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THE COLLECTED WORKS OF

HENRIK IBSEN

VOLUME X

HEDDA GABLER

THE MASTER BUILDER

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF

HENRIK IBSEN

Copyright Edition. Complete in 12 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 X

HEDDA GABLER

THE MASTER BUILDER

WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY

WILLIAM ARCHER

LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN

1912

Uniform Edition

First Printed, June 1907

New Impressions, September 1909, November 1912

Copyright 1907

CONTENTS

HEDDA GABLER.
INTRODUCTION.

From Munich, on June 29, 1890, Ibsen wrote to the Swedish poet, Count Carl Snoilsky: “Our intention has all along been to spend the summer in the Tyrol again. But circumstances are against our doing so. I am at present engaged upon a new dramatic work, which for several reasons has made very slow progress, and I do not leave Munich until I can take with me the completed first draft. There is little or no prospect of my being able to complete it in July.” Ibsen did not leave Munich at all that season. On October 30 he wrote: “At present I am utterly engrossed in a new play. Not one leisure hour have I had for several months.” Three weeks later (November 20) he wrote to his French translator, Count Prozor: “My new play is finished; the manuscript went off to Copenhagen the day before yesterday.... It produces a curious feeling of emptiness to be thus suddenly separated from a work which has occupied one’s time and thoughts for several months, to the exclusion of all else. But it is a good thing, too, to have done with it. The constant intercourse with the fictitious personages was beginning to make me quite nervous.” To the same correspondent he wrote on December 4: ”The title of the play is Hedda Gabler. My intention in giving it this name was to indicate that Hedda, as a personality, is to be regarded rather as her father’s daughter than as her husband’s wife. It was not my desire to deal in this play with so-called problems. What I principally wanted to do was to depict human beings, human emotions, and human destinies, upon a groundwork of certain of the social conditions and principles of the present day.“

So far we read the history of the play in the official “Correspondence.”[^[1]] Some interesting glimpses into the poet’s moods during the period between the completion of The Lady from the Sea and the publication of Hedda Gabler are to be found in the series of letters to Fräulein Emilie Bardach, of Vienna, published by Dr. George Brandes.[^[2]] This young lady Ibsen met at Gossensass in the Tyrol in the autumn of 1889. The record of their brief friendship belongs to the history of The Master Builder rather than to that of Hedda Gabler, but the allusions to his work in his letters to her during the winter of 1889 demand some examination.

So early as October 7, 1889, he writes to her: ”A new poem begins to dawn in me. I will execute it this winter, and try to transfer to it the bright atmosphere of the summer. But I feel that it will end in sadness—such is my nature.“ Was this “dawning” poem Hedda Gabler? Or was it rather The Master Builder that was germinating in his mind? Who shall say? The latter hypothesis seems the more probable, for it is hard to believe that, at any stage in the incubation of Hedda Gabler, he can have conceived it as even beginning in a key of gaiety. A week later, however, he appears to have made up his mind that the time had not come for the poetic utilisation of his recent experiences. He writes on October 15: ”Here I sit as usual at my writing-table. Now I would fain work, but am unable to. My fancy, indeed, is very active. But it always wanders away. It wanders where it has no business to wander during working hours. I cannot repress my summer memories—nor do I wish to. I live through my experiences again and again and yet again. To transmute it all into a poem, I find, in the meantime, impossible.“ Clearly, then, he felt that his imagination ought to have been engaged on some theme having no relation to his summer experiences—the theme, no doubt, of Hedda Gabler. In his next letter, dated October 29, he writes: “Do not be troubled because I cannot, in the meantime, create (dichten). In reality I am for ever creating, or, at any rate, dreaming of something which, when in the fulness of time it ripens, will reveal itself as a creation (Dichtung).” On November 19 he says: “I am very busily occupied with preparations for my new poem. I sit almost the whole day at my writing-table. Go out only in the evening for a little while.” The five following letters contain no allusion to the play; but on September 18, 1890, he wrote: “My wife and son are at present at Riva, on the Lake of Garda, and will probably remain there until the middle of October, or even longer. Thus I am quite alone here, and cannot get away. The new play on which I am at present engaged will probably not be ready until November, though I sit at my writing-table daily, and almost the whole day long.”

Here ends the history of Hedda Gabler, so far as the poet’s letters carry us. Its hard clear outlines, and perhaps somewhat bleak atmosphere, seem to have resulted from a sort of reaction against the sentimental “dreamery” begotten of his Gossensass experiences. He sought refuge in the chill materialism of Hedda from the ardent transcendentalism of Hilda, whom he already heard knocking at the door. He was not yet in the mood to deal with her on the plane of poetry.[^[3]]

Hedda Gabler was published in Copenhagen on December 16, 1890. This was the first of Ibsen’s plays to be translated from proof-sheets and published in England and America almost simultaneously with its first appearance in Scandinavia. The earliest theatrical performance took place at the Residenz Theater, Munich, on the last day of January 1891, in the presence of the poet, Frau Conrad-Ramlo playing the title-part. The Lessing Theater, Berlin, followed suit on February 10. Not till February 25 was the play seen in Copenhagen, with Fru Hennings as Hedda. On the following night it was given for the first time in Christiania, the Norwegian Hedda being Fröken Constance Bruun. It was this production which the poet saw when he visited the Christiania Theater for the first time after his return to Norway, August 28, 1891. It would take pages to give even the baldest list of the productions and revivals of Hedda Gabler in Scandinavia and Germany, where it has always ranked among Ibsen’s most popular works. The admirable production of the play by Miss Elizabeth Robins and Miss Marion Lea, at the Vaudeville Theatre, London, April 20, 1891, may be counted the second great step towards the popularisation of Ibsen in England, the first being the Charrington-Achurch production of A Doll’s House in 1889. Miss Robins afterwards repeated her fine performance of Hedda many times, in London, in the English provinces, and in New York. The character has also been acted in London by Eleonora Duse, and as I write (March 5, 1907) by Mrs. Patrick Campbell, at the Court Theatre. In America, Hedda has frequently been acted by Mrs. Fiske, Miss Nance O’Neill and other actresses—quite recently by a Russian actress, Madame Alla Nazimova, who (playing in English) has made a great success both in this part and in Nora. The first French Hedda Gabler was Mlle. Marthe Brandès, who played the part at the Vaudeville Theatre, Paris, on December 17, 1891, the performance being introduced by a lecture by M. Jules Lemaître. In Holland, in Italy, in Russia, the play has been acted times without number. In short (as might easily have been foretold) it has rivalled A Doll’s House in world-wide popularity.

It has been suggested,[^[4]] I think without sufficient ground, that Ibsen deliberately conceived Hedda Gabler as an “international” play, and that the scene is really the “west end” of any great European city. To me it seems quite clear that Ibsen had Christiania in mind, and the Christiania of a somewhat earlier period than the ’nineties. The electric cars, telephones, and other conspicuous factors in the life of a modern capital are notably absent from the play. There is no electric light in Secretary Falk’s villa. It is still the habit for ladies to return on foot from evening parties, with gallant swains escorting them. This “suburbanism,” which so distressed the London critics of 1891, was characteristic of the Christiania Ibsen himself had known in the ’sixties—the Christiania of Love’s Comedy—rather than of the greatly extended and modernised city of the end of the century. Moreover, Lövborg’s allusions to the fiord, and the suggested picture of Sheriff Elvsted, his family and his avocations, are all distinctively Norwegian. The truth seems to be very simple—the environment and the subsidiary personages are all thoroughly national, but Hedda herself is an “international” type, a product of civilisation by no means peculiar to Norway.

We cannot point to any individual model or models who “sat to” Ibsen for the character of Hedda.[^[5]] The late Grant Allen declared that Hedda was “nothing more nor less than the girl we take down to dinner in London nineteen times out of twenty”; in which case Ibsen must have suffered from a superfluity of models, rather than from any difficulty in finding one. But the fact is that in this, as in all other instances, the word “model” must be taken in a very different sense from that in which it is commonly used in painting. Ibsen undoubtedly used models for this trait and that, but never for a whole figure. If his characters can be called portraits at all, they are composite portraits. Even when it seems pretty clear that the initial impulse towards the creation of a particular character came from some individual, the original figure is entirely transmuted in the process of harmonisation with the dramatic scheme. We need not, therefore, look for a definite prototype of Hedda; but Dr. Brandes shows that two of that lady’s exploits were probably suggested by the anecdotic history of the day.

Ibsen had no doubt heard how the wife of a well-known Norwegian composer, in a fit of raging jealousy excited by her husband’s prolonged absence from home, burnt the manuscript of a symphony which he had just finished. The circumstances under which Hedda burns Lövborg’s manuscript are, of course, entirely different and infinitely more dramatic; but here we have merely another instance of the dramatisation or “poetisation” of the raw material of life. Again, a still more painful incident probably came to his knowledge about the same time. A beautiful and very intellectual woman was married to a well-known man who had been addicted to drink, but had entirely conquered the vice. One day a mad whim seized her to put his self-mastery and her power over him to the test. As it happened to be his birthday, she rolled into his study a small keg of brandy, and then withdrew. She returned some time afterwards to find that he had broached the keg, and lay insensible on the floor. In this anecdote we cannot but recognise the germ, not only of Hedda’s temptation of Lövborg, but of a large part of her character.

“Thus,” says Dr. Brandes, “out of small and scattered traits of reality Ibsen fashioned his close-knit and profoundly thought-out works of art.”

For the character of Eilert Lövborg, again, Ibsen seems unquestionably to have borrowed several traits from a definite original. A young Danish man of letters, whom Dr. Brandes calls Holm, was an enthusiastic admirer of Ibsen, and came to be on very friendly terms with him. One day Ibsen was astonished to receive, in Munich, a parcel addressed from Berlin by this young man, containing, without a word of explanation, a packet of his (Ibsen’s) letters, and a photograph which he had presented to Holm. Ibsen brooded and brooded over the incident, and at last came to the conclusion that the young man had intended to return her letters and photograph to a young lady to whom he was known to be attached, and had in a fit of aberration mixed up the two objects of his worship. Some time after, Holm appeared at Ibsen’s rooms. He talked quite rationally, but professed to have no knowledge whatever of the letter-incident, though he admitted the truth of Ibsen’s conjecture that the “belle dame sans merci” had demanded the return of her letters and portrait. Ibsen was determined to get at the root of the mystery; and a little inquiry into his young friend’s habits revealed the fact that he broke his fast on a bottle of port wine, consumed a bottle of Rhine wine at lunch, of Burgundy at dinner, and finished off the evening with one or two more bottles of port. Then he heard, too, how, in the course of a night’s carouse, Holm had lost the manuscript of a book; and in these traits he saw the outline of the figure of Eilert Lövborg.

Some time elapsed, and again Ibsen received a postal packet from Holm. This one contained his will, in which Ibsen figured as his residuary legatee. But many other legatees were mentioned in the instrument—all of them ladies, such as Fräulein Alma Rothbart, of Bremen, and Fräulein Elise Kraushaar, of Berlin. The bequests to these meritorious spinsters were so generous that their sum considerably exceeded the amount of the testator’s property. Ibsen gently but firmly declined the proffered inheritance; but Holm’s will no doubt suggested to him the figure of that red-haired “Mademoiselle Diana” who is heard of but not seen in Hedda Gabler, and enabled him to add some further traits to the portraiture of Lövborg. When the play appeared, Holm recognised himself with glee in the character of the bibulous man of letters, and thereafter adopted “Eilert Lövborg” as his pseudonym. I do not, therefore, see why Dr. Brandes should suppress his real name; but I willingly imitate him in erring on the side of discretion. The poor fellow died several years ago.

Some critics have been greatly troubled as to the precise meaning of Hedda’s fantastic vision of Lövborg “with vine-leaves in his hair.” Surely this is a very obvious image or symbol of the beautiful, tho ideal, aspect of bacchic elation and revelry. Antique art, or I am much mistaken, shows us many figures of Dionysus himself and his followers with vine-leaves entwined in their hair. To Ibsen’s mind, at any rate, the image had long been familiar. In Peer Gynt (Act iv. sc. 8), when Peer, having carried off Anitra, finds himself in a particularly festive mood, he cries: “Were there vine-leaves around, I would garland my brow.” Again, in Emperor and Galilean (Pt. II. Act i.) where Julian, in the procession of Dionysus, impersonates the god himself, it is directed that he shall wear a wreath of vine-leaves. Professor Dietrichson relates that among the young artists whose society Ibsen frequented during his first years in Rome, it was customary, at their little festivals, for the revellers to deck themselves in this fashion. But the image is so obvious that there is no need to trace it to any personal experience. The attempt to place Hedda’s vine-leaves among Ibsen’s obscurities is an example of the firm resolution not to understand which animated the criticism of the ’nineties.

Dr. Brandes has dealt very severely with the character of Eilert Lövborg, alleging that we cannot believe in the genius attributed to him. But where is he described as a genius? The poet represents him as a very able student of sociology; but that is a quite different thing from attributing to him such genius as must necessarily shine forth in every word he utters. Dr. Brandes, indeed, declines to believe even in his ability as a sociologist, on the ground that it is idle to write about the social development of the future. “To our prosaic minds,” he says, “it may seem as if the most sensible utterance on the subject is that of the fool of the play: ‘The future! Good heavens, we know nothing of the future.’” The best retort to this criticism is that which Eilert himself makes: ”There’s a thing or two to be said about it all the same.“ The intelligent forecasting of the future (as Mr. H. G. Wells has shown) is not only clearly distinguishable from fantastic Utopianism, but is indispensable to any large statesmanship or enlightened social activity. With very real and very great respect for Dr. Brandes, I cannot think that he has been fortunate in his treatment of Lövborg’s character. It has been represented as an absurdity that he should think of reading extracts from his new book to a man like Tesman, whom he despises. But though Tesman is a ninny, he is, as Hedda says, a ”specialist“—he is a competent, plodding student of his subject. Lövborg may quite naturally wish to see how his new method, or his excursion into a new field, strikes the average scholar of the Tesman type. He is, in fact, ”trying it on the dog“—neither an unreasonable nor an unusual proceeding. There is, no doubt, a certain improbability in the way in which Lövborg is represented as carrying his manuscript around, and especially in Mrs. Elvsted’s production of his rough draft from her pocket; but these are mechanical trifles, on which only a niggling criticism would dream of laying stress.

Of all Ibsen’s works, Hedda Gabler is the most detached, the most objective—a character-study pure and simple. It is impossible—or so it seems to me—to extract any sort of general idea from it. One cannot even call it a satire, unless one is prepared to apply that term to the record of a “case” in a work on criminology. Reverting to Dumas’s dictum that a play should contain “a painting, a judgment, an ideal,” we may say that Hedda Gabler fulfils only the first of these requirements. The poet does not even pass judgment on his heroine: he simply paints her full-length portrait with scientific impassivity. But what a portrait! How searching in insight, how brilliant in colouring, how rich in detail! Grant Allen’s remark, above quoted, was, of course, a whimsical exaggeration: the Hedda type is not so common as all that, else the world would quickly come to an end. But particular traits and tendencies of the Hedda type are very common in modern life, and not only among women. Hyperæsthesia lies at the root of her tragedy. With a keenly critical, relentlessly solvent intelligence, she combines a morbid shrinking from all the gross and prosaic detail of the sensual life. She has nothing to take her out of herself—not a single intellectual interest or moral enthusiasm. She cherishes, in a languid way, a petty social ambition; and even that she finds obstructed and baffled. At the same time she learns that another woman has had the courage to love and venture all, where she, in her cowardice, only hankered and refrained. Her malign egoism rises up uncontrolled, and calls to its aid her quick and subtle intellect. She ruins the other woman’s happiness, but in doing so incurs a danger from which her sense of personal dignity revolts. Life has no such charm for her that she cares to purchase it at the cost of squalid humiliation and self-contempt. The good and the bad in her alike impel her to have done with it all; and a pistol-shot ends what is surely one of the most poignant character-tragedies in literature. Ibsen’s brain never worked at higher pressure than in the conception and adjustment of those “crowded hours” in which Hedda, tangled in the web of Will and Circumstance, struggles on till she is too weary to struggle any more.

It may not be superfluous to note that the “a” in “Gabler” should be sounded long and full, like the “a” in “garden”—not like the “a” in “gable” or in “gabble.”

THE MASTER BUILDER.
INTRODUCTION.

With The Master Builder—or Master Builder Solness, as the title runs in the original—we enter upon the final stage in Ibsen’s career. “You are essentially right,” the poet wrote to Count Prozor in March 1900, “when you say that the series which closes with the Epilogue (When We Dead Awaken) began with Master Builder Solness.”

“Ibsen,” says Dr. Brahm, ”wrote in Christiania all the four works which he thus seems to bracket together—Solness, Eyolf, Borkman, and When We Dead Awaken. He returned to Norway in July 1891, for a stay of indefinite length; but the restless wanderer over Europe was destined to leave his home no more.... He had not returned, however, to throw himself, as of old, into the battle of the passing day. Polemics are entirely absent from the poetry of his old age. He leaves the State and Society at peace. He who had departed as the creator of Falk [in Love’s Comedy] now, on his return, gazes, not satirically, but rather in a lyric mood, into the secret places of human nature and the wonders of his own soul.“

Dr. Brahm, however, seems to be mistaken in thinking that Ibsen returned to Norway with no definite intention of settling down. Dr. Julius Elias (an excellent authority) reports that shortly before Ibsen left Munich in 1891, he remarked one day, “I must get back to the North!” “Is that a sudden impulse?” asked Elias. “Oh no,” was the reply; ”I want to be a good head of a household and have my affairs in order. To that end I must consolidate my property, lay it down in good securities, and get it under control—and that one can best do where one has rights of citizenship.“ Some critics will no doubt be shocked to find the poet whom they have written down an “anarchist” confessing such bourgeois motives.

After his return to Norway, Ibsen’s correspondence became very scant, and we have no letters dating from the period when he was at work on The Master Builder. On the other hand, we possess a curious lyrical prelude to the play, which he put on paper on March 16, 1892. It is said to have been his habit, before setting to work on a play, to “crystallise in a poem the mood which then possessed him”; but the following is the only one of these keynote-poems which has been published. I give it in the original language, with a literal translation:

DE SAD DER, DE TO—

De sad der, de to, i saa lunt et hus

ved höst og i vinterdage,

Saa brændte huset. Alt ligger i grus.

De to faar i asken rage.

For nede i den er et smykke gemt,—

et smykke, som aldrig kan brænde,

Og leder de trofast, hænder det nemt

at det findes af ham eller hende.

Men finder de end, de brandlidte to,

det dyre, ildfaste smykke,—

aldrig hun finder sin brændte tro,

han aldrig sin brændte lykke.

THEY SAT THERE, THE TWO—

They sat there, the two, in so cosy a house, through autumn and winter days. Then the house burned down. Everything lies in ruins. The two must grope among the ashes.

For among them is hidden a jewel—a jewel that never can burn. And if they search faithfully, it may easily happen that he or she may find it.

But even should they find it, the burnt-out two—find this precious unburnable jewel—never will she find her burnt faith, he never his burnt happiness.

This is the latest piece of Ibsen’s verse that has been given to the world; but one of his earliest poems—first printed in 1858—was also, in some sort, a prelude to The Master Builder. Of this a literal translation may suffice. It is called

BUILDING-PLANS

I remember as clearly as if it had been to-day the evening when, in the paper, I saw my first poem in print. There I sat in my den, and, with long-drawn puffs, I smoked and I dreamed in blissful self-complacency.

”I will build a cloud-castle. It shall shine all over the North. It shall have two wings: one little and one great. The great wing shall shelter a deathless poet; the little wing shall serve as a young girl’s bower.“

The plan seemed to me nobly harmonious; but as time went on it fell into confusion. When the master grew reasonable, the castle turned utterly crazy; the great wing became too little, the little wing fell to ruin.

Thus we see that, thirty-five years before the date of The Master Builder, Ibsen’s imagination was preoccupied with a symbol of a master building a castle in the air, and a young girl in one of its towers.

There has been some competition among the poet’s young lady friends for the honour of having served as his model for Hilda. Several, no doubt, are entitled to some share in it. One is not surprised to learn that among the papers he left behind were sheaves upon sheaves of letters from women. “All these ladies,” says Dr. Julius Elias, ”demanded something of him—some cure for their agonies of soul, or for the incomprehension from which they suffered; some solution of the riddle of their nature. Almost every one of them regarded herself as a problem to which Ibsen could not but have the time and the interest to apply himself. They all thought they had a claim on the creator of Nora.... Of this chapter of his experience, Fru Ibsen spoke with ironic humour. ‘Ibsen (I have often said to him), Ibsen, keep these swarms of over-strained womenfolk at arm’s length.’ ‘Oh no (he would reply), let them alone. I want to observe them more closely.’ His observations would take a longer or shorter time as the case might be, and would always contribute to some work of art.“

The principal model for Hilda was doubtless Fräulein Emilie Bardach, of Vienna, whom he met at Gossensass in the autumn of 1889. He was then sixty-one years of age; she is said to have been seventeen. As the lady herself handed his letters to Dr. Brandes for publication, there can be no indiscretion in speaking of them freely. Some passages from them I have quoted in the introduction to Hedda Gabler—passages which show that at first the poet deliberately put aside his Gossensass impressions for use when he should stand at a greater distance from them, and meanwhile devoted himself to work in a totally different key. On October 15, 1889, he writes, in his second letter to Fräulein Bardach: “I cannot repress my summer memories, nor do I want to. I live through my experiences again and again, and yet again. To transmute it all into a poem I find, in the meantime, impossible. In the meantime? Shall I succeed in doing so sometime in the future? And do I really wish to succeed? In the meantime, at any rate, I do not.... And yet it must come in time.” The letters number twelve in all, and are couched in a tone of sentimental regret for the brief, bright summer days of their acquaintanceship. The keynote is struck in the inscription on the back of a photograph which he gave her before they parted: An die Maisonne eines Septemberlebens—in Tirol, 27/9/89.[^[6]] In her album he had written the words:

Hohes, schmerzliches Glück—

um das Unerreichbare zu ringen![^[7]]

in which we may, if we like, see a foreshadowing of the Solness frame of mind. In the fifth letter of the series he refers to her as “an enigmatic Princess”; in the sixth he twice calls her “my dear Princess”; but this is the only point at which the letters quite definitely and unmistakably point forward to The Master Builder. In the ninth letter (February 6, 1890) he says: “I feel it a matter of conscience to end, or, at any rate, to restrict, our correspondence.” The tenth letter, six months later, is one of kindly condolence on the death of the young lady’s father. In the eleventh (very short) note, dated December 30, 1890, he acknowledges some small gift, but says: “Please, for the present, do not write to me again.... I will soon send you my new play [Hedda Gabler]. Receive it in friendship, but in silence!” This injunction she apparently obeyed. When The Master Builder appeared, it would seem that Ibsen did not even send her a copy of the play; and we gather that he was rather annoyed when she sent him a photograph signed “Princess of Orangia.” On his seventieth birthday, however, she telegraphed her congratulations, to which he returned a very cordial reply. And here their relations ended.

That she was right, however, in regarding herself as his principal model for Hilda, appears from an anecdote related by Dr. Elias.[^[8]] It is not an altogether pleasing anecdote, but Dr. Elias is an unexceptionable witness, and it can by no means be omitted from an examination into the origins of The Master Builder. Ibsen had come to Berlin in February 1891 for the first performance of Hedda Gabler. Such experiences were always a trial to him, and he felt greatly relieved when they were over. Packing, too, he detested; and Elias having helped him through this terrible ordeal, the two sat down to lunch together, while awaiting the train. An expansive mood descended upon Ibsen, and chuckling over his champagne-glass, he said: ”Do you know, my next play is already hovering before me—of course in vague outline. But of one thing I have got firm hold. An experience: a woman’s figure. Very interesting, very interesting indeed. Again spice of devilry in it.“ Then he related how he had met in the Tyrol a Viennese girl of very remarkable character. She had at once made him her confidant. The gist of her confessions was that she did not care a bit about one day marrying a well brought-up young man—most likely she would never marry. What tempted and charmed and delighted her was to lure other women’s husbands away from them. She was a little dæmonic wrecker; she often appeared to him like a little bird of prey, that would fain have made him, too, her booty. He had studied her very, very closely. For the rest, she had had no great success with him. ”She did not get hold of me, but I got hold of her—for my play. Then I fancy“ (here he chuckled again) “she consoled herself with some one else.” Love seemed to mean for her only a sort of morbid imagination. This, however, was only one side of her nature. His little model had had a great deal of heart and of womanly understanding; and thanks to the spontaneous power she could gain over him, every woman might, if she wished it, guide some man towards the good. “Thus Ibsen spoke,” says Elias, ”calmly and coolly, gazing as it were into the far distance, like an artist taking an objective view of some experience—like Rubek speaking of his soul-thefts. He had stolen a soul, and put it to a double employment. Thea Elvsted and Hilda Wangel are intimately related—are, indeed, only different expressions of the same nature.“ If Ibsen actually declared Thea and Hilda to be drawn from one model, we must of course take his word for it; but the relationship is hard to discern.

There can be no reasonable doubt, then, that the Gossensass episode gave the primary impulse to The Master Builder. But it seems pretty well established, too, that another lady, whom he met in Christiania after his return in 1891, also contributed largely to the character of Hilda. This may have been the reason why he resented Fraülein Bardach’s appropriating to herself the title of “Princess of Orangia.”

The play was published in the middle of December 1892. It was acted both in Germany and England before it was seen in the Scandinavian capitals. Its first performance took place at the Lessing Theatre, Berlin, January 19, 1893, with Emanuel Reicher as Solness and Frl. Reisenhofer as Hilda. In London it was first performed at the Trafalgar Square Theatre (now the Duke of York’s) on February 20, 1893, under the direction of Mr. Herbert Waring and Miss Elizabeth Robins, who played Solness and Hilda. This was one of the most brilliant and successful of English Ibsen productions. Miss Robins was almost an ideal Hilda, and Mr. Waring’s Solness was exceedingly able. Some thirty performances were given in all, and the play was reproduced at the Opera Comique later in the season, with Mr. Lewis Waller as Solness. In the following year Miss Robins acted Hilda in Manchester. In Christiania and Copenhagen the play was produced on the same evening, March 8, 1893; the Copenhagen Solness and Hilda were Emil Poulsen and Fru Hennings. A Swedish production, by Lindberg, soon followed, both in Stockholm and Gothenburg. In Paris Solness le constructeur was not seen until April 3, 1894, when it was produced by “L’Œuvre” with M. Lugné-Poë as Solness. This company, sometimes with Mme. Suzanne Desprès and sometimes with Mme. Berthe Bady as Hilda, in 1894 and 1895 presented the play in London, Brussels, Amsterdam, Milan, and other cities. In October 1894 they visited Christiania, where Ibsen was present at one of their performances, and is reported by Herman Bang to have been so enraptured with it that he exclaimed, “This is the resurrection of my play!” On this occasion Mme. Bady was the Hilda. The first performance of the play in America took place at the Carnegie Lyceum, New York, on January 16, 1900, with Mr. William H. Pascoe as Solness and Miss Florence Kahn as Hilda. The performance was repeated in the course of the same month, both at Washington and Boston.

In England, and probably elsewhere as well, The Master Builder produced a curious double effect. It alienated many of the poet’s staunchest admirers, and it powerfully attracted many people who had hitherto been hostile to him. Looking back, it is easy to see why this should have been so; for here was certainly a new thing in drama, which could not but set up many novel reactions. A greater contrast could scarcely be imagined than that between the hard, cold, precise outlines of Hedda Gabler and the vague mysterious atmosphere of The Master Builder, in which, though the dialogue is sternly restrained within the limits of prose, the art of drama seems for ever on the point of floating away to blend with the art of music. Substantially, the play is one long dialogue between Solness and Hilda; and it would be quite possible to analyse this dialogue in terms of music, noting (for example) the announcement first of this theme and then of that, the resumption and reinforcement of a theme which seemed to have been dropped, the contrapuntal interweaving of two or more motives, a scherzo here, a fugal passage there. Leaving this exercise to someone more skilled in music (or less unskilled) than myself, I may note that in The Master Builder Ibsen resumes his favourite retrospective method, from which in Hedda Gabler he had in great measure departed. But the retrospect with which we are here concerned is purely psychological. The external events involved in it are few and simple in comparison with the external events which are successively unveiled in the retrospective passages of The Wild Duck or Rosmersholm. The matter of the play is the soul-history of Halvard Solness, recounted to an impassioned listener—so impassioned, indeed, that the soul-changes it begets in her form an absorbing and thrilling drama. The graduations, retardations, accelerations of Solness’s self-revealment are managed with the subtlest art, so as to keep the interest of the spectator ever on the stretch. The technical method was not new; it was simply that which Ibsen had been perfecting from Pillars of Society onward; but it was applied to a subject of a nature not only new to him, but new to literature.

That the play is full of symbolism it would be futile to deny; and the symbolism is mainly autobiographic. The churches which Solness sets out by building doubtless represent Ibsen’s early romantic plays, the “homes for human beings,” his social dramas; while the houses with high towers, merging into “castles in the air,” stand for those spiritual dramas, with a wide outlook over the metaphysical environment of humanity, on which he was henceforth to be engaged. Perhaps it is not altogether fanciful to read a personal reference into Solness’s refusal to call himself an architect, on the ground that his training has not been systematic—that he is a self-taught man. Ibsen too was in all essentials self-taught; his philosophy was entirely unsystematic; and, like Solness, he was no student of books. There may be an introspective note also in that dread of the younger generation to which Solness confesses. It is certain that the old Master Builder was not lavish of his certificates of competence to young aspirants, though there is nothing to show that his reticence ever depressed or quenched any rising genius.

On the whole, then, it cannot be doubted that several symbolic motives are inwoven into the iridescent fabric of the play. But it is a great mistake to regard it as essentially and inseparably a piece of symbolism. Essentially it is the history of a sickly conscience, worked out in terms of pure psychology. Or rather, it is a study of a sickly and a robust conscience side by side. “The conscience is very conservative,” Ibsen has somewhere said; and here Solness’s conservatism is contrasted with Hilda’s radicalism—or rather would-be radicalism, for we are led to suspect, towards the close, that the radical too is a conservative in spite of herself. The fact that Solness cannot climb as high as he builds implies, I take it, that he cannot act as freely as he thinks, or as Hilda would goad him into thinking. At such an altitude his conscience would turn dizzy, and life would become impossible to him. But here I am straying back to the interpretation of symbols. My present purpose is to insist that there is nothing in the play which has no meaning on the natural-psychological plane, and absolutely requires a symbolic interpretation to make it comprehensible. The symbols are harmonic undertones; the psychological melody is clear and consistent without any reference to them.[^[9]] It is true that, in order to accept the action on what we may call the realistic level, we must suppose Solness to possess and to exercise, sometimes in spite of himself, and sometimes unconsciously, a considerable measure of hypnotic power. But the time is surely past when we could reckon hypnotism among “supernatural” phenomena. Whether the particular forms of hypnotic influence attributed to Solness do actually exist is a question we need not determine. The poet does not demand our absolute credence, as though he were giving evidence in the witness-box. What he requires is our imaginative acceptance of certain incidents which he purposely leaves hovering on the border between the natural and the preternatural, the explained and the unexplained. In this play, as in The Lady from the Sea and Little Eyolf, he shows a delicacy of art in his dalliance with the occult which irresistibly recalls the exquisite genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne.[^[10]]

The critics who insist on finding nothing but symbolism in the play have fastened on Mrs. Solness’s “nine lovely dolls,” and provided the most amazing interpretations for them. A letter contributed in 1893 to the Westminster Gazette records an incident which throws a curious light on the subject, and may be worth preserving. “At a recent first-night,” I wrote, ”I happened to be seated just behind a well-known critic. He turned round to me and said, ‘I want you to tell me what is your theory of those “nine lovely dolls.” Of course one can see that they are entirely symbolical.’ ‘I am not so sure of that,’ I replied, remembering a Norwegian cousin of my own who treasured a favourite doll until she was nearer thirty than twenty. ‘They of course symbolise the unsatisfied passion of motherhood in Mrs. Solness’s heart, but I have very little doubt that Ibsen makes use of this “symbol” because he has observed a similar case, or cases, in real life.’ ‘What!’ cried the critic. ‘He has seen a grown-up, a middle-aged, woman continuing to “live with” her dolls!’ I was about to say that it did not seem to me so very improbable, when a lady who was seated next me, a total stranger to both of us, leant forward and said, ‘Excuse my interrupting you, but it may perhaps interest you to know that I have three dolls to which I am deeply attached!’ I will not be so rude as to conjecture this lady’s age, but we may be sure that a very young woman would not have had the courage to make such an avowal. Does it not seem that Ibsen knows a thing or two about human nature—English as well as Norwegian—which we dramatic critics, though bound by our calling to be subtle psychologists, have not yet fathomed?“ In the course of the correspondence which followed, one very apposite anecdote was quoted from an American paper, the Argonaut: “An old Virginia lady said to a friend, on finding a treasured old cup cracked by a careless maid, ‘I know of nothing to compare with the affliction of losing a handsome piece of old china.’ ‘Surely,’ said the friend, ‘it is not so bad as losing one’s children.’ ‘Yes, it is,’ replied the old lady, ’for when your children die, you do have the consolations of religion, you know.’”

It would be a paradox to call The Master Builder Ibsen’s greatest work, but one of his three or four greatest it assuredly is. Of all his writings, it is probably the most original, the most individual, the most unlike any other drama by any other writer. The form of Brand and Peer Gynt was doubtless suggested by other dramatic poems—notably by Faust. In The Wild Duck, in Rosmersholm, in Hedda Gabler, even in Little Eyolf and John Gabriel Borkman, there remain faint traces of the French leaven which was so strong in the earlier plays. But The Master Builder had no model and has no parallel. It shows no slightest vestige of outside influence. It is Ibsen, and nothing but Ibsen.

HEDDA GABLER

(1890)

CHARACTERS.

• George Tesman.[^[11]]
• Hedda Tesman, his wife.
• Miss Juliana Tesman, his aunt.
• Mrs. Elvsted.
• Judge[^[12]] Brack.
• Eilert Lövborg.
• Berta, servant at the Tesmans.

The scene of the action is Tesman’s villa, in the west end of Christiania.

HEDDA GABLER.

PLAY IN FOUR ACTS.

ACT FIRST.

A spacious, handsome, and tastefully furnished drawing-room, decorated in dark colours. In the back, a wide doorway with curtains drawn back, leading into a smaller room decorated in the same style as the drawing-room. In the right-hand wall of the front room, a folding door leading out to the hall. In the opposite wall, on the left, a glass door, also with curtains drawn back. Through the panes can be seen part of a veranda outside, and trees covered with autumn foliage. An oval table, with a cover on it, and surrounded by chairs, stands well forward. In front, by the wall on the right, a wide stove of dark porcelain, a high-backed arm-chair, a cushioned foot-rest, and two footstools. A settee, with a small round table in front of it, fills the upper right-hand corner. In front, on the left, a little way from the wall, a sofa. Further back than the glass door, a piano. On either side of the doorway at the back a what-not with terra-cotta and majolica ornaments.—Against the back wall of the inner room a sofa, with a table, and one or two chairs. Over the sofa hangs the portrait of a handsome elderly man in a General’s uniform. Over the table a hanging lamp, with an opal glass shade.—A number of bouquets are arranged about the drawing-room, in vases and glasses. Others lie upon the tables. The floors in both rooms are covered with thick carpets.—Morning light. The sun shines in through the glass door.

Miss Juliana Tesman, with her bonnet on and carrying a parasol, comes in from the hall, followed by Berta, who carries a bouquet wrapped in paper. Miss Tesman is a comely and pleasant-looking lady of about sixty-five. She is nicely but simply dressed in a grey walking-costume. Berta is a middle-aged woman of plain and rather countrified appearance.

Miss Tesman.

[Stops close to the door, listens, and says softly:] Upon my word, I don’t believe they are stirring yet!

Berta.

[Also softly.] I told you so, Miss. Remember how late the steamboat got in last night. And then, when they got home!—good Lord, what a lot the young mistress had to unpack before she could get to bed.

Miss Tesman.

Well well—let them have their sleep out. But let us see that they get a good breath of the fresh morning air when they do appear.

[She goes to the glass door and throws it open.

Berta.

[Beside the table, at a loss what to do with the bouquet in her hand.] I declare there isn’t a bit of room left. I think I’ll put it down here, Miss.

[She places it on the piano.

Miss Tesman.

So you’ve got a new mistress now, my dear Berta. Heaven knows it was a wrench to me to part with you.

Berta.

[On the point of weeping.] And do you think it wasn’t hard for me too, Miss? After all the blessed years I’ve been with you and Miss Rina.[^[13]]

Miss Tesman.

We must make the best of it, Berta. There was nothing else to be done. George can’t do without you, you see—he absolutely can’t. He has had you to look after him ever since he was a little boy.

Berta.

Ah but, Miss Julia, I can’t help thinking of Miss Rina lying helpless at home there, poor thing. And with only that new girl too! She’ll never learn to take proper care of an invalid.

Miss Tesman.

Oh, I shall manage to train her. And of course, you know, I shall take most of it upon myself. You needn’t be uneasy about my poor sister, my dear Berta.

Berta.

Well, but there’s another thing, Miss. I’m so mortally afraid I shan’t be able to suit the young mistress.

Miss Tesman.

Oh well—just at first there may be one or two things——

Berta.

Most like she’ll be terrible grand in her ways.

Miss Tesman.

Well, you can’t wonder at that—General Gabler’s daughter! Think of the sort of life she was accustomed to in her father’s time. Don’t you remember how we used to see her riding down the road along with the General? In that long black habit—and with feathers in her hat?

Berta.

Yes indeed—I remember well enough!—But, good Lord, I should never have dreamt in those days that she and Master George would make a match of it.

Miss Tesman.

Nor I.—But by-the-bye, Berta—while I think of it: in future you mustn’t say Master George. You must say Dr. Tesman.

Berta.

Yes, the young mistress spoke of that too—last night—the moment they set foot in the house. Is it true then, Miss?

Miss Tesman.

Yes, indeed it is. Only think, Berta—some foreign university has made him a doctor—while he has been abroad, you understand. I hadn’t heard a word about it, until he told me himself upon the pier.

Berta.

Well well, he’s clever enough for anything, he is. But I didn’t think he’d have gone in for doctoring people too.

Miss Tesman.

No no, it’s not that sort of doctor he is. [Nods significantly.] But let me tell you, we may have to call him something still grander before long.

Berta.

You don’t say so! What can that be, Miss?

Miss Tesman.

[Smiling.] H’m—wouldn’t you like to know! [With emotion.] Ah, dear dear—if my poor brother could only look up from his grave now, and see what his little boy has grown into! [Looks around.] But bless me, Berta—why have you done this? Taken the chintz covers off all the furniture?

Berta.

The mistress told me to. She can’t abide covers on the chairs, she says.

Miss Tesman.

Are they going to make this their everyday sitting-room then?

Berta.

Yes, that’s what I understood—from the mistress. Master George—the doctor—he said nothing.

George Tesman comes from the right into the inner room, humming to himself, and carrying an unstrapped empty portmanteau. He is a middle-sized, young-looking man of thirty-three, rather stout, with a round, open, cheerful face, fair hair and beard. He wears spectacles, and is somewhat carelessly dressed in comfortable indoor clothes.

Miss Tesman.

Good morning, good morning, George.

Tesman.

[In the doorway between the rooms.] Aunt Julia! Dear Aunt Julia! [Goes up to her and shakes hands warmly.] Come all this way—so early! Eh?

Miss Tesman.

Why, of course I had to come and see how you were getting on.

Tesman.

In spite of your having had no proper night’s rest?

Miss Tesman.

Oh, that makes no difference to me.

Tesman.

Well, I suppose you got home all right from the pier? Eh?

Miss Tesman.

Yes, quite safely, thank goodness. Judge Brack was good enough to see me right to my door.

Tesman.

We were so sorry we couldn’t give you a seat in the carriage. But you saw what a pile of boxes Hedda had to bring with her.

Miss Tesman.

Yes, she had certainly plenty of boxes.

Berta.

[To Tesman.] Shall I go in and see if there’s anything I can do for the mistress?

Tesman.

No thank you, Berta—you needn’t. She said she would ring if she wanted anything.

Berta.

[Going towards the right.] Very well.

Tesman.

But look here—take this portmanteau with you.

Berta.

[Taking it.] I’ll put it in the attic.

[She goes out by the hall door.

Tesman.

Fancy, Auntie—I had the whole of that portmanteau chock full of copies of documents. You wouldn’t believe how much I have picked up from all the archives I have been examining—curious old details that no one has had any idea of——

Miss Tesman.

Yes, you don’t seem to have wasted your time on your wedding trip, George.

Tesman.

No, that I haven’t. But do take off your bonnet, Auntie. Look here! Let me untie the strings—eh?

Miss Tesman.

[While he does so.] Well well—this is just as if you were still at home with us.

Tesman.

[With the bonnet in his hand, looks at it from all sides.] Why, what a gorgeous bonnet you’ve been investing in!

Miss Tesman.

I bought it on Hedda’s account.

Tesman.

On Hedda’s account? Eh?

Miss Tesman.

Yes, so that Hedda needn’t be ashamed of me if we happened to go out together.

Tesman.

[Patting her cheek.] You always think of everything, Aunt Julia. [Lays the bonnet on a chair beside the table.] And now, look here—suppose we sit comfortably on the sofa and have a little chat, till Hedda comes.

[They seat themselves. She places her parasol in the corner of the sofa.

Miss Tesman.

[Takes both his hands and looks at him.] What a delight it is to have you again, as large as life, before my very eyes, George! My George—my poor brother’s own boy!

Tesman.

And it’s a delight for me, too, to see you again, Aunt Julia! You, who have been father and mother in one to me.

Miss Tesman.

Oh yes, I know you will always keep a place in your heart for your old aunts.

Tesman.

And what about Aunt Rina? No improvement—eh?

Miss Tesman.

Oh no—we can scarcely look for any improvement in her case, poor thing. There she lies, helpless, as she has lain for all these years. But heaven grant I may not lose her yet awhile! For if I did, I don’t know what I should make of my life, George—especially now that I haven’t you to look after any more.

Tesman.

[Patting her back.] There there there——!

Miss Tesman.

[Suddenly changing her tone.] And to think that here are you a married man, George!—And that you should be the one to carry off Hedda Gabler—the beautiful Hedda Gabler! Only think of it—she, that was so beset with admirers!

Tesman.

[Hums a little and smiles complacently.] Yes, I fancy I have several good friends about town who would like to stand in my shoes—eh?

Miss Tesman.

And then this fine long wedding-tour you have had! More than five—nearly six months——

Tesman.

Well, for me it has been a sort of tour of research as well. I have had to do so much grubbing among old records—and to read no end of books too, Auntie.

Miss Tesman.

Oh yes, I suppose so. [More confidentially, and lowering her voice a little.] But listen now, George,—have you nothing—nothing special to tell me?

Tesman.

As to our journey?

Miss Tesman.

Yes.

Tesman.

No, I don’t know of anything except what I have told you in my letters. I had a doctor’s degree conferred on me—but that I told you yesterday.

Miss Tesman.

Yes, yes, you did. But what I mean is—haven’t you any—any—expectations——?

Tesman.

Expectations?

Miss Tesman.

Why you know, George—I’m your old auntie!

Tesman.

Why, of course I have expectations.

Miss Tesman.

Ah!

Tesman.

I have every expectation of being a professor one of these days.

Miss Tesman.

Oh yes, a professor——

Tesman.

Indeed, I may say I am certain of it. But my dear Auntie—you know all about that already!

Miss Tesman.

[Laughing to herself.] Yes, of course I do. You are quite right there. [Changing the subject.] But we were talking about your journey. It must have cost a great deal of money, George?

Tesman.

Well, you see—my handsome travelling-scholarship went a good way.

Miss Tesman.

But I can’t understand how you can have made it go far enough for two.

Tesman.

No, that’s not so easy to understand—eh?

Miss Tesman.

And especially travelling with a lady—they tell me that makes it ever so much more expensive.

Tesman.

Yes, of course—it makes it a little more expensive. But Hedda had to have this trip, Auntie! She really had to. Nothing else would have done.

Miss Tesman.

No no, I suppose not. A wedding-tour seems to be quite indispensable nowadays.—But tell me now—have you gone thoroughly over the house yet?

Tesman.

Yes, you may be sure I have. I have been afoot ever since daylight.

Miss Tesman.

And what do you think of it all?

Tesman.

I’m delighted! Quite delighted! Only I can’t think what we are to do with the two empty rooms between this inner parlour and Hedda’s bedroom.

Miss Tesman.

[Laughing.] Oh my dear George, I daresay you may find some use for them—in the course of time.

Tesman.

Why of course you are quite right, Aunt Julia! You mean as my library increases—eh?

Miss Tesman.

Yes, quite so, my dear boy. It was your library I was thinking of.

Tesman.

I am specially pleased on Hedda’s account. Often and often, before we were engaged, she said that she would never care to live anywhere but in Secretary Falk’s villa.[^[14]]

Miss Tesman.

Yes, it was lucky that this very house should come into the market, just after you had started.

Tesman.

Yes, Aunt Julia, the luck was on our side, wasn’t it——eh?

Miss Tesman.

But the expense, my dear George. You will find it very expensive, all this.

Tesman.

[Looks at her, a little cast down.] Yes, I suppose I shall, Aunt!

Miss Tesman.

Oh, frightfully!

Tesman.

How much do you think? In round numbers?—Eh?

Miss Tesman.

Oh, I can’t even guess until all the accounts come in.

Tesman.

Well, fortunately, Judge Brack has secured the most favourable terms for me,—so he said in a letter to Hedda.

Miss Tesman.

Yes, don’t be uneasy, my dear boy.—Besides, I have given security for the furniture and all the carpets.

Tesman.

Security? You? My dear Aunt Julia—what sort of security could you give?

Miss Tesman.

I have given a mortgage on our annuity.

Tesman.

[Jumps up.] What! On your—and Aunt Rina’s annuity!

Miss Tesman.

Yes, I knew of no other plan, you see.

Tesman.

[Placing himself before her.] Have you gone out of your senses, Auntie! Your annuity—it’s all that you and Aunt Rina have to live upon.

Miss Tesman.

Well well—don’t get so excited about it. It’s only a matter of form you know—Judge Brack assured me of that. It was he that was kind enough to arrange the whole affair for me. A mere matter of form, he said.

Tesman.

Yes, that may be all very well. But nevertheless——

Miss Tesman.

You will have your own salary to depend upon now. And, good heavens, even if we did have to pay up a little——! To eke things out a bit at the start——! Why, it would be nothing but a pleasure to us.

Tesman.

Oh Auntie—will you never be tired of making sacrifices for me!

Miss Tesman.

[Rises and lays her hand on his shoulders.] Have I any other happiness in this world except to smooth your way for you, my dear boy? You, who have had neither father nor mother to depend on. And now we have reached the goal, George! Things have looked black enough for us, sometimes; but, thank heaven, now you have nothing to fear.

Tesman.

Yes, it is really marvellous how everything has turned out for the best.

Miss Tesman.

And the people who opposed you—who wanted to bar the way for you—now you have them at your feet. They have fallen, George. Your most dangerous rival—his fall was the worst.—And now he has to lie on the bed he has made for himself—poor misguided creature.

Tesman.

Have you heard anything of Eilert? Since I went away, I mean.

Miss Tesman.

Only that he is said to have published a new book.

Tesman.

What! Eilert Lövborg! Recently—eh?

Miss Tesman.

Yes, so they say. Heaven knows whether it can be worth anything! Ah, when your new book appears—that will be another story, George! What is it to be about?

Tesman.

It will deal with the domestic industries of Brabant during the Middle Ages.

Miss Tesman.

Fancy—to be able to write on such a subject as that!

Tesman.

However, it may be some time before the book is ready. I have all these collections to arrange first, you see.

Miss Tesman.

Yes, collecting and arranging—no one can beat you at that. There you are my poor brother’s own son.

Tesman.

I am looking forward eagerly to setting to work at it; especially now that I have my own delightful home to work in.

Miss Tesman.

And, most of all, now that you have got the wife of your heart, my dear George.

Tesman.

[Embracing her.] Oh yes, yes, Aunt Julia! Hedda—she is the best part of it all! [Looks towards the doorway.] I believe I hear her coming—eh?

Hedda enters from the left through the inner room. She is a woman of nine-and-twenty. Her face and figure show refinement and distinction. Her complexion is pale and opaque. Her steel-grey eyes express a cold, unruffled repose. Her hair is of an agreeable medium brown, but not particularly abundant. She is dressed in a tasteful, somewhat loose-fitting morning gown.

Miss Tesman.

[Going to meet Hedda.] Good morning, my dear Hedda! Good morning, and a hearty welcome!

Hedda.

[Holds out her hand.] Good morning, dear Miss Tesman! So early a call! That is kind of you.

Miss Tesman.

[With some embarrassment.] Well—has the bride slept well in her new home?

Hedda.

Oh yes, thanks. Passably.

Tesman.

[Laughing.] Passably! Come, that’s good, Hedda! You were sleeping like a stone when I got up.

Hedda.

Fortunately. Of course one has always to accustom one’s self to new surroundings, Miss Tesman—little by little. [Looking towards the left.] Oh—there the servant has gone and opened the veranda door, and let in a whole flood of sunshine.[sunshine.]

Miss Tesman.

[Going towards the door.] Well, then we will shut it.

Hedda.

No no, not that! Tesman, please draw the curtains. That will give a softer light.

Tesman.

[At the door.] All right—all right.—There now, Hedda, now you have both shade and fresh air.

Hedda.

Yes, fresh air we certainly must have, with all these stacks of flowers——. But—won’t you sit down, Miss Tesman?

Miss Tesman.

No, thank you. Now that I have seen that everything is all right here—thank heaven!—I must be getting home again. My sister is lying longing for me, poor thing.

Tesman.

Give her my very best love, Auntie; and say I shall look in and see her later in the day.

Miss Tesman.

Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to tell her. But by-the-bye, George—[Feeling in her dress pocket]—I had almost forgotten—I have something for you here.

Tesman.

What is it, Auntie? Eh?

Miss Tesman.

[Produces a flat parcel wrapped in newspaper and hands it to him.] Look here, my dear boy.

Tesman.

[Opening the parcel.] Well, I declare!—Have you really saved them for me, Aunt Julia! Hedda! isn’t this touching—eh?

Hedda.

[Beside the whatnot on the right.] Well, what is it?

Tesman.

My old morning-shoes! My slippers.

Hedda.

Indeed. I remember you often spoke of them while we were abroad.

Tesman.

Yes, I missed them terribly. [Goes up to her.] Now you shall see them, Hedda!

Hedda.

[Going towards the stove.] Thanks, I really don’t care about it.

Tesman.

[Following her.] Only think—ill as she was, Aunt Rina embroidered these for me. Oh you can’t think how many associations cling to them.

Hedda.

[At the table.] Scarcely for me.

Miss Tesman.

Of course not for Hedda, George.

Tesman.

Well, but now that she belongs to the family, I thought——

Hedda.

[Interrupting.] We shall never get on with this servant, Tesman.

Miss Tesman.

Not get on with Berta?

Tesman.

Why, dear, what puts that in your head? Eh?

Hedda.

[Pointing.] Look there! She has left her old bonnet lying about on a chair.

Tesman.

[In consternation, drops the slippers on the floor.] ] Why, Hedda——

Hedda.

Just fancy, if any one should come in and see it!

Tesman.

But Hedda—that’s Aunt Julia’s bonnet.

Hedda.

Is it!

Miss Tesman.

[Taking up the bonnet.] Yes, indeed it’s mine. And, what’s more, it’s not old, Madam Hedda.

Hedda.

I really did not look closely at it, Miss Tesman.

Miss Tesman.

[Trying on the bonnet.] Let me tell you it’s the first time I have worn it—the very first time.

Tesman.

And a very nice bonnet it is too—quite a beauty!

Miss Tesman.

Oh, it’s no such great things, George. [Looks around her.] My parasol——? Ah, here. [Takes it.] For this is mine too—[mutters]—not Berta’s.

Tesman.

A new bonnet and a new parasol! Only think, Hedda!

Hedda.

Very handsome indeed.

Tesman.

Yes, isn’t it? Eh? But Auntie, take a good look at Hedda before you go! See how handsome she is!

Miss Tesman.

Oh, my dear boy, there’s nothing new in that. Hedda was always lovely.

[She nods and goes towards the right.

Tesman.

[Following.] Yes, but have you noticed what splendid condition she is in? How she has filled out on the journey?

Hedda.

[Crossing the room.] Oh, do be quiet——!

Miss Tesman.

[Who has stopped and turned.] Filled out?

Tesman.

Of course you don’t notice it so much now that she has that dress on. But I, who can see——

Hedda.

[At the glass door, impatiently.] Oh, you can’t see anything.

Tesman.

It must be the mountain air in the Tyrol——

Hedda.

[Curtly, interrupting.] I am exactly as I was when I started.

Tesman.

So you insist; but I’m quite certain you are not. Don’t you agree with me, Auntie?

Miss Tesman.

[Who has been gazing at her with folded hands.] Hedda is lovely—lovely—lovely. [Goes up to her, takes her head between both hands, draws it downwards, and kisses her hair.] God bless and preserve Hedda Tesman—for George’s sake.

Hedda.

[Gently freeing herself.] Oh—! Let me go.

Miss Tesman.

[In quiet emotion.] I shall not let a day pass without coming to see you.

Tesman.

No you won’t, will you, Auntie? Eh?

Miss Tesman.

Good-bye—good-bye!

[She goes out by the hall door. Tesman accompanies her. The door remains half open. Tesman can be heard repeating his message to Aunt Rina and his thanks for the slippers.

[In the meantime, Hedda walks about the room, raising her arms and clenching her hands as if in desperation. Then she flings back the curtains from the glass door, and stands there looking out.

[Presently Tesman returns and closes the door behind him.

Tesman.

[Picks up the slippers from the floor.] What are you looking at, Hedda?

Hedda.

[Once more calm and mistress of herself.] I am only looking at the leaves. They are so yellow—so withered.

Tesman.

[Wraps up the slippers and lays them on the table.] Well you see, we are well into September now.

Hedda.

[Again restless.] Yes, to think of it!—Already in—in September.

Tesman.

Don’t you think Aunt Julia’s manner was strange, dear? Almost solemn? Can you imagine what was the matter with her? Eh?

Hedda.

I scarcely know her, you see. Is she not often like that?

Tesman.

No, not as she was to-day.

Hedda.

[Leaving the glass door.] Do you think she was annoyed about the bonnet?

Tesman.

Oh, scarcely at all. Perhaps a little, just at the moment——

Hedda.

But what an idea, to pitch her bonnet about in the drawing-room! No one does that sort of thing.

Tesman.

Well you may be sure Aunt Julia won’t do it again.

Hedda.

In any case, I shall manage to make my peace with her.

Tesman.

Yes, my dear, good Hedda, if you only would.

Hedda.

When you call this afternoon, you might invite her to spend the evening here.

Tesman.

Yes, that I will. And there’s one thing more you could do that would delight her heart.

Hedda.

What is it?

Tesman.

If you could only prevail on yourself to say du[^[15]] to her. For my sake, Hedda? Eh?

Hedda.

No no, Tesman—you really mustn’t ask that of me. I have told you so already. I shall try to call her “Aunt”; and you must be satisfied with that.

Tesman.

Well well. Only I think now that you belong to the family, you——

Hedda.

H’m—I can’t in the least see why——

[She goes up towards the middle doorway.

Tesman.

[After a pause.] Is there anything the matter with you, Hedda? Eh?

Hedda.

I’m only looking at my old piano. It doesn’t go at all well with all the other things.

Tesman.

The first time I draw my salary, we’ll see about exchanging it.

Hedda.

No, no—no exchanging. I don’t want to part with it. Suppose we put it there in the inner room, and then get another here in its place. When it’s convenient, I mean.

Tesman.

[A little taken aback.] Yes—of course we could do that.

Hedda.

[Takes up the bouquet from the piano.] These flowers were not here last night when we arrived.

Tesman.

Aunt Julia must have brought them for you.

Hedda.

[Examining the bouquet.] A visiting-card. [Takes it out and reads:] “Shall return later in the day.” Can you guess whose card it is?

Tesman.

No. Whose? Eh?

Hedda.

The name is “Mrs. Elvsted.”

Tesman.

Is it really? Sheriff Elvsted’s wife? Miss Rysing that was.

Hedda.

Exactly. The girl with the irritating hair, that she was always showing off. An old flame of yours I’ve been told.

Tesman.

[Laughing.] Oh, that didn’t last long; and it was before I knew you, Hedda. But fancy her being in town!

Hedda.

It’s odd that she should call upon us. I have scarcely seen her since we left school.

Tesman.

I haven’t seen her either for—heaven knows how long. I wonder how she can endure to live in such an out-of-the way hole—eh?

Hedda.

[After a moment’s thought, says suddenly.] Tell me, Tesman—isn’t it somewhere near there that he—that—Eilert Lövborg is living?

Tesman.

Yes, he is somewhere in that part of the country.

Berta enters by the hall door.

Berta.

That lady, ma’am, that brought some flowers a little while ago, is here again. [Pointing.] The flowers you have in your hand, ma’am.

Hedda.

Ah, is she? Well, please show her in.

Berta opens the door for Mrs. Elvsted, and goes out herself.—Mrs. Elvsted is a woman of fragile figure, with pretty, soft features. Her eyes are light blue, large, round, and somewhat prominent, with a startled, inquiring expression. Her hair is remarkably light, almost flaxen, and unusually abundant and wavy. She is a couple of years younger than Hedda. She wears a dark visiting dress, tasteful, but not quite in the latest fashion.

Hedda.

[Receives her warmly.] How do you do, my dear Mrs. Elvsted? It’s delightful to see you again.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Nervously, struggling for self-control.] Yes, it’s a very long time since we met.

Tesman.

[Gives her his hand.] And we too—eh?

Hedda.

Thanks for your lovely flowers——

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh, not at all——. I would have come straight here yesterday afternoon; but I heard that you were away——

Tesman.

Have you just come to town? Eh?

Mrs. Elvsted.

I arrived yesterday, about midday. Oh, I was quite in despair when I heard that you were not at home.

Hedda.

In despair! How so?

Tesman.

Why, my dear Mrs. Rysing—I mean Mrs. Elvsted——

Hedda.

I hope that you are not in any trouble?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, I am. And I don’t know another living creature here that I can turn to.

Hedda.

[Laying the bouquet on the table.] Come—let us sit here on the sofa——

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh, I am too restless to sit down.

Hedda.

Oh no, you’re not. Come here.

[She draws Mrs. Elvsted down upon the sofa and sits at her side.

Tesman.

Well? What is it, Mrs. Elvsted——?

Hedda.

Has anything particular happened to you at home?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes—and no. Oh—I am so anxious you should not misunderstand me——

Hedda.

Then your best plan is to tell us the whole story, Mrs. Elvsted.

Tesman.

I suppose that’s what you have come for—eh?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, yes—of course it is. Well then, I must tell you—if you don’t already know—that Eilert Lövborg is in town, too.

Hedda.

Lövborg——!

Tesman.

What! Has Eilert Lövborg come back? Fancy that, Hedda!

Hedda.

Well well—I hear it.

Mrs. Elvsted.

He has been here a week already. Just fancy—a whole week! In this terrible town, alone! With so many temptations on all sides.

Hedda.

But, my dear Mrs. Elvsted—how does he concern you so much?

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Looks at her with a startled air, and says rapidly.] He was the children’s tutor.

Hedda.

Your children’s?

Mrs. Elvsted.

My husband’s. I have none.

Hedda.

Your step-children’s, then?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes.

Tesman.

[Somewhat hesitatingly.] Then was he—I don’t know how to express it—was he—regular enough in his habits to be fit for the post? Eh?

Mrs. Elvsted.

For the last two years his conduct has been irreproachable.

Tesman.

Has it indeed? Fancy that, Hedda!

Hedda.

I hear it.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Perfectly irreproachable, I assure you! In every respect. But all the same—now that I know he is here—in this great town—and with a large sum of money in his hands—I can’t help being in mortal fear for him.

Tesman.

Why did he not remain where he was? With you and your husband? Eh?

Mrs. Elvsted.

After his book was published he was too restless and unsettled to remain with us.

Tesman.

Yes, by-the-bye, Aunt Julia told me he had published a new book.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, a big book, dealing with the march of civilisation—in broad outline, as it were. It came out about a fortnight ago. And since it has sold so well, and been so much read—and made such a sensation——

Tesman.

Has it indeed? It must be something he has had lying by since his better days.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Long ago, you mean?

Tesman.

Yes.

Mrs. Elvsted.

No, he has written it all since he has been with us—within the last year.

Tesman.

Isn’t that good news, Hedda[news, Hedda]? Think of that!

Mrs. Elvsted.

Ah yes, if only it would last!

Hedda.

Have you seen him here in town?

Mrs. Elvsted.

No, not yet. I have had the greatest difficulty in finding out his address. But this morning I discovered it at last.

Hedda.

[Looks searchingly at her.] Do you know, it seems to me a little odd of your husband—h’m——

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Starting nervously.] Of my husband! What?

Hedda.

That he should send you to town on such an errand—that he does not come himself and look after his friend.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh no, no—my husband has no time. And besides, I—I had some shopping to do.

Hedda.

[With a slight smile.] Ah, that is a different matter.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Rising quickly and uneasily.] And now I beg and implore you, Mr. Tesman—receive Eilert Lövborg kindly if he comes to you! And that he is sure to do. You see you were such great friends in the old days. And then you are interested in the same studies—the same branch of science—so far as I can understand.

Tesman.

We used to be, at any rate.

Mrs. Elvsted.

That is why I beg so earnestly that you—you too—will keep a sharp eye upon him. Oh, you will promise me that, Mr. Tesman—won’t you?

Tesman.

With the greatest of pleasure, Mrs. Rysing——

Hedda.

Elvsted.

Tesman.

I assure you I shall do all I possibly can for Eilert. You may rely upon me.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh, how very, very kind of you! [Presses his hands.] Thanks, thanks, thanks! [Frightened.] You see, my husband is so very fond of him!

Hedda.

[Rising.] You ought to write to him, Tesman. Perhaps he may not care to come to you of his own accord.

Tesman.

Well, perhaps it would be the right thing to do, Hedda? Eh?

Hedda.

And the sooner the better. Why not at once?

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Imploringly.] Oh, if you only would!

Tesman.

I’ll write this moment. Have you his address, Mrs.—Mrs. Elvsted.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes. [Takes a slip of paper from her pocket, and hands it to him.] Here it is.

Tesman.

Good, good. Then I’ll go in——[Looks about him.] By-the-bye,—my slippers? Oh, here.

[Takes the packet, and is about to go.

Hedda.

Be sure you write him a cordial, friendly letter.[letter.] And a good long one too.

Tesman.

Yes, I will.

Mrs. Elvsted.

But please, please don’t say a word to show that I have suggested it.

Tesman.

No, how could you think I would? Eh?

[He goes out to the right, through the inner room.

Hedda.

[Goes up to Mrs. Elvsted, smiles, and says in a low voice.] There! We have killed two birds with one stone.

Mrs. Elvsted.

What do you mean?

Hedda.

Could you not see that I wanted him to go?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, to write the letter——

Hedda.

And that I might speak to you alone.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Confused.] About the same thing?

Hedda.

Precisely.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Apprehensively.] But there is nothing more Mrs. Tesman! Absolutely nothing!

Hedda.

Oh yes, but there is. There is a great deal more—I can see that. Sit here—and we’ll have a cosy, confidential chat.

[She forces Mrs. Elvsted to sit in the easy-chair beside the stove, and seats herself on one of the footstools.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Anxiously, looking at her watch.] But, my dear Mrs. Tesman—I was really on the point of going.

Hedda.

Oh, you can’t be in such a hurry.—Well? Now tell me something about your life at home.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh, that is just what I care least to speak about.

Hedda.

But to me, dear——? Why, weren’t we schoolfellows?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, but you were in the class above me. Oh, how dreadfully afraid of you I was then!

Hedda.

Afraid of me?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, dreadfully. For when we met on the stairs you used always to pull my hair.

Hedda.

Did I, really?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, and once you said you would burn it off my head.

Hedda.

Oh that was all nonsense, of course.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, but I was so silly in those days.—And since then, too—we have drifted so far—far apart from each other. Our circles have been so entirely different.

Hedda.

Well then, we must try to drift together again. Now listen! At school we said du[^[16]] to each other; and we called each other by our Christian names——

Mrs. Elvsted.

No, I am sure you must be mistaken.

Hedda.

No, not at all! I can remember quite distinctly. So now we are going to renew our old friendship. [Draws the footstool closer to Mrs. Elvsted.] There now! [Kisses her cheek.] You must say du to me and call me Hedda.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Presses and pats her hands.] Oh, how good and kind you are! I am not used to such kindness.

Hedda.

There, there, there! And I shall say du to you, as in the old days, and call you my dear Thora.

Mrs. Elvsted.

My name is Thea.[^[17]]

Hedda.

Why, of course! I meant Thea. [Looks at her compassionately.] So you are not accustomed to goodness and kindness, Thea? Not in your own home?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh, if I only had a home! But I haven’t any; I have never had a home.

Hedda.

[Looks at her for a moment.] I almost suspected as much.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Gazing helplessly before her.] Yes—yes—yes.

Hedda.

I don’t quite remember—was it not as housekeeper that you first went to Mr. Elvsted’s?

Mrs. Elvsted.

I really went as governess. But his wife—his late wife—was an invalid,—and rarely left her room. So I had to look after the housekeeping as well.

Hedda.

And then—at last—you became mistress of the house.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Sadly.] Yes, I did.

Hedda.

Let me see—about how long ago was that?

Mrs. Elvsted.

My marriage?

Hedda.

Yes.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Five years ago.

Hedda.

To be sure; it must be that.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh those five years——! Or at all events the last two or three of them! Oh, if you[^[18]] could only imagine——

Hedda.

[Giving her a little slap on the hand.] De? Fie, Thea!

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, yes, I will try——Well, if—you could only imagine and understand——

Hedda.

[Lightly.] Eilert Lövborg has been in your neighbourhood about three years, hasn’t he?

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Looks at her doubtfully.] Eilert Lövborg? Yes—he has.

Hedda.

Had you known him before, in town here?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Scarcely at all. I mean—I knew him by name of course.

Hedda.

But you saw a good deal of him in the country?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes, he came to us every day. You see, he gave the children lessons; for in the long run I couldn’t manage it all myself.

Hedda.

No, that’s clear.—And your husband——? I suppose he is often away from home?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes. Being sheriff, you know, he has to travel about a good deal in his district.

Hedda.

[Leaning against the arm of the chair.] Thea—my poor, sweet Thea—now you must tell me everything—exactly as it stands.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Well then, you must question me.

Hedda.

What sort of a man is your husband, Thea? I mean—you know—in everyday life. Is he kind to you?

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Evasively.] I am sure he means well in everything.

Hedda.

I should think he must be altogether too old for you. There is at least twenty years’ difference between you, is there not?

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Irritably.] Yes, that is true, too. Everything about him is repellent to me! We have not a thought in common. We have no single point of sympathy—he and I.

Hedda.

But is he not fond of you all the same? In his own way?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh I really don’t know. I think he regards me simply as a useful property. And then it doesn’t cost much to keep me. I am not expensive.

Hedda.

That is stupid of you.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Shakes her head.] It cannot be otherwise—not with him. I don’t think he really cares for any one but himself—and perhaps a little for the children.

Hedda.

And for Eilert Lövborg[Lövborg], Thea.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Looking at her.] For Eilert Lövborg? What puts that into your head?

Hedda.

Well, my dear—I should say, when he sends you after him all the way to town——[Smiling almost imperceptibly.] And besides, you said so yourself, to Tesman.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[With a little nervous twitch.] Did I? Yes, I suppose I did. [Vehemently, but not loudly.] No—I may just as well make a clean breast of it at once! For it must all come out in any case.

Hedda.

Why, my dear Thea——?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Well, to make a long story short: My husband did not know that I was coming.

Hedda.

What! Your husband didn’t know it!

Mrs. Elvsted.

No, of course not. For that matter, he was away from home himself—he was travelling. Oh, I could bear it no longer, Hedda! I couldn’t indeed—so utterly alone as I should have been in future.

Hedda.

Well? And then?

Mrs. Elvsted.

So I put together some of my things—what I needed most—as quietly as possible. And then I left the house.

Hedda.

Without a word?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes—and took the train straight to town.

Hedda.

Why, my dear, good Thea—to think of you daring to do it!

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Rises and moves about the room.] What else could I possibly do?

Hedda.

But what do you think your husband will say when you go home again?

Mrs. Elvsted.

[At the table, looks at her.] Back to him?

Hedda.

Of course.

Mrs. Elvsted.

I shall never go back to him again.

Hedda.

[Rising and going towards her.] Then you have left your home—for good and all?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes. There was nothing else to be done.

Hedda.

But then—to take flight so openly[openly]

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh, it’s impossible to keep things of that sort secret.

Hedda.

But what do you think people will say of you, Thea?

Mrs. Elvsted.

They may say what they like, for aught I care. [Seats herself wearily and sadly on the sofa.] I have done nothing but what I had to do.

Hedda.

[After a short silence.] And what are your plans now? What do you think of doing?

Mrs. Elvsted.

I don’t know yet. I only know this, that I must live here, where Eilert Lövborg is—if I am to live at all.

Hedda.

[Takes a chair from the table, seats herself beside her, and strokes her hands.] My dear Thea—how did this—this friendship—between you and Eilert Lövborg come about?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Oh it grew up gradually. I gained a sort of influence over him.

Hedda.

Indeed?

Mrs. Elvsted.

He gave up his old habits. Not because I asked him to, for I never dared do that. But of course he saw how repulsive they were to me; and so he dropped them.

Hedda.

[Concealing an involuntary smile of scorn.] Then you have reclaimed him—as the saying goes—my little Thea.

Mrs. Elvsted.

So he says himself, at any rate. And he, on his side, has made a real human being of me—taught me to think, and to understand so many things.

Hedda.

Did he give you lessons too, then?

Mrs. Elvsted.

No, not exactly lessons. But he talked to me—talked about such an infinity of things. And then came the lovely, happy time when I began to share in his work—when he allowed me to help him!

Hedda.

Oh he did, did he?

Mrs. Elvsted.

Yes! He never wrote anything without my assistance.

Hedda.

You were two good comrades, in fact?

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Eagerly.] Comrades! Yes, fancy, Hedda—that is the very word he used!—Oh, I ought to feel perfectly happy; and yet I cannot; for I don’t know how long it will last.

Hedda.

Are you no surer of him than that?

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Gloomily.] A woman’s shadow stands between Eilert Lövborg[Lövborg] and me.

Hedda.

[Looks at her anxiously.] Who can that be?

Mrs. Elvsted.

I don’t know. Some one he knew in his—in his past. Some one he has never been able wholly to forget.

Hedda.

What has he told you—about this?

Mrs. Elvsted.

He has only once—quite vaguely—alluded to it.

Hedda.

Well! And what did he say?

Mrs. Elvsted.

He said that when they parted, she threatened to shoot him with a pistol.

Hedda.

[With cold composure.] Oh nonsense! No one does that sort of thing here.

Mrs. Elvsted.

No. And that is why I think it must have been that red-haired singing-woman whom he once——

Hedda.

Yes, very likely.

Mrs. Elvsted.

For I remember they used to say of her that she carried loaded firearms.

Hedda.

Oh—then of course it must have been she.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Wringing her hands.] And now just fancy, Hedda—I hear that this singing-woman—that she is in town again! Oh, I don’t know what to do——

Hedda.

[Glancing towards the inner room.] Hush! Here comes Tesman. [Rises and whispers.] Thea—all this must remain between you and me.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Springing up.] Oh yes—yes! For heaven’s sake——!

George Tesman, with a letter in his hand, comes from the right through the inner room.

Tesman.

There now—the epistle is finished.

Hedda.

That’s right. And now Mrs. Elvsted is just going. Wait a moment—I’ll go with you to the garden gate.

Tesman.

Do you think Berta could post the letter, Hedda dear?

Hedda.

[Takes it.] I will tell her to.

Berta enters from the hall.

Berta.

Judge Brack wishes to know if Mrs. Tesman will receive him.

Hedda.

Yes, ask Judge Brack to come in. And look here—put this letter in the post.

Berta.

[Taking the letter.] Yes, ma’am.

[She opens the door for Judge Brack and goes out herself. Brack is a man of forty-five; thick set, but well-built and elastic in his movements. His face is roundish with an aristocratic profile. His hair is short, still almost black, and carefully dressed. His eyes are lively and sparkling. His eyebrows thick. His moustaches are also thick, with short-cut ends. He wears a well-cut walking-suit, a little too youthful for his age. He uses an eye-glass, which he now and then lets drop.

Judge Brack.

[With his hat in his hand, bowing.] May one venture to call so early in the day?

Hedda.

Of course one may.

Tesman.

[Presses his hand.] You are welcome at any time. [Introducing him.] Judge Brack—Miss Rysing——

Hedda.

Oh——!

Brack.

[Bowing.] Ah—delighted——

Hedda.

[Looks at him and laughs.] It’s nice to have a look at you by daylight, Judge!

Brack.

Do you find me—altered?

Hedda.

A little younger, I think.

Brack.

Thank you so much.

Tesman.

But what do you think of Hedda—eh? Doesn’t she look flourishing? She has actually——

Hedda.

Oh, do leave me alone. You haven’t thanked Judge Brack for all the trouble he has taken——

Brack.

Oh, nonsense—it was a pleasure to me——

Hedda.

Yes, you are a friend indeed. But here stands Thea all impatience to be off—so au revoir Judge. I shall be back again presently.

[Mutual salutations. Mrs. Elvsted and Hedda go out by the hall door.

Brack.

Well,—is your wife tolerably satisfied——

Tesman.

Yes, we can’t thank you sufficiently. Of course she talks of a little re-arrangement here and there; and one or two things are still wanting.[wanting.] We shall have to buy some additional trifles.

Brack.

Indeed!

Tesman.

But we won’t trouble you about these things. Hedda says she herself will look after what is wanting.—Shan’t we sit down? Eh?

Brack.

Thanks, for a moment. [Seats himself beside the table.] There is something I wanted to speak to you about, my dear Tesman.

Tesman.

Indeed? Ah, I understand! [Seating himself.] I suppose it’s the serious part of the frolic that is coming now. Eh?

Brack.

Oh, the money question is not so very pressing; though, for that matter, I wish we had gone a little more economically to work.

Tesman.

But that would never have done, you know! Think of Hedda, my dear fellow! You, who know her so well——. I couldn’t possibly ask her to put up with a shabby style of living!

Brack.

No, no—that is just the difficulty.

Tesman.

And then—fortunately—it can’t be long before I receive my appointment.

Brack.

Well, you see—such things are often apt to hang fire for a time.

Tesman.

Have you heard anything definite? Eh?

Brack.

Nothing exactly definite——. [Interrupting himself.] But by-the-bye—I have one piece of news for you.

Tesman.

Well?

Brack.

Your old friend, Eilert Lövborg, has returned to town.

Tesman.

I know that already.

Brack.

Indeed! How did you learn it?

Tesman.

From that lady who went out with Hedda.

Brack.

Really? What was her name? I didn’t quite catch it.

Tesman.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Brack.

Aha—Sheriff Elvsted’s wife? Of course—he has been living up in their regions.

Tesman.

And fancy—I’m delighted to hear that he is quite a reformed character!