Генрик Ибсен: When We Dead Awaken

MAIA.

[Slowly.] It's true that things like that are a great deal too hard for me.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Oh no, they are not at all in your line, Maia.

MAIA.

[With an outburst.] And heaven knows I don't want them to be, either!

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

I know that very well.—And it was with no idea of finding any such help in my life–work that I married you.

MAIA.

[Observing him closely.] I can see in your face that you are thinking of some one else.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Indeed? I have never noticed before that you were a thought–reader. But you can see that, can you?

MAIA.

Yes, I can. Oh, I know you so well, so well, Rubek.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Then perhaps you can also see who it is I am thinking of?

MAIA.

Yes, indeed I can.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Well? Have the goodness to—?

MAIA.

You are thinking of that—that model you once used for— [Suddenly letting slip the train of thought.] Do you know, the people down at the hotel think she's mad.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Indeed? And pray what do the people down at the hotel think of you and the bear–killer?

MAIA.

That has nothing to do with the matter. [Continuing the former train of thought.] But it was this pale lady you were thinking of.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Calmly.] Precisely, of her.—When I had no more use for her—and when, besides, she went away from me—vanished without a word—

MAIA.

Then you accepted me as a sort of makeshift, I suppose?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[More unfeelingly.] Something of the sort, to tell the truth, little Maia. For a year or a year and a half I had lived there lonely and brooding, and had put the last touch—the very last touch, to my work. "The Resurrection Day" went out over the world and brought me fame—and everything else that heart could desire. [With greater warmth.] But I no longer loved my own work. Men's laurels and incense nauseated me, till I could have rushed away in despair and hidden myself in the depths of the woods. [Looking at her.] You, who are a thought–reader—can you guess what then occurred to me?

MAIA.

[Lightly.] Yes, it occurred to you to make portrait–busts of gentlemen and ladies.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Nods.] To order, yes. With animals' faces behind the masks. Those I threw in gratis—into the bargain, you understand. [Smiling.] But that was not precisely what I had in my mind.

MAIA.

What, then?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Again serious.] It was this, that all the talk about the artist's vocation and the artist's mission, and so forth, began to strike me as being very empty, and hollow, and meaningless at bottom.

MAIA.

Then what would you put in its place?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Life, Maia.

MAIA.

Life?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Yes, is not life in sunshine and in beauty a hundred times better worth while than to hang about to the end of your days in a raw, damp hole, and wear yourself out in a perpetual struggle with lumps of clay and blocks of stone?

MAIA.

[With a little sigh.] Yes, I have always thought so, certainly.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

And then I had become rich enough to live in luxury and in indolent, quivering sunshine. I was able to build myself the villa on the Lake of Taunitz, and the palazzo in the capital,—and all the rest of it.

MAIA.

[Taking up his tone.] And last but not least, you could afford to treat yourself to me, too. And you gave me leave to share in all your treasures.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Jesting, so as to turn the conversation.] Did I not promise to take you up to a high enough mountain and show you all the glory of the world?

MAIA.

[With a gentle expression.] You have perhaps taken me up with you to a high enough mountain, Rubek—but you have not shown me all the glory of the world.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[With a laugh of irritation.] How insatiable you are, Maia.! Absolutely insatiable! [With a vehement outburst.] But do you know what is the most hopeless thing of all, Maia? Can you guess that?

MAIA.

[With quiet defiance.] Yes, I suppose it is that you have gone and tied yourself to me—for life.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

I would not have expressed myself so heartlessly.

MAIA.

But you would have meant it just as heartlessly.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

You have no clear idea of the inner workings of an artist's nature.

MAIA.

[Smiling and shaking her head.] Good heavens, I haven't even a clear idea of the inner workings of my own nature.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Continuing undisturbed.] I live at such high speed, Maia. We live so, we artists. I, for my part, have lived through a whole lifetime in the few years we two have known each other. I have come to realise that I am not at all adapted for seeking happiness in indolent enjoyment. Life does not shape itself that way for me and those like me. I must go on working—producing one work after another—right up to my dying day. [Forcing himself to continue.] That is why I cannot get on with you any longer, Maia—not with you alone.

MAIA.

[Quietly.] Does that mean, in plain language, that you have grown tired of me?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Bursts forth.] Yes, that is what it means! I have grown tired—intolerably tired and fretted and unstrung—in this life with you! Now you know it. [Controlling himself.] These are hard, ugly words I am using. I know that very well. And you are not at all to blame in this matter;—that I willingly admit. It is simply and solely I myself, who have once more undergone a revolution—[Half to himself]—and awakening to my real life.

MAIA.

[Involuntarily folding her hands.] Why in all the world should we not part then?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Looks at her in astonishment.] Should you be willing to?

MAIA.

[Shrugging her shoulders.] Oh yes—if there's nothing else for it, then—

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Eagerly.] But there is something else for it. There is an alternative—

MAIA.

[Holding up her forefinger.] Now you are thinking of the pale lady again!

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Yes, to tell the truth, I cannot help constantly thinking of her. Ever since I met her again. [A step nearer her.] For now I will tell you a secret, Maia.

MAIA.

Well?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Touching his own breast.] In here, you see—in here I have a little bramah–locked casket. And in that casket all my sculptor's visions are stored up. But when she disappeared and left no trace, the lock of the casket snapped to. And she had the key—and she took it away with her.—You, little Maia, you had no key; so all that the casket contains must lie unused. And the years pass! And I have no means of getting at the treasure.

MAIA.

[Trying to repress a subtle smile.] Then get her to open the casket for you again—

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Not understanding.] Maia—?

MAIA. —for here she is, you see. And no doubt it's on account of this casket that she has come.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

I have not said a single word to her on this subject!

MAIA.

[Looks innocently at him.] My dear Rubek—is it worth while to make all this fuss and commotion about so simple a matter?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Do you think this matter is so absolutely simple?

MAIA.

Yes, certainly I think so. Do you attach yourself to whoever you most require. [Nods to him.] I shall always manage to find a place for myself.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Where do you mean?

MAIA.

[Unconcerned, evasively.] Well—I need only take myself off to the villa, if it should be necessary. But it won't be; for in town—in all that great house of ours—there must surely, with a little good will, be room enough for three.