At WERLE’s house. A richly and comfortably furnished study, with bookcases and upholstered furniture, a writing table, with papers and reports, in the middle of the floor, and green-shaded lamps softly illuminating the room. In the rear wall, open folding doors with curtains drawn back disclose a large, fashionable room, brightly lit by lamps and candelabra. In the right foreground of the study, a small private door leads to the offices. In the left foreground, a fireplace filled with glowing coals, and further back a double door to the dining room.
WERLE’s manservant, PETTERSEN, in livery, and JENSEN, a hired waiter, in black, are straightening up the study. In the larger room two or three other hired waiters are moving about, putting things in order and lighting more candles. In from the dining room come laughter and the hum of many voices in conversation; a knife clinks upon a glass; silence; a toast is made; cries of “Bravo,” and the hum of conversation resumes.
PETTERSEN (lighting a lamp by the fireplace and putting on the shade). Ah, you hear that, Jensen. Now the old boy’s up on his feet, proposing a long toast to Mrs. Sørby.
JENSEN (moving an armchair forward). Is it really true what people say, that there’s something between them?
PETTERSEN. Lord knows.
JENSEN. I’ve heard he was a real goat in his day.
PETTERSEN. Could be.
JENSEN. But they say it’s his son he’s throwing this party for.
PETTERSEN. Yes. His son came home yesterday.
JENSEN. I never knew before that old Werle had any son.
PETTERSEN. Oh yes, he’s got a son. But he spends all his time up at the works in Hoidal. He hasn’t been in town all the years I’ve served in this house.
A HIRED WAITER (in the door to the other room). Say, Pettersen, there’s an old guy here who—
PETTERSEN (muttering). What the hell—somebody coming now!
(Old EKDAL appears from the right through the inner room. He is dressed in a shabby overcoat with a high collar, woollen gloves, and in his hand, a cane and a fur cap; under his arm is a bundle wrapped in brown paper. He has a dirty, reddish-brown wig and a little gray moustache.)
PETTERSEN (going toward him). Good Lord, what do you want in here?
EKDAL (at the door). Just have to get into the office, Pettersen.
PETTERSEN. The office closed an hour ago, and—
EKDAL. Heard that one at the door, boy. But Graaberg’s still in there. Be nice, Pettersen, and let me slip in that way. (Pointing toward the private entrance.) I’ve gone that way before.
PETTERSEN. All right, go ahead, then. (Opens the door.) But don’t forget now—take the regular way out; we have guests.
EKDAL. Got you—hmm! Thanks, Pettersen, good old pal! Thanks. (To himself.) Bonehead! (He goes into the office; PETTERSEN shuts the door after him.)
JENSEN. Is he on the office staff too?
PETTERSEN. No, he’s just someone who does copying on the outside when it’s needed. Still, in his time he was well up in the world, old Ekdal.
JENSEN. Yes, he looks like he’s been a little of everything.
PETTERSEN. Oh yes. He was a lieutenant once, if you can imagine.
JENSEN. Go on—him a lieutenant!
PETTERSEN. So help me, he was. But then he went into the lumber business or something. They say he must have pulled some kind of dirty deal on the old man once, for the two of them were running the Hoidal works together then. Oh, I know good old Ekdal, all right. We’ve drunk many a schnapps and bottle of beer together over at Eriksen’s.
JENSEN. He can’t have much money for standing drinks.
PETTERSEN. My Lord, Jensen, you can bet it’s me that stands the drinks. I always say a person ought to act refined toward quality that’s come down in life.
JENSEN. Did he go bankrupt, then?
PETTERSEN. No, worse than that. He was sent to jail.
JENSEN. To jail!
PETTERSEN. Or maybe it was the penitentiary. (Listens.) Hist! They’re leaving the table.
(The dining room door is opened by a pair of servants inside. MRS. SøRBY, in conversation with two gentlemen, comes out. A moment later the rest of the guests follow, among them WERLE. Last of all come HJALMAR EKDAL and GREGERS WERLE.)
MRS. SøRBY (to the servant, in passing). Pettersen, will you have coffee served in the music room.
PETTERSEN. Yes, Mrs. Sørby.
(She and the two gentlemen go into the inner room and exit to the right. PETTERSEN and JENSEN leave in the same way.)
A FAT GUEST (to a balding man). Phew! That dinner—that was a steep bit of work!
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST. Oh, with a little good will a man can do wonders in three hours.
THE FAT GUEST. Yes, but afterward, my dear fellow, afterward.
A THIRD GUEST. I hear we can sample coffee and liqueur in the music room.
THE FAT GUEST. Fine! Then perhaps Mrs. Sørby will play us a piece.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST (in an undertone). Just so Mrs. Sørby doesn’t play us to pieces.
THE FAT GUEST. Oh, now really, Berta wouldn’t punish her old friends, would she? (They laugh and enter the inner room.)
WERLE (in a low, depressed tone). I don’t think anyone noticed it, Gregers.
GREGERS. What?
WERLE. Didn’t you notice it either?
GREGERS. What should I have noticed?
WERLE. We were thirteen at the table.
GREGERS. Really? Were we thirteen?
WERLE (with a glance at HJALMAR EKDAL). Yes—our usual number is twelve. (To the others.) Be so kind, gentlemen.
(He and those remaining, excepting HJALMAR and GREGERS, go out to the rear and right.)
HJALMAR (who has heard the conversation). You shouldn’t have sent me the invitation, Gregers.
GREGERS. What! The party’s supposed to be for me. And then I’m not supposed to have my best and only friend—
HJALMAR. But I don’t think your father likes it. Ordinarily I never come to this house.
GREGERS. So I hear. But I had to see you and talk with you, for I’m sure to be leaving soon again. Yes, we two old classmates, we’ve certainly drifted a long way apart. You know, we haven’t seen each other now in sixteen—seventeen years.
HJALMAR. Has it been so long?
GREGERS. Yes, all of that. Well, how have you been? You look well. You’re almost becoming stout.
HJALMAR. Hm, stout is hardly the word, though I probably look more of a man than I did then.
GREGERS. Yes, you do. The outer man hasn’t suffered.
HJALMAR (in a gloomier tone). Ah, but the inner man! Believe me, he has a different look. You know, of course, what misery we’ve been through, I and my family, since the last time the two of us met.
GREGERS (dropping his voice). How’s it going for your father now?
HJALMAR. Oh, Gregers, let’s not talk about that. My poor, unhappy father naturally lives at home with me. He’s got no one else in the whole world to turn to. But this all is so terribly hard for me to talk about, you know. Tell me, instead, how you’ve found life up at the mill.
GREGERS. Marvelously solitary, that’s what—with a good chance to mull over a great many things. Come on, let’s be comfortable.
(He sits in an armchair by the fire and urges HJALMAR down into another by its side.)
HJALMAR (softly). In any case, I’m grateful that you asked me here, Gregers, because it proves you no longer have anything against me.
GREGERS (astonished). How could you think that I had anything against you?
HJALMAR. In those first years you did.
GREGERS. Which first years?
HJALMAR. Right after that awful misfortune. And it was only natural you should. It was just by a hair that your own father escaped being dragged into this—oh, this ugly business.
GREGERS. And that’s why I had it in for you? Whoever gave you that idea?
HJALMAR. I know you did, Gregers; it was your father himself who told me.
GREGERS (startled). Father! I see. Hm—is that why I never heard from you—not a single word?
HJALMAR. Yes.
GREGERS. Not even when you went out and became a photographer.
HJALMAR. Your father said it wasn’t worth my writing you—about anything at all.
GREGERS (looking straight ahead). No, no, maybe he was right there— But tell me, Hjalmar—do you find yourself reasonably content with things as they are?
HJALMAR (with a small sigh). Oh, I suppose I do. What else can I say? At first, you can imagine, it was all rather strange for me. They were such very different circumstances I found myself in. But then everything else was so different, too. That immense, shattering misfortune for Father—the shame and the scandal, Gregers—
GREGERS (shaken). Yes, yes. Of course.
HJALMAR. I couldn’t dream of going on with my studies; there wasn’t a penny to spare. On the contrary, debts instead—mainly to your father, I think—
GREGERS. Hm—
HJALMAR. Anyway, I thought it was best to make a clean break—and cut all the old connections. It was your father especially who advised me to; and since he’d been so helpful to me—
GREGERS. He had?
HJALMAR. Yes, you knew that, didn’t you? Where could I get the money to learn photography and fit out a studio and establish myself? I can tell you, that all adds up.
GREGERS. And all that Father paid for?
HJALMAR. Yes, Gregers, didn’t you know? I understood him to say that he’d written you about it.
GREGERS. Not a word saying he was the one. Maybe he forgot. We’ve never exchanged anything but business letters. So that was Father, too—!
HJALMAR. That’s right. He never wanted people to know, but he was the one. And he was also the one who put me in a position to get married. Or perhaps—didn’t you know that either?
GREGERS. No, not at all. (Gripping his arm.) But Hjalmar, I can’t tell you how all this delights me—and disturbs me. Perhaps I’ve been unfair to my father—in certain ways. Yes, for all this does show good-heartedness, doesn’t it? It’s almost a kind of conscience—
HJALMAR. Conscience?
GREGERS. Yes, or whatever you want to call it. No, I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear this about my father. So you’re married, then, Hjalmar. That’s further than I’ll ever go. Well, I hope you’re happy as a married man?
HJALMAR. Oh, absolutely. She’s as capable and fine a wife as any man could wish for. And she’s not entirely without culture, either.
GREGERS (a bit surprised). No, I’m sure she’s not.
HJALMAR. No. Life is a teacher, you see. Associating with me every day—and then there are one or two gifted people who visit us regularly. I can tell you, you wouldn’t recognize Gina now.
GREGERS. Gina?
HJALMAR. Yes, Gregers, had you forgotten her name is Gina?
GREGERS. Whose name is Gina? I haven’t the faintest idea—
HJALMAR. But don’t you remember, she was here in this very house a while—in service?
GREGERS (looking at him). You mean Gina Hansen—?
HJALMAR. Yes, of course. Gina Hansen.
GREGERS. Who was housekeeper for us that last year of Mother’s illness?
HJALMAR. Exactly. But my dear Gregers, I know for sure that your father wrote you about my marriage.
GREGERS (who has gotten up). Yes, of course he did. But not that— (Walks about the floor.) Yes, wait a minute—it may well be, now that I think of it. My father’s letters are always so brief. (Sits on chair arm.) Listen, tell me, Hjalmar—this is interesting—how did you come to know Gina?—your wife, I mean.
HJALMAR. Oh, it was all very simple. Gina didn’t stay long here in the house; there was so much confusion—your mother’s sickness and all. It was more than Gina could stand, so she gave notice and left. That was the year before your mother died—or maybe it was the same year.
GREGERS. It was the same year. And I was up at the works at the time. But what then?
HJALMAR. Well, then Gina lived at home with her mother, a Mrs. Hansen, a very capable, hardworking woman who ran a little restaurant. She also had a room for rent, a very pleasant, comfortable room.
GREGERS. And you were lucky enough to find it?
HJALMAR. Yes. Actually it was your father who suggested it to me. And it was there, you see—there that I really got to know Gina.
GREGERS. And then your engagement followed?
HJALMAR. Yes. Young people fall in love so easily—hm—
GREGERS (getting up and pacing about a little). Tell me—when you became engaged—was it then that my father got you to—I mean, was it then that you started in learning photography?
HJALMAR. That’s right. I wanted to get on and set up a home as soon as possible, and both your father and I decided that this photography idea was the most feasible one. And Gina thought so too. Yes, and you see, there was another inducement, a lucky break, in that Gina had already taken up retouching.
GREGERS. That worked out wonderfully all around.
HJALMAR (pleased, getting up). Yes, isn’t that so? Don’t you think it’s worked out wonderfully all around?
GREGERS. Yes, I must say. My father has almost been a kind of providence to you.
HJALMAR (with feeling). He didn’t abandon his old friend’s son in a time of need. You see, he does have a heart.
MRS. SøRBY (entering with WERLE on her arm). No more nonsense, my dear Mr. Werle. You mustn’t stay in there any longer, staring at all those lights; it’s doing you no good.
WERLE (freeing his arm from hers and passing his hand over his eyes). Yes, I guess you’re right about that.
(PETTERSEN and JENSEN enter with trays.)
MRS. SøRBY (to the guests in the other room). Gentlemen, please—if anyone wants a glass of punch, he must take the trouble to come in here.
THE FAT GUEST (comes over to MRS. SøRBY). But really, is it true you’ve abolished our precious smoking privilege?
MRS. SøRBY. Yes. Here in Mr. Werle’s sanctum, it’s forbidden.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST. When did you pass these drastic amendments to the cigar laws, Mrs. Sørby?
MRS. SøRBY. After the last dinner—when there were certain persons here who let themselves exceed all limits.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST. And my dear Berta, one isn’t permitted to exceed the limits, even a little bit?
MRS. SøRBY. Not in any respect, Mr. Balle.
(Most of the guests have gathered in the study; the waiters are proffering glasses of punch.)
WERLE (to HJALMAR, over by a table). What is it you’re poring over, Ekdal?
HJALMAR. It’s only an album, Mr. Werle.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST (who is wandering about). Ah, photographs! Yes, of course, that’s just the thing for you.
THE FAT GUEST (seated in an armchair). Haven’t you brought along some of your own?
HJALMAR. No, I haven’t.
THE FAT GUEST. You really should have. It’s so good for the digestion to sit and look at pictures.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST. And then it always adds a morsel to the entertainment, you know.
A NEARSIGHTED GUEST. And all contributions are gratefully received.
MRS. SøRBY. These gentlemen mean that if one’s invited for dinner, one must also work for the food, Mr. Ekdal.
THE FAT GUEST. Where the larder’s superior, that is pure joy.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST. My Lord, it’s all in the struggle for existence—
MRS. SøRBY. How right you are! (They continue laughing and joking.)
GREGERS (quietly). You should talk with them, Hjalmar.
HJALMAR (with a shrug). What could I talk about?
THE FAT GUEST. Don’t you think, Mr. Werle, that Tokay compares favorably as a healthful drink for the stomach?
WERLE (by the fireplace). The Tokay you had today I can vouch for in any case; it’s one of the very, very finest years. But you recognized that well enough.
THE FAT GUEST. Yes, it had a remarkably delicate flavor.
HJALMAR (tentatively). Is there some difference between the years?
THE FAT GUEST (laughing). Oh, that’s rich!
WERLE (smiling). It certainly doesn’t pay to offer you a noble wine.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST. Tokay wines are like photographs, Mr. Ekdal—sunshine is of the essence. Isn’t that true?
HJALMAR. Oh yes, light is very important.
MRS. SøRBY. Exactly the same as with court officials—who push for their place in the sun too, I hear.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST. Ouch! That was a tired quip.
THE NEARSIGHTED GUEST. The lady’s performing—
THE FAT GUEST. And at our expense. (Frowning.) Mrs. Sørby, Mrs. Sørby!
MRS. SøRBY. Yes, but it certainly is true now that the years can vary enormously. The old vintages are the finest.
THE NEARSIGHTED GUEST. Do you count me among the old ones?
MRS. SøRBY. Oh, far from it.
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST. Ha, you see! But what about me, Mrs. Sørby—?
THE FAT GUEST. Yes, and me! What years would you put us among?
MRS. SøRBY. I would put you all among the sweet years, gentlemen. (She sips a glass of punch; the guests laugh and banter with her.)
WERLE. Mrs. Sørby always finds a way out—when she wants to. Pass your glasses, gentlemen. Pettersen, take care of them. Gregers, I think we’ll have a glass together. (GREGERS does not stir.) Won’t you join us, Ekdal? I had no chance to remember you at the table.
(GRAABERG, the bookkeeper, peers out from the door to the offices.)
GRAABERG. Beg pardon, Mr. Werle, but I can’t get out.
WERLE. What, are you locked in again?
GRAABERG. Yes, and Flakstad’s left with the keys—
WERLE. Well, then, go through here.
GRAABERG. But there’s someone else—
WERLE. All right, all right, both of you. Don’t be shy.
(GRAABERG and old EKDAL come out from the office.)
WERLE (involuntarily). Oh no!
(The laughter and small talk die among the guests. HJALMAR starts at the sight of his father, sets down his glass, and turns away toward the fireplace.)
EKDAL (without looking up, but bowing slightly to each side and mumbling). Door locked. Door locked. Beg your pardon. (He and GRAABERG exit in back to the right.)
WERLE (between his teeth). That damned Graaberg!
GREGERS (with open mouth, staring at HJALMAR). But it couldn’t have been—!
THE FAT GUEST. What’s going on? Who was that?
GREGERS. Oh, no one. Only the bookkeeper and somebody else.
THE NEARSIGHTED GUEST (to HJALMAR). Did you know him?
HJALMAR. I don’t know—I didn’t notice—
THE FAT GUEST (getting up). What in thunder’s wrong? (He goes over to some others, who are talking.)
MRS. SøRBY (whispering to the waiter). Slip something to him outside, something really fine.
PETTERSEN (nodding). I’ll see to it. (He goes out.)
GREGERS (in a shocked undertone). Then it really was him!
HJALMAR. Yes.
GREGERS. And yet you stood here and denied you knew him!
HJALMAR (whispering fiercely). But how could I—!
GREGERS. Be recognized by your father?
HJALMAR (painfully). Oh, if you were in my place, then—
(The hushed conversations among the guests now mount into a forced joviality.)
THE BALD-HEADED GUEST (approaching HJALMAR and GREGERS amiably). Ah ha! You over here, polishing up old memories from your student years? Well? Won’t you smoke, Mr. Ekdal? Have a light? Oh, that’s right, we’re not supposed to—
HJALMAR. Thanks, I couldn’t—
THE FAT GUEST. Haven’t you got a neat little poem to recite for us, Mr. Ekdal? In times past you did that so nicely.
HJALMAR. I’m afraid I can’t remember any.
THE FAT GUEST. Oh, that’s a shame. Well, Balle, what can we find to do? (The two men cross the floor into the other room and go out.)
HJALMAR (somberly). Gregers—I’m going! When a man’s felt a terrible blow from fate—you understand. Say good night to your father for me.
GREGERS. Yes, of course. Are you going straight home?
HJALMAR. Yes, why?
GREGERS. Well, I may pay you a visit later.
HJALMAR. No, you mustn’t. Not to my home. My house is a sad one, Gregers—especially after a brilliant occasion like this. We can always meet somewhere in town.
MRS. SøRBY (who has approached; in a low voice). Are you going, Ekdal?
HJALMAR. Yes.
MRS. SøRBY. Greet Gina.
HJALMAR. Thank you.
MRS. SøRBY. And tell her I’ll stop by to see her one day soon.
HJALMAR. Yes. Thanks. (To GREGERS.) Stay here. I’d rather disappear without any fuss. (He strolls around the floor, then into the other room and out to the right.)
MRS. SøRBY (quietly to the waiter, who has returned). Well, did the old man get something to take home?
PETTERSEN. Sure. I slipped him a bottle of cognac.
MRS. SøRBY. Oh, you could have found something better.
PETTERSEN. Not at all, Mrs. Sørby. He knows nothing better than cognac.
THE FAT GUEST (in the doorway, holding a score of music). How about the two of us playing something, Mrs. Sørby?
MRS. SøRBY. All right. Let’s.
(The guests shout approval. MRS. SøRBY and the others exit right, through the inner room. GREGERS remains standing by the fireplace. WERLE looks for something on the writing table, seeming to wish that GREGERS would leave; when he fails to stir, WERLE crosses toward the door.)
GREGERS. Father, won’t you wait a moment?
WERLE (pausing). What is it?
GREGERS. I must have a word with you.
WERLE. Can’t it wait till we’re alone?
GREGERS. No, it can’t, because it just might occur that we never are alone.
WERLE (coming closer). What does that mean?
(Distant piano music is heard from the music room during the following conversation.)
GREGERS. How could anyone here let that family decay so pitifully?
WERLE. You’re referring to the Ekdals, no doubt.
GREGERS. Yes, I mean the Ekdals. Lieutenant Ekdal was once so close to you.
WERLE. Yes, worse luck, he was all too close; and for that I’ve paid a price these many years. He’s the one I can thank for putting something of a blot on my good name and reputation.
GREGERS (quietly). Was he really the only guilty one?
WERLE. Who else do you mean!
GREGERS. You and he were both in on buying that big stand of timber—
WERLE. But it was Ekdal, wasn’t it, who made the survey of the sections—that incompetent survey? He was the one who carried out all the illegal logging on state property. In fact, he was in charge of the whole operation up there. I had no idea of what Lieutenant Ekdal was getting into.
GREGERS. Lieutenant Ekdal himself had no idea of what he was getting into.
WERLE. Very likely. But the fact remains that he was convicted and I was acquitted.
GREGERS. Yes, I’m aware that no proof was found.
WERLE. Acquittal is acquittal. Why do you rake up this ugly old story that’s given me gray hair before my time? Is this what you’ve been brooding about all those years up there? I can assure you, Gregers—here in town the whole business has been forgotten long ago—as far as I’m concerned.
GREGERS. But that miserable Ekdal family!
WERLE. Seriously, what would you have me do for these people? When Ekdal was let out, he was a broken man, beyond any help. There are people in this world who plunge to the bottom when they’ve hardly been winged, and they never come up again. Take my word for it, Gregers; I’ve done everything I could, short of absolutely compromising myself and arousing all kinds of suspicion and gossip—
GREGERS. Suspicion—? So that’s it.
WERLE. I’ve gotten Ekdal copying jobs from the office, and I pay him much, much more than his work is worth—
GREGERS (without looking at him). Hm. No doubt.
WERLE. You’re laughing? Maybe you think what I’m saying isn’t true? There’s certainly nothing to show in my books; I don’t record such payments.
GREGERS (with a cold smile). No. I’m sure that certain payments are best left unrecorded.
WERLE (surprised). What do you mean by that?
GREGERS (plucking up his courage). Did you record what it cost you to have Hjalmar Ekdal study photography?
GREGERS. I know now it was you who paid for that. And now I know, too, that it was you who set him up so comfortably in business.
WERLE. Well, and I suppose this still means that I’ve done nothing for the Ekdals! I can assure you, those people have already cost me enough expense.
GREGERS. Have you recorded any of the expenses?
WERLE. Why do you ask that?
GREGERS. Oh, there are reasons. Listen, tell me—the time when you developed such warmth for your old friend’s son—wasn’t that just when he was planning to marry?
WERLE. How the devil—how, after so many years, do you expect me—?
GREGERS. You wrote me a letter then—a business letter, naturally; and in a postscript it said, brief as could be, that Hjalmar Ekdal had gotten married to a Miss Hansen.
WERLE. Yes, that’s right; that was her name.
GREGERS. But you never said that this Miss Hansen was Gina Hansen—our former housekeeper.
WERLE (with a derisive, yet uneasy laugh). No, it just never occurred to me that you’d be so very interested in our former housekeeper.
GREGERS. I wasn’t. But—(Dropping his voice.) there were others in the house who were quite interested in her.
WERLE. What do you mean by that? (Storming at him.) You’re not referring to me!
GREGERS (quietly but firmly). Yes, I’m referring to you.
WERLE. And you dare—! You have the insolence—! How could he, that ungrateful dog, that—photographer; how could he have the gall to make such insinuations?
GREGERS. Hjalmar hasn’t breathed a word of it. I don’t think he has the shadow of a doubt about all this.
WERLE. Then where did you get it from? Who could have said such a thing?
GREGERS. My poor, unhappy mother said it—the last time I saw her.
WERLE. Your mother! Yes, I might have guessed. She and you—you always stuck together. It was she who, right from the start, turned your mind against me.
GREGERS. No. It was everything she had to suffer and endure until she broke down and died so miserably.
WERLE. Oh, she had nothing to suffer and endure—no more, at least, than so many others. But you can’t get anywhere with sick, high-strung people. I’ve certainly learned that. Now you’re going around suspecting that sort of thing, digging up all manner of old rumors and slanders against your own father. Now listen, Gregers, I really think that at your age you could occupy yourself more usefully.
GREGERS. Yes, all in due time.
WERLE. Then your mind might be easier than it seems to be now. What can it lead to, you up there at the works, slaving away year in and year out like a common clerk, never taking a penny over your month’s salary. It’s pure stupidity.
GREGERS. Yes, if only I were so sure of that.
WERLE. I understand you well enough. You want to be independent, without obligation to me. But here’s the very opportunity for you to become independent, your own man in every way.
GREGERS. So? And by what means—?
WERLE. When I wrote you that it was essential you come to town now, immediately—hmm—
GREGERS. Yes. What is it you really want of me? I’ve been waiting all day to find out.
WERLE. I’m suggesting that you come into the firm as a partner.
GREGERS. I! In your firm? As a partner?
WERLE. Yes. It wouldn’t mean we’d need to be together much. You could take over the offices here in town, and then I’d move up to the mill.
GREGERS. You would?
WERLE. Yes. You see, I can’t take on work now the way I once could. I have to spare my eyes, Gregers; they’re beginning to fail.
GREGERS They’ve always been weak.
WERLE. Not like this. Besides—circumstances may make it desirable for me to live up there—at least for a while.
GREGERS. I never dreamed of anything like this.
WERLE. Listen, Gregers, there are so very many things that keep us apart, and yet, you know—we’re father and son still. I think we should be able to reach some kind of understanding.
GREGERS. Just on the surface, is that what you mean?
WERLE. Well, at least that would be something. Think it over, Gregers. Don’t you think it ought to be possible? Eh?
GREGERS (looking at him coldly). There’s something behind all this.
WERLE. How so?
GREGERS. It might be that somehow you’re using me.
WERLE. In a relationship as close as ours, one can always be of use to the other.
GREGERS. Yes, so they say.
WERLE. I’d like to have you home with me now for a while. I’m a lonely man, Gregers; I’ve always felt lonely—all my life through, but particularly now when the years are beginning to press me. I need to have someone around—
GREGERS. You have Mrs. Sørby.
WERLE. Yes, I do—and she’s become, you might say, almost indispensable. She’s witty, even-tempered; she livens up the house—and that’s what I need so badly.
GREGERS. Well, then, you’ve got everything the way you want it.
WERLE. Yes, but I’m afraid it can’t go on. The world is quick to make inferences about a woman in her position. Yes, I was going to say, a man doesn’t gain by it either.
GREGERS. Oh, when a man gives dinner parties like yours, he can certainly take a few risks.
WERLE. Yes, Gregers, but what about her? I’m afraid she won’t put up with it much longer. And even if she did—even if, out of her feeling for me, she ignored the gossip and the backbiting and so on—do you still think, Gregers, you with your sharp sense of justice—
GREGERS (cutting him off). Tell me short and sweet just one thing. Are you planning to marry her?
WERLE. And if I were planning such a thing—what then?
GREGERS. Yes, that’s what I’m asking. What then?
WERLE. Would you be so irreconcilably set against it?
GREGERS. No, not at all. Not in any way.
WERLE. Well, I really didn’t know whether, perhaps out of regard for your dead mother’s memory—
GREGERS. I am not high-strung.
WERLE. Well, you may or may not be, but in any case you’ve taken a great load off my mind. I’m really very happy that I can count on your support in this.
GREGERS (staring intently at him). Now I see how you want to use me.
WERLE. Use you! That’s no way to talk!
GREGERS. Oh, let’s not be squeamish in our choice of words. At least, not when it’s man to man. (He laughs brusquely.) So that’s it! That’s why I—damn it all!—had to make my personal appearance in town. On account of Mrs. Sørby, family life is in order in this house. Tableau of father with son! That’s something new, all right!
WERLE. How dare you speak in that tone!
GREGERS. When has there ever been family life here? Never, as long as I can remember. But now, of course, there’s need for a little of that. For who could deny what a fine impression it would make to hear that the son—on the wings of piety—came flying home to the aging father’s wedding feast. What’s left then of all the stories about what the poor dead woman suffered and endured? Not a scrap. Her own son ground them to dust.
WERLE. Gregers—I don’t think there’s a man in this world you hate as much as me.
GREGERS (quietly). I’ve seen you at too close quarters.
WERLE. You’ve seen me with your mother’s eyes. (Dropping his voice.) But you should remember that those eyes were—clouded at times.
GREGERS (trembling). I know what you mean. But who bears the guilt for Mother’s fatal weakness? You, and all those—! The last of them was that female that Hjalmar Ekdal was fixed up with when you had no more—ugh!
WERLE (shrugs). Word for word, as if I were hearing your mother.
GREGERS (paying no attention to him).—and there he sits right now, he with his great, guileless, childlike mind plunged in deception—living under the same roof with that creature, not knowing that what he calls his home is built on a lie. (Coming a step closer.) When I look back on all you’ve done, it’s as if I looked out over a battlefield with broken human beings on every side.
WERLE. I almost think the gulf is too great between us.
GREGERS (bows stiffly). So I’ve observed; therefore I’ll take my hat and go.
WERLE. You’re going? Out of this house?
GREGERS. Yes. Because now at last I can see a purpose to live for.
WERLE. What purpose is that?
GREGERS. You’d only laugh if you heard it.
WERLE. A lonely man doesn’t laugh so easily, Gregers.
GREGERS (pointing toward the inner room). Look—your gentleman friends are playing blindman’s buff with Mrs. Sørby. Good night and goodbye.
(He goes out at the right rear. Laughter and joking from the company, which moves into view in the inner room.)
WERLE (muttering contemptuously after GREGERS). Huh! Poor fool—and he says he’s not high-strung!