Chapter V: Part 5

[_He and_ ELLIDA _exchange glances of comprehension._

ARNHOLM.

Well, since the young man has found it out, Mrs. Wangel——

ELLIDA.

[_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] Yes, since you have found it out——

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Offers the bouquet again._] May I be permitted to offer my congratulations——?

ELLIDA.

[_Taking the flowers._] Many thanks.—Won’t you sit down a moment, Mr. Lyngstrand?

[ELLIDA, ARNHOLM, _and_ LYNGSTRAND _seat themselves in the
arbour._

ELLIDA.

All this about—about my birthday—was to have been a secret, Mr. Arnholm.

ARNHOLM.

So I see. It was not to have been mentioned to us outsiders.

ELLIDA.

[_Lays the bouquet on the table._] No, just so. Not to outsiders.

LYNGSTRAND.

I promise faithfully I won’t mention it to a living creature.

ELLIDA.

Oh, I didn’t mean it in that way.—But how are you now? I think you are looking better than you did.

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I think I am getting on quite well. And next year, if I can get to the south——

ELLIDA.

The girls tell me you hope to manage it.

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes; you see I have a patron in Bergen who provides for me; and he has promised to let me go next year.

ELLIDA.

How did you come across him?

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh, it was a great stroke of luck. I once went a voyage in one of his ships.

ELLIDA.

Did you? Then at that time you wanted to be a sailor?

LYNGSTRAND.

No, not in the least. But after my mother died, my father wouldn’t have me hanging about at home; so he sent me to sea. On the voyage home, we were wrecked in the English Channel; and that was a grand thing for me.

ARNHOLM.

How do you mean?

LYNGSTRAND.

It was in the wreck that I got my lesion—this weakness in my chest, you know. I was in the ice-cold water so long before they came and rescued me. So then I had to give up the sea—Oh yes, it was a great stroke of luck.

ARNHOLM.

Indeed? You think so?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes; for the lesion is nothing to speak of; and now I am to have my heart’s desire, and to be a sculptor. Only think—to be able to model in the delicate clay that yields so exquisitely under your fingers!

ELLIDA.

And what are you going to model? Mermen and mermaids? Or is it to be old vikings——?

LYNGSTRAND.

No, nothing of that kind. As soon as I can manage it, I mean to have a try at a big piece of work—a group, as they call it.

ELLIDA.

I see. And what is the group to represent?

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh, I thought of something out of my own experience.

ARNHOLM.

Yes yes,—by all means stick to that.

ELLIDA.

But what is it to be?

LYNGSTRAND.

Well, I had thought of a young woman, a sailor’s wife, lying and sleeping in a strange unrest, and dreaming as she sleeps. I think I can make it so that any one can see she is dreaming.

ARNHOLM.

And is that all?

LYNGSTRAND.

No. There is to be one other figure—a kind of shape you might call it. It is the husband she has been unfaithful to while he was away. And now he is drowned.

ARNHOLM.

Why, what do you mean——?

ELLIDA.

Drowned you say?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, he is drowned at sea. But the strange thing is that he has come home nevertheless. It’s in the night-time; and there he stands by her bedside and looks at her. He must be dripping wet, just as when they haul you up out of the sea.

ELLIDA.

[_Leaning back in her chair._] What a strange idea! [_Closes her eyes._] Oh, I can see it livingly before my eyes.

ARNHOLM.

But in the name of all that’s wonderful, Mr. ——! Mr. ——! You said it was to be something out of your own experience?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes,—this is out of my own experience; in a sense, that’s to say.

ARNHOLM.

You have seen a dead man come——?

LYNGSTRAND.

Well, I don’t mean to say I have actually seen it; not outwardly, of course. But all the same——

ELLIDA.

[_With animation and eagerness._] Tell me all you know about this! I want to understand it thoroughly.

ARNHOLM.

[_Smiling._] Yes, of course this is quite in your line—anything with the glamour of the sea about it.

ELLIDA.

How was it then, Mr. Lyngstrand?

LYNGSTRAND.

Well, you see, when we were starting for home in the brig, from a town they call Halifax, we had to leave our boatswain behind us in the hospital; so we shipped an American in his place. This new boatswain——

ELLIDA.

The American?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes;—one day he borrowed from the captain a bundle of old newspapers, and was perpetually poring over them, he wanted to learn Norwegian, he said.

ELLIDA.

Well; and then?

LYNGSTRAND.

Well, one evening it was blowing great guns. All hands were on deck—all except the boatswain and me. For he had sprained his ankle and couldn’t walk; and I wasn’t very well, and was lying in my bunk. Well, there he sat in the fo’c’sle, reading away as usual at one of the old papers——

ELLIDA.

Well? well?

LYNGSTRAND.

When all of a sudden, I heard him give a kind of a roar; and when I looked at him I saw that his face was as white as chalk. Then he set to work to crumple and crush the paper up, and tear it into a thousand little pieces; but that he did quietly, quietly.

ELLIDA.

Did he say nothing at all? Did he not speak?

LYNGSTRAND.

Not at first. But presently he said, as if to himself: “Married—to another man—while I was away.”

ELLIDA.

[_Shuts her eyes, and says half to herself_:] Did he say that?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes; and would you believe it—he said it in perfectly good Norwegian. He must have had a great gift for languages, that man.

ELLIDA.

And what then? What happened next?

LYNGSTRAND.

Now comes the wonderful part of it—a thing I shall never forget to my dying day. For he added,—and this quite quietly too: “But mine she is, and mine she shall remain. And follow me she shall, though I should have to go home and fetch her, as a drowned man from the bottom of the sea.”

ELLIDA.

[_Pouring out a glass of water; her hand shakes._] Pah—how close it is to-day——!

LYNGSTRAND.

And he said it with such force of will that I felt he was the man to do it too.

ELLIDA.

Do you know at all—what has become of this man?

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh he’s dead, Mrs. Wangel, beyond a doubt.

ELLIDA.

[_Hastily._] What makes you think that?

LYNGSTRAND.

We were shipwrecked afterwards in the Channel, you know. I got off in the long-boat with the captain and five others; but the mate went in the dingey, and with him was the American and one man besides.

ELLIDA.

And nothing has been heard of them since?

LYNGSTRAND.

No, not a word, Mrs. Wangel. My patron wrote me so, only the other day. And that is the very reason I am so anxious to make a group of it. I can see the sailor’s faithless wife so life-like before me; and then the avenger, who is drowned, but nevertheless comes home from sea. I have them both before my eyes as distinctly as possible.

ELLIDA.

So have I. [_Rising._] Come,—let us go in. Or rather down to Wangel! It seems to me so stifling here.

_She comes out of arbour._

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Who has also risen._] I think I must be going now. I only just looked in to wish you many happy returns of the day.

ELLIDA.

Well, if you must go——[_Holds out her hand._] Good-bye, and thanks for the flowers.

[LYNGSTRAND _bows and goes through the garden gate, out to the
left._

ARNHOLM.

[_Rises and goes up to_ ELLIDA.] I can see that this has pained you deeply, my dear Mrs. Wangel.

ELLIDA.

Oh yes, I suppose you may put it so, although——

ARNHOLM.

But after all, it is only what you must have been prepared for.

ELLIDA.

[_Looks at him in surprise._] Prepared for?

ARNHOLM.

Yes, so I should think.

ELLIDA.

Prepared for his returning——? Returning in such a way?

ARNHOLM.

Why, what in the world——! Is it that crazy sculptor’s cock-and-bull story——?

ELLIDA.

Ah, my dear Arnholm, he is perhaps not so crazy as you think.

ARNHOLM.

Can it be this nonsense about the dead man that has moved you so much? I thought it was——

ELLIDA.

What did you think?

ARNHOLM.

Of course, I thought that was only a blind on your part. I fancied you were pained by the discovery that a family anniversary was being celebrated without your knowledge—that your husband and his children are living a life of memories in which you have no share.

ELLIDA.

Oh no, no; that must be as it may. I have no right to claim my husband for myself alone.

ARNHOLM.

Yet it seems to me you ought to have that right.

ELLIDA.

Yes; but as a matter of fact I haven’t. That is the thing. I too live a life—in which the others have no part.

ARNHOLM.

You! [_More softly._] Am I to understand that—you—you do not really love your husband?

ELLIDA.

Oh yes, yes—I have come to love him with my whole heart! And that is just why it is so terrible—so inexplicable—so absolutely inconceivable——!

ARNHOLM.

Now you must tell me all your troubles without reserve! Will you not, Mrs. Wangel?

ELLIDA.

I cannot, dear friend—not now, at any rate. Sometime, perhaps.

[BOLETTA _comes out by the verandah, and down into the garden._

BOLETTA.

Father is coming from the surgery now. Shan’t we all sit together in the garden-room?

ELLIDA.

Yes, let us.

WANGEL, _who has changed his clothes, comes with_ HILDA _from
the left, behind the house._

WANGEL.

Well now, here I am, a free man! A glass of something cool wouldn’t come amiss now.

ELLIDA.

Wait a moment.

[_She returns to the arbour and brings out the bouquet._

HILDA.

Oh I say! All those lovely flowers! Where did you get them?

ELLIDA.

I got them from Lyngstrand the sculptor, my dear Hilda.

HILDA.

[_Starting._] From Lyngstrand?

BOLETTA.

[_Uneasily._] Has Lyngstrand been here—again?

ELLIDA.

[_With a half-smile._] Yes. He came to bring this bouquet,—a birthday offering, you know.

BOLETTA.

[_Glancing at Hilda._] Oh——!

HILDA.

[_Mutters._] The beast!

WANGEL.

[_In painful embarrassment, to_ ELLIDA.] H’m——. Well, you see—I must tell you, my darling Ellida——

ELLIDA.

[_Interrupting._] Come along, girls! Let us put my flowers in water, with the others.

[_She goes up on to the verandah._

BOLETTA.

[_Softly to_ HILDA.] She is really good after all, you see.

HILDA.

[_Half aloud, looking angry._] Monkey-tricks! She’s only putting it on to please father.

WANGEL.

[_Up on the verandah, presses_ ELLIDA’S _hand._] Thank you—thank you——! I thank you from my heart for this, Ellida.

ELLIDA.

[_Arranging the flowers._] Oh, nonsense,—why should I not join with you in keeping—mother’s birthday?

ARNHOLM.

H’m——!

[_He goes up to_ WANGEL _and_ ELLIDA. BOLETTA _and_ HILDA
_remain below in the garden._

ACT SECOND.

_Up at the Prospect, a wooded height behind the town. Towards the back
stand a landmark and a weathervane. Large stones for seats are
placed round the landmark and in the foreground. Far below in the
background the outer fiord is seen, with islands and jutting
promontories. The open sea is not visible. A summer night with
clear twilight. There is a tinge of orange in the upper air and
over the mountain peaks in the far distance. The sound of
quartette-singing is faintly heard from the lower slopes on the
right._

_Young people from the town, ladies and gentlemen, come in couples up
from the right, pass the landmark conversing familiarly, and go
out to the left. Shortly afterwards_ BALLESTED _appears, acting as
guide to a party of foreign tourists. He is loaded with the
ladies’ shawls and satchels._

BALLESTED.

[_Pointing upward with his stick._] _Sehen Sie, meine Herrschaften_—over _dort liegt eine andere_ height. _Das willen wir besteigen_ too, _un herunter_——

[_He continues in English, and leads the party out to the
right._

HILDA _comes quickly up the slope on the right, stops, and looks
backward. Presently_ BOLETTA _comes up the same way._

BOLETTA.

My dear Hilda, why should we run away from Lyngstrand?

HILDA.

Because I can’t endure to walk up hill so slowly. Look—look at him crawling up.

BOLETTA.

Oh, you know how ill he is.

HILDA.

Do you think it’s very serious?

BOLETTA.

Yes, I am sure it is.

HILDA.

He consulted father this afternoon. I wonder what father thinks of him.

BOLETTA.

Father told me that he has a hardening of the lungs—or something of that sort. He won’t last very long, father says.

HILDA.

Did he really say so? Well now, that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.

BOLETTA.

But for heaven’s sake don’t let him suspect anything.

HILDA.

Oh, how can you think I would. [_In a lower tone._] There!—now Hans has managed to clamber up. Hans——! Can’t you see by the look of him that his name is Hans?

BOLETTA.

[_Whispers._] Do be good now! I warn you!

LYNGSTRAND _enters from the right, a parasol in his hand._

LYNGSTRAND.

I must beg your pardon, young ladies, for not being able to keep up with you.

HILDA.

So you have got a parasol now?

LYNGSTRAND.

It’s your mother’s. She said I might use it for a stick, as I hadn’t brought one with me.

BOLETTA.

Are they still down there? Father and the others?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes. Your father went into the restaurant for a moment, and the others are sitting outside listening to the music; but they’ll come up by-and-by, your mother said.

HILDA.

[_Who is standing looking at him._] I suppose you are very tired now?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I almost think I am a little tired. I really believe I must sit down a bit.

[_He seats himself on a stone, in front to the right._

HILDA.

[_Stands before him._] Do you know that there’s to be dancing presently, down by the band-stand?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, I heard something of it.

HILDA.

I suppose you are very fond of dancing!

BOLETTA.

[_Who is wandering about picking small flowers among the heather._] Oh, Hilda—let Mr. Lyngstrand get his breath.

LYNGSTRAND.

[_To_ HILDA.] Yes, Miss Hilda, I should like very much to dance—if only I could.

HILDA.

Oh I see; you have never learned.

LYNGSTRAND.

No, I haven’t. But that was not what I meant. I meant that I can’t dance on account of my chest.

HILDA.

On account of that “lesion” you spoke of?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes, that’s it.

HILDA.

Does this “lesion” make you very unhappy?

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh no, I can’t say it does. [_Smiling._] For I believe it is that which makes everybody so kind and friendly and helpful to me.

HILDA.

Yes; and of course it’s not a bit serious.

LYNGSTRAND.

No, not serious in the least. I could see quite well that your father thought so too.

HILDA.

And it will pass off as soon as you go abroad?

LYNGSTRAND.

Yes; it will pass off.

BOLETTA.

[_With flowers in her hand._] Look at these, Mr. Lyngstrand—here is one for your button-hole.

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh, a thousand thanks, Miss Wangel! You are really too kind.

HILDA.

[_Looking down the hill to the right._] Here they are, coming up the path.

BOLETTA.

[_Also looking down._] I hope they know where to turn off. No, they are going the wrong way.

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Rises._] I’ll run down to the turning and call out to them.

HILDA.

You’ll have to call very loud then.

BOLETTA.

No, you had better not. You’ll only tire yourself again.

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh, it’s so easy going downhill.

[_He goes out to the right._

HILDA.

Yes, downhill. [_Looks after him._] Now he’s jumping too! And it never occurs to him that he will have to come up again.

BOLETTA.

Poor creature——!

HILDA.

If Lyngstrand were to propose to you, would you have him?

BOLETTA.

Are you out of your senses?

HILDA.

Oh I mean, of course, if he hadn’t this “lesion”—and if he weren’t going to die so soon. Would you have him _then_?

BOLETTA.

I think you had better have him.

HILDA.

No, I’m bothered if I would. He hasn’t a rap. He hasn’t enough to live upon himself.

BOLETTA.

Why are you always so much taken up with him then?

HILDA.

Oh, that’s only on account of his “lesion.”

BOLETTA.

I have never noticed that you pity him a bit.

HILDA.

No more I do. But it’s so tempting to me——

BOLETTA.

What is?

HILDA.

To look at him, and get him to say that it’s not serious, and that he’s going abroad and going to be an artist. He’s perfectly convinced of all that, and as happy as possible about it. And to know that nothing will come of it after all; nothing whatever; that he won’t live long enough——I find that so thrilling to think of.

BOLETTA.

Thrilling!

HILDA.

Yes. I find it thrilling—I take that liberty.

BOLETTA.

Fie Hilda, you are really a horrid child!

HILDA.

Well, that’s what I want to be—just for spite! [_Looks down._] Ah, at last! Arnholm doesn’t seem to enjoy climbing. [_Turns round._] Oh, by-the-bye—what do you think I noticed about Arnholm while we were at dinner?

BOLETTA.

What?

HILDA.

Only think, he’s beginning to turn bald—right on the crown of his head.

BOLETTA.

Oh rubbish! I’m sure he isn’t.

HILDA.

Yes he is. And he has wrinkles here, round both his eyes. Good heavens, Boletta, how _could_ you be so gone on him when he was your tutor?

BOLETTA.

[_Smiling._] Yes, can you understand it? I remember once shedding bitter tears because he said he thought Boletta an ugly name.

HILDA.

Think of that! [_Looks down again._] I say! Look there! Just look!—There’s “the lady from the sea” walking with him—not with father—and jabbering away to him. I wonder whether those two aren’t a bit sweet on each other.

BOLETTA.

You ought really to be ashamed of yourself. How dare you say such things about her? We were beginning to get on so well together——

HILDA.

Oh, indeed!—Don’t you believe it, my girl! I tell you we shall never get on well with her. She doesn’t suit us, nor we her. Heaven knows what tempted father to drag her into the house!—I shouldn’t wonder a bit if she were to go mad on our hands some fine day.

BOLETTA.

Mad? What makes you think such a thing?

HILDA.

Oh, there would be nothing so wonderful about it. Didn’t her mother go mad? She died mad, I know.

BOLETTA.

Yes, I should like to know what you don’t poke your nose into. All I say is, don’t go chattering about it. Be good now—for father’s sake. Do you hear, Hilda?

[WANGEL, ELLIDA, ARNHOLM, _and_ LYNGSTRAND _come up from the
right._

ELLIDA.

[_Points away towards the background._] It lies out there.

ARNHOLM.

Yes, of course; it must be in that direction.

ELLIDA.

Out there lies the sea.

BOLETTA.

[_To_ ARNHOLM.] Don’t you think it’s pretty up here?

ARNHOLM.

I should rather say grand—a glorious view!

WANGEL.

I daresay you have never been up here before?

ARNHOLM.

No, never. In my time I doubt if it was accessible. There wasn’t even a footpath.

WANGEL.

And no grounds laid out either. We have done all that in the last few years.

BOLETTA.

Over there, on the Pilot’s Knoll, the view is even finer.

WANGEL.

Shall we go there, Ellida?

ELLIDA.

[_Seats herself upon a stone to the right._] Thank you, I won’t go. But you others ought to. I shall stay here in the meantime.

WANGEL.

Very well; then I’ll stay with you. The girls can do the honours for Arnholm.

BOLETTA.

Do you care to come with us, Mr. Arnholm?

ARNHOLM.

Yes, I should like to. Is there a path up there too?

BOLETTA.

Oh yes; a good broad path.

HILDA.

There’s plenty of room for two people to go arm-in-arm.

ARNHOLM.

[_Jestingly._] I wonder if there is, little Miss Hilda? [_To_ BOLETTA.] Shall we two try if she is right?

BOLETTA.

[_Repressing a smile._] Yes, if you like. Let us.

[_They go out to the left, arm-in-arm._

HILDA.

[_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] Shall we go too——?

LYNGSTRAND.

Arm-in-arm——?

HILDA.

Why not? I don’t mind.

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Gives her his arm, and laughs with pleasure._] This is great fun, isn’t it?

HILDA.

Great fun——?

LYNGSTRAND.

Why, it looks exactly as if we were engaged.

HILDA.

I suppose you have never given a lady your arm before, Mr. Lyngstrand.

[_They go out to the left._

WANGEL.

[_Who is standing at the back, beside the landmark._] Dear Ellida, now we have a little time to ourselves——

ELLIDA.

Yes, come and sit here beside me.

WANGEL.

[_Seats himself._] It’s so open and peaceful here. Now let us have a little talk.

ELLIDA.

What about?

WANGEL.

About you; and about our relation to each other, Ellida. I see well enough that this state of things cannot continue.

ELLIDA.

What would you have in its place?

WANGEL.

Full confidence, dear. A life in common—such as we used to live.

ELLIDA.

Oh, if that could only be! But it’s so utterly impossible!

WANGEL.

I think I understand you. From certain things you have let fall now and then, I believe I do.

ELLIDA.

[_Vehemently._] No you don’t! Don’t say that you understand——!

WANGEL.

Oh yes. Yours is an upright nature, Ellida. You have a loyal heart.

ELLIDA.

Yes, I have.

WANGEL.

Any relation in which you can feel secure and happy must be a full and perfect one.

ELLIDA.

[_Looking anxiously at him._] Well,—and then?

WANGEL.

You are not fitted to be a man’s second wife.

ELLIDA.

What makes you think of _that_ now?

WANGEL.

The suspicion has often crossed my mind; but to-day I saw it clearly. The children’s little commemoration—you looked on me as a sort of accomplice.—Well yes; a man’s memories are not to be wiped out—not mine, at all events. It is not in my nature.

ELLIDA.

I know that. Oh, I know it so well.

WANGEL.

But you are mistaken, none the less. It seems to you almost as though the children’s mother were still alive. You feel her invisible presence in our midst. You think that my heart is equally divided between you and her. It is this idea that revolts you. You see, as it were, something immoral in our relation; and that is why you cannot, or will not, live with me any more as my wife.

ELLIDA.

[_Rises._] Have you seen all this, Wangel? Seen through all this?

WANGEL.

Yes, to-day I have at last seen through it—into the very depths.

ELLIDA.

Into the very depths, you say. Oh, you mustn’t think that.

WANGEL.

[_Rises._] I know very well that there is more than this, dear Ellida.

ELLIDA.

[_Apprehensively._] You know that there is more?

WANGEL.

Yes. There is this: that you cannot endure your surroundings here. The mountains oppress you and weigh upon your spirits. There is not light enough for you here—the horizon is not wide enough—the air not strong and stimulating enough for you.

ELLIDA.

There you are quite right. Night and day, winter and summer, it is upon me—this haunting home-sickness for the sea.

WANGEL.

I know it well, dear Ellida. [_Lays his hand upon her head._] And therefore the poor sick child must go to its own home again.

ELLIDA.

How do you mean?

WANGEL.

Quite literally. We will move.

ELLIDA.

Move!

WANGEL.

Yes. Out somewhere by the open sea,—to some place where you may find a real home, after your own heart.

ELLIDA.

Oh, my dear, you mustn’t think of that! It’s quite impossible. You could never live happily anywhere in the world but here.

WANGEL.

That must be as it may. And besides—do you think I can live happily here—without you?

ELLIDA.

But here I am; and here I will remain. Am I not yours?

WANGEL.

_Are_ you mine, Ellida?

ELLIDA.

Oh, please say no more of that scheme. Here you have all that is life and breath to you. Your whole life-work lies here, and here only.

WANGEL.

That must be as it may, I say. We will move from here—move seaward somewhere. My mind is made up beyond recall, dear Ellida.

ELLIDA.

Oh, but what do you suppose we shall gain by _that_?

WANGEL.

You will regain your health and peace of mind.

ELLIDA.

I doubt it. But you yourself! Think of yourself too. What would _you_ gain?

WANGEL.

I should regain you, my dearest.

ELLIDA.

But that you cannot do! No, no, you cannot, Wangel! That is just the terrible, the heart-breaking part of it.

WANGEL.

That remains to be seen. If you are haunted by such thoughts here, then assuredly there is nothing for it but to get you away from here. And the sooner the better. My mind is made up beyond recall, I tell you.

ELLIDA.

No! Rather than that,—Heaven help me—I will tell you everything without reserve, exactly as it is.

WANGEL.

Yes, yes—do!

ELLIDA.

You shall not make yourself unhappy for my sake; especially as it would do us no good, after all.

WANGEL.

You have promised to tell me everything—exactly as it stands.

ELLIDA.

I will tell you as well as I can,—and as far as I understand things.—Come here and sit by me.

[_They seat themselves upon the stones._

WANGEL.

Well, Ellida? Well——?

ELLIDA.

That day when you came out there and asked me if I could and would be yours—you spoke to me frankly and openly about your first marriage. You said it had been very happy.

WANGEL.

And so it was.

ELLIDA.

Yes, yes; I do not doubt it, dear. That is not why I speak of it now. I only want to remind you that I, on my side, was frank with you. I told you quite openly that I had once in my life cared for some one else. That it had come to—a sort of betrothal between us.

WANGEL.

A sort of——?

ELLIDA.

Yes, something of the kind. Well, it lasted only a very short time. He went away; and afterwards I broke it off. All this I told you.

WANGEL.

But, dear Ellida, why go back upon all this? After all, it did not really concern me. I have never even asked you who he was.

ELLIDA.

No, you have not. You are always so considerate to me.

WANGEL.

[_Smiling._] Well, in this case,—I scarcely needed to be told his name.

ELLIDA.

His name?

WANGEL.

Out at Skioldvik and in those parts there were not many to choose from. Or rather, there was only one man——

ELLIDA.

I suppose you think it was—Arnholm.

WANGEL.

Yes—was it not?

ELLIDA.

No.

WANGEL.

It was not? Well then I am certainly at a loss.

ELLIDA.

Do you remember that, in the late autumn one year, a large American ship came into Skioldvik for repairs?

WANGEL.

Yes, I remember it well. It was on board her that the captain was found murdered in his cabin one morning. I remember going to make the post-mortem.

ELLIDA.

Yes, you did.

WANGEL.

It was said to be the second mate who had killed him.

ELLIDA.

No one can tell that! It was never proved.

WANGEL.

No; but I think there is no doubt about it. Else why should he have gone and drowned himself?

ELLIDA.

He did not drown himself. He escaped in a vessel bound for the north.

WANGEL.

[_Starts._] How do you know that?

ELLIDA.

[_With an effort._] Because, Wangel—because it was that second mate to whom I—was betrothed.

WANGEL.

[_Starting up._] What do you say? Can this be possible?

ELLIDA.

Yes,—he was the man.

WANGEL.

But how in the world, Ellida——? How could you do such a thing! Go and engage yourself to such a man as that! A man you knew nothing on earth about!—What was his name?

ELLIDA.

He called himself Friman[18] then. Afterwards, in his letters, he signed himself Alfred Johnston.

WANGEL.

And where did he come from?

ELLIDA.

From Finmark, he said. He was born over in Finland though. He had come across the frontier as a child,—with his father I think.

WANGEL.

He was a Quæn, then.

ELLIDA.

Yes, I believe they are called so.

WANGEL.

What more do you know of him?

ELLIDA.

Only that he went to sea very young, and that he had made long voyages.

WANGEL

Nothing else?

ELLIDA.

No; we never talked about such things.

WANGEL.

What did you talk about then?

ELLIDA.

Mainly about the sea.

WANGEL.

Ah——! About the sea?

ELLIDA.

About storm and calm. About dark nights at sea. About the sea in the glittering sunshine, too. But we talked most about the whales, and the porpoises, and the seals that lie out upon the reefs and bask in the midday sun. And then we spoke of the gulls and the eagles, and all the other sea-birds, you know. And—is it not strange?—when we talked of such things, it seemed to me as though both the sea-animals and the sea-birds were akin to him.

WANGEL.

And you yourself——?

ELLIDA.

Yes, I almost thought that I, too, was akin to all of them.

WANGEL.

Yes, yes.—And that was how you came to betroth yourself to him?

ELLIDA.

Yes; he said I was to do it.

WANGEL.

Was to? Had you no will of your own?

ELLIDA.

Not when he was near. Oh—afterwards it all seemed so utterly inexplicable to me.

WANGEL.

Did you see him often?

ELLIDA.

No, not very often. He went over the lighthouse one day; that is how I came to know him. And afterwards we used to meet occasionally. But then came this affair about the captain; and he had to go away.

WANGEL.

Oh yes, let me hear about that!

ELLIDA.

It was in the dusk of the early morning that I got a line from him. It said that I must come out to him at Bratthammer[19]—you know, the headland between the lighthouse and Skioldvik.

WANGEL.

Yes, yes—I know it well.

ELLIDA.

I must come there immediately, the note said for he wanted to speak to me.

WANGEL.

And you went?

ELLIDA.

Yes. I could not help it. Well—he told me that he had stabbed the captain in the night.

WANGEL.

He told you himself! Said it straight out!

ELLIDA.

Yes. But he had only done what was right and just, he said.

WANGEL.

Right and just? What reason did he give, then, for stabbing him?

ELLIDA.

He would not tell me the reason. He said it was not a thing for me to hear about.

WANGEL.

And you believed him, on his bare word?

ELLIDA.

Yes, I never thought of doubting him. Well, at all events he had to go away. But when he was on the point of saying good-bye to me——No, you could never imagine what he did.

WANGEL.

Well, tell me then.

ELLIDA.

He took a key-ring out of his pocket, and drew off his finger a ring he used to wear. Then he took from me a little ring that I had, and these two he slipped together on the key-ring. And then he said that now we two should together be wedded to the sea.

WANGEL.

Wedded——?

ELLIDA.

Yes, so he said. And then he flung the large ring and the two small ones as far as ever he could into the deep water.

WANGEL.

And you, Ellida? Did you agree to that?

ELLIDA.

Yes, would you believe it, I thought at the time that it was all as it should be.—But, thank heaven, then he went away!

WANGEL.

And when once he was away?

ELLIDA.

Oh, you may be sure I soon came to my senses again. I saw how utterly stupid and meaningless the whole thing had been.

WANGEL.

But you said something about letters. Did you hear from him afterwards?

ELLIDA.

Yes, I heard from him. First, I got a line or two from Archangel. He said nothing but that he was going over to America; and he told me where to address an answer.

WANGEL.

Did you write?

ELLIDA.

Immediately. I said, of course, that all must be over between us—that he must never think of me again, as I meant never to think any more of him.

WANGEL.

And did he write again, in spite of that?

ELLIDA.

Yes, he wrote again.

WANGEL.

And what was his answer to what you had said?

ELLIDA.

Not a word. He wrote just as if I had never broken with him. He told me quite calmly that I must wait for him. When he was ready for me he would let me know, and then I was to come to him at once.

WANGEL.

Then he would not release you?

ELLIDA.

No. So I wrote again, almost word for word the same as before: only more strongly.

WANGEL.

And did he give way then?

ELLIDA.

Oh no, far from it. He wrote as calmly as before. Never a word about my having broken with him. Then I saw it was useless, so I wrote to him no more.

WANGEL.

And did not hear from him either?

ELLIDA.

Yes, I have had three letters from him since. Once he wrote from California and once from China. The last letter I got from him was from Australia. He said he was going to the goldmines; and since then I have heard nothing from him.

WANGEL.

That man must have had an extraordinary power over you, Ellida.

ELLIDA.

Oh yes, yes. That terrible man!

WANGEL.

But you must not think any more about it. Never! Promise me that, my dear, my precious Ellida! We will try another cure for you now—a fresher air than this of the inner fiord. The salt-laden, sweeping sea-breezes, dear! What do you say to that?

ELLIDA.

Oh, don’t speak of it! Don’t think of such a thing! There is no help for me in that! I know, I feel, that I should not be able to throw it off out there either.

WANGEL.

To throw what off, dear? What do you mean?

ELLIDA.

I mean the terror of him. His unfathomable power over my soul——

WANGEL.

But you _have_ thrown it off! Long ago; when you broke with him. It is all over, long ago.

ELLIDA.

[_Springs up._] No, that is just what it is not!

WANGEL.

Not over!

ELLIDA.

No, Wangel—it is not over! And I am afraid it never will be over. Never in this life.

WANGEL.

[_In a choked voice._] Do you mean to say that you have never in your heart of hearts been able to forget that strange man?

ELLIDA.

I had forgotten him. But then, all at once, he seemed to come again.

WANGEL.

How long ago is that?

ELLIDA.

It is about three years ago now, or a little more. It was whilst—before the child was born.

WANGEL.

_Ah!_ It was then, was it? In that case, Ellida—I begin to understand much more clearly.

ELLIDA.

You are wrong, dear! This thing that has come over me—oh, I don’t think it can ever be understood.

WANGEL.

[_Looks at her, pained._] To think that for all these three years your heart has been given to another man. To another! Not to me,—but to another!

ELLIDA.

Oh, you utterly misunderstand me. I love no one but you.

WANGEL.

[_In a low tone._] How is it, then, that for all that time you have refused to live with me as my wife?

ELLIDA.

That is because of the dread the strange man has cast over me.

WANGEL.

Dread——?

ELLIDA.

Yes, dread. Such a dread, such a terror, as can arise only from the sea. For now I must tell you, Wangel——

[_The young townspeople come back from the left, bow, and go out
to the right. With them come_ ARNHOLM, BOLETTA, HILDA, _and_
LYNGSTRAND.

BOLETTA.

[_As they pass by._] What! Still up here?

ELLIDA.

Yes, it’s so delightfully cool up here on the heights.

ARNHOLM.

For our part, we are going down to have a dance.

WANGEL.

Very well. We will come too, in a little while.

HILDA.

Good-bye for the present then.

ELLIDA.

Mr. Lyngstrand—will you please wait a moment?

[LYNGSTRAND _stops._ ARNHOLM, BOLETTA, _and_ HILDA _go out to
the right._

ELLIDA.

[_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] Are you going to dance too?

LYNGSTRAND.

No, Mrs. Wangel, I’m afraid I must not.

ELLIDA.

No, you ought to be careful. That weakness in your chest—you have not quite got over it yet.

LYNGSTRAND.

No, not thoroughly.

ELLIDA.

[_Somewhat hesitatingly._] How long is it now since you made that voyage——?

LYNGSTRAND.

When I got the lesion?

ELLIDA.

Yes, that voyage you were telling us about this morning.

LYNGSTRAND.

Oh well, it must be about—wait a bit—yes, it was just three years ago.

ELLIDA.

Three years?

LYNGSTRAND.

Or a little more. We left America in February, and we were wrecked in March. We got into the equinoctial gales.

ELLIDA.

[_Looking at_ WANGEL.] You see that was the time——

WANGEL.

But, my dear Ellida——?

ELLIDA.

Well, don’t let us detain you, Mr. Lyngstrand, Go; but don’t dance.

LYNGSTRAND.

No, I shall only look on.

[_He goes out to the right._

WANGEL.

Dear Ellida—why did you cross-question him about that voyage?

ELLIDA.

Johnston was in the same ship. Of that I am perfectly certain.

WANGEL.

What makes you think so?

ELLIDA.

[_Without answering._] He came to know, during the voyage, that I had married some one else, while he was away. And then—at the very same moment, this came upon me!

WANGEL.

This dread?

ELLIDA.

Yes. Sometimes, without the smallest warning, I suddenly see him stand bodily before me. Or rather a little to one side. He never looks at me; he is only there.

WANGEL.

How does he appear to you?

ELLIDA.

Just as I saw him last.

WANGEL.

Ten years ago?

ELLIDA.

Yes. Out at Bratthammer. I see his scarf-pin most distinctly of all, with a large, bluish-white pearl in it. That pearl is like a dead fish’s eye. And it seems to glare at me.

WANGEL.

Good God——! You are more ill than I thought; more ill than you know yourself, Ellida.

ELLIDA.

Yes, yes,—help me if you can! For I feel it closing round me more and more.

WANGEL.

And you have been in this state for three whole years. You have suffered this secret anguish without confiding in me!

ELLIDA.

Oh I could not! Not till now, when it became necessary for your own sake. If I had told you all this—then I must also have told you—the unspeakable.

WANGEL.

The unspeakable——?

ELLIDA.

[_Evasively._] No, no, no! Do not ask! Only one thing more, and I have done.—Wangel—how shall we fathom the mystery—of the child’s eyes——?

WANGEL.

My own dear Ellida, I assure you it was pure imagination on your part. The child had exactly the same eyes as other normal children.

ELLIDA.

No, it had not! How could you help seeing it? The child’s eyes changed colour with the sea. If the fiord lay in a sunny calm, the eyes were calm and sunny. And the same way in storms.—Oh, I saw it well enough, if you did not.

WANGEL.

[_Humouring her._] H’m,—perhaps so. But even if it were? What then?

ELLIDA.

[_Softly, and drawing nearer to him._] I have seen eyes like that before.

WANGEL.

When? And where——?

ELLIDA.

Out at Bratthammer. Ten years ago.

WANGEL.

[_Recoils a step._] What do you——!

ELLIDA.

[_Whispers, trembling._] The child had the strange man’s eyes.

WANGEL.

[_Cries out involuntarily._] Ellida——!

ELLIDA.

[_Clasps her hands over her head in despair._] Now you can surely understand why I never _will_,—never _dare_ live with you as your wife!

[_She turns hastily and rushes down the hill to the right._

WANGEL.

[_Hastens after her and calls._] Ellida! Ellida! My poor unhappy Ellida!

-----

Footnote 12:

Pronounce _Vangl_.

Footnote 13:

Pronounce _El-lee-da_, with accent on the second syllable.

Footnote 14:

Pronounce _Bal-le-staid_.

Footnote 15:

Pronounce _Sheevë’s_

Footnote 16:

Pronounce _Yensen_.

Footnote 17:

Pronounce _Sholdveek_.

Footnote 18:

Pronounce _Freeman_.

Footnote 19:

Pronounce _Bratt-hammer_.

-----

ACT THIRD

_A remote corner of_ DR. WANGEL’S _garden. The place is damp, marshy,
and overshadowed by large old trees. To the right is seen the edge
of a stagnant pond. A low open fence divides the garden from the
footpath and fiord in the background. In the farthest distance,
beyond the fiord, mountain ranges rise into peaks. It is late
afternoon, almost evening._

BOLETTA _sits sewing upon a stone seat to the left. On the seat lie a
couple of books and a work basket._ HILDA _and_ LYNGSTRAND, _both
with fishing-tackle, stand by the edge of the pond._

HILDA.

[_Makes a sign to_ LYNGSTRAND.] Stand still. I see a big one there.

LYNGSTRAND.

[_Looking._] Where is it?

HILDA.

[_Points._] Can’t you see—down there. And look! I declare there’s another! [_Looks away through the trees._] Ugh—there he comes to frighten them away!

BOLETTA.

[_Looks up._] Who is coming?

HILDA.

Your tutor, miss!

BOLETTA.

My——?

HILDA.

Yes; thank goodness he was never mine!

ARNHOLM _comes forward among the trees on the right._

ARNHOLM.

Are there fish in the pond now?

HILDA.

Yes, there are some very old carp.

ARNHOLM.

Ah, so the old carp are still alive?

HILDA.

Yes; they’re tough, I can tell you. But now we’re going to put an end to some of them.

ARNHOLM.

You ought rather to try the fiord.

LYNGSTRAND.

No, the pond—the pond is more mysterious, as you might call it.

HILDA.

Yes, it’s more thrilling here.—Have you just been having a bathe?

ARNHOLM.

Precisely. I’ve come straight from the bathing-house.

HILDA.

I suppose you kept within the enclosure?

ARNHOLM.

Yes, I’m no great swimmer.

HILDA.

Can you swim on your back?

ARNHOLM.

No.

HILDA.

I can. [_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] Let us try over there on the other side.

[_They skirt the pond, out to the right._

ARNHOLM.

[_Advances to_ BOLETTA.] You are all alone, Boletta?

BOLETTA.

Oh yes, I generally am.

ARNHOLM.

Is not your mother in the garden?

BOLETTA.

No; I think she is out walking with father.

ARNHOLM.

How is she this afternoon?

BOLETTA.

I don’t quite know. I forgot to ask.

ARNHOLM.

What are the books you have there?

BOLETTA.

Oh, one is a botanical book, and the other a descriptive geography.

ARNHOLM.

Are you fond of that kind of reading?

BOLETTA.

Yes, when I can find time for it——But of course the housekeeping must come first.

ARNHOLM.

But does not your mother—your stepmother—help you with that?

BOLETTA.

No, it is my work. I had to look after it during the two years father was alone; and so it has continued ever since.

ARNHOLM.

But you are as fond as ever of reading?

BOLETTA.

Yes, I read all the useful books I can get hold of. One wants to know a little about the world. Here we live so entirely outside of everything,—or almost entirely.

ARNHOLM.

No, my dear Boletta, don’t say that.

BOLETTA.

But I do say so. I don’t see much difference between our life and the life of the carp in the pond there. They have the fiord close beside them, where the great free shoals of fish sweep out and in. But the poor tame house-fishes know nothing of all that; and they can never join in.

ARNHOLM.

I don’t think it would agree with them at all if they did get out into the fiord.

BOLETTA.

Oh, they might take their chance of _that_, I should think.

ARNHOLM.

Besides, you can’t say that you are so utterly out of the world here. Not in summer, at all events. This place is a sort of local centre, nowadays, in the life of the world—a point of convergence for many passing streams.

BOLETTA.

[_Smiling_.] Oh, you are in the passing stream yourself; it is easy for you to make game of us.

ARNHOLM.

I make game——? What puts that into your head?

BOLETTA.

Why, all this about a centre, and a point of convergence for the life of the world, is simply what you have heard people say in the town. They are always talking like that.

ARNHOLM.

Yes, frankly, I have noticed as much.

BOLETTA.

But there’s really not a word of truth in it, you know—not for us who live here constantly. What is it to us that the great outside world passes our doors on its way to the midnight sun? We cannot join in the stream. There is no midnight sun for _us_. Oh no; we must be content to linger our lives out, here in our carp-pond.

ARNHOLM.

[_Seats himself besides her._] Tell me now, dear Boletta—I wonder if there is not something or other,—some particular thing I mean—that you are all the time longing for, here at home?

BOLETTA.

Well, perhaps there may be.

ARNHOLM.

Then what is it? What are you longing for?

BOLETTA.

Chiefly to get away.

ARNHOLM.

That before everything?

BOLETTA.

Yes. And next to learn a little more; to gain some real insight into things in general.

ARNHOLM.

When I used to read with you, your father often said that he would let you go to college.

BOLETTA.

Oh yes, poor father,—he says so many things. But when it comes to the point, then——. There is no real energy in father.

ARNHOLM.

No, unfortunately—I suppose there is not. But have you ever talked to him about this? Put serious pressure on him, I mean?

BOLETTA.

No, I can’t say that I have.

ARNHOLM.

Well now really, Boletta, you ought to do so, before it is too late. Why don’t you?

BOLETTA.

Oh, because there is no real energy in me either, I suppose. I probably take after father in that.

ARNHOLM.

H’m—I wonder whether you don’t do yourself injustice there?

BOLETTA.

Oh no, I’m sorry to say. And then father has so little time to think about me and my future—and not much inclination either. He puts things of that sort aside as much as he can; he is so entirely taken up with Ellida——

ARNHOLM.

With whom——? How——?

BOLETTA.

I mean that he and my stepmother——[_Breaking off._] Father and mother lead a life of their own, you see.

ARNHOLM.

Well, so much the more reason for you to see about getting away.

BOLETTA.

Yes, but at the same time I don’t feel as if I had the right to go away—to leave father.

ARNHOLM.

But, my dear Boletta, you will have to leave him some time, in any case; and since that is so, why delay——?

BOLETTA.

Yes, I suppose there is nothing else for it. Of course I ought to think of myself too, and try to find a position of some sort. When once father is gone I shall have no one to depend on.—But poor father,—I dread the thought of leaving him.

ARNHOLM.

Dread——?

BOLETTA.

Yes, for his own sake.

ARNHOLM.

But, bless me, what about your stepmother? She will still be with him.

BOLETTA.

Yes, that’s true. But she is not at all fitted for all that mother knew so well how to do. There are so many things she doesn’t see—or perhaps _will_ not see—or trouble herself about. I don’t know which way to put it.

ARNHOLM.

H’m,—I think I understand what you mean?

BOLETTA.

Poor father,—he is weak in certain ways. I daresay you have noticed that yourself. You see he hasn’t enough work to fill up his whole time; and then she is quite incapable of being any support to him.—That is partly his own fault, however.

ARNHOLM.

How so?

BOLETTA.

Oh, father always likes to see cheerful faces around him; there must be sunshine and contentment in the house, he says. So I am afraid he often lets her have medicine that does her no good in the long run.

ARNHOLM.

Do you really think so?

BOLETTA.

Yes, I can’t get rid of the idea. She is so strange at times. [_Vehemently._] But it does seem hard, does it not, that I should have to stay on at home here? It does not in reality help father at all; and I can’t but feel that I have duties towards myself too.

ARNHOLM.

I’ll tell you what, my dear Boletta,—we must talk all this over more thoroughly.

BOLETTA.

Oh, that won’t help much; I daresay I was created to pass my life here in the carp-pond.

ARNHOLM.

Not at all. It depends entirely upon yourself.

BOLETTA.

[_Eagerly._] Do you think so?

ARNHOLM.

Yes, believe me; it lies wholly and solely in your own hands.

BOLETTA.

Oh, if it only did——! Do you mean that you will put in a good word for me with father?

ARNHOLM.

I will do that too. But first of all I want to speak frankly and without reserve to you yourself, my dear Boletta. [_Looks out to the left._] Hush! Let no one notice anything; we’ll finish our talk by-and-by.

ELLIDA _enters from the left. She wears no hat, but has a light
shawl thrown over her head and shoulders._

ELLIDA.

[_With nervous animation._] How nice it is here! How delightful!

ARNHOLM.

[_Rising._] Have you been out walking?

ELLIDA.

Yes, a long, long splendid walk with Wangel. And now we are going out for a sail.

BOLETTA.

Won’t you sit down?

ELLIDA.

No thank you; I couldn’t sit.

BOLETTA.

[_Moving along the bench._] There’s plenty of room.

ELLIDA.

[_Walking about._] No no no, I couldn’t sit; I couldn’t sit.

ARNHOLM.

Your walk has surely done you good; it seems to have exhilarated you.

ELLIDA.

Oh, I feel so thoroughly well. I feel so unspeakably happy! So safe! So safe——[_Looks out to the left._] What large steamer is that coming in?

BOLETTA.

[_Rises and looks out._] It must be the big English boat.

ARNHOLM.

They are mooring her to the buoy. Does she generally stop here?

BOLETTA.

Only for half an hour; she goes farther up the fiord.

ELLIDA.

And then outward again—to-morrow; out on the great open sea; right over the sea. Think of going with her! If one only could! If one only could!

ARNHOLM.

Have you never taken a long sea-voyage, Mrs. Wangel?

ELLIDA.

Never in my life; only little trips in the fiords.

BOLETTA.

[_With a sigh._] Oh no, we have to put up with the dry land.

ARNHOLM.

Well, at any rate, that is our natural element.

ELLIDA.

No, I don’t think so at all.

ARNHOLM.

Not dry land?

ELLIDA.

No, I don’t believe it. I believe that if men had only accustomed themselves from the first to live their life on the sea—or even in the sea—we should by this time have been far more perfect than we are;—both better and happier.

ARNHOLM.

Do you really believe that?

ELLIDA.

Well, at any rate, it is a theory of mine. I have often talked of it with Wangel.

ARNHOLM.

Indeed! And he——?

ELLIDA.

Oh, he thinks there may be something in it.

ARNHOLM.

[_Joking._] Well, who knows? But what’s done is done. We have once for all taken the wrong turning and become land animals instead of sea animals. All things considered, I’m afraid it is too late now to rectify the error.

ELLIDA.

Yes, that is the mournful truth. And I believe people have an instinctive feeling of it themselves—it haunts them like a secret sorrow and regret. Believe me, this lies at the very root of the melancholy of mankind. I am sure it does.

ARNHOLM.

But my dear Mrs. Wangel,—I have never noticed that people are so profoundly melancholy. I should say, on the contrary, that most people take life cheerfully and lightly—with a great, calm, unconscious joy.

ELLIDA.

Oh no, that is not so. That joy—it is just like our joy in the long, light summer days. It has in it the foreboding of the darkness to come. And this foreboding casts its shadow over the joy of mankind,—just as the driving scud casts its shadow over the fiord. There it lies all blue and shining; and then all of a sudden——

BOLETTA.

You shouldn’t let yourself dwell on such sad thoughts. You were so bright and cheerful a moment ago——

ELLIDA.

Yes yes, so I was. All this is—it’s so stupid of me. [_Looks uneasily around._] If only Wangel would come down here. He promised me so faithfully; and yet he doesn’t come. He must have forgotten. Dear Mr. Arnholm, won’t you go and find him for me?

ARNHOLM.

Yes, with pleasure.

ELLIDA.

Tell him that he really must come at once; for now I cannot see him——

ARNHOLM.

Not see him——?

ELLIDA.

Oh, you don’t understand me. When he is not present, I often can’t remember what he looks like; and then it seems as though I had lost him utterly.—It’s so terribly painful. Do go!

[_She wanders over in the direction of the pond._

BOLETTA.

[_To_ ARNHOLM.] I will go with you; you don’t know——

ARNHOLM.

Oh don’t trouble; I shall manage——

BOLETTA.

[_In an undertone._] No no, I am uneasy. I’m afraid he is on board the steamer.

ARNHOLM.

Afraid?

BOLETTA.

Yes, he generally goes to see if there is any one he knows among the passengers; and there’s a refreshment bar on board——

ARNHOLM.

Ah! Come along then.

[_He and_ BOLETTA _go out to the left._

[ELLIDA _stands awhile gazing into the pond. From time to
time she talks softly and in broken phrases to herself._

_Outside on the footpath, beyond the garden fence, a_ STRANGER _in
travelling dress enters from the left. He has bushy, reddish hair
and beard, wears a Scotch cap, and has a travelling-wallet slung
across his shoulder by a strap._

THE STRANGER.