Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (333 page)

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Interrupting.]
And you must not look at me while I am telling you.

IRENE.
[Moves to a stone behind his back.]
I will sit here, behind you. — Now tell me.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Takes his hands from before his eyes and gazes straight in front of him. When I had found you, I knew at once how I should make use of you for my life-work.

IRENE.
“The Resurrection Day” you called your life-work. — I call it “our child.”

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I was young then — with no knowledge of life. The Resurrection, I thought, would be most beautifully and exquisitely figured as a young unsullied woman — with none of our earth-life’s experiences — awakening to light and glory without having to put away from her anything ugly and impure.

IRENE.
[Quickly.]
Yes — and so I stand there now, in our work?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Hesitating.]
Not absolutely and entirely so, Irene.

IRENE.
[In rising excitement.]
Not absolutely — ? Do I not stand as I always stood for you?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Without answering.]
I learned worldly wisdom in the years that followed, Irene. “The Resurrection Day” became in my mind’s eye something more and something — something more complex. The little round plinth on which your figure stood erect and solitary — it no longer afforded room for all the imagery I now wanted to add —

IRENE.
[Groped for her knife, but desists.]
What imagery did you add then? Tell me!

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I imagined that which I saw with my eyes around me in the world. I had to include it — I could not help it, Irene. I expanded the plinth — made it wide and spacious. And on it I placed a segment of the curving, bursting earth. And up from the fissures of the soil there now swarm men and women with dimly-suggested animal-faces. Women and men — as I knew them in real life.

IRENE.
[In breathless suspense.]
But in the middle of the rout there stands the young woman radiant with the joy of light? — Do I not stand so, Arnold?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Evasively.]
Not quite in the middle. I had unfortunately to move that figure a little back. For the sake of the general effect, you understand. Otherwise it would have dominated the whole too much.

IRENE.
But the joy in the light still transfigures my face?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Yes, it does, Irene — in a way. A little subdued perhaps — as my altered idea required.

IRENE.
[Rising noiselessly.]
That design expresses the life you now see, Arnold.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Yes, I suppose it does.

IRENE.
And in that design you have shifted me back, a little toned down — to serve as a background-figure — in a group. [She draws the knife.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Not a background-figure. Let us say, at most, a figure not quite in the foreground — or something of that sort.

IRENE.
[Whispers hoarsely.]
There you uttered your own doom. [On the point of striking.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Turns and looks up at her.]
Doom?

IRENE.
[Hastily hides the knife, and says as though choked with agony.]
My whole soul — you and I — we, we, we and our child were in that solitary figure.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Eagerly, taking off his hat and drying the drops of sweat upon his brow.]
Yes, but let me tell you, too, how I have placed myself in the group. In front, beside a fountain — as it were here — sits a man weighed down with guilt, who cannot quite free himself from the earth-crust. I call him remorse for a forfeited life. He sits there and dips his fingers in the purling stream — to wash them clean — and he is gnawed and tortured by the thought that never, never will he succeed. Never in all eternity will he attain to freedom and the new life. He will remain for ever prisoned in his hell.

IRENE.
[Hardly and coldly.]
Poet!

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Why poet?

IRENE.
Because you are nerveless and sluggish and full of forgiveness for all the sins of your life, in thought and in act. You have killed my soul — so you model yourself in remorse, and self-accusation, and penance —
[Smiling.]
— and with that you think your account is cleared.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Defiantly.]
I am an artist, Irene. And I take no shame to myself for the frailties that perhaps cling to me. For I was born to be an artist, you see. And, do what I may, I shall never be anything else.

IRENE.
[Looks at him with a lurking evil smile, and says gently and softly.]
You are a poet, Arnold.
[Softly strokes his hair.]
You dear, great, middle-aged child, — is it possible that you cannot see that!

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Annoyed.]
Why do you keep on calling me a poet?

IRENE.
[With malign eyes.]
Because there is something apologetic in the word, my friend. Something that suggests forgiveness of sins — and spreads a cloak over all frailty.
[With a sudden change of tone.]
But I was a human being — then! And I, too, had a life to live, — and a human destiny to fulfil. And all that, look you, I let slip — gave it all up in order to make myself your bondwoman. — Oh, it was self-murder — a deadly sin against myself!
[Half whispering.]
And that sin I can never expiate! [She seats herself near him beside the brook, keeps close, though unnoticed, watch upon him, and, as though in absence of mind, plucks some flowers form the shrubs around them.

IRENE.
[With apparent self-control.]
I should have borne children in the world — many children — real children — not such children as are hidden away in grave-vaults. That was my vocation. I ought never to have served you — poet.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Lost in recollection.]
Yet those were beautiful days, Irene. Marvellously beautiful days — as I now look back upon them —

IRENE.
[Looking at him with a soft expression.]
Can you remember a little word that you said — when you had finished — finished with me and with our child?
[Nods to him.]
Can you remember that little word, Arnold?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Looks inquiringly at her.]
Did I say a little word then, which you still remember?

IRENE.
Yes, you did. Can you not recall it?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Shaking his head.]
No, I can’t say that I do. Not at the present moment, at any rate.

IRENE.
You took both my hands and pressed them warmly. And I stood there in breathless expectation. And then you said: “So now, Irene, I thank you from my heart. This,” you said, “has been a priceless episode for me.”

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Looks doubtfully at her.]
Did I say “episode”? It is not a word I am in the habit of using.

IRENE.
You said “episode.”

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[With assumed cheerfulness.]
Well, well — after all, it was in reality an episode.

IRENE.
[Curtly.]
At that word I left you.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
You take everything so painfully to heart, Irene.

IRENE.
[Drawing her hand over her forehead.]
Perhaps you are right. Let us shake off all the hard things that go to the heart.
[Plucks off the leaves of a mountain rose and strews them on the brook.]
Look there, Arnold. There are our birds swimming.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
What birds are they?

IRENE.
Can you not see? Of course they are flamingoes. Are they not rose-red?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Flamingoes do not swim. They only wade.

IRENE.
Then they are not flamingoes. They are sea-gulls.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
They may be sea-gulls with red bills, yes.
[Plucks broad green leaves and throws them into the brook.]
Now I send out my ships after them.

IRENE.
But there must be no harpoon-men on board.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
No, there shall be no harpoon-men.
[Smiles to her.]
Can you remember the summer when we used to sit like this outside the little peasant hut on the Lake of Taunitz?

IRENE.
[Nods.]
On Saturday evenings, yes, — when we had finished our week’s work —

PROFESSOR RUBEK. — And taken the train out to the lake — to stay there over Sunday —

IRENE.
[With an evil gleam of hatred in her eyes.]
It was an episode, Arnold.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[As if not hearing.]
Then, too, you used to set birds swimming in the brook. They were water-lilies which you —

IRENE.
They were white swans.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I meant swans, yes. And I remember that I fastened a great furry leaf to one of the swans. It looked like a burdock-leaf —

IRENE.
And then it turned into Lohengrin’s boat — with the swan yoked to it.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
How fond you were of that game, Irene.

IRENE.
We played it over and over again.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Every single Saturday, I believe, — all the summer through.

IRENE.
You said I was the swan that drew your boat.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Did I say so? Yes, I daresay I did.
[Absorbed in the game.]
Just see how the sea-gulls are swimming down the stream!

IRENE.
[Laughing.]
And all your ships have run ashore.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Throwing more leaves into the brook.]
I have ships enough in reserve.
[Follows the leaves with his eyes, throws more into the brook, and says after a pause.]
Irene, — I have bought the little peasant hut beside the Lake of Taunitz.

IRENE.
Have you bought it? You often said you would, if you could afford it.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
The day came when I could afford it easily enough; and so I bought it.

IRENE.
[With a sidelong look at him.]
Then do you live out there now — in our old house?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
No, I have had it pulled down long ago. And I have built myself a great, handsome, comfortable villa on the site — with a park around it. It is there that we —
[Stops and corrects himself.]
— there that I usually live during the summer.

IRENE.
[Mastering herself.]
So you and — and the other one live out there now?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[With a touch of defiance.]
Yes. When my wife and I are not travelling — as we are this year.

IRENE.
[Looking far before her.]
Life was beautiful, beautiful by the Lake of Taunitz.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[As though looking back into himself.]
And yet, Irene —

IRENE.
[Completing his thought.]
— yet we two let slip all that life and its beauty.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Softly, urgently.]
Does repentance come too late, now?

IRENE.
[Does not answer, but sits silent for a moment; then she points over the upland.]
Look there, Arnold, — now the sun is going down behind the peaks. See what a red glow the level rays cast over all the heathery knolls out yonder.