matter.

GREGERS.

[_Looking intently at him._] Now I see the use you want to put me to.

WERLE.

Use to put you to? What an expression!

GREGERS.

Oh, don’t let us be nice in our choice of words—not when we are alone together, at any rate. [_With a short laugh._] Well well! So this is what made it absolutely essential that I should come to town in person. For the sake of Mrs. Sörby, we are to get up a pretence at family life in the house—a tableau of filial affection! That will be something new indeed.

WERLE.

How dare you speak in that tone!

GREGERS.

Was there ever any family life here? Never since I can remember. But now, forsooth, your plans demand something of the sort. No doubt it will have an excellent effect when it is reported that the son has hastened home, on the wings of filial piety, to the grey-haired father’s wedding-feast. What will then remain of all the rumours as to the wrongs the poor dead mother had to submit to? Not a vestige. Her son annihilates them at one stroke.

WERLE.

Gregers—I believe there is no one in the world you detest as you do me.

GREGERS.

[_Softly._] I have seen you at too close quarters.

WERLE.

You have seen me with your mother’s eyes. [_Lowers his voice a little._] But you should remember that her eyes were—clouded now and then.

GREGERS.

[_Quivering._] I see what you are hinting at. But who was to blame for mother’s unfortunate weakness? Why you, and all those——! The last of them was this woman that you palmed off upon Hialmar Ekdal, when you were——Ugh!

WERLE.

[_Shrugs his shoulders._] Word for word as if it were your mother speaking!

GREGERS.

[_Without heeding._] And there he is now, with his great, confiding, childlike mind, compassed about with all this treachery—living under the same roof with such a creature, and never dreaming that what he calls his home is built upon a lie! [_Comes a step nearer._] When I look back upon your past, I seem to see a battle-field with shattered lives on every hand.

WERLE.

I begin to think the chasm that divides us is too wide.

GREGERS.

[_Bowing, with self-command._] So I have observed; and therefore I take my hat and go.

WERLE.

You are going! Out of the house?

GREGERS.

Yes. For at last I see my mission in life.

WERLE.

What mission?

GREGERS.

You would only laugh if I told you.

WERLE.

A lonely man doesn’t laugh so easily, Gregers.

GREGERS.

[_Pointing towards the background._] Look, father,—the Chamberlains are playing blind-man’s-buff with Mrs. Sörby.—Good-night and good-bye.

[_He goes out by the back to the right. Sounds of laughter and
merriment from the Company, who are now visible in the outer
room._

WERLE.

[_Muttering contemptuously after_ GREGERS.] Ha——! Poor wretch—and he says he is not over-strained!

ACT SECOND.

HIALMAR EKDAL’S _studio, a good-sized room, evidently in the top storey
of the building. On the right, a sloping roof of large panes of
glass, half-covered by a blue curtain. In the right-hand corner,
at the back, the entrance door; farther forward, on the same side,
a door leading to the sitting-room. Two doors on the opposite
side, and between them an iron stove. At the back, a wide double
sliding-door. The studio is plainly but comfortably fitted up and
furnished. Between the doors on the right, standing out a little
from the wall, a sofa with a table and some chairs; on the table a
lighted lamp with a shade; beside the stove an old arm-chair.
Photographic instruments and apparatus of different kinds lying
about the room. Against the back wall, to the left of the double
door, stands a bookcase containing a few books, boxes, and bottles
of chemicals, instruments, tools, and other objects. Photographs
and small articles, such as camel’s-hair pencils, paper, and so
forth, lie on the table._

GINA EKDAL _sits on a chair by the table, sewing._ HEDVIG _is sitting on
the sofa, with her hands shading her eyes and her thumbs in her
ears, reading a book._

GINA.

[_Glances once or twice at_ HEDVIG, _as if with secret anxiety; then says_:] Hedvig!

HEDVIG.

[_Does not hear._]

GINA.

[_Repeats more loudly._] Hedvig!

HEDVIG.

[_Takes away her hands and looks up._] Yes, mother?

GINA.

Hedvig dear, you mustn’t sit reading any longer now.

HEDVIG.

Oh mother, mayn’t I read a little more? Just a little bit?

GINA.

No no, you must put away your book now. Father doesn’t like it; he never reads hisself in the evening.

HEDVIG.

[_Shuts the book._] No, father doesn’t care much about reading.

GINA.

[_Puts aside her sewing and takes up a lead pencil and a little account-book from the table._] Can you remember how much we paid for the butter to-day?

HEDVIG.

It was one crown sixty-five.

GINA.

That’s right. [_Puts it down._] It’s terrible what a lot of butter we get through in this house. Then there was the smoked sausage, and the cheese—let me see—[_Writes_]—and the ham—[_Adds up._] Yes, that makes just——

HEDVIG.

And then the beer.

GINA.

Yes, to be sure. [_Writes._] How it do mount up! But we can’t manage with no less.

HEDVIG.

And then you and I didn’t need anything hot for dinner, as father was out.

GINA.

No; that was so much to the good. And then I took eight crowns fifty for the photographs.

HEDVIG.

Really! So much as that?

GINA.

Exactly eight crowns fifty.

[_Silence._ GINA _takes up her sewing again,_ HEDVIG _takes
paper and pencil and begins to draw, shading her eyes with
her left hand._

HEDVIG.

Isn’t it jolly to think that father is at Mr. Werle’s big dinner-party?

GINA.

You know he’s not really Mr. Werle’s guest. It was the son invited him. [_After a pause._] We have nothing to do with that Mr. Werle.

HEDVIG.

I'm longing for father to come home. He promised to ask Mrs. Sörby for something nice for me.

GINA.

Yes, there’s plenty of good things going in _that_ house, I can tell you.

HEDVIG.

[_Goes on drawing._] And I believe I'm a little hungry too.

[OLD EKDAL, _with the paper parcel under his arm and another
parcel in his coat pocket, comes in by the entrance door._

GINA.

How late you are to-day, grandfather!

EKDAL.

They had locked the office door. Had to wait in Gråberg’s room. And then they let me through—h’m.

HEDVIG.

Did you get some more copying to do, grandfather?

EKDAL.

This whole packet. Just look.

GINA.

That’s capital.

HEDVIG.

And you have another parcel in your pocket.

EKDAL.

Eh? Oh never mind, that’s nothing. [_Puts his stick away in a corner._] This work will keep me going a long time, Gina. [_Opens one of the sliding-doors in the back wall a little._] Hush! [_Peeps into the room for a moment, then pushes the door carefully to again._] Hee-hee! They’re fast asleep, all the lot of them. And she’s gone into the basket herself. Hee-hee!

HEDVIG.

Are you sure she isn’t cold in that basket, grandfather?

EKDAL.

Not a bit of it! Cold? With all that straw? [_Goes towards the farther door on the left._] There are matches in here, I suppose.

GINA.

The matches is on the drawers.

[EKDAL _goes into his room._

HEDVIG.

It’s nice that grandfather has got all that copying.

GINA.

Yes, poor old father; it means a bit of pocket-money for him.

HEDVIG.

And he won’t be able to sit the whole forenoon down at that horrid Madam Eriksen’s.

GINA.

No more he won’t.

[_Short silence._

HEDVIG.

Do you suppose they are still at the dinner-table?

GINA.

Goodness knows; as like as not.

HEDVIG.

Think of all the delicious things father is having to eat! I'm certain he’ll be in splendid spirits when he comes. Don’t you think so, mother?

GINA.

Yes; and if only we could tell him that we’d got the room let——

HEDVIG.

But we don’t need that this evening.

GINA.

Oh, we’d be none the worse of it, I can tell you. It’s no use to us as it is.

HEDVIG.

I mean we don’t need it this evening, for father will be in a good humour at any rate. It is best to keep the letting of the room for another time.

GINA.

[_Looks across at her._] You like having some good news to tell father when he comes home in the evening?

HEDVIG.

Yes; for then things are pleasanter somehow.

GINA.

[_Thinking to herself._] Yes, yes, there’s something in that.

[OLD EKDAL _comes in again and is going out by the foremost door
to the left._

GINA.

[_Half turning in her chair._] Do you want something out of the kitchen, grandfather?

EKDAL.

Yes, yes, I do. Don’t you trouble. _Goes out._

GINA.

He’s not poking away at the fire, is he? [_Waits a moment._] Hedvig, go and see what he’s about.

[EKDAL _comes in again with a small jug of steaming hot water._

HEDVIG.

Have you been getting some hot water, grandfather?

EKDAL.

Yes, hot water. Want it for something. Want to write, and the ink has got as thick as porridge.—h’m.

GINA.

But you’d best have your supper, first, grandfather. It’s laid in there.

EKDAL.

Can’t be bothered with supper, Gina. Very busy, I tell you. No one’s to come to my room. No one—h’m.

[_He goes into his room;_ GINA _and_ HEDVIG _look at each
other._

GINA.

[_Softly._] Can you imagine where he’s got money from?

HEDVIG.

From Gråberg, perhaps.

GINA.

Not a bit of it. Gråberg always sends the money to me.

HEDVIG.

Then he must have got a bottle on credit somewhere.

GINA.

Poor grandfather, who’d give him credit?

HIALMAR EKDAL, _in an overcoat and grey felt hat, comes in from the
right._

GINA.

[_Throws down her sewing and rises._] Why, Ekdal. Is that you already?

HEDVIG.

[_At the same time jumping up._] Fancy your coming so soon, father!

HIALMAR.

[_Taking off his hat._] Yes, most of the people were coming away.

HEDVIG.

So early?

HIALMAR.

Yes, it was a dinner-party, you know.

[_Is taking off his overcoat._

GINA.

Let me help you.

HEDVIG.

Me too.

[_They draw off his coat;_ GINA _hangs it up on the back wall._

HEDVIG.

Were there many people there, father?

HIALMAR.

Oh no, not many. We were about twelve or fourteen at table.

GINA.

And you had some talk with them all?

HIALMAR.

Oh yes, a little; but Gregers took me up most of the time.

GINA.

Is Gregers as ugly as ever?

HIALMAR.

Well, he’s not very much to look at. Hasn’t the old man come home?

HEDVIG.

Yes, grandfather is in his room, writing.

HIALMAR.

Did he say anything?

GINA.

No, what should he say?

HIALMAR.

Didn’t he say anything about——? I heard something about his having been with Gråberg. I'll go in and see him for a moment.

GINA.

No, no, better not.

HIALMAR.

Why not? Did he say he didn’t want me to go in?

GINA.

I don’t think he wants to see _nobody_ this evening——

HEDVIG.

[_Making signs._] H'm—h’m!

GINA.

[_Not noticing._]——he has been in to fetch hot water——

HIALMAR.

Aha! Then he’s——

GINA.

Yes, I suppose so.

HIALMAR.

Oh God! my poor old white-haired father!—Well, well; there let him sit and get all the enjoyment he can.

[OLD EKDAL, _in an indoor coat and with a lighted pipe, comes
from his room._

EKDAL.

Got home? Thought it was you I heard talking.

HIALMAR.

Yes, I have just come.

EKDAL.

You didn’t see me, did you?

HIALMAR.

No; but they told me you had passed through—so I thought I would follow you.

EKDAL.

H'm, good of you, Hialmar.—Who were they, all those fellows?

HIALMAR.

Oh, all sorts of people. There was Chamberlain Flor, and Chamberlain Balle, and Chamberlain Kaspersen, and Chamberlain—this, that, and the other—I don’t know who all——

EKDAL.

[_Nodding._] Hear that, Gina! Chamberlains every one of them!

GINA.

Yes, I hear as they’re terrible genteel in that house nowadays.

HEDVIG.

Did the Chamberlains sing, father? Or did they read aloud?

HIALMAR.

No, they only talked nonsense. They wanted _me_ to recite something for them; but I knew better than that.

EKDAL.

You weren’t to be persuaded, eh?

GINA.

Oh, you might have done it.

HIALMAR.

No; one mustn’t be at everybody’s beck and call. [_Walks about the room._] That’s not _my_ way, at any rate.

EKDAL.

No no; Hialmar’s not to be had for the asking, he isn’t.

HIALMAR.

I don’t see why _I_ should bother myself to entertain people on the rare occasions when I go into society. Let the others exert themselves. These fellows go from one great dinner-table to the next and gorge and guzzle day out and day in. It’s for them to bestir themselves and do something in return for all the good feeding they get.

GINA.

But you didn’t say that?

HIALMAR.

[_Humming._] Ho-ho-ho——; faith, I gave them a bit of my mind.

EKDAL.

Not the Chamberlains?

HIALMAR.

Oh, why not? [_Lightly._] After that, we had a little discussion about Tokay.

EKDAL.

Tokay! There’s a fine wine for you!

HIALMAR.

[_Comes to a standstill._] It _may_ be a fine wine. But of course you know the vintages differ; it all depends on how much sunshine the grapes have had.

GINA.

Why, you know everything, Ekdal.

EKDAL.

And did they dispute that?

HIALMAR.

They tried to; but they were requested to observe that it was just the same with Chamberlains—that with them, too, different batches were of different qualities.

GINA.

What things you do think of!

EKDAL.

Hee-hee! So they got that in their pipes too?

HIALMAR.

Right in their teeth.

EKDAL.

Do you hear that, Gina? He said it right in the very teeth of all the Chamberlains.

GINA.

Fancy——! Right in their teeth!

HIALMAR.

Yes, but I don’t want it talked about. One doesn’t speak of such things. The whole affair passed off quite amicably of course. They were nice, genial fellows; I didn’t want to wound them—not I!

EKDAL.

Right in their teeth, though——!

HEDVIG.

[_Caressingly._] How nice it is to see you in a dress-coat! It suits you so well, father.

HIALMAR.

Yes, don’t you think so? And this one really sits to perfection. It fits almost as if it had been made for me;—a little tight in the arm-holes perhaps;—help me, Hedvig. [_Takes off the coat._] I think I'll put on my jacket. Where is my jacket, Gina?

GINA.

Here it is. [_Brings the jacket and helps him._]

HIALMAR.

That’s it! Don’t forget to send the coat back to Molvik first thing to-morrow morning.

GINA.

[_Laying it away._] I'll be sure and see to it.

HIALMAR.

[_Stretching himself._] After all, there’s a more homely feeling about this. A free-and-easy indoor costume suits my whole personality better. Don’t you think so, Hedvig?

HEDVIG.

Yes, father.

HIALMAR.

When I loosen my necktie into a pair of flowing ends—like this—eh?

HEDVIG.

Yes, that goes so well with your moustache and the sweep of your curls.

HIALMAR.

I should not call them curls exactly; I should rather say locks.

HEDVIG.

Yes, they are too big for curls.

HIALMAR.

Locks describes them better.

HEDVIG.

[_After a pause, twitching his jacket._] Father.

HIALMAR.

Well, what is it?

HEDVIG.

Oh, you know very well.

HIALMAR.

No, really I don’t——

HEDVIG.

[_Half laughing, half whimpering._] Oh yes, father, now don’t tease me any longer!

HIALMAR.

Why, what do you mean?

HEDVIG.

[_Shaking him._] Oh what nonsense; come, where are they, father? All the good things you promised me, you know?

HIALMAR.

Oh—if I haven’t forgotten all about them!

HEDVIG.

Now you’re only teasing me, father! Oh, it’s too bad of you! Where have you put them?

HIALMAR.

No, I positively forgot to get anything. But wait a little! I have something else for you, Hedvig.

[_Goes and searches in the pockets of the coat._

HEDVIG.

[_Skipping and clapping her hands._] Oh mother, mother!

GINA.

There, you see; if you only give him time——

HIALMAR.

[_With a paper._] Look, here it is.

HEDVIG.

That? Why, that’s only a paper.

HIALMAR.

That is the bill of fare, my dear; the whole bill of fare. Here you see: “Menu ”—that means bill of fare.

HEDVIG.

Haven’t you anything else?

HIALMAR.

I forgot the other things, I tell you. But you may take my word for it, these dainties are very unsatisfying. Sit down at the table and read the bill of fare, and then I'll describe to you how the dishes taste. Here you are, Hedvig.

HEDVIG.

[_Gulping down her tears._] Thank you.

[_She seats herself, but does not read;_ GINA _makes signs to
her;_ HIALMAR _notices it._

HIALMAR.

[_Pacing up and down the room._] It’s monstrous what absurd things the father of a family is expected to think of; and if he forgets the smallest trifle, he is treated to sour faces at once. Well, well, one gets used to that too. [_Stops near the stove, by the old man’s chair._] Have you peeped in there this evening, father?

EKDAL.

Yes, to be sure I have. She’s gone into the basket.

HIALMAR.

Ah, she _has_ gone into the basket. Then she’s beginning to get used to it.

EKDAL.

Yes; just as I prophesied. But you know there are still a few little things——

HIALMAR.

A few improvements, yes.

EKDAL.

They’ve _got_ to be made, you know.

HIALMAR.

Yes, let us have a talk about the improvements, father. Come, let us sit on the sofa.

EKDAL.

All right. H'm—think I'll just fill my pipe first. Must clean it out, too. H'm.

[_He goes into his room._

GINA.

[_Smiling to HIALMAR._] His pipe!

HIALMAR.

Oh yes yes, Gina; let him alone—the poor shipwrecked old man.—Yes, these improvements—we had better get them out of hand to-morrow.

GINA.

You’ll hardly have time to-morrow, Ekdal.

HEDVIG.

[_Interposing._] Oh yes he will, mother!

GINA.

——for remember them prints that has to be retouched; they’ve sent for them time after time.

HIALMAR.

There now! those prints again! I shall get them finished all right! Have any new orders come in?

GINA.

No, worse luck; to-morrow I have nothing but those two sittings, you know.

HIALMAR.

Nothing else? Oh no, if people won’t set about things with a will——

GINA.

But what more can I do? Don’t I advertise in the papers as much as we can afford?

HIALMAR.

Yes, the papers, the papers; you see how much good _they_ do. And I suppose no one has been to look at the room either?

GINA.

No, not yet.

HIALMAR.

That was only to be expected. If people won’t keep their eyes open——. Nothing can be done without a real effort, Gina!

HEDVIG.

[_Going towards him._] Shall I fetch you the flute, father?

HIALMAR.

No; no flute for me; _I_ want no pleasures in this world. [_Pacing about._] Yes, indeed I will work to-morrow; you shall see if I don’t. You may be sure I shall work as long as my strength holds out.

GINA.

But my dear good Ekdal, I didn’t mean it in _that_ way.

HEDVIG.

Father, mayn’t I bring in a bottle of beer?

HIALMAR.

No, certainly not. I require nothing, nothing——[_Comes to a standstill._] Beer? Was it beer you were talking about?

HEDVIG.

[_Cheerfully._] Yes, father; beautiful fresh beer.

HIALMAR.

Well—since you insist upon it, you may bring in a bottle.

GINA.

Yes, do; and we’ll be nice and cosy.

[HEDVIG _runs towards the kitchen door._

HIALMAR.

[_By the stove, stops her, looks at her, puts his arm round her neck and presses her to him._] Hedvig, Hedvig!

HEDVIG.

[_With tears of joy._] My dear, kind father!

HIALMAR.

No, don’t call me that. Here have I been feasting at the rich man’s table,—battening at the groaning board——! And I couldn’t even——!

GINA.

[_Sitting at the table._] Oh nonsense, nonsense, Ekdal.

HIALMAR.

It’s not nonsense! And yet you mustn’t be too hard upon me. You know that I love you for all that.

HEDVIG.

[_Throwing her arms round him._] And we love you, oh so dearly, father!

HIALMAR.

And if I am unreasonable once in a while,—why then—you must remember that I am a man beset by a host of cares. There, there! [_Dries his eyes._] No beer at such a moment as this. Give me the flute.

[HEDVIG _runs to the bookcase and fetches it._

HIALMAR.

Thanks! That’s right. With my flute in my hand and you two at my side—ah——!

[HEDVIG _seats herself at the table near_ GINA: HIALMAR _paces
backwards and forwards, pipes up vigorously, and plays a
Bohemian peasant dance, but in a slow plaintive tempo, and
with sentimental expression._

HIALMAR.

[_Breaking off the melody, holds out his left hand to GINA, and says with emotion_:] Our roof may be poor and humble, Gina; but it is home. And with all my heart I say: here dwells my happiness.

[_He begins to play again; almost immediately after, a knocking
is heard at the entrance door._

GINA.

[_Rising._] Hush, Ekdal,—I think there’s some one at the door.

HIALMAR.

[_Laying the flute on the bookcase._] There! Again!

[GINA _goes and opens the door._

Gregers Werle.

[_In the passage._] Excuse me——

GINA.

[_Starting back slightly._] Oh!

GREGERS.

——does not Mr. Ekdal, the photographer, live here?

GINA.

Yes, he does.

HIALMAR.

[_Going towards the door._] Gregers! You here after all? Well, come in then.

GREGERS.

[_Coming in._] I told you I would come and look you up.

HIALMAR.

But this evening——? Have you left the party?

GREGERS.

I have left both the party and my father’s house.—Good evening, Mrs. Ekdal. I don’t know whether you recognise me?

GINA.

Oh yes; it’s not difficult to know young Mr. Werle again.

GREGERS.

No, I am like my mother; and no doubt you remember her.

HIALMAR.

Left your father’s house, did you say?

GREGERS.

Yes, I have gone to a hotel.

HIALMAR.

Indeed. Well, since you’re here, take off your coat and sit down.

GREGERS.

Thanks.

[_He takes off his overcoat. He is now dressed in a plain grey
suit of a countrified cut._

HIALMAR.

Here, on the sofa. Make yourself comfortable.

[GREGERS _seats himself on the sofa;_ HIALMAR _takes a chair at
the table._

GREGERS.

[_Looking around him._] So these are your quarters, Hialmar—this is your home.

HIALMAR.

This is the studio, as you see——

GINA.

But it’s the largest of our rooms, so we generally sit here.

HIALMAR.

We used to live in a better place; but this flat has one great advantage: there are such capital outer rooms——

GINA.

And we have a room on the other side of the passage that we can let.

GREGERS.

[_To HIALMAR._] Ah—so you have lodgers too?

HIALMAR.

No, not yet. They’re not so easy to find, you see; you have to keep your eyes open. [_To_ HEDVIG.] What about that beer, eh?

[HEDVIG _nods and goes out into the kitchen._

GREGERS.

So that is your daughter?

HIALMAR.

Yes, that is HEDVIG.

GREGERS.

And she is your only child?

HIALMAR.

Yes, the only one. She is the joy of our lives, and—[_lowering his voice_]—at the same time our deepest sorrow, Gregers.

GREGERS.

What do you mean?

HIALMAR.

She is in serious danger of losing her eyesight.

GREGERS.

Becoming blind?

HIALMAR.

Yes. Only the first symptoms have appeared as yet, and she may not feel it much for some time. But the doctor has warned us. It is coming, inexorably.

GREGERS.

What a terrible misfortune! How do you account for it?

HIALMAR.

[_Sighs._] Hereditary, no doubt.

GREGERS.

[_Starting._] Hereditary?

GINA.

Ekdal’s mother had weak eyes.

HIALMAR.

Yes, so my father says; I can’t remember her.

GREGERS.

Poor child! And how does she take it?

HIALMAR.

Oh, you can imagine we haven’t the heart to tell her of it. She dreams of no danger. Gay and careless and chirping like a little bird, she flutters onward into a life of endless night. [_Overcome._] Oh, it is cruelly hard on me, Gregers.

[HEDVIG _brings a tray with beer and glasses, which she sets
upon the table._

HIALMAR.

[_Stroking her hair._] Thanks, thanks, Hedvig.

[HEDVIG _puts her arm round his neck and whispers in his ear._

HIALMAR.

No, no bread and butter just now. [_Looks up._] But perhaps you would like some, Gregers.

GREGERS.

[_With a gesture of refusal._] No, no thank you.

HIALMAR.

[_Still melancholy._] Well, you can bring in a little all the same. If you have a crust, that is all I want. And plenty of butter on it, mind.

[HEDVIG _nods gaily and goes out into the kitchen again._

GREGERS.

[_Who has been following her with his eyes._] She seems quite strong and healthy otherwise.

GINA.

Yes. In other ways there’s nothing amiss with her, thank goodness.

GREGERS.

She promises to be very like you, Mrs. Ekdal. How old is she now?

GINA.

Hedvig is close on fourteen; her birthday is the day after to-morrow.

GREGERS.

She is pretty tall for her age, then.

GINA.

Yes, she’s shot up wonderful this last year.

GREGERS.

It makes one realise one’s own age to see these young people growing up.—How long is it now since you were married?

GINA.

_We’ve_ been married—let me see—just on fifteen years.

GREGERS.

Is it so long as that?

GINA.

[_Becomes attentive; looks at him._] Yes, it is indeed.

HIALMAR.

Yes, so it is. Fifteen years all but a few months. [_Changing his tone._] They must have been long years for you, up at the works, Gregers.

GREGERS.

They seemed long while I was living them; now they are over, I hardly know how the time has gone.