Evening. The apartment at Arbiens gate. Suzannah alone, waiting in a state of visible tension for Ibsen to return from the unveiling. There is a ring on the doorbell and she admits Jæger.
SUZANNAH. Ah, Dr Jæger. Isn’t my husband with you?
JÆGER. Fru Ibsen. No, I expect he’s on his way. I’ve never seen the streets so crowded. Quite amazing.
He removes his coat.
SUZANNAH. Well? And how was the unveiling?
JÆGER. I missed it! Of all the wretched luck. The horse – would you believe it? – the horse fainted. And by the time I managed to find another cab and get to the theatre the ceremony was over. Sinding’s statue is, of course, magnificent. A masterpiece.
SUZANNAH. But the speech, Dr Jæger? My husband’s speech? You must have got some sense of how his speech was received?
JÆGER. Oh I should say so! Everyone was talking about it! Huge success!
SUZANNAH. I knew it! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!
JÆGER. Yes, indeed. A memorable day. A great day for all of us. For the whole country. But for Ibsen! Your husband has known many great days in his life, fru Ibsen; but this, this must surely rank as the greatest of them all.
SUZANNAH. Oh yes, Dr Jæger. This is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, our greatest day.
JÆGER. And the atmosphere! What an atmosphere! There was a crowd of, oh I should think it must have been several thousand gathered below the balcony.
SUZANNAH. Tell me, how did Ibsen look? How did Ibsen seem? Oh tell me, tell me, I want to know everything.
JÆGER. Dr Ibsen sat there as serene, as poised, as dignified and as perfectly composed as that extraordinary statue. Cheer after cheer after cheer. It was like the seventeenth of May! It was like National Day! Thank you.
Jæger accepts a drink from her and sits down.
JÆGER. Rather curious incident afterwards, though. On my way back here, as I was walking through Vika, I was approached by some madman claiming to be the doctor’s son!
SUZANNAH. Someone claiming to be Ibsen’s son?
JÆGER. (Still laughing) Yes!
SUZANNAH. Did you speak to him? This... madman?
JÆGER. Oh yes! I told him that if he really were Ibsen’s son then he must come back here with me, because I’m sure his father would be delighted to make his acquaintance!
SUZANNAH. You invited him here?
JÆGER. Bless you, fru Ibsen, I’m only joking! No, I gave the rascal a skilling and told him not to spend it on drink, although as he was already almost totally incoherent I doubt if he even heard me. He was being egged on by a crowd of young students. I should think it was they who put him up to it. I saw them pointing me out to him, urging him to speak to me. They had dressed him up in evening dress – like the doctor – top hat, morning coat, the lot.* Even hung a fifty øre piece round his neck on a length of string. Pretty tasteless sort of joke really. Probably some poor vagrant they picked up in the course of the night’s drinking, and, noticing he bore a resemblance – as a matter of fact a quite marked resemblance – to the doctor, put him up to it. But what an extraordinary fantasy! Still, that’s the price of fame, I suppose.
SUZANNAH. What happened to this man? Did you see what happened to him?
JÆGER. Indeed I did. The last I saw of him he was being frogmarched off into the meatwagon by two of our largest constables. An old woman was hanging onto their arms, yelling at them to let him go, that she would take care of him. The mother, presumably. Really the problem of begging and public drunkenness in Kristiania is getting out of hand.
SUZANNAH. So they locked him up?
JÆGER. Yes. And quite right too. This is a day of considerable civic and national pride. Of course one is sorry for such people, but one really can’t allow drunkards and beggars to spoil it all.
SUZANNAH. Dr Jæger, that man will be released from jail this evening. Ibsen will arrange for his release as soon as he hears what has happened. And you shall hear this poor man’s story for yourself.
JÆGER. Ever the idealist, fru Ibsen!
SUZANNAH. Oh, on the contrary, Dr Jæger! When our dreams come true we are no longer dreamers, and when our ideals are realized we are no longer idealists.
JÆGER. I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, fru Ibsen.
SUZANNAH. Had you been present and heard my husband’s speech you would understand exactly what I mean. (Skittishly) However, as a punishment for your horse fainting you must now wait until your final interview with my husband this evening to find out!
JÆGER. Well, that seems a little harsh, I must say! And now, I wonder if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes. I still have a little packing to do.
Jæger goes into his room, where he can be seen sorting through his papers. Suzannah looks up at the portrait of her husband, closes her eyes, clenches her fists in wonder. Suddenly she wants to throw the windows open. She crosses to the window and tries to open it. It is too stiff and will not open.
SUZANNAH. Jæger? Dr Jæger? Can you help me with this window?
Jæger comes in.
JÆGER. A little stiff is it?
But he too struggles in vain to open it.
JÆGER. Well, it’s beyond me. Must have swelled up with all that rain.
He returns to his room. Suzannah continues to try to open it. She hears Ibsen return and makes one last attempt to open it before his entry.
SUZANNAH. Ibsen. My husband. My love!
JÆGER. (from his room) Is that you, Dr Ibsen?
IBSEN. Ah, Jæger, back already?
JÆGER. (Entering) Yes. And ready to take your last confession now – if you’re ready to make it!
IBSEN. My confession? What on earth are you implying?
JÆGER. Why, nothing. ‘Your last confession’. It’s just a turn of phrase.
IBSEN. Of course. Just a turn of phrase. Suzannah, will you excuse us for just a little while, my dear – I gave Jæger my word that he should have a final interview with me before he leaves Kristiania this evening. We’ll talk about the ceremony later and I promise you, you shall hear all about it.
SUZANNAH. Later then. Oh Ibsen, I’m so proud of you. So proud!
IBSEN. Yes.
Suzannah goes out, Ibsen and Jæger sit opposite each other, Jæger with a notebook on his lap.
IBSEN. Alright then. Fire away.
JÆGER. I’d like to ask you about your harem, Dr Ibsen. Your women.
IBSEN. I beg your pardon?
JÆGER. Your women. All your Noras, Rebeccas, Heddas, Ellidas. Why is it that so many of your major characters are women? What was it – what is it – that has led to your writing so many plays that both depict and deplore the plight of women in our modern society?
IBSEN. ‘Depict and deplore’? I don’t suppose I can persuade you not to use that phrase in your biography, can I, Jæger? I’m sure I don’t know the answer to your question. Do my plays really ‘depict and deplore’ the plight of women in society, as you put it?
JÆGER. (discomfited) Well, the members of the Women’s Union seem to think so. At the dinner they gave at which you were guest of honour on the occasion of your 70th birthday, which was, let me see…
He consults his notebook.
IBSEN. Yes, yes, I know when my own birthday is.
JÆGER. I meant the dinner.
IBSEN. I will repeat for you what I said to them on that occasion: that I have in my writing been more of an artist and less of a social philosopher than people like to think. It is not women as such that interest me. It is people. Individual human beings, whether they happen to be men or women. Does that answer your question?
JÆGER. Well, if you’ll forgive me, not really, Dr Ibsen. Recently I interviewed fru Krog of the Women’s Union about A Doll’s House, for example, and she told me that in her opinion your play was the single largest factor behind the change in the laws relating to the rights of married women to own property and manage their own finances. As she pointed out, these changes took place within two years of the appearance of your play. Surely there’s some connection there? Our women generally, not just members of the Union but women generally, regard you as their champion.†
IBSEN. No. I am nobody’s champion. I belong to no Party and I am nobody’s champion. I am an artist.
JÆGER. But surely, Dr Ibsen...
IBSEN. Very well, then. Since you insist. My wife. The influence of my wife.
JÆGER. I see. Your wife.
He takes this note.
JÆGER. The socialists in London – I’m thinking of the dramatist Bernard Shaw – are also claiming you as one of their own. May I ask how you respond to this?
IBSEN. I dislike it intensely, for the same reasons as I dislike being taken for a champion of women’s rights.
JÆGER. But would you not agree that a great many of your ideals...
IBSEN. (losing patience) My ideals? What ideals? My ideals are my own. If my moral position on some issue or other happens to accord with a social-democratic principle then that is a fortunate coincidence for the socialists and nothing more.
JÆGER. I see.
Takes this note.
JÆGER. If you don’t mind, I’d like to return to the subject of the women in your plays…
IBSEN. As a matter of fact I do mind. I’m tired of talking about women. I don’t want to talk about women anymore. Either in my plays, or anywhere else for that matter. Is that clear?
JÆGER. Yes, but...
IBSEN. Are you watching your time, Jæger?
JÆGER. I beg your pardon?
Ibsen stands up, consults his watch – the ‘interview’ is over.
IBSEN. Your time, man. Your train.
JÆGER. (pulling out his watch) No, you’re quite right, I mustn’t miss my train.
He begins to pack his papers away into a case. The ‘danger’ is over for Ibsen, who now begins to pace the floor, talking calmly, as though to himself.
IBSEN. You’ve never asked me how I work. Would you like to know how I work? The material first, then the theme. First material, then theme. Never the other way round. I mull over the material for a long time before I set pen to paper. I’m not talking about days, or weeks, or months. I’m talking about years. Years. I take long walks, alone. Going over, in my thoughts, some experience from the past that I have not merely known but lived through. Do you see the difference? Not merely experienced, but lived through. And not merely lived through, but lived through and put behind me. Only when it is all absolutely clear to me, when the central problem has been digested in this fashion and become an abstract formulation, only then do I begin the process of committing myself to paper. I write a draft. Very crude. Very rough. Then I work on it. Changing it. Adapting it. Distancing it from the original, personal event and transforming it into a generally applicable experience.
Jæger, realizing he is hearing something interesting, leaves off packing and begins to note this down.
IBSEN. I have one inflexible rule. Invariably, at the end of each working day, I stop at a point at which I know exactly what is going to happen next. I have the lines ready in my head, I simply don’t write them down. So the following day, when I sit down at my desk, there they are, still waiting for me. I write them down, and on I go. And, of course, I must be alone. Absolutely and completely alone. The only person whose company is even remotely tolerable to me at such times is my wife. My son, for example, is never allowed to be present when I’m working. Not under any circumstances. Do you understand?
Ibsen stops pacing. He rubs his face with both hands.
JÆGER. You look tired, Dr Ibsen.
IBSEN. Yes. This has been a long day.
Jæger resumes packing.
JÆGER. A long day, but a great day.
IBSEN. Yes, a great day. Shall I tell you something, Jæger? I envy you your train journey this evening. Do you travel much by train?
JÆGER. Why, yes. When I can. It’s much the most convenient way of getting about in these modern times.
IBSEN. Very well put, Jæger. Nicely phrased. I’m too old to travel much now, but in my time I have travelled a great deal by train. It’s an ideal way of looking at things. People, countries. You see it all through the windows. And yet it doesn’t concern you somehow. It doesn’t impinge.
Ibsen is lost in his own thought as Jæger concludes his packing.
JÆGER. Well, Dr Ibsen, I’m afraid I really must rush off now if I’m to make my train.
IBSEN. Oh no, really? Must you go?
JÆGER. I’m afraid so.
IBSEN. Oh, that’s a pity. Well, I hope you found your stay here with us fruitful.
JÆGER. You’ve been most helpful, Dr Ibsen, most helpful.
IBSEN. The inner story, that’s the thing. That’s what people want to read. Not a lot of vulgar tittle-tattle.
Jæger is slightly affronted.
JÆGER. I beg your pardon?
IBSEN. Oh, don’t take it personally, Jæger, I’m not referring to your book. But can people ever really know each other? Even when we possess all the facts about a life, surely something is always going to be missing? Who knows, perhaps even the most important thing of all.
JÆGER. Well, as a matter of professional pride, Dr Ibsen, I feel bound to say that I hope there is nothing missing.
Jæger is now ready to leave.
JÆGER. Well, thank you again for your hospitality and your co-operation. You really have been most patient. That reminds me, I was speaking to Sinding the other day…
IBSEN. (interrupts) You were speaking to Sinding? What on earth were you speaking to Sinding for? Sinding knows nothing about me.
JÆGER. I happened to meet him in the street, that’s all. It was quite by accident, I assure you. I congratulated him on the statue and I pointed out to him that we were both, in a sense, your biographers – Sinding has written the story of your life in stone, and I have done so in words. He told me that you were probably the best and most patient model who has ever sat for him.
IBSEN. And I should think so too. If there’s one thing a writer knows how to do it’s sit still for hours on end.
Jæger looks at him a moment: is Ibsen amusing himself? Then he proffers his hand.
JÆGER. Goodbye, doctor.
IBSEN. Goodbye. Good luck with your book. You will send me a copy when it comes out now, won’t you?
JÆGER. Indeed I will. With a dedication!
IBSEN. Of course! Don’t forget the dedication!
Ibsen ushers Jæger towards the front door.
JÆGER. Fru Ibsen. I must thank fru Ibsen.
IBSEN. I’ll pass on your thanks to her.
JÆGER. But…
IBSEN. Look sharp now! Mind your time!
The door is open, and Jæger has gone. Ibsen shuts it behind him and lingers there, deep in thought.
SUZANNAH. (calling) Who was that?
IBSEN. Jæger.
SUZANNAH. (enters) Has Dr Jæger gone?
IBSEN. Yes, just gone. Had to rush for his train. Asked me to pass on his thanks and good wishes to you.
SUZANNAH. Did you tell him? He didn’t hear your speech, you know, he missed it.
Ibsen doesn’t answer. He sits down in an armchair. Suzannah is staring at him.
SUZANNAH. Well, Ibsen? Tell me all about it! I want to hear all the details!
IBSEN. Details? (Pause) Oh that. No, I couldn’t.
SUZANNAH. You couldn’t?
IBSEN. I couldn’t do it.
SUZANNAH. But you gave me your word...
IBSEN. (angrily) Yes, but what does that matter, when I simply couldn’t do it?
He tries to speak ‘reasonably’.
IBSEN. It isn’t fair, Suzannah. You can’t ask a writer to do more than write. You mustn’t. It’s his writing that matters. The statements he makes. The carrying out of it all, the practical application of it all, that’s for society to take care of, that is society’s responsibility. Does a general lead his army from the front? Of course he doesn’t, of course not. The risks are too great. Suzannah, a more enlightened age is dawning. You know it, I know it, we both know it. It is very possible that the world will change. And perhaps, in this new world that is dawning, perhaps there a fru Jensen and her... and her son will someday find the... ease, the... . But not yet, Suzannah. Not today. It’s asking too much of me, to do this today. (He looks straight at her.) It’s the disgrace, you see. I simply couldn’t bear the disgrace.
She turns away from him.
IBSEN. When I was a child, Suzannah, when I was a boy, from the front door of the house in Skien where I grew up, you could see the stocks on the other side of the square. And even though they stopped using them years ago, I used to dream about them. I dreamt about them many, many times. I felt as though those little arms were reaching out to me, calling me over, to embrace me. And do you know what? I still dream about them. Seventy years of age and I still dream about those stocks... and there’s something else. Won’t you listen to me? Please?
SUZANNAH. Go on then: what is this something else?
Turns to face him again.
IBSEN. I realized, as I sat up there on that theatre balcony waiting to make my speech, with all those thousands of people milling about below, I realized that I did not even want to keep my promise.
She half-turns away again.
IBSEN. No, please, listen! Listen! Looking at that sea of heads beneath me, I suddenly understood something I had never understood before: I understood just how much I needed it.
SUZANNAH. How much you needed what?
IBSEN. The secret, Suzannah! The secret itself. I realized that it is the secret itself that has kept me going all these years. It’s been like some great underground engine, grinding away deep down inside me all through the years, digging up these plays, transporting them to the surface, despatching them to stages all over the world, play after play after play after play. The secret is my power, and I am its slave. I realized – freedom from secrets, freedom from guilt – these are not for the artist, Suzannah, these are for other people. Take the secret away from an artist and you take away his lifeblood.
Having said ‘it’, he begins to navigate his way away from it.
IBSEN. And then, of course, there is the matter of Sigurd’s career to consider. Perhaps I could have lived with the disgrace; but it would be unfair to any son of mine to expect him to have to do so. Because, of course, a scandal like that would ruin everything we have struggled for – his prospects in the diplomatic corps, his career, everything. No, no, it was impossible. Impossible.
He has finished. He takes out his pocket watch and checks the time.
IBSEN. Oh my goodness, look at the time!
Ibsen goes to the big clock, checks it against his watch, winds it up. As he closes the glass door he catches sight of the reflection of the Cross hanging around his neck. He studies it, then turns to Suzannah.
IBSEN. Did you see it, my dear? (He holds up the Cross.) The Great Cross?
SUZANNAH. The window won’t open, Ibsen. I tried to open it this afternoon while you were out; but I couldn’t do it.
IBSEN. I’ll get the caretaker to have a look at it tomorrow. Shan’t need it open tonight anyway, it’s freezing out.
Ibsen sighs heavily. He puts his watch back in his waistcoat pocket, sits down, reads the paper. Suzannah sits down too, takes up her knitting. The big clock ticks. Suddenly stumbling heavy footsteps are heard coming up the stairs. Ibsen lowers his newspaper, Suzannah stops knitting. The footsteps stop at the front door. There is a quick, loud knock.
IBSEN. Oh my God, who’s that? It’s not the boy, is it? Is it the boy? You don’t suppose it’s the boy, do you?
Ibsen stands up. The knock is repeated. After a while:
IBSEN. Has he gone? Who do you suppose it was? Do you suppose it was him?
SUZANNAH. You needn’t worry about the son anymore, Ibsen.
IBSEN. Why not?
SUZANNAH. Because he’s in jail. Dr Jæger saw the whole thing. This afternoon. On his way back here from the theatre. He was drunk, apparently. Telling anyone who would listen to him that he was Henrik Ibsen’s son. No one believed him, of course. The police handcuffed him and took him away.‡
IBSEN. Then perhaps it’s Sigurd. (He calls through the front door.) Grimbart, is that you? Did you forget your key?
There is no answer. He opens the door. No one there.
IBSEN. (calling into the darkness) That you, old man? Grimbart? (He steps out onto the landing.) Jæger? Miss the train? (He comes back into the apartment and closes the door.) That’s odd. There was no one there.
He shrugs, sits down, picks up his paper again. Suzannah knits. The clock ticks. After a few moments Ibsen lowers the paper.
IBSEN. A rather odd thing happened at the theatre this evening. I was watching from the balcony as they raised that... the what do you call it... the cloth that covers the statue. There was cheering, clapping, a band playing – tremendous noise. I couldn’t take my eyes off the statue. It’s enormous, you know. Absolutely enormous. I don’t think I quite realized up until then just how big it is. It was cold, sitting up there. Very cold. And faces everywhere, all looking up at me. And suddenly a sort of confusion overcame me. And it was as though I couldn’t tell which was which anymore. Which was the statue, and which was me. It only lasted a few moments, of course, and then it was over, and it was clear to me again, which was the statue, and which was me.
He sits motionless for a few moments, then raises his newspaper again. Suzannah has been looking at him. Now her gaze shifts to the Kronberg portrait. She sits forward and peers at it. She gets up and hobbles out. Moments later she reappears with the step-ladder and a cloth, opens it in front of the portrait and begins slowly to climb up.
IBSEN. I thought I told you not to do that.
SUZANNAH. There’s a mark on it.
She begins to rub at the glass with her cloth.
IBSEN. Leave it.
SUZANNAH. But there’s a mark on it.
Still rubbing the glass.
IBSEN. (giving Suzannah a fierce bark that ‘freezes’ her). I said LEAVE IT!
Suzannah lowers her arm and remains standing as the light fades to blackout on this tableau.
* See Interlude Note 5, page 262.
† See Interlude Note 6, page 263.
‡ See Interlude Note 7, page 266.