Chapter IV: Part 4

MADAM HELSETH.

I mean what’s right and true, Miss. He shouldn’t get out of it in _this_ way, that he shouldn’t.

REBECCA.

[_Looks at her._] Come now, Madam Helseth, tell me plainly; what do you think is the reason I am going away?

MADAM HELSETH.

Well, Heaven forgive us, I suppose it can’t be helped, Miss. Ah, well, well, well! But I certainly don’t think the Pastor’s behaving handsome-like. Mortensgård had some excuse; for her husband was alive, so that they two couldn’t marry, however much they wanted to. But as for the Pastor—h’m!

REBECCA.

[_With a faint smile._] Could you have believed such a thing of Pastor Rosmer and me?

MADAM HELSETH.

No, never in this world. At least, I mean—not until to-day.

REBECCA.

But to-day, then——?

MADAM HELSETH.

Well,—after all the horrible things that they tell me the papers are saying about the Pastor——

REBECCA.

Aha!

MADAM HELSETH.

For the man that can go over to Mortensgård’s religion—good Lord, I can believe anything of him.

REBECCA.

Oh yes, I suppose so. But what about me? What have you to say about me?

MADAM HELSETH.

Lord preserve us, Miss—I don’t see that there’s much to be said against you. It’s not so easy for a lone woman to be always on her guard, that’s certain.—We’re all of us human, Miss West.

REBECCA.

That’s very true, Madam Helseth. We are all of us human.—What are you listening to?

MADAM HELSETH.

[_In a low voice._] Oh Lord,—if I don’t believe that’s him coming.

REBECCA.

[_Starts._] After all then——? [_Resolutely._] Well well; so be it.

JOHANNES ROSMER _enters from the hall._

ROSMER.

[_Sees the hand-bag, etc., turns to_ REBECCA, _and asks_:] What does this mean?

REBECCA.

I am going.

ROSMER.

At once?

REBECCA.

Yes. [_To_ MADAM HELSETH.] Eleven o’clock then.

MADAM HELSETH.

Very well, Miss. [_Goes out to the right._

ROSMER.

[_After a short pause._] Where are you going to, Rebecca?

REBECCA.

North, by the steamer.

ROSMER.

North? What takes you to the North?

REBECCA.

It was there I came from.

ROSMER.

But you have no ties there now.

REBECCA.

I have none here either.

ROSMER.

What do you think of doing?

REBECCA.

I don’t know. I only want to have done with it all.

ROSMER.

To have done with it?

REBECCA.

Rosmersholm has broken me.

ROSMER.

[_His attention aroused._] Do you say that?

REBECCA.

Broken me utterly and hopelessly.—I had a free and fearless will when I came here. Now I have bent my neck under a strange law.—From this day forth, I feel as if I had no courage for anything in the world.

ROSMER.

Why not? What is the law that you say you have——?

REBECCA.

Dear, don’t let us talk of that just now.—What happened between you and the Rector?

ROSMER.

We have made peace.

REBECCA.

Ah yes; so that was the end.

ROSMER.

He gathered all our old friends together at his house. They have made it clear to me that the work of ennobling the minds of men—is not for me.—And besides, it is hopeless in itself, Rebecca.—I shall let it alone.

REBECCA.

Yes, yes—perhaps it is best so.

ROSMER.

Is _that_ what you say now? Do you think so _now_?

REBECCA.

I have come to think so—in the last few days.

ROSMER.

You are lying, Rebecca.

REBECCA.

Lying——!

ROSMER.

Yes, you are lying. You have never believed in me. You have never believed that I was man enough to carry the cause through to victory.

REBECCA.

I believed that we two together could do it.

ROSMER.

That is not true. You thought that you yourself could do something great in life; and that you could use me to further your ends. I was to be a serviceable instrument to you—_that_ is what you thought.

REBECCA.

Listen to me, Rosmer——

ROSMER.

[_Seats himself listlessly on the sofa._] Oh, what is the use? I see through it all now—I have been like a glove in your hands.

REBECCA.

Listen, Rosmer. Hear what I have to say. It will be for the last time. [_Sits in a chair close to the sofa._] I intended to write you all about it—when I was back in the North. But I daresay it is best that you should hear it at once.

ROSMER.

Have you more confessions to make?

REBECCA.

The greatest of all is to come.

ROSMER.

The greatest?

REBECCA.

What you have never suspected. What gives light and shade to all the rest.

ROSMER.

[_Shakes his head._] I don’t understand you at all.

REBECCA.

It is perfectly true that I once schemed to gain a footing at Rosmersholm. I thought I could not fail to turn things to good account here. In one way or the other—you understand.

ROSMER.

Well, you accomplished your ends.

REBECCA.

I believe I could have accomplished anything, anything in the world—at that time. For I had still my fearless, free-born will. I knew no scruples—I stood in awe of no human tie.—But then began what has broken my will—and cowed me so pitiably for all my days.

ROSMER.

What began? Do not speak in riddles.

REBECCA.

It came over me,—this wild, uncontrollable passion——. Oh, Rosmer——!

ROSMER.

Passion? You——! For what?

REBECCA.

For you.

ROSMER.

[_Tries to spring up._] What is this?

REBECCA.

[_Stops him._] Sit still, dear; there is more to tell.

ROSMER.

And you mean to say—that you have loved me—in that way!

REBECCA.

I thought that it should be called love—then. Yes, I thought it was love. But it was not. It was what I said. It was a wild, uncontrollable passion.

ROSMER.

[_With difficulty._] Rebecca, is it really you—you yourself—that you are speaking of?

REBECCA.

Yes, would you believe it, Rosmer?

ROSMER.

Then it was because of this—under the influence of this—that you—that you “went to work,” as you call it?

REBECCA.

It came upon me like a storm on the sea. It was like one of the storms we sometimes have in the North in the winter-time. It seizes you—and whirls you along with it—wherever it will. There is no resisting it.

ROSMER.

And so it swept the unhappy Beata into the mill race.

REBECCA.

Yes; for it was a life-and-death struggle between Beata and me at that time.

ROSMER.

Assuredly you were the strongest at Rosmersholm. Stronger than Beata and I together.

REBECCA.

I judged you rightly in so far that I was sure I could never reach you until you were a free man, both in circumstances—and in spirit.

ROSMER.

But I don’t understand you, Rebecca. You—yourself—your whole conduct is an insoluble riddle to me. I am free now—both in spirit and in circumstances. You have reached the very goal you aimed at from the first. And yet——

REBECCA.

I have never stood farther from my goal than now.

ROSMER.

And yet I say—when I asked you yesterday—begged you to be my wife—you cried out, as if in fear, that it could never be.

REBECCA.

I cried out in despair, Rosmer.

ROSMER.

Why?

REBECCA.

Because Rosmersholm has sapped my strength. My old fearless will has had its wings clipped here. It is crippled! The time is past when I had courage for anything in the world. I have lost the power of action, Rosmer.

ROSMER.

Tell me how this has come about.

REBECCA.

It has come about through my life with you.

ROSMER.

But how? How?

REBECCA.

When I was left alone with you here,—and when you had become yourself again——

ROSMER.

Yes, yes?

REBECCA.

——for you were never quite yourself so long as Beata lived——

ROSMER.

I am afraid you are right there.

REBECCA.

But when I found myself sharing your life here,—in quiet—in solitude,—when you showed me all your thoughts without reserve—every tender and delicate feeling, just as it came to you—_then_ the great change came over me. Little by little, you understand. Almost imperceptibly—but at last with such overwhelming force that it reached to the depths of my soul.

ROSMER.

Oh, is this true, Rebecca?

REBECCA.

All the rest—the horrible sense-intoxicated desire—passed far, far away from me. All the whirling passions settled down into quiet and silence. Rest descended on my soul—a stillness as on one of our northern bird-cliffs under the midnight sun.

ROSMER.

Tell me more of this. Tell me all you can.

REBECCA.

There is not much more, dear. Only this—it was love that was born in me. The great self-denying love, that is content with life, as we two have lived it together.

ROSMER.

Oh, if I had only had the faintest suspicion of all this!

REBECCA.

It is best as it is. Yesterday—when you asked me if I would be your wife—I cried out with joy——

ROSMER.

Yes, did you not, Rebecca! I thought that was the meaning of your cry.

REBECCA.

For a moment, yes. I had forgotten myself. It was my old buoyant will that was struggling to be free. But it has no energy left now—no power of endurance.

ROSMER.

How do you account for what has happened to you?

REBECCA.

It is the Rosmer view of life—or _your_ view of life, at any rate—that has infected my will.

ROSMER.

Infected?

REBECCA.

And made it sick. Enslaved it to laws that had no power over me before. You—life with you—has ennobled my mind——

ROSMER.

Oh that I could believe it!

REBECCA.

You may safely believe it! The Rosmer view of life ennobles. But——[_Shaking her head._] But—but——

ROSMER.

But——? Well?

REBECCA.

——but it kills happiness.

ROSMER.

Do you think so, Rebecca?

REBECCA.

My happiness, at any rate.

ROSMER.

Yes, but are you so certain of that? If I were to ask you again now——? If I were to beg and entreat you——?

REBECCA.

Dear,—never speak of this again! It is impossible——! For you must know, Rosmer, I have a—a past behind me.

ROSMER.

More than what you have told me?

REBECCA.

Yes. Something different and something more.

ROSMER.

[_With a faint smile._] Is it not strange, Rebecca? Some such idea has crossed my mind now and then.

REBECCA.

It has? And yet——? Even so——?

ROSMER.

I never believed it. I only played with it—in my thoughts, you understand.

REBECCA.

If you wish it, I will tell you all, at once.

ROSMER.

[_Turning it off._] No, no! I will not hear a word. Whatever it may be—I can forget it.

REBECCA.

But I cannot.

ROSMER.

Oh Rebecca——!

REBECCA.

Yes, Rosmer—_this_ is the terrible part of it: that now, when all life’s happiness is within my grasp—my heart is changed, and my own past cuts me off from it.

ROSMER.

Your past is dead, Rebecca. It has no hold on you any more—it is no part of you—as you are _now_.

REBECCA.

Oh, you know that these are only phrases, dear. And innocence? Where am I to get _that_ from?

ROSMER.

[_Sadly._] Ah,—innocence.

REBECCA.

Yes, innocence. That is the source of peace and happiness. _That_ was the vital truth you were to implant in the coming generation of happy noble-men——

ROSMER.

Oh, don’t remind me of _that_. It was only an abortive dream, Rebecca—an immature idea, that I myself no longer believe in.—Ah no, we cannot be ennobled from without, Rebecca.

REBECCA.

[_Softly._] Not even by tranquil love, Rosmer?

ROSMER.

[_Thoughtfully._] Yes—_that_ would be the great thing—the most glorious in life, almost—if it _were_ so. [_Moves uneasily._] But how can I be certain of that? How convince myself?

REBECCA.

Do you not believe me, Rosmer?

ROSMER.

Oh Rebecca—how _can_ I believe in you, fully? You who have all this while been cloaking, concealing such a multitude of things!—Now you come forward with something new. If you have a secret purpose in all this, tell me plainly what it is. Is there anything you want to gain by it? You know that I will gladly do everything I can for you.

REBECCA.

[_Wringing her hands._] Oh this killing doubt——! Rosmer—Rosmer——!

ROSMER.

Yes, is it not terrible, Rebecca? But I cannot help it. I shall never be able to shake off the doubt. I can never be absolutely sure that you are mine in pure and perfect love.

REBECCA.

Is there nothing in the depths of your own heart that bears witness to the transformation in me? And tells you that it is due to you—and you alone?

ROSMER.

Oh Rebecca—I no longer believe in my power of transforming any one. My faith in myself is utterly dead. I believe neither in myself nor in you.

REBECCA.

[_Looks darkly at him._] Then how will you be able to live your life?

ROSMER.

That I don’t know. I cannot imagine how. I don’t think I _can_ live it.—And I know of nothing in the world that is worth living for.

REBECCA.

Oh, life—life will renew itself. Let us hold fast to it, Rosmer.—We shall leave it soon enough.

ROSMER.

[_Springs up restlessly._] Then give me my faith again! My faith in _you_, Rebecca! My faith in your love! Proof! I must have proof!

REBECCA.

Proof? How can I give you proof——?

ROSMER.

You _must_! [_Walks across the room._] I cannot bear this desolation—this horrible emptiness—this—this——

[_A loud knock at the hall door._

REBECCA.

[_Starts up from her chair._] Ah—did you hear that?

_The door opens._ ULRIC BRENDEL _enters. He has a white shirt
on, a black coat and a good pair of boots, with his trousers
tucked into them. Otherwise he is dressed as in the first
Act. He looks excited._

ROSMER.

Ah, is it you, Mr. Brendel?

BRENDEL.

Johannes, my boy—hail—and farewell!

ROSMER.

Where are you going so late?

BRENDEL.

Downhill.

ROSMER.

How——?

BRENDEL.

I am going homewards, my beloved pupil. I am home-sick for the mighty Nothingness.

ROSMER.

Something has happened to you, Mr. Brendel! What is it?

BRENDEL.

So you observe the transformation? Yes—well you may. When I last set foot in these halls—I stood before you as a man of substance, and slapped my breast-pocket.

ROSMER.

Indeed! I don’t quite understand——

BRENDEL.

But as you see me this night, I am a deposed monarch on the ash-heap that was my palace.

ROSMER.

If there is anything _I_ can do for you——

BRENDEL.

You have preserved your child-like heart, Johannes. Can you grant me a loan?

ROSMER.

Yes, yes, most willingly!

BRENDEL.

Can you spare me an ideal or two?

ROSMER.

What do you say?

BRENDEL.

One or two cast-off ideals. It would be an act of charity. For I’m cleaned out, my boy. Ruined, beggared.

REBECCA.

Have you not delivered your lecture?

BRENDEL.

No, seductive lady. What do you think? Just as I am standing ready to pour forth the horn of plenty, I make the painful discovery that I am bankrupt.

REBECCA.

But all your unwritten works——?

BRENDEL.

For five-and-twenty years I have sat like a miser on his double-locked treasure-chest. And then yesterday—when I open it and want to display the treasure—there’s none there! The teeth of time had ground it into dust. There was nix and nothing in the whole concern.

ROSMER.

But are you so sure of that?

BRENDEL.

There’s no room for doubt, my dear fellow. The President has convinced me of it.

ROSMER.

The President?

BRENDEL.

Well well—His Excellency then. _Ganz nach Belieben._

ROSMER.

Whom do you mean?

BRENDEL.

Peter Mortensgård, of course.

ROSMER.

What?

BRENDEL.

[_Mysteriously._] Hush, hush, hush! Peter Mortensgård is the lord and leader of the future. Never have I stood in a more august presence. Peter Mortensgård has the secret of omnipotence. He can do whatever he will.

ROSMER.

Oh, don’t believe that.

BRENDEL.

Yes, my boy! For Peter Mortensgård never wills more than he can do. Peter Mortensgård is capable of living his life without ideals. And _that_, do you see—_that_ is just the mighty secret of action and of victory. It is the sum of the whole world’s wisdom. _Basta!_

ROSMER.

[_In a low voice._] Now I understand—why you leave here poorer than you came.

BRENDEL.

_Bien!_ Then take a _Beispiel_ by your ancient teacher. Rub out all that he once imprinted on your mind. Build not thy house on shifting sand. And look ahead—and feel your way—before you build on this exquisite creature, who here lends sweetness to your life.

REBECCA.

Is it me you mean?

BRENDEL.

Yes, my fascinating mermaid.

REBECCA.

Why am I not to be built on?

BRENDEL.

[_Comes a step nearer._] I gather that my former pupil has a great cause to carry forward to victory.

REBECCA.

What then——?

BRENDEL.

Victory is assured. But—mark me well—on one indispensable condition.

REBECCA.

Which is——?

BRENDEL.

[_Takes her gently by the wrist._] That the woman who loves him shall gladly go out into the kitchen and hack off her tender, rosy-white little finger—_here_—just _here_ at the middle joint. Item, that the aforesaid loving woman—again gladly—shall slice off her incomparably-moulded left ear. [_Lets her go, and turns to_ ROSMER.] Farewell, my conquering Johannes.

ROSMER.

Are you going now? In the dark night?

BRENDEL.

The dark night is best. Peace be with you.

[_He goes. There is a short silence in the room._

REBECCA.

[_Breathes heavily._] Oh, how close and sultry it is here!

[_Goes to the window, opens it, and remains standing by it._

ROSMER.

[_Sits down in the arm-chair by the stove._] There is nothing else for it after all, Rebecca. I see it. You _must_ go away.

REBECCA.

Yes, I see no choice.

ROSMER.

Let us make the most of our last hour. Come here and sit by me.

REBECCA.

[_Goes and sits on the sofa._] What do you want to say to me, Rosmer?

ROSMER.

First, I want to tell you that you need not feel any anxiety about your future.

REBECCA.

[_Smiles._] H’m, _my_ future.

ROSMER.

I have long ago arranged for everything. Whatever may happen, you are provided for.

REBECCA.

That too, my dear one?

ROSMER.

You might surely have known that.

REBECCA.

It is many a long day since I have given a thought to such things.

ROSMER.

Yes, yes—you thought things would always remain as they were between us.

REBECCA.

Yes, I thought so.

ROSMER.

So did I. But if I were to go——

REBECCA.

Oh, Rosmer—you will live longer than I.

ROSMER.

Surely my worthless life lies in my own hands.

REBECCA.

What is this? You are never thinking of——!

ROSMER.

Do you think it would be so strange? After this pitiful, lamentable defeat! I, who was to have borne a great cause on to victory—have I not fled from the battle before it was well begun?

REBECCA.

Take up the fight again, Rosmer! Only try—and you shall see, you will conquer. You will ennoble hundreds—thousands of minds. Only try!

ROSMER.

Oh Rebecca—I, who no longer believe in my own mission!

REBECCA.

But your mission has stood the test already. You have ennobled one human being at least—_me_ you have ennobled for the rest of my days.

ROSMER.

Oh—if I dared believe you.

REBECCA.

[_Pressing her hands together._] Oh Rosmer,—do you know of nothing—nothing that could make you believe it?

ROSMER.

[_Starts as if in fear._] Don’t speak of that! Keep away from that, Rebecca! Not a word more.

REBECCA.

Yes, this is precisely what we _must_ speak about. Do you know of anything that would kill the doubt? For _I_ know of nothing in the world.

ROSMER.

It is well for you that you do not know.—It is well for both of us.

REBECCA.

No, no, no.—I will not be put off in this way! If you know of anything that would absolve me in your eyes, I claim as my right to be told of it.

ROSMER.

[_As if impelled against his will to speak._] Then let us see. You say that a great love is in you; that through me your mind has been ennobled. Is it so? Is your reckoning just, Rebecca? Shall we try to prove the sum? Say?

REBECCA.

I am ready.

ROSMER.

At any time?

REBECCA.

Whenever you please. The sooner the better.

ROSMER.

Then let me see, Rebecca,—if you for my sake—this very evening——[_Breaks off._] Oh, no, no, no!

REBECCA.

Yes, Rosmer! Yes! Tell me, and you shall see.

ROSMER.

Have you the courage—have you the will—gladly, as Ulric Brendel said—for my sake, to-night—gladly—to go the same way that Beata went?

REBECCA.

[_Rises slowly from the sofa; almost voiceless._] Rosmer——!

ROSMER.

Yes, Rebecca—that is the question that will for ever haunt me—when you are gone. Every hour in the day it will return upon me. Oh, I seem to see you before my very eyes. You are standing out on the foot-bridge—right in the middle. Now you are bending forward over the railing—drawn dizzily downwards, downwards towards the rushing water! No—you recoil. You have not the heart to do what _she_ dared.

REBECCA.

But if I had the heart to do it? And the will to do it gladly? What then?

ROSMER.

I should have to believe you then. I should recover my faith in my mission. Faith in my power to ennoble human souls. Faith in the human soul’s power to attain nobility.

REBECCA.

[_Takes up her shawl slowly, and puts it over her head; says with composure._] You shall have your faith again.

ROSMER.

Have you the will and the courage—for this, Rebecca?

REBECCA.

That you shall see to-morrow—or afterwards—when they find my body.

ROSMER.

[_Puts his hand to his forehead._] There is a horrible fascination in this——!

REBECCA.

For I don’t want to remain down there. Not longer than necessary. You must see that they find me.

ROSMER.

[_Springs up._] But all this—is nothing but madness. Go—or stay! I will take your bare word this time too.

REBECCA.

Phrases, Rosmer! Let us have no more cowardly subterfuges, dear! How can you believe me on my bare word after this day?

ROSMER.

I shrink from seeing your defeat, Rebecca!

REBECCA.

It will be no defeat.

ROSMER.

Yes, it will. You will never bring yourself to go Beata’s way.

REBECCA.

Do you think not?

ROSMER.

Never. You are not like Beata. You are not under the dominion of a distorted view of life.

REBECCA.

But I am under the dominion of the Rosmersholm view of life—now. What I have sinned—it is fit that I should expiate.

ROSMER.

[_Looks at her fixedly._] Is _that_ your point of view?

REBECCA.

Yes.

ROSMER.

[_With resolution._] Well then, _I_ stand firm in our emancipated view of life, Rebecca. There is no judge over us; and therefore we must do justice upon ourselves.

REBECCA.

[_Misunderstanding him._] Yes, that is true—that too. _My_ going away will save what is best in you.

ROSMER.

Oh, there is nothing left to save in me.

REBECCA.

Yes, there is. But I—after to-day, I should only be a sea-troll dragging down the ship that is to carry you forward. I must go overboard. Why should I remain here in the world, trailing after me my own crippled life? Why brood and brood over the happiness that my past has forfeited for ever? I must give up the game, Rosmer.

ROSMER.

If you go—I go with you.

REBECCA.

[_Smiles almost imperceptibly, looks at him, and says more softly._] Yes, come with me—and see——

ROSMER.

I go with you, I say.

REBECCA.

To the foot-bridge, yes. You know you never dare go out upon it.

ROSMER.

Have you noticed that?

REBECCA.

[_Sadly and brokenly._] Yes.—It was that that made my love hopeless.

ROSMER.

Rebecca,—now I lay my hand on your head—[_Does so_]—and I wed you as my true wife.

REBECCA.

[_Takes both his hands, and bows her head towards his breast._] Thanks, Rosmer. [_Lets him go._] And now I will go—gladly.

ROSMER.

Man and wife should go together.

REBECCA.

Only to the bridge, Rosmer.

ROSMER.

Out on to it too. As far as you go—so far shall I go with you. For now I dare.

REBECCA.

Are you absolutely certain—that this way is the best for you?

ROSMER.

I am certain that it is the only way.

REBECCA.

If you were deceiving yourself? If it were only a delusion? One of those white horses of Rosmersholm.

ROSMER.

It may be so. For we can never escape from them—we of this house.

REBECCA.

Then stay, Rosmer!

ROSMER.

The husband shall go with his wife, as the wife with her husband.

REBECCA.

Yes, but first tell me _this_: Is it you who follow me? Or is it I who follow you?

ROSMER.

We shall never think that question out.

REBECCA.

But I should like to know.

ROSMER.

We go with each other, Rebecca—I with you, and you with me.

REBECCA.

I almost think that is the truth.

ROSMER.

For now we two are one.

REBECCA.

Yes. We are one. Come! We go gladly.

[_They go out hand in hand through the hall, and are seen to
turn to the left. The door remains open._

[_The room stands empty for a little while. Then the door to the
right is opened by_ MADAM HELSETH.

MADAM HELSETH.

Miss West—the carriage is——[_Looks round._] Not here? Out together at this time of night? Well—I must say——! H’m! [_Goes out into the hall, looks round, and comes in again._] Not on the garden seat. Ah, well well. [_Goes to the window and looks out._] Oh good God! that white thing _there_——! My soul! They’re both of them out on the bridge! God forgive the sinful creatures—if they’re not in each other’s arms! [_Shrieks aloud._] Oh—down—both of them! Out into the mill race! Help! Help! [_Her knees tremble; she holds on to the chair-back, shaking all over; she can scarcely get the words out._] No. No help here.—The dead wife has taken them.

THE END.

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THE LADY FROM THE SEA

(1888)

CHARACTERS.

DOCTOR WANGEL,[12] _district physician_.
ELLIDA[13] WANGEL, _his second wife_.
BOLETTA } _his daughters by his_
HILDA, _a young girl_ } _former marriage_.
ARNHOLM, _a schoolmaster_.
LYNGSTRAND.
BALLESTED.[14]
A STRANGER.
_Young Townspeople._
_Tourists, etc._

_The action takes place in the summer-time, in a small town beside a
fiord in Northern Norway._

THE LADY FROM THE SEA.

PLAY IN FIVE ACTS.

ACT FIRST.

DOCTOR WANGEL’S _house, with a large verandah, on the left. Garden in
front and around. Near the verandah, a flag-staff. To the right,
in the garden, an arbour, with table and chairs. At the back, a
hedge, with a small gate. Beyond the hedge, a road along the
shore, shaded by trees on either side. Between the trees there is
a view of the fiord, with high mountain ranges and peaks in the
distance. It is a warm and brilliantly clear summer morning._

BALLASTED, _a middle-aged man, dressed in an old velvet jacket and
broad-brimmed artist’s hat, stands at the foot of the flag staff,
arranging the cord. The flag is lying on the ground. A little way
off stands an easel with a stretched canvas. Beside it, on a
camp-stool, are brushes, palette, and a paint-box._

BOLETTA WANGEL _comes out upon the verandah through the open garden-room
door. She is carrying a large vase of flowers, which she places
upon the table._

BOLETTA.

Well, Ballested,—can you get it to run?

BALLESTED.

Oh yes, Miss Boletta. It’s easy enough.—May I ask if you are expecting visitors to-day?

BOLETTA.

Yes, we expect Mr. Arnholm this morning. He came to town last night.

BALLESTED.

Arnholm? Wait a moment—wasn’t Arnholm the name of the tutor you had here some years ago?

BOLETTA.

Yes; it is he that is coming.

BALLESTED.

Ah, indeed. So he is in these parts again?

BOLETTA.

That is why we want the flag run up.

BALLESTED.

Ah, I see, I see.

[BOLETTA _goes into the garden-room again._

_Shortly afterwards,_ LYNGSTRAND _comes along the road from the
right, and stops, interested by the sight of the easel and
painter’s materials. He is a slightly-built young man, of
delicate appearance, poorly but neatly dressed._

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Outside, by the hedge._] Good morning.

BALLESTED.

[_Turning round._] Ah—good morning. [_Hoists the flag._] So-ho!—up goes the balloon! [_Makes the cord fast, and begins to busy himself at the easel._] I take off my hat to you, sir—though I don’t think I have the pleasure——

LYNGSTRAND.

You are a painter, are you not?

BALLESTED.

Yes, certainly. Why should I not be a painter?

LYNGSTRAND.

Ah, I can see you are.—Should you mind my coming in for a moment?

BALLESTED.

Do you want to have a look at it?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I should like to extremely.

BALLESTED.

Oh there’s nothing much to see as yet. But pray come in—you’re quite welcome.

LYNGSTRAND.

Many thanks.

[_He comes in through the garden gate._

BALLESTED.

[_Painting._] It’s the inner part of the fiord, among the islands, that I am working at.

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I see.

BALLESTED.

But I haven’t put in the figure yet. There is no such thing as a model to be had in the town.

LYNGSTRAND.

There is to be a figure, is there?

BALLESTED.

Yes. By the rock in the foreground here, I mean to have a half-dead mermaid lying.

LYNGSTRAND.

Why half-dead?

BALLESTED.

She has strayed in from the sea, and can’t find her way out again. So she lies here dying by inches in the brackish water, you understand.

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh, that is the idea?

BALLESTED.

It was the lady of this house that suggested it to me.

LYNGSTRAND.

What will you call the picture when it is finished?

BALLESTED.

I think of calling it “The Mermaid’s End.”

LYNGSTRAND.

Capital.—You are sure to make something good out of this.

BALLESTED.

[_Looking at him._] An artist yourself, perhaps?

LYNGSTRAND.

A painter, you mean?

BALLESTED.

Yes.

LYNGSTRAND.

No, I am not. But I am going to be a sculptor. My name is Hans Lyngstrand.

BALLESTED.

Going to be a sculptor, are you? Well, well, sculpture, too, is a fine, gentleman-like art.—I fancy I’ve seen you in the street once or twice. Have you been staying here long?

LYNGSTRAND.

No, I have only been here a fortnight. But I hope I may be able to stay the whole summer.

BALLESTED.

To enjoy the gaieties of the season, eh?

LYNGSTRAND.

Well, rather to get up my strength a bit.

BALLESTED.

Not an invalid, I hope?

LYNGSTRAND.

Well, I’m what you might call a little bit of an invalid. Nothing to speak of, you know. It’s only a sort of short-windedness in my chest.

BALLESTED.

Pooh—a mere trifle. Still, I would consult a good doctor, if I were you.

LYNGSTRAND.

I thought, if I could find an opportunity, I might speak to Dr. Wangel.

BALLESTED.

Yes, do. [_Looks out to the left._] Here comes another steamer. Chock full of passengers. It’s extraordinary how the tourist business has increased here during the last few years.

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, there seems to be a continual coming and going.

BALLESTED.

The place is full of summer visitors too. I’m sometimes afraid that our good town may lose its character with all this foreign invasion.

LYNGSTRAND.

Are you a native of the place?

BALLESTED.

No, I am not. But I have accla—acclimatised myself. I have become attached to the place by the bonds of time and habit.

LYNGSTRAND.

You have lived here a long time, then?

BALLESTED.

Well, seventeen or eighteen years. I came here with Skive’s[15] dramatic company. But we got into financial difficulties; so the company broke up and was scattered to the winds.

LYNGSTRAND.

But you remained?

BALLESTED.

I remained. And I have had no cause to regret it. You see in those days I was mainly employed as a scene-painter.

BOLETTA _comes out with a rocking-chair, which she places in the
verandah._

BOLETTA.

[_Speaking into the garden-room._] Hilda,—see if you can find the embroidered footstool for father.

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Approaches the verandah and bows._] Good morning, Miss Wangel.

BOLETTA.

[_By the balustrade._] Ah, is that you, Mr. Lyngstrand? Good morning. Excuse me one moment.

[_Goes into the house._

BALLESTED.

Do you know the family here?

LYNGSTRAND.

Very slightly. I have met the young ladies once or twice at other houses. And I had a little talk with Mrs. Wangel the last time the band played up at the Prospect. She said I might come and see them.

BALLESTED.

I’ll tell you what,—you ought to cultivate their acquaintance.

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I’ve been thinking of paying them a visit—I mean calling on them, you know. If I could only find some pretext——

BALLESTED.

Oh nonsense,—a pretext——[_Looks out to the left._] Confound it all! [_Collects his things._] The steamer’s alongside the pier already. I must be off to the hotel. Perhaps some of the new arrivals may require my services. For I practise as a hair-cutter and _friseur_, too, I must tell you.

LYNGSTRAND.

You seem to be very versatile.

BALLESTED.

One must know how to ac—climatise oneself to various professions in these small places. If you should ever require anything in the hair line—pomade or what not—you have only to ask for Dancing-Master Ballested.

LYNGSTRAND.

Dancing-Master——

BALLESTED.

President of the Musical Society, if you prefer it. We give a concert up at the Prospect this evening. Good-bye, good-bye.

[_He goes with his painting materials through the garden gate,
and then out to the left._

HILDA _comes out with the stool._ BOLETTA _brings more flowers._
LYNGSTRAND _bows to_ HILDA _from the garden._

HILDA.

[_By the balustrade, without returning the bow._] Boletta said you had ventured in to-day.

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I took the liberty of coming into the garden.

HILDA.

Have you been out for your morning walk?

LYNGSTRAND.

Well, no,—I haven’t had much of a walk to-day.

HILDA.

Have you been bathing then?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I had a little dip. I saw your mother down there. She was just going into her bathing-house.

HILDA.

Who was?

LYNGSTRAND.

Your mother.

HILDA.

Oh indeed.

[_She places the stool in front of the rocking-chair._

BOLETTA.

[_As if to change the subject._] Did you see anything of my father’s boat out on the fiord?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I saw a sailing-boat that seemed to be standing inwards.

BOLETTA.

That must have been father. He has been out visiting patients on the islands.

[_She arranges things about the table._

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Standing on the lowest of the verandah steps._] Why, what a splendid show of flowers you have here——!

BOLETTA.

Yes, doesn’t it look nice?

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh, charming. It looks as if the day were some family festival.

HILDA.

So it is.

LYNGSTRAND.

I guessed as much. Your father’s birthday, I suppose?

BOLETTA.

[_Warningly to_ HILDA.] H’m,—h’m!

HILDA.

[_Not heeding her._] No, mother’s.

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh indeed,—your mother’s, is it?

BOLETTA.

[_In a low, angry tone._] Now, Hilda——!

HILDA.

[_In the same tone._] Let me alone! [_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] I suppose you’re going home to lunch now?

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Descending from the step._] Yes, I suppose I must see about getting something to eat.

HILDA.

I daresay you live on the fat of the land at the hotel.

LYNGSTRAND.

I am not staying at the hotel now. It was too expensive for me.

HILDA.

Where are you now, then?

LYNGSTRAND.

I have a room at Madam Jensen’s.[16]

HILDA.

Which Madam Jensen’s?

LYNGSTRAND.

The midwife’s.

HILDA.

Excuse me, Mr. Lyngstrand, but I really have no time to——

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh, I suppose I oughtn’t to have said that.

HILDA.

Said what?

LYNGSTRAND.

What I said just now.

HILDA.

[_Looks at him witheringly from top to toe._] I don’t in the least understand you.

LYNGSTRAND.

No, no. Well, I must bid you good-bye for the present, ladies.

BOLETTA.

[_Comes forward to the steps._] Good-bye, good-bye, Mr. Lyngstrand. You must please excuse us for to-day.—But another time, when you have nothing better to do—and when you feel inclined,—I hope you’ll look in and see father and—and the rest of us.

LYNGSTRAND.

Many thanks. I shall be only too delighted.

[_He bows and goes out by the garden gate. As he passes along
the road outside, to the left, he bows again towards the
verandah._

HILDA.

[_Under her breath._] Adieu, Mossyoo! My love to Mother Jensen.

BOLLETA.

[_Softly, shakes her by the arm._] Hilda——! You naughty child! Are you mad? He might easily hear you!

HILDA.

Pooh,—do you think I care?

BOLETTA.

[_Looks out to the right._] Here comes father.

DOCTOR WANGEL, _in travelling dress, and carrying a hand-bag,
comes along the foot-path from the right._

WANGEL.

Well, here I am again, little girls!

[_He comes in through the gate._

BOLETTA.

[_Goes down to meet him in the garden._] Oh, I’m so glad you have come.

HILDA.

[_Also going down to him._] Have you finished for the day now, father?

WANGEL.

Oh no, I must go down to the surgery for a little while by-and-by.—Tell me,—do you know whether Arnholm has arrived?

BOLETTA.

Yes, he came last night. We sent to the hotel to inquire.

WANGEL.

Then you haven’t seen him yet?

BOLETTA.

No. But he’s sure to look in this forenoon.

WANGEL.

Yes, of course he will.

HILDA.

[_Drawing him round._] Father you must look about you now.

WANGEL.

[_Looking towards the verandah._] Yes, yes, my child, I see.—There is quite an air of festivity about the place.

BOLETTA.

Don’t you think we have arranged it prettily?

WANGEL.

Yes, you have indeed—Is—are we alone in the house?

HILDA.

Yes, she has gone to——

BOLETTA.

[_Interrupts quickly._] Mother is bathing.

WANGEL.

[_Looks kindly at_ BOLETTA _and pats her head.] Then he says, with some hesitation_:] Look here, little girls—do you intend to keep up this display all day? And the flag flying too?

HILDA.

Why, of course we do, father!

WANGEL.

H’m—yes. But you see——

BOLETTA.

[_Nodding and smiling to him._] Of course you understand that it’s all in honour of Mr. Arnholm. When such an old friend comes to pay his first visit to you——

HILDA.

[_Smiling and shaking him._] Remember—wasn’t he Boletta’s tutor, father?

WANGEL.

[_Half smiling._] You are a pair of young rogues.—Well well,—after all, it’s only natural that we should remember her who is no longer among us. But all the same——. Look here, Hilda. [_Gives her his hand-bag._] This must go down to the surgery.—No, little girls,—I don’t like all this—the manner of it, I mean. That we should make a practice every year of——. Well, what can one say? I suppose there is no other way of doing it.

HILDA.

[_Is about to go through the garden to the left with the hand-bag, but stops, turns, and points._] Look at that gentleman coming along the road. I believe it’s Mr. Arnholm.

BOLETTA.

[_Looks in the same direction._] He! [Laughs.] What an absurd idea! To take that middle-aged man for Mr Arnholm.

WANGEL.

Wait a bit, child. Upon my life, I believe it’s he!—Yes, I am sure of it!

BOLETTA.

[_Gazing fixedly, in quiet astonishment._] Yes, I do believe it is!

ARNHOLM, _in elegant morning dress, with gold spectacles and a
light cane, appears on the road, coming from the left. He
looks somewhat over-worked. On seeing the party in the
garden, he bows in a friendly way, and comes through the
gate._

WANGEL.

[_Going to meet him._] Welcome my dear Arnholm! Heartily welcome to your old haunts again.

ARNHOLM.

Thank you, thank you, Doctor Wangel. A thousand thanks. [_They shake hands and cross the garden together._] And here are the children! [_Holds out his hands to them and looks at them._] These two I should scarcely have known again.

WANGEL.

No, I daresay not.

ARNHOLM.

Oh well,—perhaps Boletta.—Yes, I should have known Boletta.

WANGEL.

Scarcely, I think. Let me see, it’s eight or nine years since you saw her last. Ah yes, there has been many a change here since then.

ARNHOLM.

[_Looking about him._] I should hardly say so. Except that the trees have grown a bit—and you have planted a new arbour there——

WANGEL.

Oh no, outwardly I daresay.

ARNHOLM.

[_Smiles._] And now, of course, you have two grown-up daughters in the house.

WANGEL.

Oh, only one grown-up, surely.

HILDA.

[_Half-aloud._] Just listen to father!

WANGEL.

And now suppose we sit in the verandah. It’s cooler there than here. Come along.

ARNHOLM.

Thanks, thanks, my dear Doctor.

[_They go up the steps._ WANGEL _gives_ ARNHOLM _the
rocking-chair._

WANGEL.

That’s right. Now you shall just sit quiet and have a good rest. You are looking rather tired after your journey.

ARNHOLM.

Oh, that’s nothing. Now that I am here again——

BOLETTA.

[_To_ WANGEL.] Shall we bring a little soda-water and syrup into the garden-room? It will soon be too warm out here.

WANGEL.

Yes do, little girls. Soda-water and syrup. And perhaps a little cognac.

BOLETTA.

Cognac too?

WANGEL.

Just a little. In case any one should care for it.

BOLETTA.

Very well. Hilda, will you take the hand-bag down to the surgery?

[BOLETTA _goes into the garden-room and closes the door after
her._ HILDA _takes the bag and, going through the garden,
disappears behind the house to the left._

ARNHOLM.

[_Who has been following_ BOLETTA _with his eyes._] What a splendid girl—what splendid girls they have grown into!

WANGEL.

[_Seats himself._] Yes, don’t you think so?

ARNHOLM.

Boletta quite astonishes me—and Hilda too, for that matter.—But you yourself, my dear Doctor—do you intend to remain here for the rest of your days?

WANGEL.

Oh yes, that’s what it will come to, I suppose. I was born and bred here, you see. Here I lived very very happily with her who was so early taken from us—with her whom you knew when you were here before, Arnholm.

ARNHOLM.

Yes—yes.

WANGEL.

And now I live here so happily with one who has come to me in her stead. I must say that, take it all in all, the fates have been kind to me.

ARNHOLM.

You have no children by your second marriage?

WANGEL.

We had a little boy, two or two and a half years ago. But we did not keep him long. He died when he was four or five months old.

ARNHOLM.

Is your wife not at home to-day?

WANGEL.

Oh yes, she’ll be here very soon. She has gone to bathe. She never misses a day at this season; no matter what the weather may be.

ARNHOLM.

Is she out of health?

WANGEL.

No, not exactly; but she has been curiously nervous the last couple of years or so—off and on, you know. I can’t quite make out what is wrong with her. But to get into the sea is life and happiness to her.

ARNHOLM.

I remember that of old.

WANGEL.

[_With an almost imperceptible smile._] Yes, to be sure, you knew Ellida when you were tutor out at Skioldvik.[17]

ARNHOLM.

Of course. She often visited at the parsonage. And I used generally to see her when I went to the lighthouse to have a talk with her father.

WANGEL.

Her life out there has left a deep impression upon her, as you may imagine. In town here people can’t understand it at all. They call her “the lady from the sea.”

ARNHOLM.

Do they?

WANGEL.

Yes. And look here—speak to her about the old days, my dear Arnholm. I am sure it will do her good.

ARNHOLM.

[_Looking doubtfully at him._] Have you any particular reason to think so?

WANGEL.

Yes, certainly I have.

ELLIDA’S VOICE.

[_Heard without, in the garden to the right._] Are you there, Wangel?

WANGEL.

[_Rising._] Yes, dear.

MRS. WANGEL, _with a large light cloak round her, and with wet
hair hanging loose over her shoulders, comes from among the
trees beside the arbour._ ARNHOLM _rises._

WANGEL.

[_Smiling and stretching out his hands towards her._] Ah, here comes the mermaid!

ELLIDA.

[_Hastens up to the verandah and seizes his hands._] Thank heaven, you’re safe home again! When did you come?

WANGEL.

Just now—a few moments ago. [_Points to_ ARNHOLM.] But have you nothing to say to an old acquaintance——?

ELLIDA.

[_Holds out her hand to_ ARNHOLM.] So you have really come then? Welcome! And forgive my not being at home——

ARNHOLM.

Oh, don’t mention it. Pray don’t stand on ceremony——

WANGEL.

Was the water nice and cool to-day?

ELLIDA.

Cool! Why, the water never is cool here—so tepid and flat. Pah! the water is sickly in here in the fiords.

ARNHOLM.

Sickly?

ELLIDA.

Yes, sickly. And I believe it makes one sickly too.

WANGEL.

[_Smiling._] A nice testimonial for a sea-bathing place.

ARNHOLM.

I should rather say that you, Mrs. Wangel, stand in a peculiar relation to the sea and all that belongs to it.

ELLIDA.

Well, you may be right. I almost think so myself. But do you see how the girls have been decorating the place in your honour?

WANGEL.

[_Embarrassed._] H’m. [_Looks at his watch._] I’m afraid I must be going——

ARNHOLM.

Is it really in my honour?

ELLIDA.

Why, of course it is. We’re not so fine as this every day.—Pah! How suffocatingly hot it is under this roof! [_Goes down into the garden._] Come over here! Here there’s a breath of air to be had at any rate.

[_She seats herself in the arbour._

ARNHOLM.

[_Goes to her._] Now I should say the air was distinctly fresh here.

ELLIDA.

Yes, you are used to the close air of Christiania. I’m told it is perfectly dreadful there in summer.

WANGEL.

[_Who has also come down into the garden._] Ellida dear, I must leave you to entertain our good friend here for a while.

ELLIDA.

Have you work to do?

WANGEL.

Yes, I must go down to the surgery: and then I must change my clothes. But I shan’t be long——

ARNHOLM.

[_Seats himself in the arbour._] Don’t hurry, my dear Doctor. Your wife and I will manage to pass the time.

WANGEL.

Ah yes—I’m sure of that. Well, good-bye for the present then?

[_He goes out through the garden to the left._

ELLIDA.

[_After a short silence._] Don’t you think it is nice sitting here?

ARNHOLM.

I think it is very nice.

ELLIDA.

This is called my summer-house; for it was I that had it built. Or rather Wangel—to please me.

ARNHOLM.

And you sit here a good deal?

ELLIDA.

Yes, I pass most of the day here.

ARNHOLM.

With the girls, I suppose.

ELLIDA.

No, the girls—they keep to the verandah.

ARNHOLM.

And Wangel?

ELLIDA.

Oh, Wangel goes to and fro. Sometimes he is here with me, and sometimes over there with the children.

ARNHOLM.

Is it you that have arranged things so?

ELLIDA.

I think it’s the arrangement that suits us all best. We can speak across to each other now and again—whenever we happen to have anything to say.

ARNHOLM.

[_After a reflective pause._] When last I crossed your path—out at Skioldvik, I mean——. H’m—that’s a long time ago——

ELLIDA.

It is a good ten years since you were out there with us.

ARNHOLM.

Yes, about that. But when I remember you out at the lighthouse——! “The heathen,” as the old pastor used to call you, because he said your father had had you christened with the name of a ship and not of a Christian——

ELLIDA.

Well, what then?

ARNHOLM.

The last thing I should have expected was to meet you again, here, as Mrs. Wangel.

ELLIDA.

No, at that time Wangel was not yet a—— The girls’ first mother was living then—their own mother, I mean——

ARNHOLM.

Of course, of course. But even if it had not been so—even if he had had no ties—I should never have expected this to come to pass.

ELLIDA.

Nor I. Never in this world—at that time.

ARNHOLM.

Wangel is such a fine fellow; so upright so genuinely good-hearted, and kind to every one——

ELLIDA.

[_Warmly and cordially._] Yes, indeed he is!

ARNHOLM.

——but he must be so utterly different from you, I should think.

ELLIDA.

You are right there too; we _are_ different.

ARNHOLM.

Well then, how did it come about? How was it?

ELLIDA.

You mustn’t ask me, my dear Arnholm. I shouldn’t be able to explain it to you. And even if I did, you could never really understand a word of my explanation.

ARNHOLM.

H’m——[_A little more softly._] Have you ever told your husband anything about me? I mean, of course, about the unsuccessful step which—I was once rash enough to take.

ELLIDA.

No. How can you think I would? I have never said a word to him—about what you allude to.

ARNHOLM.

I am glad of that. I felt a little embarrassed at the thought that——

ELLIDA.

You need not at all. I have only told him what is true—that I liked you very much, and that you were the truest and best friend I had out there.

ARNHOLM.

Thank you for that. But now tell me—why have you never written to me since I left?

ELLIDA.

I thought it might perhaps be painful to you to hear from one who—who could not meet your wishes. It would have been like opening an old wound, I thought.

ARNHOLM.

H’m—— Well, well, I daresay you were right.

ELLIDA.

But why did _you_ never write?

ARNHOLM.

[_Looks at her and smiles half reproachfully._] I? I begin? And perhaps be suspected of wishing to reopen the attack? After meeting with such a rebuff?

ELLIDA.

Oh no, I can understand that too.—Have you never thought of forming some other tie?

ARNHOLM.

Never. I have remained faithful to my memories.

ELLIDA.

[_Half-joking._] Oh, nonsense! Let those sad old memories go. I am sure you had much better think about getting happily married.

ARNHOLM.

Then I have no time to lose, Mrs. Wangel. Remember—I blush to say it—I shall never see seven-and-thirty again.

ELLIDA.

Well then, all the more reason to make haste. [_Is silent for a moment, then says earnestly and in a low tone._] But listen now, my dear Arnholm,—I am going to tell you something I could not have told you at that time, to save my life.

ARNHOLM.

What may that be?

ELLIDA.

When you took—that unsuccessful step, as you said just now,—I _could_ not answer you otherwise than I did.

ARNHOLM.

I know that. You had nothing but friendship to offer me. I quite understand that.

ELLIDA.

But you do not know that my whole mind and all my thoughts were centred elsewhere at that time?

ARNHOLM.

At that time?

ELLIDA.

Yes, just then.

ARNHOLM.

But that is impossible! You are mistaking the time! I don’t believe you knew Wangel then.

ELLIDA.

It is not Wangel that I am speaking of.

ARNHOLM.

Not Wangel? But at that time—out at Skioldvik—I don’t remember another creature that I could conceive your caring for.

ELLIDA.

No, no,—I daresay not. For the whole thing was such utter madness.

ARNHOLM.

Do tell me more about this!

ELLIDA.

Oh, it is enough for you to know that I was not free at that time. And now you _do_ know it.

ARNHOLM.

And if you _had_ been free at that time?

ELLIDA.

What then?

Arnholm.

Would your answer to my letter have been different?

ELLIDA.

How can I tell? When Wangel came, my answer was different.

ARNHOLM.

Then what is the use of telling me that you were not free?

ELLIDA.

[_Rises, as if in distress and agitation._] Because I must have some one I can speak to about it. No, no, don’t rise.

ARNHOLM.

Your husband, then, knows nothing of the matter?

ELLIDA.

I told him from the first that my thoughts had once been drawn elsewhere. He has never wanted to know more. We have never touched upon the subject since. After all, it was nothing but a piece of madness; and then it all came to an end so quickly. At least,—in a way.

ARNHOLM.

[_Rising._] Only in a way? Not entirely?

ELLIDA.

Oh yes, of course! My dear good Arnholm, it is not at all as you suppose. It’s something quite incomprehensible. I don’t think I could find words to tell you of it. You would only think I was ill—or else that I was stark mad.

ARNHOLM.

My dear Mrs. Wangel—now you must and shall tell me the whole story.

ELLIDA.

Well then—I suppose I must try. How should you, with your common sense, ever be able to understand that——[_Looks out and breaks off._] Wait—another time—here is some one coming.

LYNGSTRAND _appears on the road, from the left, and enters the
garden. He has a flower in his button-hole, and carries a
large handsome bouquet, wrapped round with paper and tied
with ribbons. He stops, hesitating a little, in front of the
verandah._

ELLIDA.

[_Coming forward in the arbour._] Is it the girls you are looking for, Mr. Lyngstrand?

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Turning._] Ah, are you there, Mrs. Wangel? [_Bows and approaches._] No, not exactly—it wasn’t the young ladies. It was you yourself, Mrs. Wangel. You gave me permission to come and see you——

ELLIDA.

Yes, of course I did. You are always welcome here.

LYNGSTRAND.

Many thanks. I fortunately happened to hear that this was a day of rejoicing in the family——

ELLIDA.

Ah, so you know that?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes; and so I make so bold as to offer you this, Mrs. Wangel——

[_He bows and holds out the bouquet._

ELLIDA.

[_Smiles._] But, my dear Mr. Lyngstrand, ought you not to give your beautiful flowers to Mr. Arnholm himself? For it’s in his honour that——

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Looks in bewilderment from one to the other._] I beg your pardon—I don’t know this gentleman. It’s only——. I meant them for a birthday gift, Mrs. Wangel.

ELLIDA.

A birthday gift? Then you have made a mistake, Mr. Lyngstrand. To-day is not the birthday of any one in this house.

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Smiling quietly._] Oh, I know all about it. But I didn’t know it was such a secret.

ELLIDA.

What is it you know?

LYNGSTRAND.

That it’s your birthday, Mrs. Wangel——

ELLIDA.

Mine?

ARNHOLM.

[_Looking at her inquiringly._] To-day? No, surely not.

ELLIDA.

[_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] What has put that into your head?

LYNGSTRAND.

It was Miss Hilda that let it out. I happened to look in a little while ago, and I asked the young ladies why they had made such a grand display of flowers and flags——

ELLIDA.

Well?

LYNGSTRAND.

——and Miss Hilda answered: “Oh, because it’s mother’s birthday.”

ELLIDA.

Mother’s——! Oh indeed.

ARNHOLM.

Aha!