WHEN WE DEAD AWAKEN

By Henrik Ibsen.

Introduction and translation by William Archer

Contents

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INTRODUCTION.

From Pillars of Society to John Gabriel Borkman, Ibsen's plays had followed each other at regular intervals of two years, save when his indignation over the abuse heaped upon Ghosts reduced to a single year the interval between that play and An Enemy of the People. John Gabriel Borkman having appeared in 1896, its successor was expected in 1898; but Christmas came and brought no rumour of a new play. In a man now over seventy, this breach of a long-established habit seemed ominous. The new National Theatre in Christiania was opened in September of the following year; and when I then met Ibsen (for the last time) he told me that he was actually at work on a new play, which he thought of calling a "Dramatic Epilogue." "He wrote When We Dead Awaken," says Dr. Elias, "with such labour and such passionate agitation, so spasmodically and so feverishly, that those around him were almost alarmed. He must get on with it, he must get on! He seemed to hear the beating of dark pinions over his head. He seemed to feel the grim Visitant, who had accompanied Alfred Allmers on the mountain paths, already standing behind him with uplifted hand. His relatives are firmly convinced that he knew quite clearly that this would be his last play, that he was to write no more. And soon the blow fell."

When We Dead Awaken was published very shortly before Christmas 1899. He had still a year of comparative health before him. We find him in March 1900, writing to Count Prozor: "I cannot say yet whether or not I shall write another drama; but if I continue to retain the vigour of body and mind which I at present enjoy, I do not imagine that I shall be able to keep permanently away from the old battlefields. However, if I were to make my appearance again, it would be with new weapons and in new armour." Was he hinting at the desire, which he had long ago confessed to Professor Herford, that his last work should be a drama in verse? Whatever his dream, it was not to be realised. His last letter (defending his attitude of philosophic impartiality with regard to the South African war) is dated December 9, 1900. With the dawn of the new century, the curtain descended upon the mind of the great dramatic poet of the age which had passed away.

When We Dead Awaken was acted during 1900 at most of the leading theatres in Scandinavia and Germany. In some German cities (notably in Frankfort on Main) it even attained a considerable number of representatives. I cannot learn, however, that it has anywhere held the stage. It was produced in London, by the State Society, at the Imperial Theatre, on January 25 and 26, 1903. Mr. G. S. Titheradge played Rubek, Miss Henrietta Watson Irene, Miss Mabel Hackney Maia, and Mr. Laurence Irving Ulfheim. I find no record of any American performance.

In the above-mentioned letter to Count Prozor, Ibsen confirmed that critic's conjecture that "the series which ends with the Epilogue really began with The Master Builder." As the last confession, so to speak, of a great artist, the Epilogue will always be read with interest. It contains, moreover, many flashes of the old genius, many strokes of the old incommunicable magic. One may say with perfect sincerity that there is more fascination in the dregs of Ibsen's mind than in the "first sprightly running" of more common-place talents. But to his sane admirers the interest of the play must always be melancholy, because it is purely pathological. To deny this is, in my opinion, to cast a slur over all the poet's previous work, and in great measure to justify the criticisms of his most violent detractors. For When We Dead Awaken is very like the sort of play that haunted the "anti-Ibsenite" imagination in the year 1893 or thereabouts. It is a piece of self-caricature, a series of echoes from all the earlier plays, an exaggeration of manner to the pitch of mannerism. Moreover, in his treatment of his symbolic motives, Ibsen did exactly what he had hitherto, with perfect justice, plumed himself upon never doing: he sacrificed the surface reality to the underlying meaning. Take, for instance, the history of Rubek's statue and its development into a group. In actual sculpture this development is a grotesque impossibility. In conceiving it we are deserting the domain of reality, and plunging into some fourth dimension where the properties of matter are other than those we know. This is an abandonment of the fundamental principle which Ibsen over and over again emphatically expressed—namely, that any symbolism his work might be found to contain was entirely incidental, and subordinate to the truth and consistency of his picture of life. Even when he dallied with the supernatural, as in The Master Builder and Little Eyolf, he was always careful, as I have tried to show, not to overstep decisively the boundaries of the natural. Here, on the other hand, without any suggestion of the supernatural, we are confronted with the wholly impossible, the inconceivable. How remote is this alike from his principles of art and from the consistent, unvarying practice of his better years! So great is the chasm between John Gabriel Borkman and When We Dead Awaken that one could almost suppose his mental breakdown to have preceded instead of followed the writing of the latter play. Certainly it is one of the premonitions of the coming end. It is Ibsen's Count Robert of Paris. To pretend to rank it with his masterpieces is to show a very imperfect sense of the nature of their mastery.

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WHEN WE DEAD AWAKEN.

A DRAMATIC EPILOGUE.

PROFESSOR ARNOLD RUBEK, a sculptor.
MRS. MAIA RUBEK, his wife.
THE INSPECTOR at the Baths.
ULFHEIM, a landed proprietor.
A STRANGER LADY.
A SISTER OF MERCY.
Servants, Visitors to the Baths, and Children.

The First Act passes at a bathing establishment on the coast; the Second and Third Acts in the neighbourhood of a health resort, high in the mountains.

ACT FIRST.

[Outside the Bath Hotel. A portion of the main building can be seen
to the right.
An open, park-like place with a fountain, groups
of fine old trees, and shrubbery. To the left, a little pavilion
almost covered with ivy and Virginia creeper. A table and chair
outside it. At the back a view over the fjord, right out to sea,
with headlands and small islands in the distance. It is a calm,
warm and sunny summer morning.
[PROFESSOR RUBEK and MRS. MAIA RUBEK are sitting in basket chairs
beside a covered table on the lawn outside the hotel, having just
breakfasted. They have champagne and seltzer water on the table,
and each has a newspaper. PROFESSOR RUBEK is an elderly man of
distinguished appearance, wearing a black velvet jacket, and
otherwise in light summer attire. MAIA is quite young, with
a vivacious expression and lively, mocking eyes, yet with a
suggestion of fatigue. She wears an elegant travelling dress.

[Sits for some time as though waiting for the PROFESSOR to say something, then lets her paper drop with a deep sigh.] Oh dear, dear, dear—!

[Looks up from his paper.] Well, Maia? What is the matter with you?

Just listen how silent it is here.

[Smiles indulgently.] And you can hear that?

What?

The silence?

Yes, indeed I can.

Well, perhaps you are right, mein Kind. One can really hear the silence.

Heaven knows you can—when it's so absolutely overpowering as it is here—

Here at the Baths, you mean?

Wherever you go at home here, it seems to me. Of course there was noise and bustle enough in the town. But I don't know how it is—even the noise and bustle seemed to have something dead about it.

[With a searching glance.] You don't seem particularly glad to be at home again, Maia?

[Looks at him.] Are you glad?

[Evasively.] I—?

Yes, you, who have been so much, much further away than I. Are you entirely happy, now that you are at home again?

No—to be quite candid—perhaps not entirely happy—

[With animation.] There, you see! Didn't I know it!

I have been too long abroad. I have drifted quite away from all this—this home life.

[Eagerly, drawing her chair nearer him.] There, you see, Rubek! We had much better get away again! As quickly as ever we can.

[Somewhat impatiently.] Well, well, that is what we intend to do, my dear Maia. You know that.

But why not now—at once? Only think how cozy and comfortable we could be down there, in our lovely new house—

[Smiles indulgently.] We ought by rights to say: our lovely new home.

[Shortly.] I prefer to say house—let us keep to that.

[His eyes dwelling on her.] You are really a strange little person.

Am I so strange?

Yes, I think so.

But why, pray? Perhaps because I'm not desperately in love with mooning about up here—?

Which of us was it that was absolutely bent on our coming north this summer?

I admit, it was I.

It was certainly not I, at any rate.

But good heavens, who could have dreamt that everything would have altered so terribly at home here? And in so short a time, too! Why, it is only just four years since I went away—

Since you were married, yes.

Married? What has that to do with the matter?

[Continuing.] —since you became the Frau Professor, and found yourself mistress of a charming home—I beg your pardon—a very handsome house, I ought to say. And a villa on the Lake of Taunitz, just at the point that has become most fashionable, too—. In fact it is all very handsome and distinguished, Maia, there's no denying that. And spacious too. We need not always be getting in each other's way—

[Lightly.] No, no, no—there's certainly no lack of house-room, and that sort of thing—

Remember, too, that you have been living in altogether more spacious and distinguished surroundings—in more polished society than you were accustomed to at home.

[Looking at him.] Ah, so you think it is I that have changed?

Indeed I do, Maia.

I alone? Not the people here?

Oh yes, they too—a little, perhaps. And not at all in the direction of amiability. That I readily admit.

I should think you must admit it, indeed.

[Changing the subject.] Do you know how it affects me when I look at the life of the people around us here?

No. Tell me.

It makes me think of that night we spent in the train, when we were coming up here—

Why, you were sound asleep all the time.

Not quite. I noticed how silent it became at all the little roadside stations. I heard the silence—like you, Maia—

H'm,—like me, yes.

PROFESSOR RUBEK. —and that assured me that we had crossed the frontier—that we were really at home. For the train stopped at all the little stations—although there was nothing doing at all.

Then why did it stop—though there was nothing to be done?

Can't say. No one got out or in; but all the same the train stopped a long, endless time. And at every station I could make out that there were two railway men walking up and down the platform—one with a lantern in his hand—and they said things to each other in the night, low, and toneless, and meaningless.

Yes, that is quite true. There are always two men walking up and down, and talking—

PROFESSOR RUBEK. —of nothing. [Changing to a livelier tone.] But just wait till to-morrow. Then we shall have the great luxurious steamer lying in the harbour. We'll go on board her, and sail all round the coast—northward ho!—right to the polar sea.

Yes, but then you will see nothing of the country—and of the people. And that was what you particularly wanted.

[Shortly and snappishly.] I have seen more than enough.

Do you think a sea voyage will be better for you?

It is always a change.

Well, well, if only it is the right thing for you—

For me? The right thing? There is nothing in the world the matter with me.

[Rises and goes to him.] Yes, there is, Rubek. I am sure you must feel it yourself.

Why my dearest Maia—what should be amiss with me?

[Behind him, bending over the back of his chair.] That you must tell me. You have begun to wander about without a moment's peace. You cannot rest anywhere—neither at home nor abroad. You have become quite misanthropic of late.

[With a touch of sarcasm.] Dear me—have you noticed that?

No one that knows you can help noticing it. And then it seems to me so sad that you have lost all pleasure in your work.

That too, eh?

You that used to be so indefatigable—working from morning to night!

[Gloomily.] Used to be, yes—

But ever since you got your great masterpiece out of hand—

[Nods thoughtfully.] "The Resurrection Day"—

MAIA. —the masterpiece that has gone round the whole world, and made you so famous—

Perhaps that is just the misfortune, Maia.

How so?

When I had finished this masterpiece of mine—[Makes a passionate movement with his hand]—for "The Resurrection Day" is a masterpiece! Or was one in the beginning. No, it is one still. It must, must, must be a masterpiece!

[Looks at him in astonishment.] Why, Rubek—all the world knows that.

[Short, repellently.] All the world knows nothing! Understands nothing!

Well, at any rate it can divine something—

Something that isn't there at all, yes. Something that never was in my mind. Ah yes, that they can all go into ecstasies over! [Growling to himself.] What is the good of working oneself to death for the mob and the masses—for "all the world"!

Do you think it is better, then—do you think it is worthy of you, to do nothing at all but portrait-bust now and then?

[With a sly smile.] They are not exactly portrait-busts that I turn out, Maia.

Yes, indeed they are—for the last two or three years—ever since you finished your great group and got it out of the house—

All the same, they are no mere portrait-busts, I assure you.

What are they, then?

There is something equivocal, something cryptic, lurking in and behind these busts—a secret something, that the people themselves cannot see—

Indeed?

[Decisively.] I alone can see it. And it amuses me unspeakably.—On the surface I give them the "striking likeness," as they call it, that they all stand and gape at in astonishment—[Lowers his voice]—but at bottom they are all respectable, pompous horse-faces, and self-opinionated donkey-muzzles, and lop-eared, low-browed dog-skulls, and fatted swine-snouts—and sometimes dull, brutal bull-fronts as well—

[Indifferently.] All the dear domestic animals, in fact.

Simply the dear domestic animals, Maia. All the animals which men have bedevilled in their own image—and which have bedevilled men in return. [Empties his champagne-glass and laughs.] And it is these double-faced works of art that our excellent plutocrats come and order of me. And pay for in all good faith—and in good round figures too—almost their weight in gold, as the saying goes.

[Fills his glass.] Come, Rubek! Drink and be happy.

[Passes his hand several times across his forehead and leans back in his chair.] I am happy, Maia. Really happy—in a way. [Short silence.] For after all there is a certain happiness in feeling oneself free and independent on every hand—in having at ones command everything one can possibly wish for—all outward things, that is to say. Do you not agree with me, Maia?

Oh yes, I agree. All that is well enough in its way. [Looking at him.] But do you remember what you promised me the day we came to an understanding on—on that troublesome point—

[Nods.] —on the subject of our marriage, yes. It was no easy matter for you, Maia.

[Continuing unruffled.] —and agreed that I was to go abroad with you, and live there for good and all—and enjoy myself.—Do you remember what you promised me that day?

[Shaking his head.] No, I can't say that I do. Well, what did I promise?

You said you would take me up to a high mountain and show me all the glory of the world.

[With a slight start.] Did I promise you that, too?

Me too? Who else, pray?

[Indifferently.] No, no, I only meant did I promise to show you—?

MAIA. —all the glory of the world? Yes, you did. And all that glory should be mine, you said.

That is sort of figure of speech that I was in the habit of using once upon a time.

Only a figure of speech?

Yes, a schoolboy phrase—the sort of thing I used to say when I wanted to lure the neighbours' children out to play with me, in the woods and on the mountains.

[Looking hard at him.] Perhaps you only wanted to lure me out to play, as well?

[Passing it off as a jest.] Well, has it not been a tolerable amusing game, Maia?

[Coldly.] I did not go with you only to play.

No, no, I daresay not.

And you never took me up with you to any high mountain, or showed me—

[With irritation.] —all the glory of the world? No, I did not. For, let me tell you something: you are not really born to be a mountain-climber, little Maia.

[Trying to control herself.] Yet at one time you seemed to think I was.

Four or five years ago, yes. [Stretching himself in his chair.] Four or five years—it's a long, long time, Maia.

[Looking at him with a bitter expression.] Has the time seemed so very long to you, Rubek?

I am beginning now to find it a trifle long. [Yawning.] Now and then, you know.

[Returning to her place.] I shall not bore you any longer.

[She resumes her seat, takes up the newspaper, and begins turning
over the leaves. Silence on both sides.

[Leaning on his elbows across the table, and looking at her teasingly.] Is the Frau Professor offended?

[Coldly, without looking up.] No, not at all.

[Visitors to the baths, most of them ladies, begin to pass,
singly and in groups, through the park from the right, and
out to the left.
[Waiters bring refreshments from the hotel, and go off behind
the pavilion.
[The INSPECTOR, wearing gloves and carrying a stick, comes from
his rounds in the park, meets visitors, bows politely, and
exchanges a few words with some of them.

[Advancing to PROFESSOR RUBEK's table and politely taking off his hat.] I have the honour to wish you good morning, Mrs. Rubek.—Good morning, Professor Rubek.

Good morning, good morning Inspector.

[Addressing himself to MRS. RUBEK.] May I venture to ask if you have slept well?

Yes, thank you; excellently—for my part. I always sleep like a stone.

I am delighted to hear it. The first night in a strange place is often rather trying.—And the Professor—?

Oh, my night's rest is never much to boast of—especially of late.

[With a show of sympathy.] Oh—that is a pity. But after a few weeks' stay at the Baths—you will quite get over that.

[Looking up at him.] Tell me, Inspector—are any of your patients in the habit of taking baths during the night?

[Astonished.] During the night? No, I have never heard of such a thing.

Have you not?

No, I don't know of any one so ill as to require such treatment.

Well, at any rate there is some one who is in the habit of walking about the park by night?

[Smiling and shaking his head.] No, Professor—that would be against the rules.

[Impatiently.] Good Heavens, Rubek, I told you so this morning—you must have dreamt it.

[Drily.] Indeed? Must I? Thank you! [Turning to the INSPECTOR.] The fact is, I got up last night—I couldn't sleep—and I wanted to see what sort of night it was—

[Attentively.] To be sure—and then—?

I looked out at the window—and caught sight of a white figure in there among the trees.

[Smiling to the INSPECTOR.] And the Professor declares that the figure was dressed in a bathing costume—

PROFESSOR RUBEK. —or something like it, I said. Couldn't distinguish very clearly. But I am sure it was something white.

Most remarkable. Was it a gentleman or a lady?

I could almost have sworn it was a lady. But then after it came another figure. And that one was quite dark—like a shadow—.

[Starting.] A dark one? Quite black, perhaps?

Yes, I should almost have said so.

[A light breaking in upon him.] And behind the white figure? Following close upon her—?

Yes—at a little distance—

Aha! Then I think I can explain the mystery, Professor.

Well, what was it then?

[Simultaneously.] Was the professor really not dreaming?

[Suddenly whispering, as he directs their attention towards the background on the right.] Hush, if you please! Look there—don't speak loud for a moment.

[A slender lady, dressed in fine, cream-white cashmere, and
followed by a SISTER OF MERCY in black, with a silver cross
hanging by a chain on her breast, comes forward from behind
the hotel and crosses the park towards the pavilion in front
on the left. Her face is pale, and its lines seem to have
stiffened; the eyelids are drooped and the eyes appear as
though they saw nothing. Her dress comes down to her feet
and clings to the body in perpendicular folds. Over her head,
neck, breast, shoulders and arms she wears a large shawl of
white crape. She keeps her arms crossed upon her breast.
She carries her body immovably, and her steps are stiff and
measured. The SISTER's bearing is also measured, and she has
the air of a servant. She keeps her brown piercing eyes
incessantly fixed upon the lady. WAITERS, with napkins on
their arms, come forward in the hotel doorway, and cast
curious glances at the strangers, who take no notice of
anything, and, without looking round, enter the pavilion.

[Has risen slowly and involuntarily, and stands staring at the closed door of the pavilion.] Who was that lady?

She is a stranger who has rented the little pavilion there.

A foreigner?

Presumably. At any rate they both came from abroad—about a week ago. They have never been here before.

[Decidedly; looking at him.] It was she I saw in the park last night.

No doubt it must have been. I thought so from the first.

What is this lady's name, Inspector?

She has registered herself as "Madame de Satow, with companion." We know nothing more.

[Reflecting.] Satow? Satow—?

MAIA. [Laughing mockingly.] Do you know any one of that name, Rubek? Eh?

[Shaking his head.] No, no one.—Satow? It sounds Russian—or in all events Slavonic. [To the INSPECTOR.] What language does she speak?

When the two ladies talk to each other, it is in a language I cannot make out at all. But at other times she speaks Norwegian like a native.

[Exclaims with a start.] Norwegian? You are sure you are not mistaken?

No, how could I be mistaken in that?

[Looks at him with eager interest.] You have heard her yourself?

Yes. I myself have spoken to her—several times.—Only a few words, however; she is far from communicative. But—

But Norwegian it was?

Thoroughly good Norwegian—perhaps with a little north-country accent.

[Gazing straight before him in amazement, whispers.] That too?

[A little hurt and jarred.] Perhaps this lady has been one of your models, Rubek? Search your memory.

[Looks cuttingly at her.] My models?

[With a provoking smile.] In your younger days, I mean. You are said to have had innumerable models—long ago, of course.

[In the same tone.] Oh no, little Frau Maia. I have in reality had only one single model. One and only one—for everything I have done.

[Who has turned away and stands looking out to the left.] If you'll excuse me, I think I will take my leave. I see some one coming whom it is not particularly agreeable to meet. Especially in the presence of ladies.

[Looking in the same direction.] That sportsman there? Who is it?

It is a certain Mr. Ulfheim, from—

Oh, Mr. Ulfheim—

THE INSPECTOR. —the bear-killer, as they call him—

I know him.

Who does not know him?

Very slightly, however. Is he on your list of patients—at last?

No, strangely enough—not as yet. He comes here only once a year—on his way up to his hunting-grounds.—Excuse me for the moment—

[Makes a movement to go into the hotel.

ULFHEIM's VOICE.

[Heard outside.] Stop a moment, man! Devil take it all, can't you stop? Why do you always scuttle away from me?

[Stops.] I am not scuttling at all, Mr. Ulfheim.

[ULFHEIM enters from the left followed by a servant with a
couple of sporting dogs in leash. ULFHEIM is in shooting
costume, with high boots and a felt hat with a feather in
it. He is a long, lank, sinewy personage, with matted hair
and beard, and a loud voice. His appearance gives no precise
clue to his age, but he is no longer young.]

[Pounces upon the INSPECTOR.] Is this a way to receive strangers, hey? You scamper away with your tail between your legs—as if you had the devil at your heels.

[Calmly, without answering him.] Has Mr. Ulfheim arrived by the steamer?

[Growls.] Haven't had the honour of seeing any steamer. [With his arms akimbo.] Don't you know that I sail my own cutter? [To the SERVANT.] Look well after your fellow-creatures, Lars. But take care you keep them ravenous, all the same. Fresh meat-bones—but not too much meat on them, do you hear? And be sure it's reeking raw, and bloody. And get something in your own belly while you're about it. [Aiming a kick at him.] Now then, go to hell with you!

[The SERVANT goes out with the dogs, behind the corner of the
hotel.]

Would not Mr. Ulfheim like to go into the dining-room in the meantime?

In among all the half-dead flies and people? No, thank you a thousand times, Mr. Inspector.

Well, well, as you please.

But get the housekeeper to prepare a hamper for me as usual. There must be plenty of provender in it—and lots of brandy—! You can tell her that I or Lars will come and play Old Harry with her if she doesn't—

[Interrupting.] We know your ways of old. [Turning.] Can I give the waiter any orders, Professor? Can I send Mrs. Rubek anything?

No thank you; nothing for me.

Nor for me.

[The INSPECTOR goes into the hotel.

[Stares at them for a moment; then lifts his hat.] Why, blast me if here isn't a country tyke that has strayed into regular tip-top society.

[Looking up.] What do you mean by that, Mr. Ulfheim?

[More quietly and politely.] I believe I have the honour of addressing no less a person than the great Sculptor Rubek.

[Nods.] I remember meeting you once or twice—the autumn when I was last at home.

That's many years ago, now. And then you weren't so illustrious as I hear you've since become. At that time even a dirty bear-hunter might venture to come near you.

[Smiling.] I don't bite even now.

[Looks with interest at ULFHEIM.] Are you really and truly a bear-hunter?

[Seating himself at the next table, nearer the hotel.] A bear-hunter when I have the chance, madam. But I make the best of any sort of game that comes in my way—eagles, and wolves, and women, and elks, and reindeer—if only it's fresh and juicy and has plenty of blood in it.

[Drinks from his pocket-flask.

[Regarding him fixedly.] But you like bear-hunting best?

I like it best, yes. For then one can have the knife handy at a pinch. [With a slight smile.] We both work in a hard material, madam—both your husband and I. He struggles with his marble blocks, I daresay; and I struggle with tense and quivering bear-sinews. And we both of us win the fight in the end—subdue and master our material. We never rest till we've got the upper hand of it, though it fight never so hard.

[Deep in thought.] There's a great deal of truth in what you say.

Yes, for I take it the stone has something to fight for too. It is dead, and determined by no manner of means to let itself be hammered into life. Just like the bear when you come and prod him up in his lair.

Are you going up into the forests now to hunt?

I am going right up into the high mountain.—I suppose you have never been in the high mountain, madam?

No, never.

Confound it all then, you must be sure and come up there this very summer! I'll take you with me—both you and the Professor, with pleasure.

Thanks. But Rubek is thinking of taking a sea trip this summer.

Round the coast—through the island channels.

Ugh—what the devil would you do in those damnable sickly gutters—floundering about in the brackish ditchwater? Dishwater I should rather call it.

There, you hear, Rubek!

No, much better come up with me to the mountain—away, clean away, from the trail and taint of men. You cant' think what that means for me. But such a little lady—

[He stops.
[The SISTER OF MERCY comes out of the pavilion and goes into
the hotel.

[Following her with his eyes.] Just look at her, do! That night-crow there!—Who is it that's to be buried?

I have not heard of any one—

Well, there's some one on the point of giving up the ghost, then—in on corner or another.—People that are sickly and rickety should have the goodness to see about getting themselves buried—the sooner the better.

Have you ever been ill yourself, Mr. Ulfheim.

Never. If I had, I shouldn't be here.—But my nearest friends—they have been ill, poor things.

And what did you do for your nearest friends?

Shot them, of course.

[Looking at him.] Shot them?

[Moving her chair back.] Shot them dead?

[Nods.] I never miss, madam.

But how can you possibly shoot people!

I am not speaking of people—

You said your nearest friends—

Well, who should they be but my dogs?

Are your dogs your nearest friends?

I have none nearer. My honest, trusty, absolutely loyal comrades—. When one of them turns sick and miserable—bang!—and there's my friend sent packing—to the other world.

[The SISTER OF MERCY comes out of the hotel with a tray on which
is bread and milk. She places it on the table outside the
pavilion, which she enters.

[Laughs scornfully.] That stuff there—is that what you call food for human beings! Milk and water and soft, clammy bread. Ah, you should see my comrades feeding. Should you like to see it?

[Smiling across to the PROFESSOR and rising.] Yes, very much.

[Also rising.] Spoken like a woman of spirit, madam! Come with me, then! They swallow whole great thumping meat-bones—gulp them up and then gulp them down again. Oh, it's a regular treat to see them. Come along and I'll show you—and while we're about it, we can talk over this trip to the mountains—

[He goes out by the corner of the hotel, MAIA following him.
[Almost at the same moment the STRANGE LADY comes out of the
pavilion and seats herself at the table.
[The LADY raises her glass of milk and is about to drink, but
stops and looks across at RUBEK with vacant, expressionless
eyes.

[Remains sitting at his table and gazes fixedly and earnestly at her. At last he rises, goes some steps towards her, stops, and says in a low voice.] I know you quite well, Irene.

[In a toneless voice, setting down her glass.] You can guess who I am, Arnold?

[Without answering.] And you recognise me, too, I see.

With you it is quite another matter.

With me?—How so?

Oh, you are still alive.

[Not understanding.] Alive—?

[After a short pause.] Who was the other? The woman you had with you—there at the table?

[A little reluctantly.] She? That was my—my wife.

[Nods slowly.] Indeed. That is well, Arnold. Some one, then, who does not concern me—

[Nods.] No, of course not—

THE LADY. —one whom you have taken to you after my lifetime.

[Suddenly looking hard at her.] After your—? What do you mean by that, Irene?

[Without answering.] And the child? I hear the child is prospering too. Our child survives me—and has come to honour and glory.

[Smiles as at a far-off recollection.] Our child? Yes, we called it so—then.

In my lifetime, yes.

[Trying to take a lighter tone.] Yes, Irene.—I can assure you "our child" has become famous all the wide world over. I suppose you have read about it.

[Nods.] And has made its father famous too.—That was your dream.

[More softly, with emotion.] It is to you I owe everything, everything, Irene—and I thank you.

[Lost in thought for a moment.] If I had then done what I had a right to do, Arnold—

Well? What then?

I should have killed that child.

Killed it, you say?

[Whispering.] Killed it—before I went away from you. Crushed it—crushed it to dust.

[Shakes his head reproachfully.] You would never have been able to, Irene. You had not the heart to do it.

No, in those days I had not that sort of heart.

But since then? Afterwards?

Since then I have killed it innumerable times. By daylight and in the dark. Killed it in hatred—and in revenge—and in anguish.

[Goes close up to the table and asks softly.] Irene—tell me now at last—after all these years—why did you go away from me? You disappeared so utterly—left not a trace behind—

[Shaking her head slowly.] Oh Arnold—why should I tell you that now—from the world beyond the grave.

Was there some one else whom you had come to love?

There was one who had no longer any use for my love—any use for my life.

[Changing the subject.] H'm—don't let us talk any more of the past—

No, no—by all means let us not talk of what is beyond the grave—what is now beyond the grave for me.

Where have you been, Irene? All my inquiries were fruitless—you seemed to have vanished away.

I went into the darkness—when the child stood transfigured in the light.

Have you travelled much about the world?