Mr Punch's Pocket Ibsen – A Collection of Some of the Master's Best Known Dramas. Anstey F.
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&c.] Sandwiches? Then you are going! Why, on earth – I can't understand!
Dear, you never can. Rosmershölm is too much for me. But how did you get on with Kroll?
We have made it up. He has convinced me that the work of ennobling men was several sizes too large for me – so I am going to let it alone —
[With her faint smile.] There I almost think, dear, that you are wise.
[As if annoyed.] What, so you don't believe in me either, Rebecca – you never did!
Not much, dear, when you are left to yourself – but I've another confession to make.
What, another? I really can't stand any more confessions just now!
[Sitting close to him.] It is only a little one. I bullied Beata into the mill-race – because of a wild uncontrollable – [Rosmer moves uneasily.] Sit still, dear – uncontrollable fancy – for you!
[Goes and sits on sofa.] Oh, my goodness, Rebecca – you mustn't, you know!
Don't be alarmed, dear, it is all over now. After living alone with you in solitude, when you showed me all your thoughts without reserve – little by little, somehow the fancy passed off. I caught the Rosmer view of life badly, and dulness descended on my soul as an extinguisher upon one of our Northern dips. The Rosmer view of life is ennobling, very – but hardly lively. And I've more yet to tell you.
[Turning it off.] Isn't that enough for one evening?
[Almost voiceless.] No, dear. I have a Past —behind me!
Behind you? How strange. I had an idea of that sort already. [Starts, as if in fear.] A joke! [Sadly.] Ah, no —no, I must not give way to that! Never mind the Past, Rebecca; I once thought that I had made the grand discovery that, if one is only virtuous, one will be happy. I see now it was too daring, too original – an immature dream. What bothers me is that I can't – somehow I can't– believe entirely in you – I am not even sure that I have ennobled you so very much —isn't it terrible?
[Wringing her hands.] Oh, this killing doubt! [Looks darkly at him.] Is there anything I can do to convince you?
[As if impelled to speak against his will.] Yes, one thing – only I'm afraid you wouldn't see it in the same light. And yet I must mention it. It is like this. I want to recover faith in my mission, in my power to ennoble human souls. And, as a logical thinker, this I cannot do now, unless – well, unless you jump into the mill-race, too, like Beata!
[Takes up her antimacassar, with composure, and puts it on her head.] Anything to oblige you.
[Springs up.] What? You really will! You are sure you don't mind? Then, Rebecca, I will go further. I will even go – yes – as far as you go yourself!
Rebecca.
[Bows her head towards his breast.] You will see me off? Thanks. Now you are indeed an Ibsenite.
[Cautiously.] I said as far as you go. I don't commit myself further than that. Shall we go?
Rebecca.
First tell me this. Are you going with me, or am I going with you?
A subtle psychological point – but we have not time to think it out here. We will discuss it as we go along. Come!
The cab, Miss – not here! [Looks out.] Out together – at this time of night – upon my —not on the garden seat? [Looks out of window.] My goodness! what is that white thing on the bridge – the Horse at last! [Shrieks aloud.] And those two sinful creatures running home!
[Scarcely able to get the words out.] It's no use, Rebecca – we must put it off till another evening. We can't be expected to jump off a footbridge which already has a White Horse on it. And if it comes to that, why should we jump at all? I know now that I really have ennobled you, which was all I wanted. What would be the good of recovering faith in my mission at the bottom of a mill-pond? No, Rebecca – [Lays his hand on her head] – there is no judge over us, and therefore —
[Interrupting gravely.] We will bind ourselves over in our own recognisances to come up for judgment when called upon.
NORA; OR, THE BIRD-CAGE
(ET DIKKISVÖET)
ACT FIRST
A room tastefully filled with cheap Art-furniture. Gimcracks in an étagère: a festoon of chenille monkeys hanging from the gaselier. Japanese fans, skeletons, cotton-wool spiders, frogs and lizards, scattered everywhere about. Drain-pipes with tall dyed grasses. A porcelain stove decorated with transferable pictures. Showily-bound books in book-case. Window. The Visitor's bell rings in the hall outside. The hall-door is heard to open, and then to shut. Presently Nora walks in with parcels; a porter carries a large Christmas-tree after her – which he puts down. Nora gives him a shilling – and he goes out grumbling.
Nora hums contentedly, and eats macaroons. Then Helmer puts his head out of his Manager's room, and Nora hides macaroons cautiously.
[Playfully.] Is that my little squirrel twittering – that my lark frisking in here?
Ess! [To herself.] I have only been married eight years, so these marital amenities have not yet had time to pall!
[Threatening with his finger.] I hope the little bird has surely not been digging its beak into any macaroons, eh?
[Bolting one, and wiping her mouth.] No, most certainly not. [To herself] The worst of being so babyish is – one does have to tell such a lot of taradiddles! [To Helmer.] See what I've bought – it's been such fun! [Hums.
[Inspecting parcels.] H'm – rather an expensive little lark!
Little birds like to have a flutter occasionally. Which reminds me – [Plays with his coat-buttons.] I'm such a simple ickle sing – but if you are thinking of giving me a Christmas present, make it cash!
Just like your poor father, he always asked me to make it cash – he never made any himself! It's heredity, I suppose. Well – well!
What, Christina – why, how old you look! But then you are poor. I'm not. Torvald has just been made a Bank Manager. [Tidies the room.] Isn't it really wonderfully delicious to be well off? But of course, you wouldn't know. We were poor once, and, do you know, when Torvald was ill, I – [tossing her head] – though I am such a