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THE COLLECTED WORKS OF

HENRIK IBSEN

VOLUME IX

ROSMERSHOLM

THE LADY FROM THE SEA

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF

HENRIK IBSEN

Copyright Edition. Complete in 11 Volumes.

Crown 8vo, price 4s. each.

ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY

WILLIAM ARCHER

London: WILLIAM HEINEMANN.

21 Bedford Street, W.C.

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN

Copyright Edition

VOLUME IX

ROSMERSHOLM

THE LADY FROM THE SEA

WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY

WILLIAM ARCHER

LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN

1910

Copyright Edition

First printed April 1907

Second Impression December 1910

CONTENTS

ROSMERSHOLM
INTRODUCTION

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 plebeian 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 the 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 over 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 Parliament, 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 Rosmersholm. 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 constitute 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 produced 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 Hedda 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 series, 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 drama—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.”

THE LADY FROM THE SEA
INTRODUCTION

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 can 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.

Ibsen 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 past 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 already 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 in 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 to 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 rely 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 Escholiers,” 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. The 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 in 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.

[1]. Condensed from an article in the Fortnightly Review, September 1885.

[2]. See note (in the Norwegian and German editions) to Ibsen’s Letters, No. 146. As to Charlotte Stieglitz, see Brandes’ Main Currents in Nineteenth Century Literature, vol. vi., p. 296 (London, Heinemann, 1905).

[3]. The date is July 16. On March 5 of the same year he had (as we shall see later) written down the first outline of what was afterwards to become The Lady from the Sea.

[4]. Published in Die neue Rundschau, December 1906. The same magazine contains a first draft of A Doll’s House. It appeared too late to be noticed in the Introduction to that play.

[5]. I met in Rome, in 1881-82, when Ibsen was living there, a minor official of the Vatican Library, then a middle-aged man, who had written eighteen or twenty tragedies, all of which I saw in exquisite manuscript. One of them, Coriolano, had been acted once, on the day, I think, before the Italian troops entered Rome in 1870. Is it possible that Ibsen, too, had come across this rival dramatist?

[6]. The name originally assigned her was “Thora.” Readers who know anything of Norway will probably realise how absolutely right was the substitution of “Ellida.” It is a masterstroke in the art of nomenclature.

[7]. It is suggested that the coincidence is to be regarded as part of the “occult” atmosphere of the play. But I doubt whether this was in the poet’s mind; and, in any case, the defence does not seem a very good one.

ROSMERSHOLM
(1886)

CHARACTERS.

• 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.

The action takes place at Rosmersholm, an old family seat near a small coast town in the west of Norway.

ROSMERSHOLM.

PLAY IN FOUR ACTS.

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.

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca West.

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

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

[Madam Helseth shuts the door into the hall, and then comes to the window.

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth[Helseth].

Will he venture across the foot-bridge?

Rebecca.

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.

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

[Looks at her.] The dead?

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

What makes you fancy that?

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

Do you believe in it, then?

Madam Helseth.

[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——?

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

Yes, so it is.

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

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.

[She goes out to the right. Rebecca stands at the window for a short time; then smiles and nods to some one outside. It begins to grow dark.

Rebecca.

[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.

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

Rector Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

You? How can you ask?

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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?

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

And you are too, are you not?

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

Their colours, too. They quite bewildered her——

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rebecca.

[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?

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

If you knew how we have missed you——

Kroll.

And then I have been away——

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

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?

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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?

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

So I did, though I say it that shouldn’t. For now 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.

Rebecca.

Oh no, don’t let us talk of it.

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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.

Kroll.

Why, of course you belong to it.

Rebecca.

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.

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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.

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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.

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

[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.

Kroll.

Ill-feeling? Why, what do you mean?

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

Why, how on earth——!

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rebecca.

What must you not say?

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

I have the only place I want, Rector.

Kroll.

In fact, yes; but not in——

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

You are really too absurd, Rector.

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Johannes Rosmer enters by the door on the right.

Rebecca.

Mr. Rosmer, do you see who is here?

Johannes Rosmer.

Madam Helseth told me.

[Rector Kroll has risen.

Rosmer.

[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.

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

[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.

Rosmer.

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.

Kroll.

Do you really?

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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.

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

[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.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

I was forced into it in spite of myself. It is impossible 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!

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

Into the school? Surely not into your school?

Kroll.

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!

Rebecca.

The “Beacon”?

Kroll.

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 me. Only the dunces at the bottom of the class have kept out of it.

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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?

Rebecca.

Oh no, of course not.

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

[Rises.] What! Into your own house——?

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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——

Rebecca.

How does your wife take all this?

Kroll.

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.

[Stands at the window with his hands behind his back, and looks out.

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

[As before.] Yes, just this evening.

[Goes to the table and busies herself with the lamp.

Kroll.

[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.

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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 trees 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.

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

[With surprise.] Wider?

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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?

Rosmer.

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.

Kroll.

Indeed! And you take it for granted that that must be an improvement! But in any case you are quite 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.”

Rebecca.

Yes; Mortensgård has great influence over many people hereabouts.

Kroll.

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.

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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?

Rosmer.

[Almost in consternation.] I!

Rebecca.

Oh, how can you think of such a thing?

Kroll.

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——

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

My name?

Kroll.

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!

Rosmer.

Oh, my name——

Kroll.

[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?

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

What do you say? Ludicrous?

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Madame Helseth appears in the doorway on the right.

Madam Helseth.

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

Rosmer.

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

Madam Helseth.

Into the sitting-room?

Rosmer.

Yes, of course.

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

Why, what does he look like, Madam Helseth?

Madam Helseth.

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

Rosmer.

Did he not give his name?

Madam Helseth.

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

Rosmer.

I know nobody of that name.

Madam Helseth.

And then he said he was called Uldric too.

Rosmer.

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

Madam Helseth.

Yes, so it was—Hetman.

Kroll.

I’ve surely heard that name before——

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

Then he is still alive.

Rosmer.

I heard he had joined a company of strolling players.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

Ask him to come in, Madam Helseth.

Madam Helseth.

Oh, very well. [She goes out.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

You know he was once my tutor.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Madam Helseth opens the door on the right for Ulric Brendel, and then withdraws, shutting the door behind him. He is a handsome man, with grey hair and beard; somewhat gaunt, but active and well set up. He is dressed like a common tramp; threadbare frock-coat; worn-out shoes; no shirt visible. He wears an old pair of black gloves, and carries a soft, greasy felt hat under his arm, and a walking-stick in his hand.

Ulric Brendel.

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

Kroll.

Excuse me——

Brendel.

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

Kroll.

Excuse me——[Pointing.] There——

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

[Takes his hand.] My old teacher.

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

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

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

Miss West.

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

Rector Kroll.

Brendel.

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

Kroll.

Of course I was.

Brendel.

Why Donnerwetter, then I knew you!

Kroll.

Pardon me——

Brendel.

Weren’t you——

Kroll.

Pardon me——

Brendel.

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

Kroll.

Very likely. But I disclaim any closer acquaintanceship.

Brendel.

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

Rebecca.

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

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——

Rosmer.

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

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

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

Brendel.

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 Professor—unter uns—have you a tolerably decent, reputable, and commodious Public Hall in your estimable city?

Kroll.

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

Brendel.

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

Kroll.

I have nothing to do with it.

Rebecca.

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

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

What makes you take him for an idiot?

Brendel.

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

Kroll.

I did not expect that answer.

Brendel.

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——

Rosmer.

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

Brendel.

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.

Rosmer.

How——?

Brendel.

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.

Kroll.

You too?

Brendel.

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

Kroll.

No, I must candidly confess that——

Rebecca.

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

Brendel.

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

Rebecca.

Indeed!

Brendel.

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

Rebecca.

How does that happen?

Brendel.

Because they are not written.

Rosmer.

But, my dear Mr. Brendel——

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.

Rosmer.

Yes, yes.

Brendel.

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. I have sated myself, in my secret thoughts, with a rapture—oh! so intense, so inebriating——!

Kroll.

H’m.

Rosmer.

But you have written nothing down?

Brendel.

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——!

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

The only thing.

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

[Returning the look.] Who knows?

Brendel.

My audience is touched. That does my heart good—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.

Kroll.

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

Brendel.

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.

Kroll.

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

Brendel.

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.

Rebecca.

Mayn’t I offer you anything before you go?

Brendel.

Of what sort, gracious lady?

Rebecca.

A cup of tea, or——

Brendel.

I thank my bountiful hostess—but I am always loath 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?

Rosmer.

Yes, with all my heart.

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

Nothing else?

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

Quite so. But is there nothing else?

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

Yes, yes; certainly I can.

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

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

Brendel.

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

Rosmer.

As you please. Come upstairs with me then.

Rebecca.

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

Brendel.

I cannot think of suffering this distinguished lady to——

Rebecca.

Oh, nonsense! Come along, Mr. Brendel.

[She goes out to the right.

Rosmer.

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

Brendel.

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?

Rosmer.

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

Brendel.

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 you lent me. Good-night my own dear boy; Good-night, respected Sir.

[Goes out to the right. Rosmer takes leave of him, and shuts the door behind him.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

[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.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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?

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

[Tries to spring up.] What is this?

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

Where—where, Rosmer?

Rosmer.

Where your children stand.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

On the same side as Laurits and Hilda.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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?

Rosmer.

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.

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

What task?

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

All the people——?

Rosmer.

As many as possible, at any rate.

Kroll.

By what means?

Rosmer.

By freeing their minds and purifying their wills.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

And you think they can?

Rosmer.

Yes.

Kroll.

By their own strength?

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

I am no longer a priest.

Kroll.

Well but—the faith of your fathers——?

Rosmer.

It is mine no more.

Kroll.

No more——!

Rosmer.

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

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?

Rosmer.

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.

Kroll.

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!

Rosmer.

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 been 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.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

You yourself have driven me to it, Kroll.

Kroll.

I? Have I driven you——?

Rosmer.

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?

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

Does that apply to me too?

Kroll.

It is you that have broken with me, Rosmer.

Rosmer.

Is this a breach then?

Kroll.

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

Rebecca West enters from the right, and opens the door wide.

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

He knows everything.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

I can never stand where I did.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

Beata’s——?

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

What? What do you mean?

Kroll.

Don’t ask. Bah! Forgive me! Good-bye!

[Goes towards the entrance door.

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

[He takes up his stick and goes out.

[Rosmer stands for a moment in the doorway; then shuts the door and walks up to the table.

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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!

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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!

Rebecca.

Good-night, dear friend! Sleep well.

[Rosmer goes out by the hall door; his steps are heard ascending the staircase.

[Rebecca goes and pulls a bell-rope near the stove. Shortly after, Madam Helseth enters from the right.

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

Well, well, well——

Madam Helseth.

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

Rebecca.

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

Madam Helseth.

Good-night, Miss.

[Rebecca[Rebecca] goes out to the right, with her crochet-work.

Madam Helseth.

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

ACT SECOND.

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.

Rosmer.

[Without moving.] Come in.

Rebecca West.

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

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

I only wanted to hear if you had slept well.

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

Oh yes, thanks—towards morning——

Rosmer.

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.

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

It wasn’t precisely cowardice——

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

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.

Rosmer.

Vexed? How can you think——?

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

Let me hear what it was.

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

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.

Rosmer.

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.

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

[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——?

Rebecca.

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

Rosmer.

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——

Madam Helseth appears at the door on the left.

Rebecca.

[Rises.] What is it, Madam Helseth?

Madam Helseth.

Rector Kroll is downstairs in the hall.

Rosmer.

[Rises hastily.] Kroll!

Rebecca.

The Rector! Is it possible——

Madam Helseth.

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

Rosmer.

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

[Romer stands holding the door open. Madam Helseth goes out. Rebecca draws the curtain before the doorway at the back, and then begins arranging things in the room.

Rector Kroll enters, with his hat in his hand.

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

Why may not Miss West——?

Rebecca.

No no, Mr. Rosmer. I will go.

Kroll.

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

Rebecca.

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

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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

Rebecca.

Allow me to wish you good morning, Rector Kroll.

[She goes out to the left.

Kroll.

By your leave—— [Sits on the sofa.

Rosmer.

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

[He seats himself in a chair directly opposite to the Rector.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

And what do you say to things to-day?

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

Has he called on you?

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

So he is incorrigible after all.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

Perhaps by you?

Kroll.

No; by the distinguished Mr. Mortensgård.

Rosmer.

Ah, indeed.

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

Well, it was lucky for him——

Kroll.

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.

Rosmer.

My dear Kroll, what can that be?

Kroll.

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

Rosmer.

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