The Master Builder By Henrik Ibsen

THE MASTER BUILDER by Henrik Ibsen Translated by Edmund Gosse and William Archer Introduction by William Archer INTRODUCTION. With The Master Builder–or Master Builder Solness, as the title runs in the original–we enter upon the final stage in Ibsen’s career. “You are essentially right,” the poet wrote to Count Prozor in March 1900, “when you say that the series which closes with the Epilogue (When We Dead Awaken) began with Master Builder Solness.” “Ibsen,” says Dr. Brahm, “wrote in Christiania all the four works which he thus seems to bracket together–Solness, Eyolf, Borkman, and When We Dead Awaken. He returned to Norway in July 1891, for a stay of indefinite length; but the restless wanderer over Europe was destined to leave his home no more. . . . He had not returned, however, to throw himself, as of old, into the battle of the passing day. Polemics are entirely absent from the poetry of his old age. He leaves the State and Society at peace. He who had departed as the creator of Falk [in Love’s Comedy] now, on his return, gazes into the secret places of human nature and the wonder of his own soul.” Dr. Brahm, however, seems to be mistaken in thinking that Ibsen returned to Norway with no definite intention of settling down. Dr. Julius Elias (an excellent authority) reports that shortly before Ibsen left Munich in 1891, he remarked one day, “I must get back to the North!” “Is that a sudden impulse?” asked Elias. “Oh no,” was the reply; “I want to be a good head of a household and have my affairs in order. To that end I must consolidate may property, lay it down in good securities, and get it under control–and that one can best do where one has rights of citizenship.” Some critics will no doubt be shocked to find the poet whom they have written down an “anarchist” confessing such bourgeois motives. After his return to Norway, Ibsen’s correspondence became very scant, and we have no letters dating from the period when he was at work on The Master Builder. On the other hand, we possess a curious lyrical prelude to the play, which he put on paper on March 16, 1892. It is said to have been his habit, before setting to work on a play, to “crystallise in a poem the mood which then possessed him;” but the following is the only one of these keynote poems which has been published. I give it in the original language, with a literal translation: DE SAD DER, DE TO– De sad der, de to, i saa lunt et hus ved host og i venterdage, Saa braendte huset. Alt ligger i grus. De to faar i asken rage. For nede id en er et smykke gemt,– et smykke, som aldrig kan braende. Og leder de trofast, haender det nemt at det findes af ham eller hende. Men finder de end, brandlidte to, det dyre, ildfaste smykke,– aldrig han finder sin braendte tro, han aldrig sin braendte lykke. THEY SAT THERE, THE TWO– They sat there, the two, in so cosy a house, through autumn and winter days. Then the house burned down. Everything lies in ruins. The two must grope among the ashes. For among them is hidden a jewel–a jewel that never can burn. And if they search faithfully, it may easily happen that he or she may find it. But even should they find it, the burnt-out two–find this precious unburnable jewel–never will she find her burnt faith, he never his burnt happiness. This is the latest piece of Ibsen’s verse that has been given to the world; but one of his earliest poems–first printed in 1858–was also, in some sort, a prelude to The Master Builder. Of this a literal translation may suffice. It is called BUILDING-PLANS I remember as clearly as if it had been to-day the evening when, in the paper, I saw my first poem in print. There I sat in my den, and, with long-drawn puffs, I smoked and I dreamed in blissful self-complacency. “I will build a cloud-castle. It shall shine all over the North. It shall have two wings: one little and one great. The great wing shall shelter a deathless poet; the little wing shall serve as a young girl’s bower.” The plan seemed to me nobly harmonious; but as time went on it fell into confusion. When the master grew reasonable, the castle turned utterly crazy; the great wing became too little, the little wing fell to ruin. Thus we see that, thirty-five years before the date of The Master Builder, Ibsen’s imagination was preoccupied with a symbol of a master building a castle in the air, and a young girl in one of its towers. There has been some competition among the poet’s young lady friends for the honour of having served as his model for Hilda. Several, no doubt, are entitled to some share in it. One is not surprised to learn that among the papers he left behind were sheaves upon sheaves of letters from women. “All these ladies,” says Dr. Julius Elias, “demanded something of him–some cure for their agonies of soul, or for the incomprehension from which they suffered; some solution of the riddle of their nature. Almost every one of them regarded herself as a problem to which Ibsen could not but have the time and the interest to apply himself. They all thought they had a claim on the creator of Nora. . . . Of this chapter of his experience, Fru Ibsen spoke with ironic humour. ‘Ibsen (I have often said to him), Ibsen, keep these swarms of over-strained womenfolk at arm’s length.’ ‘Oh no (he would reply), let them alone. I want to observe them more closely.’ His observations would take a longer or shorter time as the case might be, and would always contribute to some work of art.” The principal model for Hilda was doubtless Fraulein Emilie Bardach, of Vienna, whom he met at Gossensass in the autumn of 1889. He was then sixty-one years of age; she is said to have been seventeen. As the lady herself handed his letters to Dr. Brandes for publication, there can be no indiscretion in speaking of them freely. Some passages from them I have quoted in the introduction to Hedda Gabler–passages which show that at first the poet deliberately put aside his Gossensass impressions for use when he should stand at a greater distance from them, and meanwhile devoted himself to work in a totally different key. On October 15, 1889, he writes, in his second letter to Fraulein Bardach: “I cannot repress my summer memories, nor do I want to. I live through my experiences again and again. To transmute it all into a poem I find, in the meantime, impossible. In the meantime? Shall I succeed in doing so some time in the future? And do I really wish to succeed? In the meantime, at any rate, I do not. . . . And yet it must come in time.” The letters number twelve in all, and are couched in a tone of sentimental regret for the brief, bright summer days of their acquaintanceship. The keynote is struck in the inscription on the back of a photograph which he gave her before they parted: An die Maisonne eines Septemberlebens–in Tirol,(1) 27/9/89. In her album he had written the words: Hohes, schmerzliches Gluck– um das Unerreichbare zu ringen!(2) in which we may, if we like, see a foreshadowing of the Solness frame of mind. In the fifth letter of the series he refers to her as “an enigmatic Princess”; in the sixth he twice calls her “my dear Princess”; but this is the only point at which the letters quite definitely and unmistakably point forward to The Master Builder. In the ninth letter (February 6, 1890) he says: “I feel it a matter of conscience to end, or at any rate, to restrict, our correspondence.” The tenth letter, six months later, is one of kindly condolence on the death of the young lady’s father. In the eleventh (very short) note, dated December 30, 1890, he acknowledges some small gift, but says: “Please, for the present, do not write me again. . . . I will soon send you my new play [Hedda Gabler]. Receive it in friendship, but in silence!” This injunction she apparently obeyed. When The Master Builder appeared, it would seem that Ibsen did not even send her a copy of the play; and we gather that he was rather annoyed when she sent him a photograph signed “Princess of Orangia.” On his seventieth birthday, however, she telegraphed her congratulations, to which he returned a very cordial reply. And here their relations ended. That she was right, however, in regarding herself as his principal model for Hilda appears from an anecdote related by Dr. Elias.(3) It is not an altogether pleasing anecdote, but Dr. Elias is an unexceptionable witness, and it can by no means be omitted from an examination into the origins of The Master Builder. Ibsen had come to Berlin in February 1891 for the first performance of Hedda Gabler. Such experiences were always a trial to him, and he felt greatly relieved when they were over. Packing, too, he detested; and Elias having helped him through this terrible ordeal, the two sat down to lunch together, while awaiting the train. An expansive mood descended upon Ibsen, and chuckling over his champagne glass, he said: “Do you know, my next play is already hovering before me–of course in vague outline. But of one thing I have got firm hold. An experience: a woman’s figure. Very interesting, very interesting indeed. Again a spice of the devilry in it.” Then he related how he had met in the Tyrol a Viennese girl of very remarkable character. She had at once made him her confidant. The gist of her confessions was that she did not care a bit about one day marrying a well brought-up young man–most likely she would never marry. What tempted and charmed and delighted her was to lure other women’s husbands away from them. She was a little daemonic wrecker; she often appeared to him like a little bird of prey, that would fain have made him, too, her booty. He had studied her very, very closely. For the rest, she had had no great success with him. “She did not get hold of me, but I got hold of her–for my play. Then I fancy” (here he chuckled again) “she consoled herself with some one else.” Love seemed to mean for her only a sort of morbid imagination. This, however, was only one side of her nature. His little model had had a great deal of heart and of womanly understanding; and thanks to the spontaneous power she could gain over him, every woman might, if she wished it, guide some man towards the good. “Thus Ibsen spoke,” says Elias, “calmly and coolly, gazing as it were into the far distance, like an artist taking an objective view of some experience–like Lubek speaking of his soul-thefts. He had stolen a soul, and put it to a double employment. Thea Elvsted and Hilda Wangel are intimately related– are, indeed only different expressions of the same nature.” If Ibsen actually declared Thea and Hilda to be drawn from one model, we must of course take his word for it; but the relationship is hard to discern. There can be no reasonable doubt, then, that the Gossensass episode gave the primary impulse to The Master Builder. But it seems pretty well established, too, that another lady, whom he met in Christiania after his return in 1891, also contributed largely to the character of Hilda. This may have been the reason why he resented Fraulein Bardach’s appropriating to herself the title of “Princess of Orangia.” The play was published in the middle of December 1892. It was acted both in Germany and England before it was seen in the Scandinavian capitals. Its first performance took place at the Lessing Theatre, Berlin, January 19, 1893, with Emanuel Reicher as Solness and Frl. Reisenhofer as Hilda. In London it was first performed at the Trafalgar Square Theatre (now the Duke of York’s) on February 20, 1893, under the direction of Mr. Herbert Waring and Miss Elizabeth Robins, who played Solness and Hilda. This was one of the most brilliant and successful of English Ibsen productions. Miss Robins was almost an ideal Hilda, and Mr. Waring’s Solness was exceedingly able. Some thirty performances were give in all, and the play was reproduced at the Opera Comique later in the season, with Mr. Lewis Waller as Solness. In the following year Miss Robins acted Hilda in Manchester. In Christiania and Copenhagen the play was produced on the same evening, March 8, 1893; the Copenhagen Solness and Hilda were Emil Poulsen and Fru Hennings. A Swedish production, by Lindberg, soon followed, both in Stockholm and Gothenburg. In Paris Solness le constructeur was not seen until April 3, 1894, when it was produced by “L’OEuvre” with M. Lugne-Poe as Solness. The company, sometimes with Mme. Suzanne Despres and sometimes with Mme. Berthe Bady as Hilda, in 1894 and 1895 presented the play in London, Brussels, Amsterdam, Milan, and other cities. In October 1894 they visited Christiania, where Ibsen was present at one of their performances, and is reported by Herman Bang to have been so enraptured with it that he exclaimed, “This is the resurrection of my play!” On this occasion Mme. Bady was the Hilda. The first performance of the play in America took place at the Carnegie Lyceum, New York, on January 16, 1900, with Mr. William H. Pascoe as Solness and Miss Florence Kahn as Hilda. The performance was repeated in the course of the same month, both at Washington and Boston. In England, and probably elsewhere as well, The Master Builder produced a curious double effect. It alienated many of the poet’s staunchest admirers, and it powerfully attracted many people who had hitherto been hostile to him. Looking back, it is easy to see why this should have been so; for here was certainly a new thing in drama, which could not but set up many novel reactions. A greater contrast could scarcely be imagined than that between the hard, cold, precise outlines of Hedda Gabler and the vague mysterious atmosphere of The Master Builder, in which, though the dialogue is sternly restrained within the limits of prose, the art of drama seems for ever on the point of floating away to blend with the art of music. Substantially, the play is one long dialogue between Solness and Hilda; and it would be quite possible to analyse this dialogue in terms of music, noting (for example) the announcement first of this theme and then of that, the resumption and reinforcement of a theme which seemed to have been dropped, the contrapuntal interweaving of two or more motives, a scherzo here, a fugal passage there. Leaving this exercise to some one more skilled in music (or less unskilled) than myself, I may note that in The Master Builder Ibsen resumes his favourite retrospective method, from which in Hedda Gabler he had in great measure departed. But the retrospect with which we are here concerned is purely psychological. The external events involved in it are few and simple in comparison with the external events which are successively unveiled in retrospective passages of The Wild Duck or Rosmersholm. The matter of the play is the soul-history of Halvard Solness, recounted to an impassioned listener–so impassioned, indeed, that the soul-changes it begets in her form an absorbing and thrilling drama. The graduations, retardations, accelerations of Solness’s self-revealment are managed with the subtlest art, so as to keep the interest of the spectator ever on the stretch. The technical method was not new; it was simply that which Ibsen had been perfecting from Pillars of Society onward; but it was applied to a subject of a nature not only new to him, but new to literature. That the play is full of symbolism it would be futile to deny; and the symbolism is mainly autobiographic. The churches which Solness sets out building doubtless represent Ibsen’s early romantic plays, the “homes for human beings” his social drama; while the houses with high towers, merging into “castles in the air,” stand for those spiritual dramas, with a wide outlook over the metaphysical environment of humanity, on which he was henceforth to be engaged. Perhaps it is not altogether fanciful to read a personal reference into Solness’s refusal to call himself an architect, on the ground that his training has not been systematic–that he is a self-taught man. Ibsen too was in all essentials self-taught; his philosophy was entirely unsystematic; and, like Solness, he was no student of books. There may be an introspective note also in that dread of the younger generation to which Solness confesses. It is certain that the old Master-Builder was not lavish of his certificates of competence to young aspirants, though there is nothing to show that his reticence ever depressed or quenched any rising genius. On the whole, then, it cannot be doubted that several symbolic motives are inwoven into the iridescent fabric of the play. But it is a great mistake to regard it as essentially and inseparably a piece of symbolism. Essentially it is a history of a sickly conscience, worked out in terms of pure psychology. Or rather, it is a study of a sickly and a robust conscience side by side. “The conscience is very conservative,” Ibsen has somewhere said; and here Solness’s conservatism is contrasted with Hilda’s radicalism–or rather would-be radicalism, for we are led to suspect, towards the close, that the radical too is a conservative in spite or herself. The fact that Solness cannot climb as high as he builds implies, I take it, that he cannot act as freely as he thinks, or as Hilda would goad him into thinking. At such an altitude his conscience would turn dizzy, and life would become impossible to him. But here I am straying back to the interpretation of symbols. My present purpose is to insist that there is nothing in the play which has no meaning on the natural-psychological plane, and absolutely requires a symbolic interpretation to make it comprehensible. The symbols are harmonic undertones; the psychological melody is clear and consistent without any reference to them.(4) It is true that, in order to accept the action on what we may call the realistic level, we must suppose Solness to possess and to exercise, sometimes unconsciously, a considerable measure of hypnotic power. But time is surely past when we could reckon hypnotism among “supernatural” phenomena. Whether the particular forms of hypnotic influence attributed to Solness do actually exist is a question we need not determine. The poet does not demand our absolute credence, as though he were giving evidence in the witness-box. What he requires is our imaginative acceptance of certain incidents which he purposely leaves hovering on the border between the natural and the preternatural, the explained and the unexplained. In this play, as in The Lady from the Sea and Little Eyolf, he shows a delicacy of art in his dalliance with the occult which irresistibly recalls the exquisite genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne.(5) The critics who insist on finding nothing but symbolism in the play have fastened on Mrs. Solness’s “nine lovely dolls,” and provided the most amazing interpretations for them. A letter which I contributed in 1893 to the Westminster Gazette records an incident which throws a curious light on the subject and may be worth preserving. “At a recent first night,” I wrote, “I happened to be seated just behind a well-known critic. He turned round to me and said, ‘I want you to tell me what is YOUR theory of those “nine lovely dolls.” Of course one can see that they are entirely symbolical.’ ‘I am not so sure of that,’ I replied, remembering a Norwegian cousin of my own who treasured a favourite doll until she was nearer thirty than twenty. ‘They of course symbolise the unsatisfied passion of motherhood in Mrs. Solness’s heart, but I have very little doubt that Ibsen makes use of this “symbol” because he has observed a similar case, or cases, in real life.’ ‘What!’ cried the critic. ‘He has seen a grown-up, a middle-aged woman continuing to “live with” her dolls!’ I was about to say that it did not seem to me so very improbable, when a lady who was seated next me, a total stranger to both of us, leant forward and said, ‘Excuse my interrupting you, but it may perhaps interest you to know that I HAVE THREE DOLLS TO WHICH I AM DEEPLY ATTACHED!’ I will not be so rude as to conjecture this lady’s age, but we may be sure that a very young woman would not have had the courage to make such an avowal. Does it not seem that Ibsen knows a thing or two about human nature–English as well as Norwegian– which we dramatic critics, though bound by our calling to be subtle psychologists, have not yet fathomed?” In the course of the correspondence which followed, one very apposite anecdote was quoted from an American paper, the Argonaut: “An old Virginia lady said to a friend, on finding a treasured old cup cracked by a careless maid, ‘I know of nothing to compare with the affliction of losing a handsome piece of old china.’ ‘Surely,’ said the friend, ‘it is not so bad as losing one’s children.’ ‘Yes, it is,’ replied the old lady, ‘for when your children die, you do have the consolations of religion, you know.’” It would be a paradox to call The Master Builder Ibsen’s greatest work, but one of his three or four greatest it assuredly is. Of all his writings, it is probably the most original, the most individual, the most unlike any other drama by any other writer. The form of Brand and Peer Gynt was doubtless suggested by other dramatic poems–notably by Faust. In The Wild Duck, in Rosmersholm, in Hedda Gabler, even in Little Eyolf and John Gabriel Borkman, there remain faint traces of the French leaven which is so strong in the earlier plays. But The Master Builder had no model and has no parallel. It shows no slightest vestige of outside influence. It is Ibsen, and nothing but Ibsen. W.A. *FOOTNOTES. (1)”To the May-sun of a September life–in Tyrol.” (2)”High, painful happiness–to struggle for the unattainable!” (3)Neus deutsche Rundschau, December, 1906, p.1462. (4)This conception I have worked out at much greater length in an essay entitled The Melody of the Master Builder, appended to the shilling edition of the play, published in 1893. I there retell the story, transplanting it to England and making the hero a journalist instead of an architect, in order to show that (if we grant the reality of certain commonly-accepted phenomena of hypnotism) there is nothing incredible or even extravagantly improbable about it. The argument is far too long to be included here, but the reader who is interested in the subject may find it worth referring to. (5)For an instance of the technical methods by which he suggested the supernormal element in the atmosphere of the play, see Introduction to A Doll’s House, p. xiv. THE MASTER BUILDER. PLAY IN THREE ACTS. CHARACTERS. HALVARD SOLNESS, Master Builder. ALINE SOLNESS, his wife. DOCTOR HERDAL, physician. KNUT BROVIK, formerly an architect, now in SOLNESS’S employment. RAGNAR BROVIK, his son, draughtsman. KAIA BROVIK, his niece, book-keeper. MISS HILDA WANGEL. Some Ladies. A Crowd in the street. The action passes in and about SOLNESS’S house. ACT FIRST. A plainly-furnished work-room in the house of HALVARD SOLNESS. Folding doors on the left lead out to the hall. On the right is the door leading to the inner rooms of the house. At the back is an open door into the draughtsmen’s office. In front, on the left, a desk with books, papers and writing materials. Further back than the folding door, a stove. In the right- hand corner, a sofa, a table, and one or two chairs. On the table a water-bottle and glass. A smaller table, with a rocking-chair and arm-chair, in front on the right. Lighted lamps, with shades, on the table in the draughtmen’s office, on the table in the corner, and on the desk. In the draughtsmen’s office sit KNUT BROVIK and his son RAGNAR, occupied with plans and calculations. At the desk in the outer office stands KAIA FOSLI, writing in the ledger. KNUT BROVICK is a spare old man with white hair and beard. He wears a rather threadbare but well-brushed black coat, with spectacles, and a somewhat discoloured white neckcloth. RAGNAR BROVIK is a well-dressed, light-haired man in his thirties, with a slight stoop. KAIA FOSLI is a slightly built girl, a little over twenty, carefully dressed, and delicate-looking. She has a green shade over her eyes.–All three go on working for some time in silence. KNUT BROVIK. [Rises suddenly, as if in distress, from the table; breathes heavily and laboriously as he comes forward into the doorway.] No, I can’t bear it much longer! KAIA. [Going up to him.] You are feeling very ill this evening, are you not, Uncle? BROVIK. Oh, I seem to get worse every day. RAGNAR. [Has risen and advances.] You ought to go home, father. Try to get a little sleep— BROVIK. [Impatiently.] Go to bed, I suppose? Would you have me stifled outright? KAIA. Then take a little walk. RAGNAR. Yes, do. I will come with you. BROVIK. [With warmth.] I will not go till he comes! I and determined to have it out this evening with–[in a tone of suppressed bitterness]–with him–with the chief. KAIA. [Anxiously.] Oh no, uncle,–do wait awhile before doing that! RAGNAR. Yes, better wait, father! BROVIK. [Draws is breath laboriously.] Ha–ha–! I haven’t much time for waiting. KAIA. [Listening.] Hush! I hear him on the stairs. [All three go back to their work. A short silence. HALVARD SOLNESS comes in through the hall door. He is a man no longer young, but healthy and vigorous, with close-cut curly hair, dark moustache and dark thick eyebrows. He wears a greyish-green buttoned jacket with an upstanding collar and broad lappels. On his head he wears a soft grey felt hat, and he has one or two light portfolios under his arm. SOLNESS. [Near the door, points towards the draughtsmen’s office, and asks in a whisper:] Are they gone? KAIA. [Softly, shaking her] No. [She takes the shade off her eyes. SOLNESS crosses the room, throws his hat on a chair, places the portfolios on the table by the sofa, and approaches the desk again. KAIA goes on writing without intermission, but seems nervous and uneasy. SOLNESS. [Aloud.] What is that you are entering, Miss Fosli? KAIA. [Starts.] Oh, it is only something that— SOLNESS. Let me look at it, Miss Fosli. [Bends over her, pretends to be looking into the ledger, and whispers:] Kaia! KAIA. [Softly, still writing.] Well? SOLNESS. Why do you always take that shade off when I come? KAIA. [As before.] I look so ugly with it on. SOLNESS. [Smiling.] Then you don’t like to look ugly, Kaia? KAIA. [Half glancing up at him.] Not for all the world. Not in your eyes. SOLNESS. [Strokes her hair gently.] Poor, poor little Kaia— KAIA. [Bending her head.] Hush–they can hear you! [SOLNESS strolls across the room to the right, turns and pauses at the door of the draughtsmen’s office. SOLNESS. Has any one been here for me? RAGNAR. [Rising.] Yes, the young couple who want a villa built, out at Lovstrand. SOLNESS. [Growling.] Oh, those two! They must wait. I am not quite clear about the plans yet. RAGNAR. [Advancing, with some hesitation.] They were very anxious to have the drawings at once. SOLNESS. [As before.] Yes, of course–so they all are. BROVIK. [Looks up.] They say they are longing so to get into a house of their own. SOLNESS. Yes, yes–we know all that! And so they are content to take whatever is offered them. They get a–a roof over their heads–an address– but nothing to call a home. No thank you! In that case, let them apply to somebody else. Tell them that, the next time they call. BROVIK. [Pushes his glasses up on to his forehead and looks in astonishment at him.] To somebody else? Are you prepared to give up the commission? SOLNESS. [Impatiently.] Yes, yes, yes, devil take it! If that is to be the way of it—. Rather that, than build away at random. [Vehemently.] Besides, I know very little about these people as yet. BROVIK. The people are safe enough. Ragnar knows them. He is a friend of the family. SOLNESS. Oh, safe–safe enough! That is not at all what I mean. Good lord– don’t you understand me either? [Angrily.] I won’t have anything to do with these strangers. They may apply to whom they please, so far as I am concerned. BROVIK. [Rising.] Do you really mean that? SOLNESS. [Sulkily.] Yes I do.–For once in a way. [He comes forward. [BROVIK exchanges a glance with RAGNAR, who makes a warning gesture. Then BROVIK comes into the front room. BROVIK. May I have a few words with you? SOLNESS. Certainly. BROVIK. [To KAIA.] Just go in there for moment, Kaia. KAIA. [Uneasily.] Oh, but uncle— BROVIK. Do as I say, child. And shut the door after you. [KAIA goes reluctantly into the draughtsmen’s office, glances anxiously and imploringly at SOLNESS, and shuts the door. BROVIK. [Lowering his voice a little.] I don’t want the poor children to know how I am. SOLNESS. Yes, you have been looking very poorly of late. BROVIK. It will soon be all over with me. My strength is ebbing–from day to day. SOLNESS. Won’t you sit down? BROVIK. Thanks–may I? SOLNESS. [Placing the arm-chair more conveniently.] Here–take this chair.– And now? BROVIK. [Has seated himself with difficulty.] Well, you see, it’s about Ragnar. That is what weighs most upon me. What is to become of him? SOLNESS. Of course your son will stay with me as long as ever he likes. BROVIK. But that is just what he does not like. He feels that he cannot stay here any longer. SOLNESS. Why, I should say he was very well off here. But if he wants more money, I should not mind— BROVIK. No, no! It is not that. [Impatiently.] But sooner or later he, too, must have a chance of doing something on his own account. SOLNESS. [Without looking at him.] Do you think that Ragnar has quite talent enough to stand alone? BROVIK. No, that is just the heartbreaking part of it–I have begun to have my doubts about the boy. For you have never said so much as–as one encouraging word about him. And yet I cannot but think there must be something in him–he can’t be without talent. SOLNESS. Well, but he has learnt nothing–nothing thoroughly, I mean. Except, of course, to draw. BROVIK. [Looks at him with covert hatred, and says hoarsely.] You had learned little enough of the business when you were in my employment. But that did not prevent you from setting to work–[breathing with difficulty]–and pushing your way up, and taking the wind out of my sails–mine, and so may other people’s. SOLNESS. Yes, you see–circumstances favoured me. BROVIK. You are right there. Everything favoured you. But then how can you have the heart to let me go to my grave–without having seen what Ragnar is fit for? And of course I am anxious to see them married, too–before I go. SOLNESS. [Sharply.] Is it she who wishes it? BROVIK. Not Kaia so much as Ragnar–he talks about it every day. [Appealingly.] You must help him to get some independent work now! I must see something that the lad has done. Do you hear? SOLNESS. [Peevishly.] Hang it, man, you can’t expect me to drag commissions down from the moon for him! BROVIK. He has the chance of a capital commission at this very moment. A big bit of work. SOLNESS. [Uneasily, startled.] Has he? BROVIK. I you would give your consent. SOLNESS. What sort of work do you mean? BROVIK. [With some hesitation.] He can have the building of that villa out at Lovstrand. SOLNESS. That! Why I am going to build that myself. BROVIK. Oh you don’t much care about doing it. SOLNESS. [Flaring up.] Don’t care! Who dares to say that? BROVIK. You said so yourself just now. SOLNESS. Oh, never mind what I say.–Would they give Ragnar the building of that villa? BROVIK. Yes. You see, he knows the family. And then–just for the fun of the thing–he has made drawings and estimates and so forth— SOLNESS. Are they pleased with the drawings? The people who will have to live in the house? BROVIK. Yes. If you would only look through them and approve of them— SOLNESS. Then they would let Ragnar build their home for them? BROVIK. They were immensely pleased with his idea. They thought it exceedingly original, they said. SOLNESS. Oho! Original! Not the old-fashioned stuff that I am in the habit of turning out! BROVIK. It seemed to them different. SOLNESS. [With suppressed irritation.] So it was to see Ragnar that they came here–whilst I was out! BROVIK. They came to call upon you–and at the same time to ask whether you would mind retiring— SOLNESS. [Angrily.] Retire? I? BROVIK. In case you thought that Ragnar’s drawings— SOLNESS. I! Retire in favour of your son! BROVIK. Retire from the agreement, they meant. SOLNESS. Oh, it comes to the same thing. [Laughs angrily.] So that is it, is it? Halvard Solness is to see about retiring now! To make room for younger men! For the very youngest, perhaps! He must make room! Room! Room! BROVIK. Why, good heavens! there is surely room for more than one single man– SOLNESS. Oh, there’s not so very much room to spare either. But, be that as it may–I will never retire! I will never give way to anybody! Never of my own free will. Never in this world will I do that! BROVIK. [Rise with difficulty.] Then I am to pass out of life without any certainty? Without a gleam of happiness? Without any faith or trust in Ragnar? Without having seen a single piece of work of his doing? Is that to be the way of it? SOLNESS. [Turns half aside, and mutters.] H’m–don’t ask more just now. BROVIK. I must have an answer to this one question. Am I to pass out of life in such utter poverty? SOLNESS. [Seems to struggle with himself; finally he says, in a low but firm voice:] You must pass out of life as best you can. BROVIK. Then be it so. [He goes up the room. SOLNESS. [Following him, half is desperation.] Don’t you understand that I cannot help it? I am what I am, and I cannot change my nature! BROVIK. No; I suppose that you can’t. [Reels and supports himself against the sofa-table.] May I have a glass of water? SOLNESS. By all means. [Fills a glass and hands it to him. BROVIK. Thanks. [Drinks and puts the glass down again. [SOLNESS goes up and opens the door of the draughtsmen’s office. SOLNESS. Ragnar–you must come and take your father home. Ragnar rises quickly. He and KAIA come into the work-room. RAGNAR. What is the matter, father? BROVIK. Give me your arm. Now let us go. RAGNAR. Very well. You had better put your things on, too, Kaia. SOLNESS. Miss Fosli must stay–just for a moment. There is a letter I want written. BROVIK. [Looks at SOLNESS.] Good night. Sleep well–if you can. SOLNESS. Good night. [BROVIK and RAGNAR go out by the hall-door. KAIA goes to the desk. SOLNESS stands with bent head, to the right, by the arm-chair. KAIA. [Dubiously.] Is there any letter? SOLNESS. [Curtly.] No, of course not. [Looks sternly at her.] Kaia! KAIA. [Anxiously, in a low voice.] Yes! SOLNESS. [Points imperatively to a spot on the floor.] Come here! At once! KAIA. [Hesitatingly.] Yes. SOLNESS. [As before.] Nearer! KAIA. [Obeying.] What do you want with me? SOLNESS. [Looks at her for a while.] Is it you I have to thank for all this? KAIA. No, no, don’t think that! SOLNESS. But confess now–you want to get married! KAIA. [Softly.] Ragnar and I have been engaged for four or five years, and so— SOLNESS. And so you think it time there were an end of it. Is not that so? KAIA. Ragnar and Uncle say I must. So I suppose I shall have to give in. SOLNESS. [More gently.] Kaia, don’t you really care a little bit for Ragnar, too? KAIA. I cared very much for Ragnar once–before I came here to you. SOLNESS. But you don’t now? Not in the least? KAIA. [Passionately, clasping hands and holding them out towards him.] Oh, you know very well there is only one person I care for now! I shall never care for any one else. SOLNESS. Yes, you say that. And yet you go away from me–leave me alone here with everything on my hands. KAIA. But could I not stay with you, even if Ragnar—? SOLNESS. [Repudiating the idea.] No, no, that is quite impossible. If Ragnar leaves me and starts work on his own account, then of course he will need you himself. KAIA. [Wringing her hands.] Oh, I feel as if I could not be separated from you! It’s quite, quite impossible! SOLNESS. Then be sure you get those foolish notions out of Ragnar’s head. Marry him as much as you please–[Alters his tone.] I mean–don’t let him throw up his good situation with me. For then I can keep you too, my dear Kaia. KAIA. Oh yes, how lovely that would be, if it could only be managed! SOLNESS. [Clasps her head with his two hands and whispers.] For I cannot get on without you, you see. I must have you with me every single day. KAIA. [In nervous exaltation.] My God! My God! SOLNESS. [Kisses her hair.] Kaia–Kaia! KAIA. [Sinks down before him.] Oh, how good you are to me! How unspeakably good you are! SOLNESS. [Vehemently.] Get up! For goodness’ sake get up! I think I hear some one. [He helps her to rise. She staggers over to the desk. MRS. SOLNESS enters by the door on the right. She looks thin and wasted with grief, but shows traces of bygone beauty. Blonde ringlets. Dressed with good taste, wholly in black. Speaks some-what slowly and in a plaintive voice. MRS. SOLNESS. [In the doorway.] Halvard! SOLNESS. [Turns.] Oh, are you there, my dear—? MRS. SOLNESS. [With a glance at KAIA.] I am afraid I am disturbing you. SOLNESS. Not in the least. Miss Fosli has only a short letter to write. MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, so I see. SOLNESS. What do you want with me, Aline? MRS. SOLNESS. I merely wanted to tell you that Dr. Herdal is in the drawing-room. Won’t you come and see him, Halvard? SOLNESS. [Looks suspiciously at her.]. H’m–is the doctor so very anxious to see me? MRS. SOLNESS. Well, not exactly anxious. He really came to see me; but he would like to say how-do-you-do to you at the same time. SOLNESS. [Laughs to himself.] Yes, I daresay. Well, you must ask him to wait a little. MRS. SOLNESS. Then you will come in presently? SOLNESS. Perhaps I will. Presently, presently, dear. In a little while. MRS. SOLNESS. [Glancing again at KAIA.] Well now, don’t forget, Halvard. [Withdraws and closes the door behind her. KAIA. [Softly.] Oh dear, oh dear–I am sure Mrs. Solness thinks ill of me in some way! SOLNESS. Oh, not in the least. Not more than usual at any rate. But all the same, you had better go now, Kaia. KAIA. Yes, yes, now I must go. SOLNESS. [Severely.] And mind you get that matter settled for me. Do you hear? KAIA. Oh, if it only depended on me— SOLNESS. I will have it settled, I say! And to-morrow too–not a day later! KAIA. [Terrified.] If there’s nothing else for it, I am quite willing to break off the engagement. SOLNESS. [Angrily.] Break it off. Are you mad? Would you think of breaking it off? KAIA. [Distracted.] Yes, if necessary. For I must–I must stay here with you! I can’t leave you! That is utterly–utterly impossible! SOLNESS. [With a sudden outburst.] But deuce take it–how about Ragnar then! It’s Ragnar that I— KAIA. [Looks at him with terrified eyes.] It is chiefly on Ragnar’s account, that–that you—? SOLNESS. [Collecting himself.] No, no, of course not! You don’t understand me either. [Gently and softly.] Of course it is you I want to keep. –you above everything, Kaia. But for that very reason, you must prevent Ragnar, too, from throwing up his situation. There, there, –now go home. KAIA. Yes, yes–good-night, then. SOLNESS. Good night. [As she is going.] Oh, stop a moment! Are Ragnar’s drawings in there? KAIA. I did not see him take them with him. SOLNESS. Then just go and find them for me. I might perhaps glance over them, after all. KAIA. [Happy.] Oh yes, please do! SOLNESS. For your sake, Kaia dear. Now, let me have them at once, please. [KAIA hurries into the draughtsmen’s office, searches anxiously in the table-drawer, finds a portfolio and brings it with her. KAIA. Here are all the drawings. SOLNESS. Good. Put them down there on the table. KAIA. [Putting down the portfolio.] Good night, then. [Beseechingly.] And please, please think kindly of me. SOLNESS. Oh, that I always do. Good-night, my dear little Kaia. [Glances to the right.] Go, go now! MRS. SOLNESS and DR. HERDAL enter by the door on the right. He is a stoutish, elderly man, with a round, good-humoured face, clean shaven, with thin, light hair, and gold spectacles. MRS. SOLNESS. [Still in the doorway.] Halvard, I cannot keep the doctor any longer. SOLNESS. Well then, come in here. MRS. SOLNESS. [To KAIA, who is turning down the desk-lamp.] Have you finished the letter already, Miss Fosli? KAIA. [In confusion.] The letter—? SOLNESS. Yes, it was quite a short one. MRS. SOLNESS. It must have been very short. SOLNESS. You may go now, Miss Fosli. And please come in good time to-morrow morning. KAIA. I will be sure to. Good-night, Mrs. Solness. [She goes out by the hall door. SOLNESS. Are you in a hurry, doctor? DR. HERDAL. No, not at all. SOLNESS. May I have a little chat with you? DR. HERDAL. With the greatest of pleasure. SOLNESS. Then let us sit down. [He motions the doctor to take the rocking- chair, and sits down himself in the arm-chair. Looks searchingly at him.] Tell me–did you notice anything odd about Aline? DR. HERDAL. Do you mean just now, when she was here? SOLNESS. Yes, in her manner to me. Did you notice anything? DR. HERDAL. [Smiling.] Well, I admit–one couldn’t well avoid noticing that your wife–h’m— DR. HERDAL. –that your wife is not particularly fond of this Miss Fosli. SOLNESS. Is that all? I have noticed that myself. DR. HERDAL. And I must say I am scarcely surprised at it. SOLNESS. At what? DR. HERDAL. That she should not exactly approve of your seeing so much of another woman, all day and every day. SOLNESS. No, no, I suppose you are right there–and Aline too. But it’s impossible to make any change. DR. HERDAL. Could you not engage a clerk? SOLNESS. The first man that came to hand? No, thank you–that would never do for me. DR. HERDAL. But now, if your wife—? Suppose, with her delicate health, all this tries her too much? SOLNESS. Even then–I might almost say–it can make no difference. I must keep Kaia Fosli. No one else could fill her place. DR. HERDAL. No one else? SOLNESS. [Curtly.] No, no one. DR. HERDAL. [Drawing his chair closer.] Now listen to me, my dear Mr. Solness. May I ask you a question, quite between ourselves? SOLNESS. By all means. DR. HERDAL. Women, you see–in certain matters, they have a deucedly keen intuition— SOLNESS. They have, indeed. There is not the least doubt of that. But—? DR. HERDAL. Well, tell me now–if your wife can’t endure this Kaia Fosli—? SOLNESS. Well, what then? DR. HERDAL. –may she not have just–just the least little bit of reason for this instinctive dislike? SOLNESS. [Looks at him and rises.] Oho! DR. HERDAL. Now don’t be offended–but hasn’t she? SOLNESS. [With curt decision.] No. DR. HERDAL. No reason of any sort? SOLNESS. No other than her own suspicious nature. DR. HERDAL. I know you have known a good many women in your time. SOLNESS. Yes, I have. DR. HERDAL. And have been a good deal taken with some of them, too. SOLNESS. Oh yes, I don’t deny it. DR. HERDAL. But as regards Miss Fosli, then? There is nothing of that sort in this case? SOLNESS. No; nothing at all–on my side. DR. HERDAL. But on her side? SOLNESS. I don’t think you have any right to ask that question, doctor. DR. HERDAL. Well, you know, we were discussing your wife’s intuition. SOLNESS. So we were. And for that matter–[lowers his voice]–Aline’s intuition, as you call it–in a certain sense, it has not been so far astray. DR. HERDAL. Aha! there we have it! SOLNESS. [Sits down.] Doctor Herdal–I am going to tell you a strange story –if you care to listen to it. DR. HERDAL. I like listening to strange stories. SOLNESS. Very well then. I daresay you recollect that I took Knut Brovik and his son into my employment–after the old man’s business had gone to the dogs. DR. HERDAL. Yes, so I have understood. SOLNESS. You see, they really are clever fellows, these two. Each of them has talent in his own way. But then the son took it into his head to get engaged; and the next thing, of course, was that he wanted to get married–and begin to build on his own account. That is the way with all these young people. DR. HERDAL. [Laughing.] Yes, they have a bad habit of wanting to marry. SOLNESS. Just so. But of course that did not suit my plans; for I needed Ragnar myself–and the old man too. He is exceedingly good at calculating bearing strains and cubic contents–and all that sort of devilry, you know. DR. HERDAL. Oh yes, no doubt that’s indispensable. SOLNESS. Yes, it is. But Ragnar was absolutely bent on setting to work for himself. He would hear of nothing else. DR. HERDAL. But he has stayed with you all the same. SOLNESS. Yes, I’ll tell you how that came about. One day this girl, Kaia Fosli, came to see them on some errand or other. She had never been here before. And when I saw how utterly infatuated they were with each other, the thought occurred to me: if I cold only get her into the office here, then perhaps Ragnar too would stay where he is. DR. HERDAL. That was not at all a bad idea. SOLNESS. Yes, but at the time I did not breathe a word of what was in my mind. I merely stood and looked at her–and kept on wishing intently that I could have her here. Then I talked to her a little, in a friendly way–about one thing and another. And then she went away. DR. HERDAL. Well? SOLNESS. Well then, next day, pretty late in the evening, when old Brovik and Ragnar had gone home, she came here again, and behaved as if I had made an arrangement with her. DR. HERDAL. An arrangement? What about? SOLNESS. About the very thing my mind had been fixed on. But I hadn’t said one single word about it. DR. HERDAL. That was most extraordinary. SOLNESS. Yes, was it not? And now she wanted to know what she was to do here– whether she could begin the very next morning, and so forth. DR. HERDAL. Don’t you think she did it in order to be with her sweetheart? SOLNESS. That was what occurred to me at first. But no, that was not it. She seemed to drift quite away from him–when once she had come here to me. DR. HERDAL. She drifted over to you, then? SOLNESS. Yes, entirely. If I happen to look at her when her back is turned, I can tell that she feels it. She quivers and trembles the moment I come near her. What do you think of that? DR. HERDAL. H’m–that’s not very hard to explain. SOLNESS. Well, but what about the other thing? That she believed I had said to her what I had only wished and willed–silently–inwardly–to myself? What do you say to that? Can you explain that, Dr. Herdal? DR. HERDAL. No, I won’t undertake to do that. SOLNESS. I felt sure you would not; and so I have never cared to talk about it till now.–But it’s a cursed nuisance to me in the long run, you understand. Here have I got to go on day after day, pretending—. And it’s a shame to treat her so, too, poor girl. [Vehemently.] But I cannot do anything else. For if she runs away from me–then Ragnar will be off too. DR. HERDAL. And you have not told your wife the rights of the story? SOLNESS. No. DR. HERDAL. The why on earth don’t you? SOLNESS. [Looks fixedly at him, and says in a low voice:] Because I seem to find a sort of–of salutary self-torture in allowing Aline to do me an injustice. DR. HERDAL. [Shakes his head.] I don’t in the least understand what you mean. SOLNESS. Well, you see–it is like paying off a little bit of a huge, immeasurable debt— DR. HERDAL. To your wife? SOLNESS. Yes; and that always helps to relieve one’s mind a little. One can breathe more freely for a while, you understand. DR. HERDAL. No, goodness knows, I don’t understand at all— SOLNESS. [Breaking off, rises again.] Well, well, well–then we won’t talk any more about it. [He saunters across the room, returns, and stops beside the table. Looks at the doctor with a sly smile.] I suppose you think you have drawn me out nicely now, doctor? DR. HERDAL. [With some irritation.] Drawn you out? Again I have not the faintest notion of what you mean, Mr. Solness. SOLNESS. Oh come, out with it; I have seen it quite clearly, you know. DR. HERDAL. What have you seen? SOLNESS. [In a low voice, slowly.] That you have been quietly keeping an eye upon me. DR. HERDAL. That I have! And why in all the world should I do that? SOLNESS. Because you think that I— [Passionately.] Well devil take it– you think the same of me as Aline does.