The study, later that afternoon. SUZANNAH sits knitting as IBSEN and JÆGER return from the investiture at the palace. They remove their coats. Ibsen’s medal is hanging on a coloured ribbon around his neck.
SUZANNAH. Well? And how was it?
JÆGER. Oh, fru Ibsen, it was wonderful! You should have heard them! When Dr Ibsen was called forward to receive his medal the applause just went on and on. I thought it would neverend.
IBSEN. Dr Jæger exaggerates, of course. Still, if they don’t know how to do such things at the palace then I should like to know where they do. The lunch was magnificent. I brought the menu for you to have a look at.
Ibsen hands Suzannah the menu, then pours himself a drink.
IBSEN. Like a drink, Jæger?
JÆGER. No, thank you, I really must get along and do some packing. But what a day. You must be absolutely exhausted, Ibsen!
SUZANNAH. Yes he is, so off you go now and give him a chance to get some rest before the unveiling this evening!
JÆGER. Alright! I can take a hint! Joking apart, fru Ibsen, you must be very, very proud indeed of your husband.
SUZANNAH. I can assure you I am, Dr Jæger. But there again, as I have told you before, I knew from our very first meeting in Bergen what a remarkable man Ibsen was.
JÆGER. Indeed, indeed. Well thank you, doctor, again, thank you.
IBSEN. Thank you for what, my dear Jæger?
JÆGER. Why, for today. For letting me be part of history. And when my book… oh, by the way, the old lady who was here this afternoon, that old acquaintance of yours – do you know where I might contact her? I would so like to interview her about the old days in Grimstad before I leave Kristiania.
Ibsen ignores this completely.
JÆGER. No? Oh bother. I did so want to speak to her. No idea at all where I might get hold of her?
Suzannah puts aside her knitting.
SUZANNAH. No, Dr Jæger. We have no idea at all of how the woman may be contacted.
JÆGER. Dash it. Ah well. The packing I think.
He stops on the way to his room.
JÆGER. Oh by the way, doctor – I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise?
IBSEN. My promise?
JÆGER. Yes. A last interview this evening?
SUZANNAH. Now Dr Jæger, my husband really must...
IBSEN. No, I haven’t forgotten. But will you have time?
JÆGER. Oh yes. The Stockholm train doesn’t leave until ten this evening.
IBSEN. Then let’s say here at eight-thirty, after the unveiling? Does that suit you?
JÆGER. Eight-thirty, fine.
SUZANNAH. Now off you go and get on with your packing, Dr Jæger!
JÆGER. (laughs) Alright! That’s it! Done! Finished, I promise!
Jæger goes into his room and closes the door.
IBSEN. Jæger thinks knowing me makes him part of history.
SUZANNAH. Well, doesn’t it? Anyone who knows someone as famous as you are becomes part of history. Dr Jæger knows quite well that if his name is remembered at all it will be for this biography of you he is writing.
IBSEN. Oh, come come.
SUZANNAH. It’s perfectly true.
IBSEN. Well, who knows, you may be right. (Pause) So she’s gone, has she, the old woman? The ratcatcher?
SUZANNAH. Yes, Ibsen. Fru Jensen has gone.
IBSEN. Ah. So you spoke to her.
SUZANNAH. She was bitten by a rat. I washed her hand for her.
Ibsen glances at Jæger’s door.
IBSEN. Then you know who fru Jensen is?
SUZANNAH. Yes Ibsen. I know who she is.
Ibsen sits in an armchair.
IBSEN. For God’s sake, Suzannah. The woman is threatening to tell Jæger all about that… that episode in Grimstad. She had the boy’s birth certificate with her. She showed it to me. Tried to blackmail me. I told her to go ahead and show it to him, said I refused to accede to blackmail. But, oh, this afternoon! Suzannah, you have no idea! When King Oscar was hanging the cross around my neck I thought for one terrible moment that that… troll family of mine might come bursting in, causing some horrible commotion at the door, beating their disgusting tails on the floor and demanding to be let in. We must get hold of her somehow. Come to some kind of agreement with her. She wants me to find the boy a job of some sort. That shouldn’t be beyond the bounds of possibility. Maybe your brother might have something for him at the bank.
SUZANNAH. So you propose to give in to her blackmail?
IBSEN. No, of course not. I just want to make sure she doesn’t show that birth certificate to Jæger. God knows, I’m sure if he did get wind of the story Hegel would never allow him to use it in his book, even if he wanted to. But the thing would get out. In a little fishpond like Kristiania it would get out. And wouldn’t my enemies have a field day then!
Suddenly gets up from his chair
IBSEN. There isn’t an envelope out there addressed to Jæger is there?
SUZANNAH. No, she didn’t leave anything for Dr Jæger.
IBSEN. Are you sure? How can you be so sure? What about the mailbox? Perhaps she put it in the mailbox.
He goes out into the hallway. Suzannah’s voice detains him.
SUZANNAH. No, she didn’t put it in the mailbox.
IBSEN. What did she do with it? Did she tell you?
SUZANNAH. Yes, Ibsen. Fru Jensen and I had a long talk together. And when we had finished, she gave it to me.
IBSEN. The birth certificate? She gave it to you?
SUZANNAH. The birth certificate. Her son’s birth certificate.
She picks up the envelope and holds it out to Ibsen. Ibsen takes it.
IBSEN. She gave this to you? She gave you this? But, Suzannah, that’s marvellous. That’s wonderful. I’m saved. How on earth did you manage it? Did you speak to Herman at the bank?
SUZANNAH. I didn’t do anything. She gave it to me of her own, free will.
Ibsen opens the envelope and takes out the birth certificate. Studies it for a few moments. Laughs with relief.
IBSEN. That is absolutely the... that is wonderful.
He crosses to the stove, opens the door and throws the envelope and birth certificate into the fire. Then he closes the door. Then he sits down, on the chair with the newspaper on it.
IBSEN. Well, that’s the end of that, thank God! What a load off my mind.
SUZANNAH. Yes. Dr Jæger need never know anything about it now.
IBSEN. No. And why indeed should he? What does such detail have to do anything? Jæger’s biography is supposed to be about my life and work. My inner life. My spiritual development. That is the real story. This… this business, this was a youthful indis-cretion, nothing more. The woman was a housemaid. Just a maid.
SUZANNAH. And what were you?
IBSEN. Me? I was lonely, Suzannah. I was eighteen years old, away from home, deeply and unendurably lonely. I paid, don’t forget. For fourteen years, out of my pittance, I paid towards that boy’s keep. I fulfilled my obligations towards him – and her. And now it’s over. Finished. Done with.
He reaches down to the newspaper rack beside the chair.
IBSEN. Where’s that damn newspaper? Why can’t people put things in their proper place?
SUZANNAH. You’re sitting on it.
Ibsen frowns. He turns and picks it up.
IBSEN. What’s it doing on the chair?
SUZANNAH. She put it there. Fru Jensen insisted on putting it there before she would accept my invitation to take a seat. She was worried about soiling our furniture with her dirty clothes.
IBSEN. Oh. No need for that, I’m sure.
And yet Ibsen moves to the other vacant armchair in which to sit with the paper.
IBSEN. And how has your day been? I mean, apart from that? Quiet?
SUZANNAH. Yes. A quiet day. I cleaned the pictures.
IBSEN. You know, I’ve told you before, I do wish you wouldn’t climb up and down those stepladders. A woman in your condition, you should let the maid do it.
SUZANNAH. Ibsen you know quite well that I don’t allow anyone else to touch my pictures.
IBSEN. It’s still a piece of nonsense.
He settles to his newspaper.
SUZANNAH. Tell me about the investiture. Did you speak to the king?*
IBSEN. Oh indeed. His Majesty persists in his high regard for writers, which is of course excellent news for us all. Although you know sometimes I wonder whether he really understands all that much about it.
SUZANNAH. What makes you say that?
IBSEN. Well, at one point he took me aside, told me how much he valued my work but informed me that I should not, under any circumstances, have written Ghosts. He appeared to prefer Lady Inger.
SUZANNAH. And what did you tell him?
IBSEN. I told him the truth, of course. Your Majesty, I said, I had to write Ghosts.
Suzannah looks radiant at this reply. This is her Ibsen. She approaches him from behind and lightly places her hands on his shoulders.
SUZANNAH. Ibsen...
IBSEN. Yes?
SUZANNAH. There’s something I must tell you. This afternoon...
IBSEN. Yes? What this afternoon?
SUZANNAH. This afternoon I made someone a promise. On your behalf.
IBSEN. Made who a promise?
SUZANNAH. That woman. Fru Jensen. The mother. This afternoon, while we were talking, she told me about her life. Ibsen, she’s had such a hard life, such a pathetic life.
IBSEN. All lives are hard.
SUZANNAH. Yes, but her life, it’s hardly her fault now, is it?
IBSEN. Are you suggesting that it is my fault?
SUZANNAH. I’m saying that it was no more her fault than it was yours. That it was no one’s fault. I’m saying that it is not fair that her life should have been… destroyed by this one mistake. That her reputation should have been ruined. While you…
IBSEN. Yes? While I what?
SUZANNAH. Well, look at us, Ibsen. Look at this apartment.
IBSEN. I deserve my success, Suzannah. I’ve worked hard for my success. You, of all people, should know that.
SUZANNAH. Oh I know it, I do know it, believe me I do. But didn’t I work hard for your success too? Haven’t I deserved your success too? Our success, as I sometimes think of it.
IBSEN. Yes, God knows, I couldn’t have done it without you. But then, you wanted my success as much as I did. You shared all my views, my aims, my aspirations, my dreams, my desire to change things for the better.
SUZANNAH. That’s right. I shared everything with you. I wanted you to be a great man. I knew what was in you.
IBSEN. And I am a great man! Why else have I been awarded this?
He indicates his medal.
IBSEN. Why else is a statue of me being unveiled outside the National Theatre in the heart of our capital city? It’s not something I say. These things – the decorations, the statues, the honours – these are not my ideas. They come from the people. It is other people who decide who is to be called great, and who is not. And in this as in everything else, Suzannah, believe me, I am profoundly aware of how much your belief in me has meant – and will continue to mean. Continue to mean!
SUZANNAH. Then do this thing for me. Show me how much you appreciate what I have done for you by keeping the promise I made on your behalf today.
IBSEN. But, my dear, how can I give such an undertaking, when I don’t even know what the promise is? Does it concern the boy? Is it this business about helping the boy to find a job?
SUZANNAH. No, it isn’t that. This much I will tell you: if you do this thing, if you keep this promise, it will make you greater in the eyes of those around you than anything you have done before.
IBSEN. I am insatiably curious. What is it?
SUZANNAH. Do you trust me?
IBSEN. You know that I trust you more than any other human being on earth.
SUZANNAH. Then please – give me your word. Even before you know what it is I am going to ask of you give me your word that you will do it.
IBSEN. Good God! This means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?
SUZANNAH. It means everything to me.
There is a silence. Then:
IBSEN. Very well, then. I give you my word. Now tell me: what have I promised?
SUZANNAH. I have given fru Jensen our word – your word – that this evening, at the ceremonial unveiling of your statue outside the National Theatre, when you stand to deliver your speech, you will not talk about the statue, or the theatre, at all. I have promised her that when you speak to the crowd you will take this opportunity publicly to acknowledge the existence of this woman and of her son. That you will tell them what happened all those years ago, and that you will demand social justice not just for her but for all such mothers and their children. That is all.
IBSEN. That is all?
SUZANNAH. Proclaim her right – and his right – and the right of all those like them – to the simple respect to which every human being under the sun is entitled!
IBSEN. Have you gone completely out of your mind?
SUZANNAH. The streets and the hostels of Kristiania are full of these tragic souls. Show that crowd you are not ashamed, Ibsen. Show them, the gossips, the petty-minded, the narrow-minded, show them how incomparably far in advance of them all you are! Show them true greatness! Instruct them! Teach them! Change the world, my darling husband! You did it once before, now I’m asking you, please, do it again!
IBSEN. You cannot possibly be serious.
SUZANNAH. I was never more serious in my life.
IBSEN. It is out of the question.
He gets up and walks to the side of the stage. They are now on opposite sides of the stage, with the Kronberg portrait between them.
SUZANNAH. I have been thinking. There is something else I want to say.
IBSEN. Something else? What might that be? Would you like me, for a grand finale, to kneel down and ask the theatre manager to chop off my head?
SUZANNAH. This secret of yours, Ibsen – of ours – this secret that you brought into our marriage with you, that we never talk about, at times it seems to me that it has wrapped itself around the years of our life together like a winding sheet. It has stifled our happiness. Think, my love, if we could free ourselves from it! Think how your courage this evening could mean liberation not just for the unmarried mothers and the bastard children, but for us too!
IBSEN. You don’t understand, Suzannah. You haven’t thought this through. What about the gossip? Have you thought of that? The whispers. The heads turning. The insolent smiles. The fingers pointing. Have you thought of that? What right does any man have to ask his wife to expose herself to such… luridness... Such humiliation?
Suzannah moves towards him.
SUZANNAH. Oh my great bear, surely you know me better than that! This would be nothing to me. Less than nothing. The truth laughs at such pettiness! Think of dear old Dr Stockmann. He didn’t care what people said, he didn’t care what people thought, all he knew and cared about was that he had justice on his side, justice and truth. It is enough. It is more than enough. You said it yourself, my darling – the strongest man in the world is the man who stands most alone!
IBSEN. I said that? I most certainly did not say that. Dr Stockmann said that. I can’t be held responsible for all his ravings. You, as the wife of an artist, should know that better than most.
SUZANNAH. Yes, but, but your sympathies... Everyone knows where your sympathies lie.
IBSEN. Oh they do, do they?
SUZANNAH. Yes. It is obvious.
IBSEN. Is it? Is it indeed? Is it really so obvious? And has it never occurred to you that everyone might be wrong? It isn’t so much what people say, Suzannah; it’s what they think. What you read in their eyes when they look at you.
SUZANNAH. Yes, and what do you think that poor unmarried mother has been reading in the eyes of those around her these past forty years?
Ibsen pauses. He is beginning to be uncertain.
IBSEN. (quietly, hesitantly) No... No... Extraordinary notion. (Louder) But tell me, do you really think it’s possible? At our age? Can people really change their lives, at our age?
SUZANNAH. Of course they can, my darling. All it takes is courage.
IBSEN. If only you were right, Suzannah.
Ibsen is agitated. As he paces about the room he catches sight of his own reflection in the mirror and stops. Then his gaze moves to the Kronberg portrait.
IBSEN. A life without secrets. Is such liberation possible? It’s too much, surely.
SUZANNAH. No, Ibsen. You can do it. Do it! And when the world hears that the great Henrik Ibsen has refused to bow to the claims of false shame, think how much this will mean to others!
IBSEN. Perhaps you’re right, Suzannah. Truth cleanses. Truth heals, truth perfects human beings. Once expressed, even the harshest and ugliest of truths bathes us in nobility. This is what I have urged over and over again in my work, the need for courage in the service of truth. But oh my God, how different it is, how very much more difficult it is, to take that same courage out of the sanctuary of one’s study and carry it down into the dirt and noise and merciless vulgarity of the street! Say it, yes. Believe it, yes. But do it? And yet – why not? Why not? What is it, this thing, this name that one is so afraid of losing?
Ibsen turns to her. Suddenly decisive.
IBSEN. Suzannah, your divine madness is infectious! I will do it!
SUZANNAH. I knew it! I knew it. Oh my loved one! Oh my lover!
She stands with her arms outstretched, hailing him, radiating her love and admiration for him. He stands erect. She approaches him. They touch each other – awkwardly – for they are very unused to touching one another. They are interrupted by a ringing on the doorbell and Ibsen pulls away from the embrace.
IBSEN. My cab for the theatre. I must leave.
Ritually, Suzannah helps him on with his black morning coat and glossy top hat.
SUZANNAH. I’m so proud of you, Ibsen. So proud.
At the door, Ibsen turns, seeking strength from her. She clenches her fist to show him strength. He leaves, closing the door behind him. His footsteps can be heard descending the staircase. Suzannah hobbles to the window and looks down at Ibsen departing in the cab. Then she turns into the room, facing the great painting, exultant, her fists clenched at her chest. She closes her eyes.
* See Interlude Note 4, page 261.