Transcriber’s Note:

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No one who ever saw Henrik Ibsen, in his later years at any rate, could doubt that he was a born aristocrat. It is said that a change came over his appearance and manner after the publication of Brand—that he then put off the Bohemian and put on the reserved, correct, punctilious man-of-the-world. When I first saw him in 1881, he had the air of a polished statesman or diplomatist. Distinction was the note of his personality. So early as 1872, he had written to George Brandes, who was then involved in one of his many controversies, “Be dignified! Dignity is the only weapon against such assaults.” His actual words, Vær Fornem! mean, literally translated, “Be distinguished!” No democratic movement which implied a levelling down, could ever command Ibsen’s sympathy. He was a leveller up, or nothing.

This deep-rooted trait in his character found its supreme expression in Rosmersholm.

One of his first remarks (to Brandes, January 3, 1882) after the storm had broken out over Ghosts was: “I feel most painfully affected by the crudity, the viiiplebeian element in all our public discussion. The very praiseworthy attempt to make of our people a democratic community has inadvertently gone a good way towards making us a plebeian community. Distinction of soul seems to be on the decline at home.” The same trend of thought makes itself felt again and again in Dr. Stockmann’s great speech in the fourth act of An Enemy of the People; but it appears only incidentally in that play, and not at all in The Wild Duck. It was a visit which he paid to Norway in the summer of 1885 that brought the need for “ennoblement” of character into the foreground of his thought, and inspired him with the idea of Rosmersholm. “Since he had last been home,” writes Henrik Jæger, “the great political battle had been fought out, and had left behind it a fanaticism and bitterness of spirit which astounded him. He was struck by the brutality of the prevailing tone; he felt himself painfully affected by the rancorous and vulgar personalities which drowned all rational discussion of the principles at stake; and he observed with sorrow the many enmities to which the contest had given rise.... On the whole, he received the impression—as he remarked in conversation—that Norway was inhabited, not by two million human beings, but by two million cats and dogs. This impression has recorded itself in the picture of party divisions presented in Rosmersholm. The bitterness of the vanquished is admirably embodied in Rector Kroll; while the victors’ craven reluctance to speak out their whole hearts is excellently characterised in the freethinker and opportunist, Mortensgård.”

What was this “great political battle,” the echoes of which reverberate through Rosmersholm? Though a knowledge of its details is in no way essential to ixthe comprehension of the play, the following account^[1] of it may not be out of place.

The Norwegian constitution of 1814 gave the King of Norway and Sweden a suspensive veto on the enactments of the Norwegian Storthing or Parliament, but provided that a bill passed by three successive triennial Storthings should become law without the Royal assent. This arrangement worked well enough until about 1870, when the Liberal party became alive to a flaw in the Constitution. The whole legislative and financial power was vested in the Storthing; but the Ministers had no seats in it and acknowledged no responsibility save to the King. Thus the overwhelming Liberal majority in the Storthing found itself baulked at every turn by a Conservative ministry, over which it had no effective control. In 1872, a Bill enacting that Ministers should sit in the Storthing was passed by 80 votes to 29, and was vetoed by the King. It was passed again and again by successive Storthings, the last time by 93 votes to 20; but now King Oscar came forward with a declaration that on matters affecting the Constitution his veto was not suspensive, but absolute, and once more vetoed the Bill. This measure was met by the Storthing with a resolution (June 9, 1880) that the Act had become law in spite of the veto. The King ignored the resolution, and, by the advice of his Ministers, claimed an absolute veto, not only on constitutional questions, but on measures of supply. Then the Storthing adopted the last resource provided by the Constitution: it impeached the Ministers before the Supreme Court of the kingdom. Political rancour ran incredibly high, and there was a great final tussle xover the composition of the Supreme Court; but the Liberals were masters of the situation, and carried all before them. One by one the Ministers were dismissed from office and fined. The King ostentatiously testified his sympathy with them, and selected a new Ministry from the Extreme Right. They failed to carry on the government of the country, and matters were at a deadlock. At last, however, King Oscar gave way. On June 26, 1884, he sent for Johan Sverdrup, the statesman who for a quarter of a century had guided the counsels of the Liberal party. Sverdrup consented to form a Ministry, and the battle ended in a Liberal victory along the whole line.

Ten years elapsed between Ibsen’s hegira of 1864 and his first brief return to his native land. Before his second visit eleven more years intervened; and during the summer of 1885, which he spent for the most part at Molde, he found the air still quivering with the rancours begotten of the great struggle. In a speech which he addressed to a meeting of workmen at Trondhjem (June 14, 1885) he said that the years of his absence had brought “immense progress in most directions,” but that he was disappointed to observe that “the most indispensable individual rights were far less secured than he had hoped and expected to find them under the new order of things.” He found neither freedom of thought nor freedom of speech beyond a limit arbitrarily fixed by the dominant majority. “There remains much to be done,” he continued, “before we can be said to have attained real liberty. But I fear that our present democracy will not be equal to the task. An element of nobility must be introduced into our national life, into our xiParliament, and into our Press. Of course it is not nobility of birth that I am thinking of, nor of money, nor yet of knowledge, nor even of ability and talent: I am thinking of nobility of character, of will, of soul.”

When he spoke these words he had been little more than a week in Norway; but it is clear that Rosmersholm was already germinating in his mind.

On his return to Munich he began to think out the play, and on February 14, 1886, he wrote to Carl Snoilsky, the Swedish poet; “I am much taken up with a new play, which I have long had in mind, and for which I made careful studies during my visit to Norway.” It may be mentioned that Ibsen had met Snoilsky at Molde during the previous summer, and that they had seen a good deal of each other. The manuscript of Rosmersholm was sent to the printers at the end of September 1886, and a letter to Hegel accompanied it in which Ibsen said: “So far as I can see, the play is not likely to call forth attacks from any quarter; but I hope it will lead to lively discussion. I look for this especially in Sweden.” Why in Sweden? Perhaps because, as we shall see presently, the story was partly suggested by a recent episode in Swedish social history. Before proceeding to the question of origins, however, I may quote the only other reference to the play, of any importance, which occurs in Ibsen’s letters. The chairman of a debating-club in Christiania had addressed to the poet a letter on behalf of the club, which apparently contained some question or suggestion as to the fundamental idea of the play. Ibsen’s answer was dated Munich, February 13, 1887. “The call to work,” he said, “is certainly distinguishable throughout xiiRosmersholm. But the play also deals with the struggle with himself which every serious-minded man must face in order to bring his life into harmony with his convictions. For the different spiritual functions do not develop evenly and side by side in any given human being. The acquisitive instinct hastens on from conquest to conquest. The moral consciousness, the ‘conscience,’ on the other hand, is very conservative. It has deep roots in tradition and the past generally. Hence arises the conflict in the individual. But first and foremost, of course, the play is a creative work, dealing with human beings and human destinies.”

Dr. George Brandes is our authority for associating Rosmersholm with the social episode above alluded to—an episode which came within Ibsen’s ken just while the play was in process of gestation. A Swedish nobleman, personally known to Ibsen, and remarkable for that amenity and distinction of manner which he attributes to Rosmer, had been unhappily married to a lady who shared none of his interests, and was intellectually quite unsympathetic to him. Much more sympathetic was a female relative of his wife’s. The relation between them attracted attention, and (as in Rosmersholm) was the subject of venomous paragraphs in the local Press. Count Blank left his home and went abroad, was joined by the sympathetic cousin, resigned the high office which he held in his native country, and returned to his wife the fortune she had brought him. Shortly afterwards the Countess died of consumption, which was, of course, supposed to have been accelerated by her husband’s misconduct. The use that Ibsen made of this unhappy story affords a perfect example of the working-up of raw material in the factory of genius. Not one of the traits that xiiiconstitute the originality and greatness of the play is to be found in the actual circumstances. He remodelled the whole episode; it was plastic as a sculptor’s clay in his hands; but doubtless it did give him something to seize upon and re-create. For the character of Rebecca, it is believed (on rather inadequate grounds, it seems to me) that Ibsen borrowed some traits from Charlotte Stieglitz, who committed suicide in 1834, in the vain hope of stimulating the intellectual activity of her husband, a minor poet.^[2] For Ulric Brendel, Dr. Brahm relates that Ibsen found a model in an eccentric “dream-genius” known to him in Italy, who created only in his mind, and despised writing. But Brendel is so clearly a piece of the poet’s own “devilment” as he used to call it, that it is rather idle to look for his “original.” The scene of the play is said to have been suggested to Ibsen by an old family seat near Molde. Be this as it may, Dr. Brandes is certainly mistaken in declaring that there is no such “castle” as Rosmersholm in Norway, and thence arguing that Ibsen had begun to write for a cosmopolitan rather than a Norwegian audience. Rosmersholm is not a “castle” at all; and old houses such as Ibsen describes are far from uncommon.

Published on November 23, 1886, Rosmersholm was first acted in Bergen in January 1887, in Gothenburg in March, in Christiania and Stockholm not till April. Copenhagen did not see it until November 1887, when it was acted by a Swedish travelling company. Its first production in Germany took place at Augsburg in April 1887, the poet himself being present. It was xivproduced in Berlin in May 1887, in Vienna not till May 1893. There are few of the leading German theatres where it has not been acted, and has not taken a more or less prominent place in the repertory. In Germany indeed (though not elsewhere) it seems to rank among Ibsen’s most popular works. In London Rosmersholm was first acted at the Vaudeville Theatre on February 23, 1891, Mr. F. R. Benson playing Rosmer, and Miss Florence Farr, Rebecca. Four performances of it were given at the Opera Comique in 1893, with Mr. Lewis Waller as Rosmer, and Miss Elizabeth Robins as Rebecca. In 1892, a writer who adopted the pseudonym of “Austin Fryers” produced, at the Globe Theatre, a play called Beata, which purported to be a “prologue” to Rosmersholm—the drama which Ibsen (perversely in Mr. Fryers’ judgment) chose to narrate instead of exhibiting it in action. Not until 1893 was Rosmersholm produced in Paris, by the company entitled “L’Œuvre,” under the direction of M. Lugnê Poé. This company afterwards acted it in London and in many other cities—among the rest in Christiania. In Italy, Eleonora Duse has recently added the play to her repertory, with scenery designed by Mr. Gordon Craig. I have no record of any American production.

With Rosmersholm we reach the end of the series of social dramas which began seventeen years earlier with The League of Youth. In all these plays the individual is treated, more or less explicitly, as a social unit, a member of a class, an example of some collective characteristic, or a victim of some collective superstition, injustice or stupidity. The plays which follow, on the other hand, beginning with The Lady from the Sea, are plays of pure psychology. There are, no doubt, many women like Ellida Wangel or xvHedda Gabler; but it is as individuals, not as members of a class, that they interest us; nor is their fate conditioned, like that of Nora or Mrs. Alving, by any social prejudice or pressure. But in Rosmersholm man is still considered as a “political animal.” The play, as we have seen, actually took its rise as a protest against a morbid condition of the Norwegian public mind, as observed by the poet at a particular point of time. George Brandes, indeed, has very justly contended that it ought to rank with An Enemy of the People and The Wild Duck as a direct outcome of that momentous incident in Ibsen’s career, the fierce attack upon Ghosts. “Rosmer,” says Dr. Brandes, “begins where Stockmann left off. He wants to do from the very first what the doctor only wanted to do at the end of An Enemy of the People—to make proud, free, noble beings of his countrymen. At the beginning of the play, Rosmer is believed to be a decided Conservative (which the Norwegian considered Ibsen to be for many years after The League of Youth), and as long as this view is generally held, he is esteemed and admired, while everything that concerns him is interpreted in the most favourable manner. As soon, however, as his complete intellectual emancipation is discovered, and especially when it appears that he himself does not attempt to conceal the change in his views, public opinion turns against him.... Ibsen had been almost as much exposed as Rosmer to every sort of attack for some time after the publication of Ghosts, which (from the Conservative point of view) marked his conversion to Radicalism.” The analogy between Ibsen’s experience and Rosmer’s is far too striking not to have been present to the poet’s mind.

But, though the play distinctly belongs to the social xviseries, it no less distinctly foreshadows the transition to the psychological series. Rosmer and Rebecca (or I am greatly mistaken) stand out from the social background much more clearly than their predecessors. They seem to grow away from it. At first they are concerned about political duties and social ideals; but, as the action proceeds, all these considerations drop away from them, or recur but as remembered dreams, and they are alone with their tortured souls. Then we cannot but note the intrusion of pure poetry—imagination scarcely deigning to allege a realistic pretext—in the personage of Ulric Brendel. He is of the same kindred as the Stranger in The Lady from the Sea, and the Rat-Wife in Little Eyolf. He marks Ibsen’s final rebellion against the prosaic restrictions which, from Pillars of Society onwards, he had striven to impose upon his genius.

He was yet to write plays more fascinating than Romersholm, but none greater in point of technical mastery. It surpasses The Wild Duck in the simplicity of its material, and in that concentration which renders its effect on the stage, perhaps, a little monotonous, and so detracts from its popularity. In construction it is a very marvel of cunning complexity. It is the consummate example in modern times of the retrospective method of which, in ancient times, the consummate example was the Œdipus Rex. This method has been blamed by many critics; but the first great critic of English drama commended it in the practice of the ancient poets. “They set the audience, as it were,” says Dryden, “at the post where the race is to be concluded.” “In unskilful hands,” I have said elsewhere, “the method might doubtless become very tedious; but when, as in Rosmersholm, every phase of the retrospect has a definite reaction upon the xviidrama—the psychological process—actually passing on the stage, the effect attained is surely one of peculiar richness and depth. The drama of the past and the drama of the present are interwoven in such a complex yet clear and stately harmony as Ibsen himself has not often rivalled.”

Ibsen’s birth-place, Skien, is not on the sea, but at the head of a long and very narrow fiord. At Grimstad, however, and again at Bergen, he had for years lived close to the skerry-bound coast. After he left Bergen, he seldom came in touch with the open sea. The upper part of Christiania Fiord is a mere salt-water lake; and in Germany he never saw the sea, in Italy only on brief visits to Ischia, Sorrento, Amalfi. We find him, in 1880,^[3] writing to Hegel from Munich: “Of all that I miss down here, I miss the sea most. That is the deprivation to which I can least reconcile myself.”myself.” Again, in 1885, before the visit which he paid that year to Norway, he writes from Rome to the same correspondent, that he has visions of buying a country-house by the sea, in the neighbourhood of Christiania. “The sight of the sea,” he says, “is what I most miss in these regions; and this feeling grows year by year.” During the weeks he spent at Molde that year, there xxcan be no doubt that he was gathering not only the political impressions which he used in Rosmersholm, but the impressions of ocean and fiord, and of the tide of European life flowing past, but not mingling with, the “carp-pond” existence of a small Norwegian town, which he was afterwards to embody in The Lady from the Sea. That invaluable bibliographer, Halvorsen, is almost certainly wrong in suggesting that Veblungsnes, at the head of the Romsdalfiord, is the scene of the play. The “local situation” is much more like that of Molde itself. There Ibsen must frequently have seen the great English tourist steamer gliding noiselessly to its moorings, before proceeding up the fiord to Veblungsnes, and then, on the following day, slipping out to sea again.

Two years later, in 1887, Ibsen spent the summer at Frederikshavn and at Sæby in the north of Jutland, not far from the Skaw. At Sæby I visited him; and from a letter written at the time I make the following extract: “He said that Fru Ibsen and he had first come to Frederikshavn, which he himself liked very much—he could knock about all day among the shipping, talking to the sailors, and so forth. Besides, he found the neighbourhood of the sea favourable to contemplation and constructive thought. Here, at Sæby, the sea was not so easily accessible. But Fru Ibsen didn’t like Frederikshavn because of the absence of pleasant walks about it; so Sæby was a sort of compromise between him and her.” I remember that he enlarged to me at great length on the fascination which the sea exercised over him. He was then, he said, “preparing some tomfoolery for next year.” On his return to Munich, he put his ideas into shape, and The Lady from the Sea was published in November 1888.

xxiIbsen wrote few letters while the play was in process of preparation, and none of them contains any noteworthy reference to it. On the other hand, we possess a very curious first draft of the story^[4] (dated March 5, 1880), which shows in a most interesting fashion how an idea grew in his mind. Abbreviating freely, I will try to indicate the main points of difference between the sketch and the finished play.

The scene of the action was originally conceived as a much smaller town than it ultimately became, shut in and overshadowed by high, abrupt rocks. (Note that when he wrote the sketch Ibsen had not yet visited Molde.) There was to be an hotel and a sanatorium, and a good deal of summer gaiety in the place; but the people were to long in an impotent, will-less fashion for release from their imprisonment in the “shadow-life” of this remote corner of the world. Through the short summer, they were always to have the long winter impending over them; and this was to be a type of life: “A bright summer day with the great darkness behind it—that is all.” This motive, though traces of it remain, is much less emphasized than was at first intended.

The characters were to fall into three groups: inhabitants of the town, summer visitors, and passing tourists. The tourists were simply to “come and go, and enter episodically into the action”; but the other two groups are more or less individualised.

The first group is thus described: “The lawyer married a second time, to the woman from the open sea outside. Has two young but grown-up daughters by his first marriage. Elegant, distinguished, bitter. His xxiipast tarnished by an indiscretion. His career thereby cut short. The disreputable signboard-painter with the artist-dreams, happy in his imaginings. The old, married clerk. Has written a play in his youth, which was only once acted.^[5] Is for ever touching it up, and lives in the illusion that it will be published and will make a great success. Takes no steps, however, to bring this about. Nevertheless, accounts himself one of the ‘literary’ class. His wife and children believe blindly in the play. (Perhaps a private tutor, not a clerk.) Tailor Fresvik, the man-midwife of radicalism, who shows his ‘emancipation’ in ludicrous attempts at debauchery—affairs with other men’s wives—talks of divorce and so forth.”

We see that, in the course of elaboration, not only the profession, but the character of Wangel was entirely altered. It is noteworthy, by the way, that, with Ibsen, lawyers are always more or less unsympathetic characters (Stensgård, Helmer, Krogstad, Brack) while doctors are more or less sympathetic (Fieldbo, Rank, Stockmann, Relling, Wangel, Herdal). We see, too, how he saved up for seventeen years the character of the clerk-dramatist. Found superfluous in The Lady from the Sea, he became the delightful Foldal of John Gabriel Borkman. The radical tailor was destined never to come to life; and the characteristics of the “signboard-painter” were divided between Ballested and Lyngstrand.

In the second group, however—that of the summer visitors—the consumptive sculptor Lyngstrand is xxiiialready pretty completely sketched. The group was also to have included Lyngstrand’s “patron” and his patron’s wife—a “stupid, uppish, and tactless woman, who wounds the patient sometimes without meaning it, sometimes on purpose.” The patron’s wife has entirely disappeared from the completed play, while the patron, though mentioned, has not even a name.

But the oddest fact which this sketch brings to light is that Arnholm and the Stranger were formed by the scission, so to speak, of one character, denominated the “Strange Passenger.” Ellida^[6] was originally to have been a pastor’s daughter. She was to have engaged herself secretly to a “young and unprincipled mate”—a midshipman dismissed the navy. This engagement she broke off, partly at her father’s command, partly of her own free will, because she could not forgive what she had learnt of the young sailor’s past. Then, after her marriage, she came to feel that in her ignorance and prejudice she had been too hard on him, and to believe that “essentially—in her imagination—it was with him that she had led her married life.” This is very like the feeling of Ellida in the play; but her story has become much more strange and romantic. It is not quite clear—the sketch being incomplete—whether the ex-midshipman was to have appeared in person. But there was to have been a “Strange Passenger” (so nicknamed by the other summer visitors) who had been in love with Ellida in the old days, and of whom she was now to make a confidant, very much as she does of Arnholm xxivin the play. His character, however, was to have been quite unlike that of Arnholm; he was to have been “bitter, and given to cutting jests”—somewhat reminiscent, in fact, of the Strange Passenger in Peer Gynt. Ibsen may have meant that the nickname should be given him in allusion to that figure. We see, at any rate, that the Strange Passenger, in his capacity as Ellida’s confidant, became Arnholm, who is not in the least strange; while the strangeness was transferred to Ellida’s former lover, who, originally conceived as a comparatively commonplace personage, now became distinctively “the Stranger.”

Fragments of dialogue are roughly sketched—especially the young sculptor’s story of the shipwreck and of the group it has suggested to him. Ellida’s fancy that mankind has taken a wrong turning in developing into land-animals instead of water-animals is rather more carefully worked out in the sketch than in the play. It takes the form of a semi-serious biological theory, not attributed to any particular character: “Why should we belong to the dry land? Why not to the air? Why not to the sea? The common longing for wings—the strange dreams that one can fly, and that one does fly without feeling the least surprise at the fact—how is all this to be explained?” The suggestion evidently is that these dreams are reminiscences of the bird stage in our development; and then the poet goes on to suggest the same explanation of the intense longing for the sea which he attributes to Ellida: “People who are akin to the sea. Bound to the sea. Dependent on the sea. Must get back to it. A fish-species forms the primordial link in the evolutionary chain. Do rudiments of it survive in our nature? In the nature of some of us?” He also indicates a fantasy of floating cities xxvto be towed southwards or northwards according to the season. “To learn to control storms and the weather. Some such glorious time will come. And we—we shall not be there to see it.” All this over-luxuriant growth of fantasy has been carefully pruned in the completed play.

The main incidents of the first act are sketched out in a form not very different from that which they ultimately assumed—and there the scenario breaks off.

“The Stranger’s dæmonic power over Ellida was suggested,” says John Paulsen, “by Welhaven’s strange influence over Camilla Wergeland;” while Dr. Brahm asserts “on credible authority” that the incident of the rings thrown into the sea reproduces an episode of Ibsen’s own early life in Bergen. Until the “credible authority” is more clearly specified, we need not pin our faith to the latter assertion; but the former receives some confirmation in a letter which Ibsen addressed on May 3, 1889, to the lady whom Paulsen mentions. This was Camilla Collett, born Wergeland, a sister of the great lyric poet, Henrik Wergeland, and the authoress of a book, From the Camp of the Dumb (1877), which is said to have greatly influenced Ibsen’s attitude towards the woman-question, and to have stimulated him to the production of A Doll’s House. I do not know the story of her relation to J. S. C. Welhaven, a distinguished poet, and her brother’s chief rival; but it is clear from Ibsen’s letter that she was in some way present to his mind during the composition of The Lady from the Sea. This is what he wrote: “Allow me to send you a few words of very sincere thanks for your comprehension of The Lady from the Sea. I felt pretty sure in advance that from you more than any one else I could xxvirely upon such comprehension; but it gave me inexpressible pleasure to find my hope confirmed by your letter. Yes, there are points of resemblance—indeed many. And you have seen and felt them—points, I mean, which I could arrive at only by divination. But it is now many years since you, in virtue of your spiritual development, began, in one form or another, to make your presence felt in my work.” Camilla Collett died in 1895, at the age of eighty-two.

Nowhere has The Lady from the Sea proved one of Ibsen’s most popular works. It was acted in all the Scandinavian capitals, and in several German cities, in February and March 1889. The poet himself was present at the first performance at the Royal Theatre, Berlin, on March 4, and afterwards (March 14) at a performance at Weimar, where he was called before the curtain after each act, and received a laurel wreath. In a letter to Hoffory, he expressed himself delighted with the actor who played the Stranger at Weimar; “I could not desire, and could scarcely conceive, a better embodiment of the part—a long gaunt figure, with hawk-like features, piercing black eyes, and a fine, deep, veiled voice.” The play holds the stage here and there in Germany, but is not very frequently acted.

In London, five performances of Mrs. Marx-Aveling’s translation were given, under the direction of Dr. Aveling, at Terry’s Theatre in May 1891—the year of the first performance in England of Ghosts, Rosmersholm and Hedda Gabler. This wholly inadequate production was followed, eleven years later, by a revival at the Royalty Theatre, by the Stage Society, in which Ellida was played by Miss Janet Achurch, and the Stranger by Mr. Laurence Irving. In Paris, an organisation calling itself “Les xxviiEscholiers,” produced La Dame de la Mer in 1892. It was afterwards played, both in Paris and on tour, by the Théâtre de l’Œuvre. I find no record of performances in other countries.

The discovery that The Lady from the Sea was planned so early as 1880 is particularly interesting in view of the fact that, in technical concentration, and even, one is inclined to say, in intellectual power, it falls notably below the level of its immediate predecessors, The Wild Duck and Rosmersholm, and its immediate successors, Hedda Gabler and The Master Builder. It would scarcely be going too far to call it the weakest thing Ibsen produced between A Doll’s House and John Gabriel Borkman, both inclusive. I well remember the sense of slackening dramatic fibre with which I read it on its first appearance; the fear that age was beginning to tell upon the poet; and the relief with which I found him, in Hedda Gabler, once more at the very height of his power. Some readers may take exception to this view, and declare that they prefer The Lady from the Sea to several of the plays which I would rank above it. In point of amenity and charm, it doubtless ranks high among Ibsen’s works; its poetic merits are great; but the comparative laxity of its technique seems to me quite unmistakable. The main interest—the Ellida-Wangel interest, let us call it—is constantly being interrupted by two subsidiary interests: the Arnholm-Boletta interest, and the Boletta-Hilda-Lyngstrand interest. These lines of interest touch each other, but are not effectually interwoven. In no other play of Ibsen’s, in fact, since The League of Youth, is there such a marked sub-plot, or, rather, two sub-plots; and, for my part, judging them by the high Ibsen standard, I find neither of these sub-plots particularly interesting. xxviiiThe main action, on the other hand, is not only interesting but full of psychological truth. Ellida is one of the most living of Ibsen’s women. There are few of his heroines whom one has not seen and recognised in real life; but Ellida in particular I happen to have known intimately, though Ibsen never heard of the lady in question. The character of Wangel, too, is not only very amiable, but very closely observed. Yet even in the working out of this main theme, there is, I think, a technical weakness. We feel that, in the decisive scene of the last act, Wangel’s mere statement that he sets Ellida free is an insufficient pivot for the revolution which takes place in her mind. Psychologically, no doubt, it is adequate, but dramatically it is ineffective. The poet ought, I suggest, to have devised some more convincing means of bringing home both to her and to us the fact of her manumission. In default of a practical proof, a symbolic indication might have served; but something we want beyond a mere verbal declaration. It may be taken as a technical principle, I believe, that a change of mind on which so much depends ought, for purposes of dramatic effect, to be demonstrated by some outward and visible sign sufficiently cogent to make the audience fully realise and believe in it.

Another technical weakness, more obvious, though perhaps less important, is the astounding coincidence by which Lyngstrand, the one witness to the Stranger’s frenzy on reading of Ellida’s faithlessness, is made, by pure chance, to encounter Ellida and to tell her the story.^[7] This is, I think, the only real abuse of coincidence xxixin Ibsen’s modern plays, from Pillars of Society onwards. One or two other much slighter coincidences—such as, in A Doll’s House, Mrs. Linden’s former acquaintance with Krogstad—are accounted for by the fact that Norway is a very small country, in which, roughly speaking, every one of the town-dwelling upper and middle class knows, or has heard of, every one else.

As I have pointed out in the introduction to Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea is the first play in which Ibsen entirely abandons social satire and devotes himself to pure psychology. It is also the first play in which he trenches on the occult. He was to go much further in this direction in The Master Builder and Little Eyolf; but already he pursues the plan, which was also Hawthorne’s, of carefully leaving us in doubt as to whether, and how far, any supernormal influence is at work. On the whole, however, he probably intends us to conclude that the Stranger’s uncanny power over Ellida exists only in her imagination.

• Johannes Rosmer, of Rosmersholm, formerly clergyman of the parish.
• Rebecca West, in charge of Rosmer’s household.
• Rector^[8] Kroll, Rosmer’s brother-in-law.
• Ulric Brendel.
• Peter Mortensgård.^[9]
• Madam Helseth, housekeeper at Rosmersholm.

ACT FIRST.

Sitting-room at Rosmersholm; spacious, old-fashioned, and comfortable. In front, on the right, a stove decked with fresh birch-branches and wild flowers. Farther back, on the same side, a door. In the back wall, folding-doors opening into the hall. To the left, a window, and before it a stand with flowers and plants. Beside the stove a table with a sofa and easy chairs. On the walls, old and more recent portraits of clergymen, officers, and government officials in uniform. The window is open; so are the door into the hall and the house door beyond. Outside can be seen an avenue of fine old trees, leading up to the house. It is a summer evening, after sunset.

Rebecca West is sitting in an easy-chair by the window, and crocheting a large white woollen shawl, which is nearly finished. She now and then looks out expectantly through the leaves of the plants. Madam Helseth presently enters from the right.

I suppose I had better begin to lay the table, Miss?

Yes, please do. The Pastor must soon be in now.

Don’t you feel the draught, Miss, where you’re sitting?

Yes, there is a little draught. Perhaps you had better shut the window.

[About to shut the window, looks out.] Why, isn’t that the Pastor over there?

[Hastily.] Where? [Rises.] Yes, it is he. [Behind the curtain.] Stand aside—don’t let him see us.

[Keeping back from the window.] Only think, Miss—he’s beginning to take the path by the mill again.

He went that way the day before yesterday too. [Peeps out between the curtains and the window-frame.] But let us see whether——

Will he venture across the foot-bridge?

That is what I want to see. [After a pause.] No, he is turning. He is going by the upper road again. [Leaves the window.] A long way round.

Dear Lord, yes. No wonder the Pastor thinks twice about setting foot on that bridge. A place where a thing like that has happened——

[Folding up her work.] They cling to their dead here at Rosmersholm.

Now I would say, Miss, that it’s the dead that clings to Rosmersholm.

[Looks at her.] The dead?

Yes, it’s almost as if they couldn’t tear themselves away from the folk that are left.

What makes you fancy that?

Well, if it wasn’t for that, there would be no White Horse, I suppose.

Now what is all this about the White Horse, Madam Helseth?

Oh, I don’t like to talk about it. And, besides, you don’t believe in such things.

Do you believe in it, then?

[Goes and shuts the window.] Oh, you’d only be for laughing at me, Miss. [Looks out.] Why, isn’t that Mr. Rosmer on the mill-path again——?

[Looks out.] That man there? [Goes to the window.] No, that’s the Rector!

Yes, so it is.

This is delightful. You may be sure he’s coming here.

He goes straight over the foot-bridge, he does. And yet she was his sister, his own flesh and blood. Well, I’ll go and lay the table then, Miss West.

[Goes to the door on the right.] Oh, Madam Helseth, you might let us have some little extra dish for supper. You know what the Rector likes best.

[Outside.] Oh yes, Miss, I’ll see to it.

[Opens the door to the hall.] At last—! How glad I am to see you, my dear Rector.

[In the hall, laying down his stick.] Thanks. Then I am not disturbing you?

You? How can you ask?

[Comes in.] Amiable as ever. [Looks round.] Is Rosmer upstairs in his room?

No, he is out walking. He has stayed out rather longer than usual; but he is sure to be in directly. [Motioning him to sit on the sofa.] Won’t you sit down till he comes?

[Laying down his hat.] Many thanks. [Sits down and looks about him.] Why, how you have brightened up the old room! Flowers everywhere!

Mr. Rosmer is so fond of having fresh, growing flowers about him.

And you are too, are you not?

Yes; they have a delightfully soothing effect on me. We had to do without them though, till lately.

[Nods sadly.] Yes, their scent was too much for poor Beata.

Their colours, too. They quite bewildered her——

I remember, I remember. [In a lighter tone.] Well, how are things going out here?

Oh, everything is going its quiet, jog-trot way. One day is just like another.—And with you? Your wife——?

Ah, my dear Miss West, don’t let us talk about my affairs. There is always something or other amiss in a family; especially in times like these.

[After a pause, sitting down in an easy-chair beside the sofa.] How is it you haven’t once been near us during the whole of the holidays?

Oh, it doesn’t do to make oneself a nuisance——

If you knew how we have missed you——

And then I have been away——

Yes, for the last week or two. We have heard of you at political meetings.

[Nods.] Yes, what do you say to that? Did you 9think I would turn political agitator in my old age, eh?

[Smiling.] Well, you have always been a bit of an agitator, Rector Kroll.

Why yes, just for my private amusement. But henceforth it is to be no laughing matter, I can tell you.—Do you ever see those radical newspapers?

Well yes, my dear Rector, I can’t deny that——

My dear Miss West, I have nothing to say against it—nothing in your case.

No, surely not. One likes to know what’s going on—to keep up with the time——

And of course I should not think of expecting you, as a woman, to side actively with either party in the civil contest—I might almost say the civil war—that is raging among us.—But you have seen then, I suppose, how these gentlemen of “the people” have been pleased to treat me? What infamous abuse they have had the audacity to heap on me?

Yes; but it seems to me you gave as good as you got.

So I did, though I say it that shouldn’t. For 10now I have tasted blood; and they shall soon find to their cost that I am not the man to turn the other cheek——[Breaks off.] But come come—don’t let us get upon that subject this evening—it’s too painful and irritating.

Oh no, don’t let us talk of it.

Tell me now—how do you get on at Rosmersholm, now that you are alone. Since our poor Beata——

Thank you, I get on very well. Of course one feels a great blank in many ways—a great sorrow and longing. But otherwise——

And do you think of remaining here?—permanently, I mean.

My dear Rector, I really haven’t thought about it, one way or the other. I have got so used to the place now, that I feel almost as if I belonged to it.

Why, of course you belong to it.

And so long as Mr. Rosmer finds that I am of any use or comfort to him—why, so long, I suppose, I shall stay here.

[Looks at her with emotion.] Do you know,—it is 11really fine for a woman to sacrifice her whole youth to others as you have done.

Oh, what else should I have had to live for?

First, there was your untiring devotion to your paralytic and exacting foster-father——

You mustn’t suppose that Dr. West was such a charge when we were up in Finmark. It was those terrible boat-voyages up there that broke him down. But after we came here—well yes, the two years before he found rest were certainly hard enough.

And the years that followed—were they not even harder for you?

Oh how can you say such a thing? When I was so fond of Beata—and when she, poor dear, stood so sadly in need of care and forbearance.

How good it is of you to think of her with so much kindness!

[Moves a little nearer.] My dear Rector, you say that with such a ring of sincerity that I cannot think there is any ill-feeling lurking in the background.

Ill-feeling? Why, what do you mean?

Well, it would be only natural if you felt it painful to see a stranger managing the household here at Rosmersholm.

Why, how on earth——!

But you have no such feeling? [Takes his hand.] Thanks, my dear Rector; thank you again and again.

How on earth did you get such an idea into your head?

I began to be a little afraid when your visits became so rare.

Then you have been on a totally wrong scent, Miss West. Besides—after all, there has been no essential change. Even while poor Beata was alive—in her last unhappy days—it was you, and you alone, that managed everything.

That was only a sort of regency in Beata’s name.

Be that as it may——. Do you know, Miss West—for my part, I should have no objection whatever if you——. But I suppose I mustn’t say such a thing.

What must you not say?

If matters were to shape so that you took the empty place——

I have the only place I want, Rector.

In fact, yes; but not in——

[Interrupting gravely.] For shame, Rector Kroll. How can you joke about such things?

Oh well, our good Johannes Rosmer very likely thinks he has had more than enough of married life already. But nevertheless——

You are really too absurd, Rector.

Nevertheless——. Tell me, Miss West—if you will forgive the question—what is your age?

I’m sorry to say I am over nine-and-twenty, Rector; I am in my thirtieth year.

Indeed. And Rosmer—how old is he? Let me see: he is five years younger than I am, so that makes him well over forty-three.forty-three. I think it would be most suitable.

[Rises.] Of course, of course; most suitable.—Will you stay to supper this evening?

Yes, many thanks; I thought of staying. There is a matter I want to discuss with our good friend.—And I suppose, Miss West, in case you should take fancies into your head again, I had better come out pretty often for the future—as I used to in the old days.

Oh yes, do—do. [Shakes both his hands.] Many thanks—how kind and good you are!

[Gruffly.] Am I? Well, that’s not what they tell me at home.

Mr. Rosmer, do you see who is here?

Madam Helseth told me.

[Gently and softly, pressing his hands.] Welcome back to this house, my dear Kroll. [Lays his hands on Kroll’s shoulders and looks into his eyes.] My dear old friend! I knew that sooner or later things would come all right between us.

Why, my dear fellow—do you mean to say you 15too have been so foolish as to fancy there was anything wrong?

[To Rosmer.] Yes, only think,—it was nothing but fancy after all!

Is that really the case, Kroll? Then why did you desert us so entirely?

[Gravely, in a low voice.] Because my presence would always have been reminding you of the years of your unhappiness, and of—the life that ended in the mill-race.

Well, it was a kind thought—you were always considerate. But it was quite unnecessary to remain away on that account.—Come, sit here on the sofa. [They sit down.] No, I assure you, the thought of Beata has no pain for me. We speak of her every day. We feel almost as if she were still one of the household.

Do you really?

[Lighting the lamp.] Yes, indeed we do.

It is quite natural. We were both so deeply attached to her. And both Rebec—both Miss West and I know that we did all that was possible for her in her affliction. We have nothing to reproach ourselves with.—So I feel nothing but a tranquil tenderness now at the thought of Beata.

You dear, good people! Henceforward, I declare I shall come out and see you every day.

[Seats herself in an arm chair.] Mind, we shall expect you to keep your word.

[With some hesitation.] My dear Kroll—I wish very much that our intercourse had never been interrupted. Ever since we have known each other, you have seemed predestined to be my adviser—ever since I went to the University.

Yes, and I have always been proud of the office. But is there anything particular just now——?

There are many things that I would give a great deal to talk over with you, quite frankly—straight from the heart.

Ah yes, Mr. Rosmer—that must be such a comfort—between old friends——

Oh I can tell you I have still more to talk to you about. I suppose you know I have turned a militant politician?

Yes, so you have. How did that come about?

I was forced into it in spite of myself. It is 17impossible to stand idly looking on any longer. Now that the Radicals have unhappily come into power, it is high time something should be done,—so I have got our little group of friends in the town to close up their ranks. I tell you it is high time!

[With a faint smile.] Don’t you think it may even be a little late?

Unquestionably it would have been better if we had checked the stream at an earlier point in its course. But who could foresee what was going to happen? Certainly not I. [Rises and walks up and down.] But now I have had my eyes opened once for all; for now the spirit of revolt has crept into the school itself.

Into the school? Surely not into your school?

I tell you it has—into my own school. What do you think? It has come to my knowledge that the sixth-form boys—a number of them at any rate—have been keeping up a secret society for over six months; and they take in Mortensgård’s paper!

The “Beacon”?

Yes; nice mental sustenance for future government officials, is it not? But the worst of it is that it’s all the cleverest boys in the form that have banded together in this conspiracy against 18me. Only the dunces at the bottom of the class have kept out of it.

Do you take this so very much to heart, Rector?

Do I take it to heart! To be so thwarted and opposed in the work of my whole life! [Lower.] But I could almost say I don’t care about the school—for there is worse behind. [Looks round.] I suppose no one can hear us?

Oh no, of course not.

Well then, I must tell you that dissension and revolt have crept into my own house—into my own quiet home. They have destroyed the peace of my family life.

[Rises.] What! Into your own house——?

[Goes over to the Rector.] My dear Rector, what has happened?

Would you believe that my own children——In short, it is Laurits that is the ringleader of the school conspiracy; and Hilda has embroidered a red portfolio to keep the “Beacon” in.

I should certainly never have dreamt that, in your own house——

No, who would have dreamt of such a thing? In my house, the very home of obedience and order—where one will, and one only, has always prevailed——

How does your wife take all this?

Why, that is the most incredible part of it. My wife, who all her life long has shared my opinions and concurred in my views, both in great things and small—she is actually inclined to side with the children on many points. And she blames me for what has happened. She says I tyrannise over the children. As if it weren’t necessary to——. Well, you see how my house is divided against itself. But of course I say as little about it as possible. Such things are best kept quiet. [Wanders up the room.] Ah, well, well, well.

[Comes up close to Rosmer, and says rapidly and in a low voice, so that the Rector does not hear her.] Do it now!

[Also in a low voice.] Not this evening.

[As before.] Yes, just this evening.

[Comes forward.] Well, my dear Rosmer, now you know how the spirit of the age has overshadowed both my domestic and my official life. And am I to refrain from combating this pernicious, subversive, anarchic spirit, with any weapon I can lay my hands on? Fight it I will, trust me for that; both with tongue and pen.

Have you any hope of stemming the tide in that way?

At any rate I shall have done my duty as a citizen in defence of the State. And I hold it the duty of every right-minded man with an atom of patriotism to do likewise. In fact—that was my principal reason for coming out here this evening.

Why, my dear Kroll, what do you mean——? What can I——?

You can stand by your old friends. Do as we do. Lend a hand, with all your might.

But, Rector Kroll, you know Mr. Rosmer’s distaste for public life.

He must get over his distaste.—You don’t keep abreast of things, Rosmer. You bury yourself alive here, with your historical collections. Far be it from me to speak disrespectfully of family 21trees and so forth; but, unfortunately, this is no time for hobbies of that sort. You cannot imagine the state things are in, all over the country. There is hardly a single accepted idea that hasn’t been turned topsy-turvy. It will be a gigantic task to get all the errors rooted out again.

I have no doubt of it. But I am the last man to undertake such a task.

And besides, I think Mr. Rosmer has come to take a wider view of life than he used to.

[With surprise.] Wider?

Yes; or freer, if you like—less one-sided.

What is the meaning of this? Rosmer—surely you are not so weak as to be influenced by the accident that the leaders of the mob have won a temporary advantage?

My dear Kroll, you know how little I understand of politics. But I confess it seems to me that within the last few years people are beginning to show greater independence of thought.

Indeed! And you take it for granted that that must be an improvement! But in any case you are 22quite mistaken, my friend. Just inquire a little into the opinions that are current among the Radicals, both out here and in the town. They are neither more nor less than the wisdom that’s retailed in the “Beacon.”

Yes; Mortensgård has great influence over many people hereabouts.

Yes, just think of it! A man of his foul antecedents—a creature that was turned out of his place as a schoolmaster on account of his immoral life! A fellow like that sets himself up as a leader of the people! And succeeds too! Actually succeeds! I hear he is going to enlarge his paper. I know on good authority that he is on the lookout for a capable assistant.

I wonder that you and your friends don’t set up an opposition to him.

That is the very thing we are going to do. We have to-day bought the County News; there was no difficulty about the money question. But——[Turns to Rosmer.] Now I come to my real errand. The difficulty lies in the conduct of the paper—the editing——. Tell me, Rosmer,—don’t you feel it your duty to undertake it, for the sake of the good cause?

[Almost in consternation.] I!

Oh, how can you think of such a thing?

I can quite understand your horror of public meetings, and your reluctance to expose yourself to their tender mercies. But an editor’s work is less conspicuous, or rather——

No no, my dear friend, you must not ask me to do this.

I should be quite willing to try my own hand at that style of work too; but I couldn’t possibly manage it. I have such a multitude of irons in the fire already. But for you, with no profession to tie you down——. Of course the rest of us would give you as much help as we could.

I cannot, Kroll. I am not fitted for it.

Not fitted? You said the same thing when your father preferred you to the living here——

And I was right. That was why I resigned it.

Oh, if only you are as good an editor as you were a clergyman, we shall not complain.

My dear Kroll—I tell you once for all—I cannot do it.

Well, at any rate, you will lend us your name.

My name?

Yes, the mere name, Johannes Rosmer, will be a great thing for the paper. We others are looked upon as confirmed partisans—indeed I hear I am denounced as a desperate fanatic—so that if we work the paper in our own names, we can’t reckon upon its making much way among the misguided masses. You, on the contrary, have always kept out of the fight. Everybody knows and values your humanity and uprightness—your delicacy of mind—your unimpeachable honour. And then the prestige of your former position as a clergyman still clings to you; and, to crown all, you have your grand old family name!

Oh, my name——

[Points to the portraits.] Rosmers of Rosmersholm—clergymen and soldiers; government officials of high place and trust; gentlemen to the finger-tips, every man of them—a family that for nearly two centuries has held its place as the first in the district. [Lays his hand on Rosmer’s shoulder.] Rosmer—you owe it to yourself and to the traditions of your race to take your share in guarding all that has hitherto been held sacred in our society. [Turns round.] What do you say, Miss West?

[Laughing softly, as if to herself.] My dear Rector—I can’t tell you how ludicrous all this seems to me.

What do you say? Ludicrous?

Yes, ludicrous. For you must let me tell you frankly——

[Quickly.] No no—be quiet! Not just now!

[Looks from one to the other.] My dear friends, what on earth——? [Interrupting himself.] H’m!

There’s a man out in the kitchen passage that says he wants to see the Pastor.

[Relieved.] Ah, very well. Ask him to come in.

Into the sitting-room?

Yes, of course.

But he looks scarcely the sort of man to bring into the sitting-room.

Why, what does he look like, Madam Helseth?

Well, he’s not much to look at Miss, and that’s a fact.

Did he not give his name?

Yes—I think he said his name was Hekman or something of the sort.

I know nobody of that name.

And then he said he was called Uldric too.

[In surprise.] Ulric Hetman! Was that it?

Yes, so it was—Hetman.

I’ve surely heard that name before——

Wasn’t that the name he used to write under—that strange being——

[To Kroll.] It is Ulric Brendel’s pseudonym.

That black sheep Ulric Brendel’s—of course it is.

Then he is still alive.

I heard he had joined a company of strolling players.

When last I heard of him, he was in the House of Correction.

Ask him to come in, Madam Helseth.

Oh, very well. [She goes out.

Are you really going to let a man like that into your house?

You know he was once my tutor.

Yes, I know he went and crammed your head full of revolutionary ideas, until your father showed him the door—with his horsewhip.

[With a touch of bitterness.] Father was a martinet at home as well as in his regiment.

Thank him in his grave for that, my dear Rosmer.—Well!

28

[Hesitates at first, then goes quickly up to the Rector, and holds out his hand.] Good evening, Johannes!

Excuse me——

Did you expect to see me again? And within these hated walls too?

Excuse me——[Pointing.] There——

[Turns.] Right. There he is. Johannes—my boy—my best-beloved——!

[Takes his hand.] My old teacher.

Notwithstanding certain painful memories, I could not pass by Rosmersholm without paying you a flying visit.

You are heartily welcome here now. Be sure of that.

Ah, this charming lady——? [Bows.] Mrs. Rosmer, of course.

Miss West.

A near relation, no doubt. And yonder unknown——? A brother of the cloth, I see.

Rector Kroll.

Kroll? Kroll? Wait a bit?—Weren’t you a student of philology in your young days?

Of course I was.

Why Donnerwetter, then I knew you!

Pardon me——

Weren’t you——

Pardon me——

——one of those myrmidons of morality that got me turned out of the Debating Club?

Very likely. But I disclaim any closer acquaintanceship.

Well, well! Nach Belieben, Herr Doctor. It’s all one to me. Ulric Brendel remains the man he is for all that.

You are on your way into town, Mr. Brendel?

You have hit it, gracious lady. At certain intervals, I am constrained to strike a blow for existence. It goes against the grain; but—enfin—imperious necessity——

Oh but, my dear Mr. Brendel, you must allow me to help you. In one way or another, I am sure——

Ha, such a proposal to me! Would you desecrate the bond that unites us? Never, Johannes, never!

But what do you think of doing in town? Believe me, you won’t find it easy to——

Leave that to me, my boy. The die is cast. Simple as I stand here before you, I am engaged in a comprehensive campaign—more comprehensive than all my previous excursions put together. [To Rector Kroll.] Dare I ask the Herr 31Professor—unter uns—have you a tolerably decent, reputable, and commodious Public Hall in your estimable city?

The hall of the Workmen’s Society is the largest.

And has the Herr Professor any official influence in this doubtless most beneficent Society?

I have nothing to do with it.

[To Brendel.] You should apply to Peter Mortensgård.

Pardon, madame—what sort of an idiot is he?

What makes you take him for an idiot?

Can’t I tell at once by the name that it belongs to a plebeian?plebeian?

I did not expect that answer.

But I will conquer my reluctance. There is no alternative. When a man stands—as I do—at a turning-point in his career——. It is settled. I will approach this individual—will open personal negotiations——

Are you really and seriously standing at a turning-point?

Surely my own boy knows that, stand he where he may, Ulric Brendel always stands really and seriously.—Yes, Johannes, I am going to put on a new man—to throw off the modest reserve I have hitherto maintained.

How——?

I am about to take hold of life with a strong hand; to step forth; to assert myself. We live in a tempestuous, an equinoctial age.—I am about to lay my mite on the altar of Emancipation.

You too?

[To them all.] Is the local public at all familiar with my occasional writings?

No, I must candidly confess that——

I have read several of them. My adopted father had them in his library.

Fair lady, then you have wasted your time. For, let me tell you, they are so much rubbish.

Indeed!

What you have read, yes. My really important works no man or woman knows. No one—except myself.

How does that happen?

Because they are not written.

But, my dear Mr. Brendel——

You know, my Johannes, that I am a bit of a Sybarite—a Feinschmecker. I have been so all my days. I like to take my pleasures in solitude; for then I enjoy them doubly—tenfold. So, you see, when golden dreams descended and enwrapped me—when new, dizzy, far-reaching thoughts were born in me, and wafted me aloft on their sustaining pinions—I bodied them forth in poems, visions, pictures—in the rough, as it were, you understand.

Yes, yes.

Oh, what pleasures, what intoxications I have enjoyed in my time! The mysterious bliss of creation—in the rough, as I said—applause, gratitude, renown, the wreath of bays—all these I have garnered with full hands quivering with joy. 34I have sated myself, in my secret thoughts, with a rapture—oh! so intense, so inebriating——!

H’m.

But you have written nothing down?

Not a word. The soulless toil of the scrivener has always aroused a sickening aversion in me. And besides, why should I profane my own ideals, when I could enjoy them in their purity by myself? But now they shall be offered up. I assure you I feel like a mother who delivers her tender daughters into their bridegrooms’ arms. But I will offer them up, none the less. I will sacrifice them on the altar of Emancipation. A series of carefully elaborated lectures—over the whole country——!

[With animation.] This is noble of you, Mr. Brendel! You are yielding up the dearest thing you possess.

The only thing.

[Looking significantly at Rosmer.] How many are there who do as much—who dare do as much?

[Returning the look.] Who knows?

My audience is touched. That does my heart 35good—and steels my will. So now I will proceed to action. Stay—one thing more. [To the Rector.] Can you tell me, Herr Preceptor,—is there such a thing as a Temperance Society in the town? A Total Abstinence Society? I need scarcely ask.

Yes, there is. I am the president, at your service.

I saw it in your face! Well, it is by no means impossible that I may come to you and enrol myself as a member for a week.

Excuse me—we don’t receive members by the week.

À la bonne heure, Herr Pedagogue. Ulric Brendel has never forced himself into that sort of Society. [Turns.] But I must not prolong my stay in this house, so rich in memories. I must get on to the town and select a suitable lodging. I presume there is a decent hotel in the place.

Mayn’t I offer you anything before you go?

Of what sort, gracious lady?

A cup of tea, or——

I thank my bountiful hostess—but I am always 36loath to trespass on private hospitality. [Waves his hand.] Farewell, gentlefolks all! [Goes towards the door, but turns again.] Oh, by the way—Johannes—Pastor Rosmer—for the sake of our ancient friendship, will you do your former teacher a service?

Yes, with all my heart.

Good. Then lend me—for a day or two—a starched shirt—with cuffs.

Nothing else?

For you see I am travelling on foot—at present. My trunk is being sent after me.

Quite so. But is there nothing else?

Well, do you know—perhaps you could spare me an oldish, well-worn summer overcoat.

Yes, yes; certainly I can.

And if a respectable pair of boots happened to go along with the coat——

That we can manage too. As soon as you let us know your address, we will send the things in.

Not on any account. Pray do not let me give you any trouble! I will take the bagatelles with me.

As you please. Come upstairs with me then.

Let me go. Madam Helseth and I will see to it.

I cannot think of suffering this distinguished lady to——

Oh, nonsense! Come along, Mr. Brendel.

[Detaining him.] Tell me—is there nothing else I can do for you?

Upon my word, I know of nothing more. Well, yes, damn it all—now that I think of it——! Johannes, do you happen to have eight crowns in your pocket?

Let me see. [Opens his purse.] Here are two ten-crown notes.

Well well, never mind! I can take them. I can always get them changed in the town. Thanks in the meantime. Remember it was two tenners 38you lent me. Good-night my own dear boy; Good-night, respected Sir.

Merciful Heaven—so that is the Ulric Brendel people once expected such great things of.

[Quietly.] At least he has had the courage to live his life his own way. I don’t think that is such a small matter either.

What? A life like his! I almost believe he has it in him to turn your head afresh.

Oh no. My mind is quite clear now, upon all points.

I wish I could believe it, my dear Rosmer. You are so terribly impressionable.

Let us sit down. I want to talk to you.

Yes; let us. [They seat themselves on the sofa.

[After a slight pause.] Don’t you think we lead a pleasant and comfortable life here?

Yes, your life is pleasant and comfortable now—and peaceful. You have found yourself a home, Rosmer. And I have lost mine.

My dear friend, don’t say that. The wound will heal again in time.

Never; never. The barb will always rankle. Things can never be as they were.

Listen to me, Kroll. We have been fast friends for many and many a year. Does it seem to you conceivable that our friendship should ever go to wreck?

I know of nothing in the world that could estrange us. What puts that into your head?

You attach such paramount importance to uniformity of opinions and views.

No doubt; but we two are in practical agreement—at any rate on the great essential questions.

[In a low voice.] No; not now.

[Tries to spring up.] What is this?

[Holding him.] No you must sit still—I entreat you, Kroll.

What can this mean? I don’t understand you. Speak plainly.

A new summer has blossomed in my soul. I see with eyes grown young again. And so now I stand——

Where—where, Rosmer?

Where your children stand.

You? You! Impossible! Where do you say you stand?

On the same side as Laurits and Hilda.

[Bows his head.] An apostate! Johannes Rosmer an apostate!

I should have felt so happy—so intensely happy, in what you call my apostasy. But nevertheless I suffered deeply; for I knew it would be a bitter sorrow to you.

Rosmer—Rosmer! I shall never get over this! [Looks gloomily at him.] To think that you too 41can find it in your heart to help on the work of corruption and ruin in this unhappy land.

It is the work of emancipation I wish to help on.

Oh yes, I know. That is what both the tempters and their victims call it. But do you think there is any emancipation to be expected from the spirit that is now poisoning our whole social life?

I am not in love with the spirit that is in the ascendant, nor with either of the contending parties. I will try to bring together men from both sides—as many as I can—and to unite them as closely as possible. I will devote my life and all my energies to this one thing—the creation of a true democracy in this country.

So you don’t think we have democracy enough already! For my part it seems to me we are all in a fair way to be dragged down into the mire, where hitherto only the mob have been able to thrive.

That is just why I want to awaken the democracy to its true task.

What task?

That of making all the people of this country noble-men.

All the people——?

As many as possible, at any rate.

By what means?

By freeing their minds and purifying their wills.

You are a dreamer, Rosmer. Will you free them? Will you purify them?

No, my dear friend—I will only try to arouse them to their task. They themselves must accomplish it.

And you think they can?

Yes.

By their own strength?

Yes, precisely by their own strength. There is no other.

[Rises.] Is this becoming language for a priest?

I am no longer a priest.

Well but—the faith of your fathers——?

It is mine no more.

No more——!

[Rises.] I have given it up. I had to give it up, Kroll.

[Controlling his agitation.] Oh, indeed——Yes, yes, yes. I suppose one thing goes with another. Was this, then, your reason for leaving the Church?

Yes. As soon as my mind was clear—as soon as I was quite certain that this was no passing attack of scepticism, but a conviction I neither could nor would shake off—then I at once left the Church.

So this has been your state of mind all this time! And we—your friends—have heard nothing of it. Rosmer—Rosmer—how could you hide the miserable truth from us!

Because it seemed to me a matter that concerned myself alone. And besides, I did not wish to give you and my other friends any needless pain. I thought I might live on here, as before, quietly, serenely, happily. I wanted to read, to bury myself in all the studies that until then had 44been sealed books to me. I wanted to make myself thoroughly at home in the great world of truth and freedom that has been revealed to me.

Apostate! Every word proves it. But why, then, do you confess your secret apostasy after all? And why just at this time?

You yourself have driven me to it, Kroll.

I? Have I driven you——?

When I heard of your violence on the platform—when I read all the rancorous speeches you made—your bitter onslaughts on your opponents—the contemptuous invectives you heaped on them—oh Kroll, to think that you—you—could come to this!—then my duty stood imperatively before me. Men are growing evil in this struggle. Peace and joy and mutual forbearance must once more enter into our souls. That is why I now intend to step forward and openly avow myself for what I am. I, too, will try my strength. Could not you—from your side—help me in this, Kroll?

Never so long as I live will I make peace with the subversive forces in society.

Then at least let us fight with honourable weapons—since fight we must.

Whoever is not with me in the essential things of life, him I no longer know. I owe him no consideration.

Does that apply to me too?

It is you that have broken with me, Rosmer.

Is this a breach then?

This! It is a breach with all who have hitherto been your friends. You must take the consequences.

There now; he is on his way to his great sacrifice. And now we can go to supper. Will you come in, Rector?

[Takes up his hat.] Good-night, Miss West. I have nothing more to do here.

[Eagerly.] What is this? [Shuts the door and comes forward.] Have you spoken?

He knows everything.

We will not let you go, Rosmer. We will force you to come back to us.

I can never stand where I did.

We shall see. You are not the man to endure standing alone.

I shall not be so completely alone after all.—There are two of us to bear the loneliness together.

Ah——! [A suspicion appears in his face.] That too! Beata’s words——!

Beata’s——?

[Shaking off the thought.] No, no—that was vile. Forgive me.

What? What do you mean?

Don’t ask. Bah! Forgive me! Good-bye!

[Follows him.] Kroll! Our friendship must not end like this. I will come and see you to-morrow.

[In the hall, turns.] You shall never cross my threshold again.

It does not matter, Rebecca. We will see it out, we two faithful friends—you^[10] and I.

What do you think he meant when he said “That was vile”?

Don’t trouble about that, dear. He himself didn’t believe what was in his mind. To-morrow I will go and see him. Good-night!

Are you going upstairs so early to-night? After this?

To-night as usual. I feel so relieved, now it is over. You see—I am quite calm, Rebecca. Do you, too, take it calmly. Good-night!

Good-night, dear friend! Sleep well.

48

You can take away the supper things, Madam Helseth. Mr. Rosmer doesn’t want anything, and the Rector has gone home.

Has the Rector gone? What was the matter with him?

[Takes up her crochet work.] He said he thought there was a heavy storm brewing——

What a strange notion! There’s not a cloud in the sky this evening.

Let us hope he mayn’t meet the White Horse! I’m afraid we shall soon be hearing something from the bogies now.

Lord forgive you, Miss! Don’t say such awful things.

Well, well, well——

[Softly.] Do you really think some one is to go soon, Miss?

No; why should I think so? But there are so 49many sorts of white horses in this world, Madam Helseth.—Well, good-night. I shall go to my room now.

Good-night, Miss.

[Turns the lamp down, shaking her head and muttering to herself.] Lord—Lord! That Miss West! The things she does say!

Johannes Rosmer’s study. Entrance door on the left. At the back, a doorway with a curtain drawn aside, leading into Rosmer’s bedroom. On the right a window, and in front of it a writing-table covered with books and papers. Bookshelves and cases round the room. The furniture is simple. On the left, an old-fashioned sofa, with a table in front of it.

Johannes Rosmer, in an indoor jacket, is sitting in a high-backed chair at the writing-table. He is cutting and turning over the leaves of a pamphlet, and reading a little here and there.

There is a knock at the door on the left.

[Without moving.] Come in.

[Enters, dressed in a morning gown.] Good morning.

[Turning the leaves of the pamphlet.] Good morning, dear. Do you want anything?

I only wanted to hear if you had slept well.

Oh I have had a beautiful, peaceful night. [Turns.] And you?

Oh yes, thanks—towards morning——

I don’t know when I have felt so light-hearted as I do now. I am so glad I managed to speak out at last.

Yes, it is a pity you remained silent so long, Rosmer.

I don’t understand myself how I could be such a coward.

It wasn’t precisely cowardice——

Oh yes, dear—when I think the thing out, I can see there was a touch of cowardice at the bottom of it.

All the braver, then, to make the plunge at last.last. [Sits on a chair at the writing-table, close to him.] But now I want to tell you of something I have done—and you mustn’t be vexed with me about it.

Vexed? How can you think——?

Well, it was perhaps rather indiscreet of me, but——

Let me hear what it was.

Yesterday evening, when Ulric Brendel was leaving—I gave him a note to Peter Mortensgård.

[A little doubtful.] Why, my dear Rebecca——Well, what did you say?

I said that he would be doing you a service if he would look after that unfortunate creature a little, and help him in any way he could.

Dear, you shouldn’t have done that. You have only done Brendel harm. And Mortensgård is not a man I care to have anything to do with. You know of that old episode between us.

But don’t you think it would be as well to make it up with him again?

I? With Mortensgård? In what way do you mean?

Well, you know you can’t feel absolutely secure now—after this breach with your old friends.

[Looks at her and shakes his head.] Can you really believe that Kroll or any of the others would try to take revenge on me? That they would be capable of——?

In the first heat of anger, dear——. No one can be sure. I think—after the way the Rector took it——

Oh, you ought surely to know him better than that. Kroll is a gentleman, to the backbone. I am going into town this afternoon to talk to him. I will talk to them all. Oh you shall see how easily it will all go——

[Rises.] What is it, Madam Helseth?

Rector Kroll is downstairs in the hall.

[Rises hastily.] Kroll!

The Rector! Is it possible——

He wants to know if he may come up and see Mr. Rosmer.

[To Rebecca.] What did I tell you?—Of course 54he may. [Goes to the door and calls down the stairs.] Come up, dear friend! I am delighted to see you.

[With quiet emotion.] I knew it couldn’t be the last time——

I see things to-day in quite a different light from yesterday.

Ah yes, Kroll; I was sure you would, now that you have had time to reflect.

You misunderstand me completely. [Lays his hat on the table beside the sofa.] It is of the utmost importance that I should speak to you, alone.

Why may not Miss West——?

No no, Mr. Rosmer. I will go.

[Looks at her from head to foot.] And I must ask Miss West to excuse my coming at such an 55untimely hour—taking her unawares before she has had time to——

[Surprised.] What do you mean? Do you see any harm in my wearing a morning gown about the house?

Heaven forbid! I know nothing of what may now be customary at Rosmersholm.

Why, Kroll—you are not yourself to-day!

Allow me to wish you good morning, Rector Kroll.

By your leave—— [Sits on the sofa.

Yes, Kroll, sit down, and let us talk things out amicably.

I haven’t closed an eye since yesterday. I have been lying thinking and thinking all night.

And what do you say to things to-day?

It will be a long story, Rosmer. Let me begin 56with a sort of introduction. I can give you news of Ulric Brendel.

Has he called on you?

No. He took up his quarters in a low public-house—in the lowest company of course—and drank and stood treat as long as he had any money. Then he began abusing the whole company as a set of disreputable blackguards—and so far he was quite right—whereupon they thrashed him and pitched him out into the gutter.

So he is incorrigible after all.

He had pawned the coat too; but I am told that has been redeemed for him. Can you guess by whom?

Perhaps by you?

No; by the distinguished Mr. Mortensgård.

Ah, indeed.

I understand that Mr. Brendel’s first visit was to the “idiot” and “plebeian.”

Well, it was lucky for him——

To be sure it was. [Leans over the table towards Rosmer.] And that brings me to a matter it is my duty to warn you about, for our old—for our former friendship’s sake.

My dear Kroll, what can that be?

It is this: there are things going on behind your back in this house.

How can you think so? Is it Reb—is it Miss West you are aiming at?

Precisely. I can quite understand it on her part. She has so long been accustomed to have everything her own way here. But nevertheless——

My dear Kroll, you are utterly mistaken. She and I—we have no concealments from each other on any subject whatever.

Has she told you, then, that she has entered into correspondence with the editor of the “Beacon”?

Oh, you are thinking of the few lines she sent by Ulric Brendel?

Then you have found it out. And do you approve of her entering into relations with a scurrilous scribbler, who never lets a week pass without holding me up to ridicule, both as a schoolmaster and as a public man?

My dear Kroll, I don’t suppose that side of the matter ever entered her head. And besides, of course she has full liberty of action, just as I have.

Indeed? Ah, no doubt that follows from your new line of thought. For Miss West presumably shares your present standpoint?

Yes, she does. We two have worked our way forward in faithful comradeship.

[Looks at him and slowly shakes his head.] Oh, you blind, deluded being!

I? Why do you say that?

Because I dare not—I will not think the worst. No no, let me say my say out.—You really do value my friendship, Rosmer? And my respect too? Do you not?

I surely need not answer that question.

Well, but there are other questions that do require an answer—a full explanation on your part.—Will you submit to a sort of investigation——?

Investigation?

Yes; will you let me question you about certain things it may pain you to be reminded of? You see—this apostasy of yours—well, this emancipation, as you call it—is bound up with many other things that for your own sake you must explain to me.

My dear Kroll, ask what questions you please. I have nothing to conceal.

Then tell me—what do you think was the real, the ultimate reason why Beata put an end to her life?

Can you have any doubt on the subject? Or, rather, can you ask for reasons for what an unhappy, irresponsible invalid may do?

Are you certain that Beata was completely irresponsible for her actions? The doctors, at any rate, were by no means convinced of it.

If the doctors had ever seen her as I have so 60often seen her, for days and nights together, they would have had no doubts.

I had no doubts either—then.

Oh no, unhappily, there wasn’t the smallest room for doubt. I have told you of her wild frenzies of passion—which she expected me to return. Oh, how they appalled me! And then her causeless, consuming self-reproaches during the last few years.

Yes, when she had learnt that she must remain childless all her life.

Yes, just think of that! Such terrible, haunting agony of mind about a thing utterly beyond her control——! How could you call her responsible for her actions?

H’m———. Can you remember whether you had any books in the house at that time treating of the rationale of marriage—according to the “advanced” ideas of the day.

I remember Miss West lending me a work of the kind. The Doctor left her his library, you know. But, my dear Kroll, you surely cannot suppose we were so reckless as to let my poor sick wife get hold of any such ideas? I can solemnly assure you that the fault was not ours. 61It was her own distempered brain that drove her into these wild aberrations.

One thing at any rate I can tell you; and that is, that poor, overstrung, tortured Beata put an end to her life in order that you might live happily—live freely, and—after your own heart.

[Starts half up from his chair.] What do you mean by that?

Listen to me quietly, Rosmer; for now I can speak of it. In the last year of her life she came to me twice to pour forth all her anguish and despair.

On this same subject?

No. The first time she came, it was to declare that you were on the road to perversion—that you were going to break with the faith of your fathers.

[Eagerly.] What you say is impossible, Kroll! Absolutely impossible! You must be mistaken.

And why?

Because while Beata was alive I was still wrestling with myself in doubt. And that fight I 62fought out alone and in utter silence, I don’t think even Rebecca——

Rebecca?

Oh well—Miss West. I call her Rebecca for convenience’ sake.

So I have remarked.

So it is inconceivable to me how Beata could have got hold of the idea. And why did she not speak to me myself about it? She never did—she never said a single word.

Poor creature—she begged and implored me to talk to you.

And why did you not?

At that time I never for a moment doubted that she was out of her mind. Such an accusation against a man like you!—And then she came again—about a month later. This time she seemed outwardly calmer; but as she was going she said: “They may soon expect the White Horse at Rosmersholm now.”

Yes, yes. The White Horse—she often spoke of it.

And when I tried to divert her mind from such melancholy fancies, she only answered: “I have not long to live; for Johannes must marry Rebecca at once.”

[Almost speechless.] What do you say? I marry——?

That was on a Thursday afternoon——. On the Saturday evening she threw herself from the bridge into the mill-race.

And you never warned us——!

You know very well how often she used to say that she felt her end was near.

Yes, I know. But nevertheless—you should have warned us!

I did think of it; but not till too late.

But afterwards, why did you not——? Why have you said nothing about all this?

What good would it have done for me to come torturing and harassing you still further? I took all she said for mere wild, empty ravings—until yesterday evening.

Then you have now changed your opinion?

Did not Beata see quite clearly when she declared you were about to desert the faith of your fathers?

[Looks fixedly, straight before him.] I cannot understand it. It is the most incomprehensible thing in the world.

Incomprehensible or not—there it is. And now I ask you, Rosmer,—how much truth is there in her other accusation? The last one, I mean.

Accusation? Was that an accusation?

Perhaps you did not notice the way she worded it. She had to go, she said—why?

In order that I might marry Rebecca——

These were not precisely her words. Beata used a different expression. She said: “I have not long to live; for Johannes must marry Rebecca at once.”

[Looks at him for a moment; then rises.] Now I understand you, Kroll.

And what then? What is your answer?

[Still quiet and self-restrained.] To such an unheard-of——? The only fitting answer would be to point to the door.

[Rises.] Well and good.

[Stands in front of him.] Listen to me. For more than a year—ever since Beata left us—Rebecca West and I have lived alone here at Rosmersholm. During all that time you have known of Beata’s accusation against us. But I have never for a moment noticed that you disapproved of Rebecca’s living in my house.

I did not know till yesterday evening that it was an unbelieving man who was living with an—emancipated woman.

Ah——! Then you do not believe that purity of mind is to be found among the unbelieving and the emancipated? You do not believe that morality may be an instinctive law of their nature!

I have no great faith in the morality that is not founded on the teachings of the Church.

And you mean this to apply to Rebecca and me? To the relation between us two——?

Not even out of consideration for you two can I depart from my opinion that there is no unfathomable gulf between free thought and—h’m——

And what?

——and free love,—since you will have it.

[In a low voice.] And you are not ashamed to say this to me! You, who have known me from my earliest youth!

For that very reason. I know how easily you are influenced by the people you associate with. And this Rebecca of yours—well, Miss West then—we really know little or nothing about her. In short, Rosmer—I will not give you up. And you—you must try to save yourself in time.

Save myself? How——?

What do you want?

I wanted to ask Miss West to step downstairs.

Miss West is not up here.

Isn’t she? [Looks round the room.] Well, that’s strange.

You were saying——?

Listen to me. I am not going to inquire too closely into the secret history of what went on here in Beata’s lifetime—and may still be going on. I know that your marriage was a most unhappy one; and I suppose that must be taken as some sort of excuse——

Oh, how little you really know me——!

Don’t interrupt me. What I mean is this: if your present mode of life with Miss West is to continue, it is absolutely necessary that the change of views—the unhappy backsliding—brought about by her evil influence, should be hushed up. Let me speak! Let me speak! I say, if the worst comes to the worst, in Heaven’s name think and believe whatever you like about everything under the sun. But you must keep your views to yourself. These things are purely personal matters, after all. There is no need to proclaim them from the housetops.

I feel it an absolute necessity to get out ofof a false and equivocal position.

But you have a duty towards the traditions of 68your race, Rosmer! Remember that! Rosmersholm has, so to speak, radiated morality and order from time immemorial—yes, and respectful conformity to all that is accepted and sanctioned by the best people. The whole district has taken its stamp from Rosmersholm. It would lead to deplorable, irremediable confusion if it were known that you had broken with what I may call the hereditary idea of the house of Rosmer.

My dear Kroll, I cannot see the matter in that light. I look upon it as my imperative duty to spread a little light and gladness here, where the Rosmer family has from generation to generation been a centre of darkness and oppression.

[Looks at him severely.] Yes, that would be a worthy life-work for the last of your race! No, Rosmer; let such things alone; you are the last man for such a task. You were born to be a quiet student.

Perhaps so. But for once in a way I mean to bear my part in the battle of life.

And do you know what that battle of life will mean for you? It will mean a life-and-death struggle with all your friends.

[Quietly.] They cannot all be such fanatics as you.

You are a credulous creature, Rosmer. An inexperienced creature too. You have no conception of the overwhelming storm that will burst upon you.

Miss West wants to know——

What is it?

There’s a man downstairs wanting to have a word with the Pastor.

Is it the man who was here yesterday evening?

No, it’s that Mortensgård.

Mortensgård?

Aha! So it has come to this, has it?—Already!

What does he want with me? Why didn’t you send him away?

Miss West said I was to ask if he might come upstairs.

Tell him I’m engaged——

[To Madam Helseth.] Let him come up, Madam Helseth.

[Takes up his hat.] I retire from the field—for the moment. But the main battle has yet to be fought.

On my honour, Kroll—I have nothing whatever to do with Mortensgård.

I do not believe you. On no subject and in no relation whatever will I henceforth believe you. It is war to the knife now. We will try whether we cannot disarm you.

Oh Kroll—how low—how very low you have sunk!

I? And you think you have the right to say that to me! Remember Beata!

Still harping upon that?

No. You must solve the enigma of the mill-race according to your own conscience—if you have anything of the sort left.

[With a look of hatred.] Ah, here we have the “Beacon”—burning at Rosmersholm! [Buttons his coat.] Well, now I can no longer hesitate what course to steer.

[Deferentially.] The “Beacon” may always be relied upon to light the Rector home.

Yes; you have long shown your goodwill. To be sure there’s a commandment about bearing false witness against your neighbour——

Rector Kroll need not instruct me in the commandments.

Not even in the seventh?

Kroll——!

If I needed instruction, it would rather be the Pastor’s business.

[With covert sarcasm.] The Pastor’s? Oh yes, unquestionably Pastor Rosmer is the man for that.—Good luck to your conference, gentlemen!

[Keeps his eyes fixed on the closed door and says to himself.] Well, well—so be it then. [Turns.] Will 72you be good enough to tell me, Mr. Mortensgård, what brings you out here to me?

It was really Miss West I came to see. I wanted to thank her for the friendly note I received from her yesterday.

I know she wrote to you. Have you seen her then?

Yes, for a short time. [Smiles slightly.] I hear there has been a certain change of views out here at Rosmersholm.

My views are altered in many respects. I might almost say in all.

So Miss West told me; and that’s why she thought I had better come up and talk things over with the Pastor.

What things, Mr. Mortensgård?

May I announce in the “Beacon” that there has been a change in your views—that you have joined the party of freedom and progress?

Certainly you may. In fact, I beg you to make the announcement.

Then it shall appear in to-morrow’s paper. It 73will cause a great sensation when it’s known that Pastor Rosmer of Rosmersholm is prepared to take up arms for the cause of light, in that sense too.

I don’t quite understand you.

I mean that the moral position of our party is greatly strengthened whenever we gain an adherent of serious, Christian principles.

[With some surprise.] Then you do not know——? Did not Miss West tell you that too?

What, Pastor Rosmer? Miss West was in a great hurry. She said I was to go upstairs and hear the rest from yourself.

Well, in that case I may tell you that I have emancipated myself entirely, and on every side. I have broken with all the dogmas of the Church. Henceforth they are nothing to me.

[Looks at him in amazement.] Well—if the skies were to fall I couldn’t be more——! Pastor Rosmer himself announces——

Yes, I now stand where you have stood for many years. That, too, you may announce in the “Beacon” to-morrow.

That too? No, my dear Pastor—excuse me—I don’t think it would be wise to touch on that side of the matter.

Not touch on it?

Not at present, I mean.

I don’t understand——

Well you see, Pastor Rosmer—you probably don’t know the ins and outs of things so well as I do. But, since you have come over to the party of freedom—and, as I hear from Miss West, you intend to take an active share in the movement—I presume you would like to be of as much service as possible, both to the cause in general and to this particular agitation.

Yes, that is my earnest wish.

Good. But now I must tell you, Pastor Rosmer, that if you openly declare your defection from the Church, you tie your own hands at the very outset.

Do you think so?

Yes; believe me, you won’t be able to do much 75for the cause, in this part of the country at any rate. And besides—we have plenty of freethinkers already, Pastor Rosmer—I might almost say too many. What the party requires, is a Christian element—something that every one must respect. That is what we are sadly in need of. And therefore I advise you to keep your own counsel about what doesn’t concern the public. That’s my view of the matter, at least.

I understand. Then if I openly confess my apostasy, you dare not have anything to do with me?

[Shaking his head.] I scarcely like to risk it, Pastor Rosmer. I have made it a rule for some time past not to support any one or anything that is actively opposed to the Church.

Then you have yourself returned to the Church?

That concerns no one but myself.

Ah, so that is it. Now I understand you.

Pastor Rosmer—you ought to remember that I—I in particular—have not full liberty of action.

What hampers you?

The fact that I am a marked man.

Ah—indeed.

A marked man, Pastor Rosmer. You, above all men, should remember that; for I have chiefly you to thank for the scandal that branded me.

If I had then stood where I stand now, I should have dealt more gently with your offence.

That I don’t doubt. But it is too late now. You have branded me once for all—branded me for life. I suppose you can scarcely understand what that means. But now you may perhaps come to feel the smart of it yourself, Pastor Rosmer.

I?

Yes. You surely don’t suppose that Rector Kroll and his set will ever forgive a desertion like yours? I hear the “County News” is going to be very savage in future. You too may find yourself a marked man before long.

In personal matters, Mr. Mortensgård, I feel myself secure from attack. My life is beyond reproach.

[With a sly smile.] That’s a large word, Mr. Rosmer.

Perhaps; but I have a right to use it.

Even if you were to scrutinise your conduct as closely as you once scrutinised mine?

Your tone is very curious. What are you hinting at? Anything definite?

Yes, something definite. Only one thing. But that might be bad enough, if malicious opponents got wind of it.

Will you have the kindness to let me hear what it is?

Cannot you guess for yourself, Pastor?

No, certainly not. I have not the slightest idea.

Well well, I suppose I must come out with it then.—I have in my possession a strange letter, dated from Rosmersholm.

Miss West’s letter, do you mean? Is it so strange?

No, there’s nothing strange about that. But I once received another letter from this house.

Also from Miss West?

No, Mr. Rosmer.

Well then, from whom? From whom?

From the late Mrs. Rosmer.

From my wife! You received a letter from my wife!

I did.

When?

Towards the close of Mrs. Rosmer’s life. Perhaps about a year and a half ago. That is the letter I call strange.

I suppose you know that my wife’s mind was affected at that time.

Yes; I know many people thought so. But I don’t think there was anything in the letter to show it. When I call it strange, I mean in another sense.

And what in the world did my poor wife take it into her head to write to you about?

I have the letter at home. She begins to the effect that she is living in great anxiety and fear; there are so many malicious people about here, she says; and they think of nothing but causing you trouble and injury.

Me?

Yes, so she says. And then comes the strangest part of all. Shall I go on, Pastor Rosmer?

Assuredly! Tell me everything, without reserve.

The deceased lady begs and implores me to be magnanimous. She knows, she says, that it was her husband that had me dismissed from my post as teacher; and she conjures me by all that’s sacred not to avenge myself.

How did she suppose you could avenge yourself?

The letter says that if I should hear rumours of sinful doings at Rosmersholm, I am not to believe them; they are only spread abroad by wicked people who wish to make you unhappy.

Is all that in the letter?

You may read it for yourself, sir, when you please.

But I don’t understand——! What did she imagine the rumours to be about?

Firstly, that the Pastor had deserted the faith of his fathers. Your wife denied that absolutely—then. And next—h’m——

Next?

Well, next she writes—rather confusedly—that she knows nothing of any sinful intrigue at Rosmersholm; that she has never been wronged in any way. And if any such rumours should get about, she implores me to say nothing of the matter in the “Beacon.”

Is no name mentioned?

None.

Who brought you the letter?

I have promised not to say. It was handed to me one evening, at dusk.

If you had made inquiries at the time, you 81would have learnt that my poor unhappy wife was not fully accountable for her actions.

I did make inquiries, Pastor Rosmer. But I must say that was not the impression I received.

Was it not?—But what is your precise reason for telling me now about this incomprehensible old letter?

To impress on you the necessity for extreme prudence, Pastor Rosmer.

In my life, do you mean?

Yes. You must remember that from to-day you have ceased to be a neutral.

Then you have quite made up your mind that I must have something to conceal?

I don’t know why an emancipated man should refrain from livingliving his life out as fully as possible. But, as I said before, be exceedingly cautious in future. If anything should get abroad that conflicts with current prejudices, you may be sure the whole liberal movement will have to suffer for it.—Good-bye, Pastor Rosmer.

Good-bye.

I shall go straight to the office and have the great news put into the “Beacon.”

Yes; omit nothing.

I shall omit nothing that the public need know.

[In the doorway, calls softly.] Rebecca! Re—— H’m. [Aloud.] Madam Helseth,—is Miss West not there?

[From the hall.] No, Pastor Rosmer, she’s not here.

Rosmer!

[Turns.] What! Were you in my room? My dear, what were you doing there?

[Goes up to him.] I was listening.

Oh, Rebecca, how could you?

I could not help it. He said it so hatefully—that about my morning gown——

Then you were there when Kroll——?

Yes. I wanted to know what was lurking in his mind.

I would have told you.

You would scarcely have told me all. And certainly not in his own words.

Did you hear everything, then?

Nearly everything, I think. I had to go downstairs for a moment when Mortensgård came.

And then you came back again——?

Don’t be vexed with me, dear friend!

Do whatever you think right. You are mistress 84of your own actions.—But what do you say to all this, Rebecca——? Oh, I seem never to have needed you so much before!

Both you and I have been prepared for what must happen some time.

No, no—not for this.

Not for this?

I knew well enough that sooner or later our beautiful, pure friendship might be misinterpreted and soiled. Not by Kroll—I could never have believed such a thing of him—but by all those other people with the coarse souls and the ignoble eyes. Oh yes—I had reason enough for keeping our alliance so jealously concealed. It was a dangerous secret.

Oh, why should we care what all those people think! We know in our own hearts that we are blameless.

Blameless? I? Yes, I thought so—till to-day. But now—now, Rebecca——?

Well, what now?

How am I to explain Beata’s terrible accusation?

[Vehemently.] Oh, don’t speak of Beata! Don’t think of Beata any more! You were just beginning to shake off the hold she has upon you, even in the grave.

Since I have heard all this, she seems, in a ghastly sort of way, to be alive again.

Oh no—not that, Rosmer! Not that!

Yes, I tell you. We must try to get to the bottom of this. What can possibly have led her to misinterpret things so fatally?

You are surely not beginning to doubt that she was on the very verge of insanity?

Oh yes—that is just what I can’t feel quite certain of any longer. And besides—even if she was——

If she was? Well, what then?

I mean—where are we to look for the determining cause that drove her morbid spirit over the border-line of madness?

Oh, why brood over problems no one can solve?

I cannot help it, Rebecca. I cannot shake off these gnawing doubts, however much I may wish to.

But it may become dangerous—this eternal dwelling upon one miserable subject.

[Walks about restlessly, in thought.] I must have betrayed myself in one way or another. She must have noticed how happy I began to feel from the time you came to us.

Yes but, dear, even if she did——?

Be sure it didn’t escape her that we read the same books—that the interest of discussing all the new ideas drew us together. Yet I cannot understand it! I was so careful to spare her. As I look back, it seems to me I made it the business of my life to keep her in ignorance of all our interests. Did I not, Rebecca?

Yes, yes; certainly you did.

And you too. And yet——! Oh, it’s terrible to think of! She must have gone about here—full of her morbid passion—saying never a word—watching us—noting everything—and misinterpreting everything.

[Pressing her hands together.] Oh, I should never have come to Rosmersholm!

To think of all she must have suffered in silence! All the foulness her sick brain must have conjured up around us! Did she never say anything to you to put you at all on the alert?

[As if startled.] To me! Do you think I should have stayed a day longer if she had?

No, no, of course not.—Oh, what a battle she must have fought! And alone too, Rebecca; desperate and quite alone!—and then, at last, that heart-breaking, accusing victory—in the mill-race.

[Approaches him cautiously from behind.] Listen, Rosmer. If it were in your power to call Beata back—to you—to Rosmersholm—would you do it?

Oh, how do I know what I would or would not do? I can think of nothing but this one thing—that cannot be recalled.

You were just beginning to live, Rosmer. You 88had begun. You had freed yourself—on every side. You felt so buoyant and happy——

Oh yes—I did indeed.—And now this crushing blow falls on me.

[Behind him, rests her arms on the chair-back.] How beautiful it was when we sat in the twilight, in the room downstairs, helping each other to lay out our new life-plans! You were to set resolutely to work in the world—the living world of to-day, as you said. You were to go as a messenger of emancipation from home to home; to win over minds and wills; to create noble-men around you in wider and wider circles. Noble-men.

Happy noble-men.

Yes—happy.

For it is happiness that ennobles, Rebecca.

Should you not say—sorrow as well? A great sorrow?

Yes—if one can get through it—over it—away from it.

That is what you must do.

[Shakes his head gloomily.] I shall never get 89over this—wholly. There will always be a doubt—a question left. I can never again know that luxury of the soul which makes life so marvellously sweet to live!

[Bends over his chair-back, and says more softly:] What is it you mean, Rosmer?

[Looking up at her.] Peaceful, happy innocence.

[Recoils a step.] Yes. Innocence.

[With his elbow on the table, leaning his head on his hand, and looking straight before him.] And what extraordinary penetration she showed! How systematically she put all this together! First she begins to doubt my orthodoxy——How could that occur to her? But it did occur to her; and then it grew to be a certainty. And then—yes, then of course it was easy for her to think all the rest possible. [Sits up in his chair and runs his hands through his hair.] Oh, all these horrible imaginings! I shall never get rid of them. I feel it. I know it. At any moment they will come rushing in upon me, and bring back the thought of the dead!

Like the White Horse of Rosmersholm.

Yes, like that. Rushing forth in the darkness—in the silence.

And because of this miserable figment of the brain, you will let slip the hold you were beginning to take upon the living world?

You may well think it hard. Yes, hard, Rebecca. But I have no choice. How could I ever leave this behind me?

[Behind his chair.] By entering into new relations.

[Surprised, looks up.] New relations?

Yes, new relations to the outside world. Live, work, act. Don’t sit here brooding and groping among insoluble enigmas.

[Rises.] New relations? [Walks across the floor, stops at the door and then comes back.] One question occurs to me. Has it not occurred to you too, Rebecca?

[Drawing breath with difficulty.] Let me—hear—what it is?

What form do you think our relations will take after to-day?

I believe our friendship will endure—come what may.

That is not exactly what I meant. The thing that first brought us together, and that unites us so closely—our common faith in a pure comradeship between man and woman——

Yes, yes—what of that?

I mean, that such a relation—as this of ours—does it not presuppose a quiet, happy, peaceful life——?

What then?

But the life I must now look forward too is one of struggle and unrest and strong agitations. For I will live my life, Rebecca! I will not be crushed to earth by horrible possibilities. I will not have my course of life forced upon me, either by the living or by—any one else.

No, no—do not! Be an absolutely free man, Rosmer!

But can you not guess what is in my mind? Do you not know? Don’t you see how I can best shake off all gnawing memories—all the unhappy past?

How?

By opposing to it a new, a living reality.

[Feeling for the chair-back.] A living——What do you mean?

[Comes nearer.] Rebecca—if I were to ask you—will you be my second wife?

[For a moment speechless, then cries out with joy.] Your wife! Your——! I!

Come; let us try it. We two will be one. The place of the dead must stand empty no longer.

I—in Beata’s place——!

Then she will be out of the saga—completely—for ever and ever.

[Softly, trembling.] Do you believe that, Rosmer?

It must be so! It must! I cannot—I will not go through life with a dead body on my back. Help me to cast it off, Rebecca. And let us stifle all memories in freedom, in joy, in passion. You shall be to me the only wife I have ever had.

[With self-command.] Never speak of this again. I will never be your wife.

What! Never! Do you not think you could come to love me? Is there not already a strain of love in our friendship?

[Puts her hands over her ears as if in terror.] Don’t speak so, Rosmer! Don’t say such things!

[Seizes her arm.] Yes, yes—there is a growing promise in our relation. Oh, I can see that you feel it too. Do you not, Rebecca?

[Once more firm and calm.] Listen to me. I tell you—if you persist in this, I will go away from Rosmersholm.

Go away! You! You cannot. It is impossible.

It is still more impossible that I should be your wife. Never in this world can I marry you.

[Looks at her in surprise.] You say “can”; and you say it so strangely. Why can you not?

[Seizes both his hands.] Dear friend—both for your own sake and for mine—do not ask why. [Lets go his hands.] Do not, Rosmer.

Henceforth I can think of nothing but that one question—why?

[Turns and looks at him.] Then it is all over.

Between you and me?

Yes.

It will never be all over between us two. You will never leave Rosmersholm.

[With her hand on the door-handle.] No, perhaps I shall not. But if you ask me again—it is all over.

All over? How———?

For then I will go the way that Beata went. Now you know it, Rosmer.

Rebecca——?

[In the doorway, nods slowly.] Now you know it.

[Stares, thunderstruck, at the door, and says to himself.] What—is—this?

The sitting-room at Rosmersholm. The window and the entrance door are open. The sun is shining outside. Forenoon.

Rebecca West, dressed as in the first Act, stands at the window, watering and arranging the flowers. Her crochet-work lies in the arm-chair. Madam Helseth is moving about, dusting the furniture with a feather-brush.

[After a short silence.] I can’t understand the Pastor remaining so long upstairs to-day.

Oh, he often does that. But he’ll soon be down now, I should think.

Have you seen anything of him?

I caught a glimpse of him when I went upstairs with his coffee. He was in his bedroom, dressing.

I asked because he was a little out of sorts yesterday.

He didn’t look well. I wonder if there isn’t something amiss between him and his brother-in-law.

What do you think it can be?

I couldn’t say. Perhaps it’s that Mortensgård that has been setting them against each other.

Likely enough.—Do you know anything of this Peter Mortensgård?

No indeed. How could you think so, Miss? A fellow like him.

Do you mean because he edits such a low paper?

Oh, it’s not only that.—You must have heard, Miss, that he had a child by a married woman that had been deserted by her husband?

Yes, I have heard of it. But it must have been long before I came here.

It’s true he was very young at the time; and she should have known better. He wanted to marry her too; but of course he couldn’t do that. And I don’t say he hasn’t paid dear for it.—But, 97good Lord, Mortensgård has got on in the world since those days. There’s a many people run after him now.

Yes, most of the poor people bring their affairs to him when they’re in any trouble.

Ah, and others too, perhaps, besides the poor folk——

[Looks at her furtively.] Indeed.

[By the sofa, dusting away vigorously.] Perhaps the last people you would think likely to, Miss.

[Busy with the flowers.] Come now, that’s only an idea of yours, Madam Helseth. You can’t be sure of what you’re saying.

You think I can’t, Miss? But I can tell you I am. Why—if you must know it—I once took a letter in to Mortensgård myself.

[Turning.] No—did you?

Yes, indeed I did. And a letter that was written here at Rosmersholm too.

Really, Madam Helseth?

Yes, that it was. And it was on fine paper, and there was a fine red seal on it too.

And it was given to you to deliver? Then, my dear Madam Helseth, it’s not difficult to guess who wrote it.

Well?

It must have been something that poor Mrs. Rosmer, in her morbid state——

It’s you that say that, Miss, not me.

But what was in the letter? Oh, I forgot——you can’t know that.

H’m; what if I did know it, all the same?

Did she tell you what she was writing about?

No, she didn’t exactly do that. But Mortensgård, when he’d read it, he began questioning me backwards and forwards and up and down, so that I soon guessed what was in it.

Then what do you think it was? Oh my dear good Madam Helseth, do tell me.

Oh no, Miss. Not for the whole world.

Oh you can surely tell me. We two are such good friends.

Lord preserve me from telling you anything about that, Miss. I can only tell you that it was something horrible that they’d got the poor sick lady to believe.

Who had got her to believe it?

Wicked people, Miss West. Wicked people.

Wicked——?

Yes, I say it again. They must have been real wicked people.

And who do you think it could have been?

Oh, I know well enough what to think. But Lord forbid I should say anything. To be sure there’s a certain lady in the town—h’m!

I can see that you mean Mrs. Kroll.

Ah, she’s a fine one, she is. She has always 100been the great lady with me. And she’s never had any too much love for you neither.

Do you think Mrs. Rosmer was in her right mind when she wrote that letter to Mortensgård?

It’s a queer thing a person’s mind, Miss. Clean out of her mind I don’t think she was.

But she seemed to go distracted when she learned that she must always be childless. It was that that unsettled her reason.

Yes, poor lady, that was a dreadful blow to her.

[Takes up her crochet and sits in a chair by the window.] But after all—don’t you think it was a good thing for the Pastor, Madam Helseth?

What, Miss?

That there were no children. Don’t you think so?

H’m, I’m sure I don’t know what to say about that.

Oh yes, believe me, it was fortunate for him. Pastor Rosmer is not the man to have crying children about his house.

Ah, Miss, little children don’t cry at Rosmersholm.

[Looks at her.] Don’t cry?

No. As long as people can remember, children have never been known to cry in this house.

That’s very strange.

Yes; isn’t it? But it runs in the family. And then there’s another strange thing. When they grow up, they never laugh. Never, as long as they live.

Why, how extraordinary——

Have you ever once heard or seen the Pastor laugh, Miss?

No—now that I think of it, I almost believe you are right. But I don’t think any one laughs much in this part of the country.

No, they don’t. They say it began at Rosmersholm. And then I suppose it spread round about, as if it was catching-like.

You are a very wise woman, Madam Helseth.

Oh, Miss, you mustn’t sit there and make fun of me. [Listens.] Hush, hush—here’s the Pastor coming down. He doesn’t like to see dusting going on.

Good morning, Rebecca.

Good morning, dear. [A moment after—crocheting.] Are you going out?

Yes.

It’s a beautiful day.

You didn’t look in on me this morning.

No, I didn’t. Not to-day.

Do you not intend to in future?

Oh, I don’t know yet, dear.

Has anything come for me?

The “County News” has come.

The “County News”?

There it is on the table.

[Puts down his hat and stick.] Is there anything——?

Yes.

And you didn’t send it up?

You will read it soon enough.

Oh, indeed? [Takes the paper and reads, standing by the table.]—What!—“We cannot warn our readers too earnestly against unprincipled renegades.” [Looks at her.] They call me a renegade, Rebecca.

They mention no names.

That makes no difference. [Reads on.] “Secret traitors to the good cause.”—“Judas-natures, who make brazen confession of their apostasy as soon as they think the most convenient and—profitable moment has arrived.” “Ruthless befouling of a 104name honoured through generations”—“in the confident hope of a suitable reward from the party in momentary power.” [Lays down the paper on the table.] And they can say such things of me!—Men who have known me so long and so well! Things they themselves don’t believe. Things they know there is not a word of truth in—they print them all the same.

That is not all.

[Takes up the paper again.] “Inexperience and lack of judgment the only excuse”—“pernicious influence—possibly extending to matters which, for the present, we do not wish to make subjects of public discussion or accusation.” [Looks at her.] What is this?

It is aimed at me, plainly enough.

[Lays down the paper.] Rebecca,—this is the conduct of dishonourable men.

Yes, they need scarcely be so contemptuous of Mortensgård.

[Walks about the room.] Something must be done. All that is good in human nature will go to ruin, if this is allowed to go on. But it shall not go on! Oh, what a joy—what a joy it would be to me to let a little light into all this gloom and ugliness!

[Rises.] Ah yes, Rosmer. In that you have a great and glorious object to live for.

Only think, if I could rouse them to see themselves as they are; teach them to repent and blush before their better natures; bring them together in mutual forbearance—in love, Rebecca!

Yes, put your whole strength into that, and you must succeed.

I think success must be possible. Oh, what a delight it would be then to live one’s life! No more malignant wrangling; only emulation. All eyes fixed on the same goal. Every mind, every will pressing forward—upward—each by the path its nature prescribes for it. Happiness for all—through all. [Happens to look out of the window, starts, and says sadly.] Ah! Not through me.

Not——? Not through you?

Nor for me.

Oh Rosmer, do not let such doubts take hold of you.

Happiness—dear Rebecca—happiness is above all things the calm, glad certainty of innocence.

[Looks straight before her.] Yes, innocence——

Oh, you cannot know what guilt means. But I——

You least of all!

[Points out of the window.] The mill race.

Oh Rosmer——!

Miss West!

Presently, presently. Not now.

Only a word, Miss.

[Uneasily.] Was it anything for me?

No, only something about the house-work.—You ought to go out into the fresh air, dear Rosmer. You should take a good long walk.

[Takes up his hat.] Yes, come. Let us go together.

No, dear, I can’t just now. You must go alone. But shake off all these gloomy thoughts. Promise me.

I am afraid I shall never shake them off.

Oh, that such baseless fancies should take so strong a hold of you——!

Not so baseless I am afraid, Rebecca. I lay awake all night thinking it over and over. Perhaps Beata saw clearly after all.

In what?

In her belief that I loved you, Rebecca.

Right in that!

[Lays his hat down on the table.] The question that haunts me is this: were we two not deceiving ourselves all the time—when we called our relation friendship?

You mean that it might as well have been called——?

——love. Yes, Rebecca, that is what I mean. Even while Beata was alive, all my thoughts were for you. It was you alone I longed for. It was when you were by my side that I felt the calm gladness of utter content. If you think it over, Rebecca—did we not feel for each other from the first a sort of sweet, secret child-love—desireless, dreamless? Was it not so with you? Tell me.

[Struggling with herself.] Oh—I don’t know what to answer.

And it was this close-linked life in and for each other that we took for friendship. No, Rebecca—our bond has been a spiritual marriage—perhaps from the very first. That is why there is guilt on my soul. I had no right to such happiness—it was a sin against Beata.

No right to live happily? Do you believe that, Rosmer?

She looked at our relation with the eyes of her love—judged it after the fashion of her love. Inevitably. Beata could not have judged otherwise than she did.

But how can you accuse yourself because of Beata’s delusion?

It was love for me—her kind of love—that drove her into the mill race. That is an immovable 109fact, Rebecca. And that is what I can never get over.

Oh, think of nothing but the great, beautiful task you have devoted your life to.

[Shakes his head.] It can never be accomplished, dear. Not by me. Not after what I have come to know.

Why not by you?

Because no cause ever triumphs that has its origin in sin.

[Vehemently.] Oh, these are only ancestral doubts—ancestral fears—ancestral scruples. They say the dead come back to Rosmersholm in the shape of rushing white horses. I think this shows that it is true.

Be that as it may; what does it matter, so long as I cannot rid myself of the feeling? And believe me, Rebecca, it is as I tell you. The cause that is to win a lasting victory must have for its champion a happy, an innocent man.

Is happiness so indispensable to you, Rosmer?

Happiness? Yes, dear,—it is.

To you, who can never laugh?

Yes, in spite of that. Believe me, I have a great capacity for happiness.

Now go for your walk, dear. A good long walk. Do you hear?—See, here is your hat. And your stick too.

[Takes both.] Thanks. And you won’t come with me?

No, no; I can’t just now.

Very well, then. You are with me none the less.

[Opens the door, and says in a low tone.] Now, Madam Helseth. You can show him in now.

He has gone out?

Yes.

Does he usually stay out long?

Yes, he does. But one cannot count on him to-day. So if you don’t care to meet him——

No, no. It is you I want to speak to,—quite alone.

Then we had better not lose time. Sit down, Rector.

Miss West—you can scarcely imagine how deeply and painfully I have taken this to heart—this change in Johannes Rosmer.

We expected it would be so—at first.

Only at first?

Rosmer was confident that sooner or later you would join him.

I?

You and all his other friends.

Ah, there you see! That shows the infirmity of his judgment in all that concerns men and practical life.

But after all—since he feels it a necessity to emancipate himself on all sides——

Yes, but wait—that is just what I do not believe.

What do you believe then?

I believe that you are at the bottom of it all.

It is your wife who has put that in your head, Rector Kroll.

No matter who has put it in my head. What is certain is that I feel a strong suspicion—an exceedingly strong suspicion—when I think things over, and piece together all I know of your behaviour ever since you came here.

[Looks at him.] I seem to recollect a time when you felt an exceedingly strong faith in me, dear Rector. I might almost call it a warm faith.

[In a subdued voice.] Whom could you not bewitch—if you tried?

Did I try——?

Yes, you did. I am no longer such a fool as to believe that there was any feeling in the matter. You simply wanted to get a footing at Rosmersholm—to strike root here—and in that I was to serve you. Now I see it.

You seem utterly to have forgotten that it was Beata who begged and implored me to come out here?

Yes, when you had bewitched her to. Can the feeling she came to entertain for you be called friendship? It was adoration—almost idolatry. It developed into—what shall I call it?—a sort of desperate passion.—Yes, that is the right word for it.

Be so good as to recollect the state your sister was in. So far as I am concerned, I don’t think any one can accuse me of being hysterical.

No; that you certainly are not. But that makes you all the more dangerous to the people you want to get into your power. It is easy for you to weigh your acts and calculate consequences—just because your heart is cold.

Cold? Are you so sure of that?

I am quite certain of it now. Otherwise you could never have lived here year after year without faltering in the pursuit of your object. Well, well—you have gained your end. You have got him and everything into your power. But in order to do so, you have not scrupled to make him unhappy.

That is not true. It is not I—it is you yourself that have made him unhappy.

I?

Yes, when you led him to imagine that he was responsible for Beata’s terrible end.

Does he feel that so deeply, then?

How can you doubt it? A mind so sensitive as his——

I thought that an emancipated man, so called, was above all such scruples.—But there we have it! Oh yes—I admit I knew how it would be. The descendant of the men that look down on us from these walls—how could he hope to cut himself adrift from all that has been handed down without a break from generation to generation?

[Looks down thoughtfully.] Johannes Rosmer’s 115spirit is deeply rooted in his ancestry. That is very certain.

Yes, and you should have taken that fact into consideration, if you had felt any affection for him. But that sort of consideration was no doubt beyond you. There is such an immeasurable difference between your antecedents and his.

What antecedents do you mean?

I am speaking of your origin—your family antecedents, Miss West.

Oh, indeed! Yes, it is quite true that I come of very humble folk. Nevertheless——

I am not thinking of rank and position. I allude to your moral antecedents.

Moral——? In what sense?

The circumstances of your birth.

What do you mean?

I only mention the matter because it accounts for your whole conduct.

I do not understand this. You must explain.

I really did not suppose you could require an explanation. Otherwise it would have been very odd that you should have let Dr. West adopt you——

[Rises.] Ah! Now I understand.

——and that you should have taken his name. Your mother’s name was Gamvik.

[Walks across the room.] My father’s name was Gamvik, Rector Kroll.

Your mother’s business must have brought her very frequently into contact with the parish doctor.

Yes, it did.

And then he takes you into his house—as soon as your mother dies. He treats you harshly; and yet you stay with him. You know that he won’t leave you a halfpenny—as a matter of fact, you only got a case full of books—and yet you stay on; you bear with him; you nurse him to the last.

[Stands by the table, looking scornfully at him.] And you account for all this by assuming that 117there was something immoral—something criminal about my birth?

I attribute your care for him to involuntary filial instinct. Indeed I believe your whole conduct is determined by your origin.

[Vehemently.] But there is not a single word of truth in what you say! And I can prove it! Dr. West did not come to Finmark till after I was born.

Excuse me, Miss West. He settled there the year before. I have assured myself of that.

You are mistaken, I say! You are utterly mistaken.

You told me the day before yesterday that you were nine-and-twenty—in your thirtieth year.

Indeed! Did I say so?

Yes, you did. And I can calculate from that——

Stop! You needn’t calculate. I may as well tell you at once: I am a year older than I give myself out to be.

[Smiles incredulously.] Really! I am surprised! What can be the reason of that?

When I had passed twenty-five, it seemed to me I was getting altogether too old for an unmarried woman. And so I began to lie about my age.

You? An emancipated woman! Have you prejudices about the age for marriage?

Yes, it was idiotic of me—idiotic and absurd. But some folly or other will always cling to us, not to be shaken off. We are made so.

Well, so be it; but my calculation may be right, none the less. For Dr. West was up there on a short visit the year before he got the appointment.

[With a vehement outburst.] It is not true!

Is it not true?

No. My mother never spoke of any such visit.

Did she not?

No, never. Nor Dr. West either; not a word about it.it.

Might not that be because they both had reasons for suppressing a year? Just as you have done, Miss West. Perhaps it is a family foible.

[Walks about clenching and wringing her hands.] It is impossible. You want to cheat me into believing it. This can never, never be true! It cannot! Never in this world——!

[Rises.] My dear Miss West—why in heaven’s name are you so terribly excited? You quite frighten me! What am I to think—to believe——?

Nothing! You are to think and believe nothing.

Then you must really tell me how you can take this affair—this possibility—so terribly to heart.

[Controlling herself.] It is perfectly simple, Rector Kroll. I have no wish to be taken for an illegitimate child.

Indeed! Well well, let us be satisfied with that explanation—in the meantime. But in that case you must still have a certain—prejudice on that point too?

Yes, I suppose I have.

Ah, I fancy it is much the same with most of what you call your “emancipation.” You have read yourself into a number of new ideas and opinions. You have got a sort of smattering of recent discoveries in various fields—discoveries that seem to overthrow certain principles which have hitherto been held impregnable and unassailable. But all this has only been a matter of the intellect, Miss West—a superficial acquisition. It has not passed into your blood.

[Thoughtfully.] Perhaps you are right.

Yes, look into your own mind, and you will see! And if this is the case with you, one may easily guess how it must be with Johannes Rosmer. It is sheer, unmitigated madness—it is running blindfold to destruction—for him to think of coming openly forward and confessing himself an apostate! Only think—a man of his sensitive nature! Imagine him disowned and persecuted by the circle of which he has always formed a part—exposed to ruthless attacks from all the best people in the community! He is not—he never can be the man to endure all that.

He must endure it! It is too late now for him to retreat.

Not at all too late. By no means. What has happened can be hushed up—or at least explained away as a mere temporary aberration, however 121deplorable. But—one measure is certainly indispensable.

And what is that?

You must get him to legalise the position, Miss West.

His position towards me?

Yes. You must make him do that.

Then you absolutely cannot clear your mind of the idea that our position requires to be—legalised, as you call it?

I would rather not go into the matter too closely. But I believe I have noticed that it is nowhere easier to break through all so-called prejudices than in—h’m——

In the relation between man and woman, you mean?

Yes,—to speak plainly—I think so.

[Wanders across the room and looks out at the window.] I could almost say—I wish you were right, Rector Kroll.

What do you mean by that? You say it so strangely.

Oh, well—please let us drop the subject. Ah,—there he comes.

Already! Then I will go.

[Goes towards him.] No—please stay. There is something I want you to hear.

Not now. I don’t feel as if I could bear to see him.

I beg you to stay. Do! If not, you will regret it by-and-by. It is the last time I shall ask you for anything.

[Looks at her in surprise and puts down his hat.] Very well, Miss West—so be it, then.

[Sees the Rector, and stops in the doorway.] What!—Are you here?

He did not wish to meet you, dear.^[11]

[Involuntarily.] “Dear!”

Yes, Rector Kroll, Rosmer and I say “dear” to each other. That is one result of our “position.”

Was that what you wanted me to hear?

That—and a little more.

[Comes forward.] What is the object of this visit?

I wanted to try once more to stop you and win you back to us.

[Points to the newspaper.] After what appears in that paper?

I did not write it.

Did you make the slightest effort to prevent its appearance?

That would have been to betray the cause I serve. And, besides, it was not in my power.

[Tears the paper into shreds, crushes up the pieces and throws them behind the stove.] There! Now it is out of sight. And let it be out of mind too. For there will be nothing more of that sort, Rosmer.

Ah, if you could only make sure of that!

Come, let us sit down, dear. All three of us. And then I will tell you everything.

[Seats himself mechanically.] What has come over you, Rebecca? This unnatural calmness—what is it?

The calmness of resolution. [Seats herself.] Pray sit down too, Rector.

Resolution, you say? What resolution?

I am going to give you back what you require in order to live your life. Dear friend, you shall have your happy innocence back again!

What can you mean?

I have only to tell you something. That will be enough.

Well!

When I came down here from Finmark—along with Dr. West—it seemed to me that a great, wide 125new world was opening up before me. The Doctor had taught me all sorts of things—all the fragmentary knowledge of life that I possessed in those days. [With a struggle and in a scarcely audible voice.] And then——

And then?

But Rebecca—I know all this.

[Mastering herself.] Yes, yes—you are right. You know enough about this.

[Looks hard at her.] Perhaps I had better go.

No, please stay where you are, my dear Rector. [To Rosmer.] Well, you see, this was how it was—I wanted to take my share in the life of the new era that was dawning, with all its new ideas.—Rector Kroll told me one day that Ulric Brendel had had great influence over you while you were still a boy. I thought it must surely be possible for me to carry on his work.

You came here with a secret design——?

We two, I thought, should march onward in freedom, side by side. Ever onward. Ever farther and farther to the front. But between you 126and perfect emancipation there rose that dismal, insurmountable barrier.

What barrier do you mean?

I mean this, Rosmer: You could grow into freedom only in the clear, fresh sunshine—and here you were pining, sickening in the gloom of such a marriage.

You have never before spoken to me of my marriage in that tone.

No, I did not dare to, for I should have frightened you.

[Nods to Rosmer.] Do you hear that?

[Goes on.] But I saw quite well where your deliverance lay—your only deliverance. And then I went to work.

Went to work? In what way?

Do you mean that——?

Yes, Rosmer—— [Rises.] Sit still. You too, Rector Kroll. But now it must out. It was not you, Rosmer. You are innocent. It was I that 127lured—that ended in luring Beata out into the paths of delusion——

[Springs up.] Rebecca!

[Rises from the sofa.] The paths of delusion!

The paths—that led to the mill race. Now you know it, both of you.

[As if stunned.] But I don’t understand——What is it she is saying? I don’t understand a word——!

Oh yes, Rosmer, I am beginning to understand.

But what did you do? What can you possibly have told her? There was nothing—absolutely nothing to tell!

She came to know that you were working yourself free from all the old prejudices.

Yes, but that was not the case at that time.

I knew that it soon would be.

[Nods to Rosmer.] Aha!

And then? What more? I must know all now.

Some time after—I begged and implored her to let me go away from Rosmersholm.

Why did you want to go—then?

I did not want to go; I wanted to stay here, where I was. But I told her that it would be best for us all—that I should go away in time. I gave her to understand that if I stayed here any longer, I could not—I could not tell—what might happen.

Then this is what you said and did!

Yes, Rosmer.

This is what you call “going to work.”

[In a broken voice.] I called it so, yes.

[After a pause.] Have you confessed all now, Rebecca?

Yes.

Not all.

[Looks at him in fear.] What more should there be?

Did you not at last give Beata to understand that it was necessary—not only that it would be wisest, but that it was necessary—both for your own sake and Rosmer’s, that you should go away somewhere—as soon as possible?—Well?

[Low and indistinctly.] Perhaps I did say something of the sort.

[Sinks into the arm-chair by the window] And] And this tissue of lies and deceit she—my unhappy, sick wife believed in! Believed in it so firmly! So immovably! [Looks up at Rebecca.] And she never turned to me. Never said one word to me! Oh, Rebecca,—I can see it in your face—you dissuaded her from it!

She had conceived a fixed idea that she, as a childless wife, had no right to be here. And then she imagined that it was her duty to you to efface herself.

And you—you did nothing to disabuse her of the idea?

No.

Perhaps you confirmed her in it? Answer me! Did you not?

I believe she may have understood me so.

Yes, yes—and in everything she bowed before your will. And she did efface herself! [Springs up.] How could you—how could you play this ghastly game!

It seemed to me I had to choose between your life and hers, Rosmer.

[Severely and impressively.] That choice was not for you to make.

[Vehemently.] You think then that I was cool and calculating and self-possessed all the time! I was not the same woman then that I am now, as I stand here telling it all. Besides, there are two sorts of will in us I believe! I wanted Beata away, by one means or another; but I never really believed that it would come to pass. As I felt my way forward, at each step I ventured, I seemed to hear something within me cry out: No farther! Not a step farther! And yet I could not stop. I had to venture the least little bit farther. Only one hair’s-breadth more. And then one more—and always one more.—And then it happened.—That is the way such things come about.

[To Rebecca.] What do you think lies before you now? After this?

Things must go with me as they will. It doesn’t greatly matter.

Not a word of remorse! Is it possible you feel none?

[Coldly putting aside his question.] Excuse me, Rector Kroll—that is a matter which concerns no one but me. I must settle it with myself.

[To Rosmer.] And this is the woman you are living under the same roof with—in the closest intimacy! [Looks round at the pictures.] Oh if those that are gone could see us now!

Are you going back to town?

[Takes up his hat.] Yes. The sooner the better.

[Does the same.] Then I will go with you.

Will you! Ah yes, I was sure we had not lost you for good.

Come then, Kroll! Come!

[Speaks to herself under her breath.] Not over the foot-bridge to-day either. He goes round. Never across the mill race. Never. [Leaves the window.] Well, well, well!

What is it, Miss?

Madam Helseth, would you be so good as to have my trunk brought down from the garret?

Your trunk?

Yes—the brown sealskin trunk, you know.

Yes, yes. But, Lord preserve us—are you going on a journey, Miss?

Yes—now I am going on a journey, Madam Helseth.

And immediately!

As soon as I have packed up.

Well, I’ve never heard the like of that! But you’ll come back again soon, Miss, of course?

I shall never come back again.

Never! Dear Lord, what will things be like at Rosmersholm when you’re gone, Miss? And the poor Pastor was just beginning to be so happy and comfortable.

Yes, but I have taken fright to-day, Madam Helseth.

Taken fright! Dear, dear! how was that?

I thought I saw something like a glimpse of white horses.

White horses! In broad daylight!

Oh, they are abroad early and late—the white horses of Rosmersholm. [With a change of tone.] Well,—about the trunk, Madam Helseth.

Yes, yes. The trunk. [Both go out to the right.

The sitting-room at Rosmersholm. Late evening. A lighted lamp, with a shade over it, on the table.

Rebecca West stands by the table, packing some small articles in a hand-bag. Her cloak, hat, and the white crocheted shawl are hanging over the back of the sofa.

[Speaks in a low voice and appears ill at ease.] All your things have been taken down, Miss. They are in the kitchen passage.

Very well. You have ordered the carriage?

Yes. The coachman wants to know what time he ought to be here.

About eleven o’clock, I think. The steamer starts at midnight.

[Hesitates a little.] But the Pastor? If he shouldn’t be home by that time?

I shall go all the same. If I don’t see him, you can tell him that I will write to him—a long letter. Tell him that.

Yes, writing—that may be all very well. But, poor Miss West—I do think you should try to speak to him once more.

Perhaps so. And yet—perhaps not.

Well—that I should live to see this! I never thought of such a thing.

What did you think then, Madam Helseth?

Well, I certainly thought Pastor Rosmer was a more dependable man than this.

Dependable?

Yes, that’s what I say.

Why, my dear Madam Helseth, what do you mean?

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

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

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!

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

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

But to-day, then——?

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

Aha!

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

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

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.

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

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

[Starts.] After all then——? [Resolutely.] Well well; so be it.

[Sees the hand-bag, etc., turns to Rebecca, and asks:] What does this mean?

I am going.

At once?

Yes. [To Madam Helseth.] Eleven o’clock then.

Very well, Miss. [Goes out to the right.

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

North, by the steamer.

North? What takes you to the North?

It was there I came from.

But you have no ties there now.

I have none here either.

What do you think of doing?

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

To have done with it?

Rosmersholm has broken me.

[His attention aroused.] Do you say that?

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.

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

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

We have made peace.

Ah yes; so that was the end.

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.

Yes, yes—perhaps it is best so.

Is that what you say now? Do you think so now?

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

You are lying, Rebecca.

Lying——!

Yes, you are lying. You have never believed 140in me. You have never believed that I was man enough to carry the cause through to victory.

I believed that we two together could do it.

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.

Listen to me, 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.

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.

Have you more confessions to make?

The greatest of all is to come.

The greatest?

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

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

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.

Well, you accomplished your ends.

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.

What began? Do not speak in riddles.

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

Passion? You——! For what?

For you.

[Tries to spring up.] What is this?

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

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

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.

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

Yes, would you believe it, Rosmer?

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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——

I have never stood farther from my goal than now.

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.

I cried out in despair, Rosmer.

Why?

Because Rosmersholm has sapped my strength. 144My 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.

Tell me how this has come about.

It has come about through my life with you.

But how? How?

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

Yes, yes?

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

I am afraid you are right there.

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.

Oh, is this true, 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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

How do you account for what has happened to you?

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

Infected?

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

Oh that I could believe it!

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

But——? Well?

——but it kills happiness.

Do you think so, Rebecca?

My happiness, at any rate.

Yes, but are you so certain of that? If I were 147to ask you again now——? If I were to beg and entreat you——?

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

More than what you have told me?

Yes. Something different and something more.

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

It has? And yet——? Even so——?

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

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

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

But I cannot.

Oh 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.

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

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

[Sadly.] Ah,—innocence.

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——

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.

[Softly.] Not even by tranquil love, 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?

Do you not believe me, 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.

[Wringing her hands.] Oh this killing doubt——! 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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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

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

Proof? How can I give you proof——?

You must! [Walks across the room.] I cannot bear this desolation—this horrible emptiness—this—this——

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

Ah, is it you, Mr. Brendel?

Johannes, my boy—hail—and farewell!

Where are you going so late?

Downhill.

How——?

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

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

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.

Indeed! I don’t quite understand——

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

If there is anything I can do for you——

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

Yes, yes, most willingly!

Can you spare me an ideal or two?

What do you say?

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

Have you not delivered your lecture?

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.

But all your unwritten works——?

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.

But are you so sure of that?

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

The President?

Well well—His Excellency then. Ganz nach Belieben.

Whom do you mean?

Peter Mortensgård, of course.

What?

[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.

Oh, don’t believe that.

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!

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

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.

Is it me you mean?

Yes, my fascinating mermaid.

Why am I not to be built on?

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

What then——?

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

Which is——?

[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 155slice off her incomparably-moulded left ear. [Lets her go, and turns to Rosmer.] Farewell, my conquering Johannes.

Are you going now? In the dark night?

The dark night is best. Peace be with you.

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

[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.

Yes, I see no choice.

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

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

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

[Smiles.] H’m, my future.

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

That too, my dear one?

You might surely have known that.

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

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

Yes, I thought so.

So did I. But if I were to go——

Oh, Rosmer—you will live longer than I.

Surely my worthless life lies in my own hands.

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

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?

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

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

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.

Oh—if I dared believe you.

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

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

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.

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

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.

[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?

I am ready.

At any time?

Whenever you please. The sooner the better.

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

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

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?