Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (264 page)

Wangel. No, nothing at all.

Arnholm. But do you think it right he should knock about so much with the girls?

Wangel. Does he? I really hadn’t noticed it.

Arnholm. You ought to see to it, I think.

Wangel. Yes, I suppose you’re right. But, good Lord! What’s a man to do? The girls are so accustomed to look after themselves now. They won’t listen to me, nor to Ellida.

Arnholm. Not to her either?

Wangel. No; and besides I really cannot expect Ellida to trouble about such things. She’s not fit for that
(breaking off)
. But it wasn’t that which we were to talk of. Now tell me, have you thought the matter over — thought over all I told you of?

Arnholm. I have thought of nothing else ever since we parted last night.

Wangel. And what do you think should be done?

Arnholm. Dear Wangel, I think you, as a doctor, must know that better than I.

Wangel. Oh! if you only knew how difficult it is for a doctor to judge rightly about a patient who is so dear to him! Besides, this is no ordinary illness. No ordinary doctor and no ordinary medicines can help her.

Arnholm. How is she today?

Wangel. I was upstairs with her just now, and then she seemed to me quite calm; but behind all her moods something lies hidden which it is impossible for me to fathom; and then she is so changeable, so capricious — she varies so suddenly.

Arnholm. No doubt that is the result of her morbid state of mind.

Wangel. Not altogether. When you go down to the bedrock, it was born in her. Ellida belongs to the sea-folk. That is the matter.

Arnholm. What do you really mean, my dear doctor?

Wangel. Haven’t you noticed that the people from out there by the open sea are, in a way, a people apart? It is almost as if they themselves lived the life of the sea. There is the rush of waves, and ebb and flow too, both in their thoughts and in their feelings, and so they can never bear transplanting. Oh! I ought to have remembered that. It was a sin against Ellida to take her away from there, and bring her here.

Arnholm. You have come to that opinion?

Wangel. Yes, more and more. But I ought to have told myself this beforehand. Oh! I knew it well enough at bottom! But I put it from me. For, you see, I loved her so! Therefore, I thought of myself first of all. I was inexcusably selfish at that time!

Arnholm. Hm. I suppose every man is a little selfish under such circumstances. Moreover, I’ve never noticed that vice in you, Doctor Wangel.

Wangel
(walks uneasily about the room)
. Oh, yes! And I have been since then, too. Why, I am so much, much older than she is. I ought to have been at once as a father to her and a guide. I ought to have done my best to develop and enlighten her mind. Unfortunately nothing ever came of that. You see, I hadn’t stamina enough, for I preferred her just as she was. So things went worse and worse with her, and then I didn’t know what to do.
(In a lower voice.)
That was why I wrote to you in my trouble, and asked you to come here.

Arnholm
(looks at him in astonishment)
. What, was it for this you wrote?

Wangel. Yes; but don’t let anyone notice anything.

Arnholm. How on earth, dear doctor — what good did you expect me to be? I don’t understand it.

Wangel. No, naturally. For I was on an altogether false track. I thought Ellida’s heart had at one time gone out to you, and that she still secretly cared for you a little — that perhaps it would do her good to see you again, and talk of her home and the old days.

Arnholm. So it was your wife you meant when you wrote that she expected me, and — and perhaps longed for me.

Wangel. Yes, who else?

Arnholm
(hurriedly)
. No, no. You’re right. But I didn’t understand.

Wangel. Naturally, as I said, for I was on an absolutely wrong track.

Arnholm. And you call yourself selfish!

Wangel. Ah! but I had such a great sin to atone for. I felt I dared not neglect any means that might give the slightest relief to her mind.

Arnholm. How do you really explain the power this stranger exercises over her?

Wangel. Hm — dear friend — there may be sides to the matter that cannot be explained.

Arnholm. Do you mean anything inexplicable in itself — absolutely inexplicable?

Wangel. In any case not explicable as far as we know.

Arnholm. Do you believe there is something in it, then?

Wangel. I neither believe nor deny; I simply don’t know. That’s why I leave it alone.

Arnholm. Yes. But just one thing: her extraordinary, weird assertion about the child’s eyes —

Wangel
(eagerly)
. I don’t believe a word about the eyes. I will not believe such a thing. It must be purely fancy on her part, nothing else.

Arnholm. Did you notice the man’s eyes when you saw him yesterday?

Wangel. Of course I did.

Arnholm. And you saw no sort of resemblance?

Wangel
(evasively)
. Hm — good heavens! What shall I say? It wasn’t quite light when I saw him; and, besides, Ellida had been saying so much about this resemblance, I really don’t know if I was capable of observing quite impartially.

Arnholm. Well, well, may be. But that other matter? All this terror and unrest coming upon her at the very time, as it seems, this strange man was on his way home.

Wangel. That — oh! that’s something she must have persuaded and dreamed herself into since it happened. She was not seized with this so suddenly — all at once — as she now maintains. But since she heard from young Lyngstrand that Johnston — or Friman, or whatever his name is — was on his way hither, three years ago, in the month of March, she now evidently believes her unrest of mind came upon her at that very time.

Arnholm. It was not so, then?

Wangel. By no means. There were signs and symptoms of it before this time, though it did happen, by chance, that in that month of March, three years ago, she had a rather severe attack.

Arnholm. After all, then — ?

Wangel. Yes, but that is easily accounted for by the circumstances — the condition she happened to be in at the time.

Arnholm. So, symptom for symptom, then.

Wangel
(wringing his hands)
. And not to be able to help her! Not to know how to counsel her! To see no way!

Arnholm. Now if you could make up your mind to leave this place, to go somewhere else, so that she could live amid surroundings that would seem more homelike to her?

Wangel. Ah, dear friend! Do you think I haven’t offered her that, too? I suggested moving out to Skjoldviken, but she will not.

Arnholm. Not that either?

Wangel. No, for she doesn’t think it would be any good; and perhaps she’s right.

Arnholm. Hm. Do you say that?

Wangel. Moreover, when I think it all over carefully, I really don’t know how I could manage it. I don’t think I should be justified, for the sake of the girls, in going away to such a desolate place. After all, they must live where there is at least a prospect of their being provided for someday.

Arnholm. Provided for! Are you thinking about that already?

Wangel. Heaven knows, I must think of that too! But then, on the other hand, again, my poor sick Ellida! Oh, dear Arnholm! in many respects I seem to be standing between fire and water!

Arnholm. Perhaps you’ve no need to worry on Bolette’s account.
(Breaking off.)
I should like to know where she — where they have gone.
(Goes up to the open door and looks out.)

Wangel. Oh, I would so gladly make any sacrifice for all three of them, if only I knew what!

(ELLIDA enters from the door on the left.)

Ellida
(quickly to WANGEL)
. Be sure you don’t go out this morning.

Wangel. No, no! of course not. I will stay at home with you.
(Pointing to ARNHOLM, who is coming towards them.)
But won’t you speak to our friend?

Ellida
(turning)
. Oh, are you here, Mr. Arnholm?
(Holding out her hand to him.)
Good-morning.

Arnholm. Good-morning, Mrs. Wangel. So you’ve not been bathing as usual today?

Ellida. No, no, no! That is out of the question today. But won’t you sit down a moment?

Arnholm. No, thanks, not now.
(Looks at WANGEL.)
I promised the girls to go down to them in the garden.

Ellida. Goodness knows if you’ll find them there. I never know where they may be rambling.

Wangel. They’re sure to be down by the pond.

Arnholm. Oh! I shall find them right enough.
(Nods, and goes out across the verandah into the garden.)

Ellida. What time is it, Wangel?

Wangel
(looking at his watch)
. A little past eleven.

Ellida. A little past. And at eleven o’clock, or half-past eleven tonight, the steamer is coming. If only that were over!

Wangel
(going nearer to her)
. Dear Ellida, there is one thing I should like to ask you.

Ellida. What is it?

Wangel. The evening before last — up at the “View” — you said that during the last three years you had so often seen him bodily before you.

Ellida. And so I have. You may believe that.

Wangel. But, how did you see him?

Ellida. How did I see him?

Wangel. I mean, how did he look when you thought you saw him?

Ellida. But, dear Wangel, why, you now know yourself how he looks.

Wangel. Did he look exactly like that in your imagination?

Ellida. He did.

Wangel. Exactly the same as you saw him in reality yesterday evening?

Ellida. Yes, exactly.

Wangel. Then how was it you did not at once recognise him?

Ellida. Did I not?

Wangel. No; you said yourself afterwards that at first you did not at all know who the strange man was.

Ellida
(perplexed)
. I really believe you are right. Don’t you think that strange, Wangel? Fancy my not knowing him at once!

Wangel. It was only the eyes, you said.

Ellida. Oh, yes! The eyes — the eyes.

Wangel. Well, but at the “View” you said that he always appeared to you exactly as he was when you parted out there — ten years ago.

Ellida. Did I?

Wangel. Yes.

Ellida. Then, I suppose he did look much as he does now.

Wangel. No. On our way home, the day before yesterday, you gave quite another description of him. Ten years ago he had no beard, you said. His dress, too, was quite different. And that breast-pin with the pearl? That man yesterday wore nothing of the sort.

Ellida. No, he did not.

Wangel
(looks searchingly at her)
. Now just think a little, dear Ellida. Or perhaps you can’t quite remember how he looked when he stood by you at Bratthammer?

Ellida
(thoughtfully closing her eyes for a moment)
. Not quite distinctly. No, today I can’t. Is it not strange?

Wangel. Not so very strange after all. You have now been confronted by a new and real image, and that overshadows the old one, so that you can no longer see it.

Ellida. Do you believe that, Wangel?

Wangel. Yes. And it overshadows your sick imaginings, too. That is why it is good a reality has come.