Генрик Ибсен: The Lady from the Sea

Wangel (cries out reluctantly). Ellida!

Ellida (clasps her hands despairingly about her head). Now you understand why I would not, why I dared not, live with you as your wife. (She turns suddenly and rushes off over the heights.)

Wangel (hurrying after her and calling). Ellida, Ellida! My poor unhappy Ellida!

(SCENE.—A more remote part of DOCTOR WANGEL'S garden. It is boggy and overshadowed by large old trees. To the right is seen the margin of a dank pond. A low, open fence separates the garden from the footpath, and the fjord in the background. Beyond is the range of mountains, with its peaks. It is afternoon, almost evening. BOLETTE sits on a stone seat, and on the seat lie some books and a work–basket. HILDE and LYNGSTRAND, both with fishing–tackle, walk along the bank of the pond.)

Hilde (making a sign to LYNGSTRAND). I can see a large one.

Lyngstrand (looking). Where?

Hilde (pointing). Can't you see? He's down there. Good gracious! There's another! (Looks through the trees.) Out there. Now he's coming to frighten him away!

Bolette (looking up). Who's coming?

Hilde. Your tutor, Miss!

Bolette. Mine?

Hilde. Yes. Goodness knows he never was mine.

(ARNHOLM enters from between the trees.)

Arnholm. Are there fish in the pond now?

Hilde. There are some very ancient carp.

Arnholm. No! Are the old carp still alive?

Hilde. Yes; they're pretty tough. But now we're going to try and get rid of some of them.

Arnholm. You'd better try out there at the fjord.

Lyngstrand. No; the pond is—well—so to say—more mysterious.

Hilde. Yes; it's fascinating here. Have you been in the sea?

Arnholm. Yes; I've come straight from the baths.

Hilde. I suppose you kept in the enclosure?

Arnholm. Yes; I'm not much of a swimmer.

Hilde. Can you swim on your back?

Arnholm. No.

Hilde. I can. (To LYNGSTRAND.) Let's try out there on the other side. (They go off along the pond.)

Arnholm (coming closer to BOLETTE). Are you sitting all alone here, Bolette?

Bolette. Yes; I generally do.

Arnholm. Isn't your mother down here in the garden?

Bolette. No—she's sure to be out with father.

Arnholm. How is she this afternoon?

Bolette. I don't quite know. I forgot to ask.

Arnholm. What books have you there?

Bolette. The one's something about botany. And the other's a geography.

Arnholm. Do you care about such things?

Bolette. Yes, if only I had time for it. But, first of all, I've to look after the housekeeping.

Arnholm. Doesn't your mother help you—your stepmother—doesn't she help with that?

Bolette. No, that's my business. Why, I saw to that during the two years father was alone. And so it has been since.

Arnholm. But you're as fond as ever of reading.

Bolette. Yes, I read all the useful books I can get hold of. One wants to know something about the world. For here we live so completely outside of all that's going on—or almost.

Arnholm. Now don't say that, dear Bolette.

Bolette. Yes! I think we live very much as the carp down there in the pond. They have the fjord so near them, where the shoals of wild fishes pass in and out. But the poor, tame house–fishes know nothing, and they can take no part in that.

Arnholm. I don't think it would fare very well with them if they could get out there.

Bolette. Oh! it would be much the same, I expect.

Arnholm. Moreover, you can't say that one is so completely out of the world here—not in the summer anyhow. Why, nowadays this is quite a rendezvous for the busy world—almost a terminus for the time being.

Bolette. Ah, yes! you who yourself are only here for the time being—it is easy for you to make fun of us.

Arnholm. I make fun? How can you think that?

Bolette. Well, all that about this being a rendezvous, and a terminus for the busy world—that's something you've heard the townsfolk here saying. Yes—they're in the habit of saying that sort of thing.

Arnholm. Well, frankly, I've noticed that, too.

Bolette. But really there's not an atom of truth in it. Not for us who always live here. What good is it to us that the great strange world comes hither for a time on its way North to see the midnight sun? We ourselves have no part in that; we see nothing of the midnight sun. No! We've got to be good, and live our lives here in our carp pond.

Arnholm (sitting down by her). Now tell me, dear Bolette, isn't there something or other—something definite you are longing for?

Bolette. Perhaps.

Arnholm. What is it, really? What is it you are longing for?

Bolette. Chiefly to get away.

Arnholm. That above all, then?

Bolette. Yes; and then to learn more. To really know something about everything.

Arnholm. When I used to teach you, your father often said he would let you go to college.

Bolette. Yes, poor father! He says so many things. But when it comes to the point he—there's no real stamina in father.

Arnholm. No, unfortunately you're right there. He has not exactly stamina. But have you ever spoken to him about it—spoken really earnestly and seriously?

Bolette. No, I've not quite done that.

Arnholm. But really you ought to. Before it is too late, Bolette, why don't you?

Bolette. Oh! I suppose it's because there's no real stamina in me either. I certainly take after father in that.

Arnholm. Hm—don't you think you're unjust to yourself there?

Bolette. No, unfortunately. Besides, father has so little time for thinking of me and my future, and not much desire to either. He prefers to put such things away from him whenever he can. He is so completely taken up with Ellida.

Arnholm. With whom? What?

Bolette. I mean that he and my stepmother—(breaks off). Father and mother suffice one another, as you see.

Arnholm. Well, so much the better if you were to get away from here.

Bolette. Yes; but I don't think I've a right to; not to forsake father.

Arnholm. But, dear Bolette, you'll have to do that sometime, anyhow. So it seems to me the sooner the better.

Bolette. I suppose there is nothing else for it. After all, I must think of myself, too. I must try and get occupation of some sort. When once father's gone, I have no one to hold to. But, poor father! I dread leaving him.

Arnholm. Dread?

Bolette. Yes, for father's sake.

Arnholm. But, good heavens! Your stepmother? She is left to him.

Bolette. That's true. But she's not in the least fit to do all that mother did so well. There is so much she doesn't see, or that she won't see, or that she doesn't care about. I don't know which it is.

Arnholm. Um, I think I understand what you mean.

Bolette. Poor father! He is weak in some things. Perhaps you've noticed that yourself? He hasn't enough occupation, either, to fill up his time. And then she is so thoroughly incapable of helping him; however, that's to some extent his own fault.

Arnholm. In what way?

Bolette. Oh! father always likes to see happy faces about him. There must be sunshine and joy in the house, he says. And so I'm afraid he often gives her medicine which will do her little good in the long run.

Arnholm. Do you really think that?

Bolette. Yes; I can't get rid of the thought. She is so odd at times. (Passionately.) But isn't it unjust that I should have to stay at home here? Really it's not of any earthly use to father. Besides, I have a duty towards myself, too, I think.

Arnholm. Do you know what, Bolette? We two must talk these matters over more carefully.

Bolette. Oh! That won't be much use. I suppose I was created to stay here in the carp pond.

Arnholm. Not a bit of it. It depends entirely upon yourself.

Bolette (quickly). Do you think so?