  When Ibsen ended “The Lady from the Sea” by making Mrs. Wangel give up her idea of eloping with “The Stranger” and decide to remain with her husband and her step-children, many people must have felt that there was a want of finality about the arrangement. Having discussed so exhaustively with Dr. Wangel the advisability of leaving him, she could hardly be expected to give up the project permanently. The play is therefore one which emphatically calls for a sequel. THE LADY ON THE SEA.Scene I.—Beside the pond in the Wangels’ garden. It is a malarious evening in September. Hilda and Boletta, Mrs. Wangel’s step-daughters, are, as usual, failing to catch the carp which are said to haunt the pond. Boletta. Do you think she [nodding towards Mrs. Wangel, who prowls to and fro on the damp lawn with a shawl over her head] is any better? Hilda. No, worse. Boletta. [Cheerfully.] Oh, she can’t be worse. Hilda. That’s all very well for you. You’re going to be married. It doesn’t matter to you how mad she is! You’ll be out of it before long. Boletta. [Jubilantly.] Yes, I shall be out of it. Hilda. But I shan’t. [Darkly.] However, perhaps she’ll go away soon. Boletta. Papa still thinks of moving to the sea-side then? Hilda. [Crossly.] Oh, Papa—Papa never thinks! Boletta. Hush, Hilda. What dreadful things you say! Hilda. [Grimly.] Not half so dreadful as the things I should like to do. Boletta. Hilda! Hilda. Oh, yes, I should. And I will when I grow up. I’ll make Master-builder Solnes tumble off one of his own steeples. Think of that now! Boletta. What a horrid child you are! And just when I thought you were beginning to get on better with her too! [Nodding toward Mrs. Wangel.] It’s most provoking. Hilda. I call it perfectly thrilling, myself. But here she comes. [Mrs. Wangel approaches.] Go away. I want to talk to her. [Exit Boletta doubtfully.] How are you to-day, Mother? Mrs. Wangel. [Absently.] Eh? Hilda. [Controlling her impatience.] I asked how you were. Mrs. Wangel. But you called me mother. I’m not your mother. I’m only your step-mother. Hilda. But I can’t address you as step-mother. “People don’t do those things,” as dear Hedda Gabler always says. Mrs. Wangel. [Whose attention is clearly wand Hilda. Mother, have you seen him? Mrs. Wangel. I believe Wangel is in the surgery. Hilda. I don’t mean Papa. What does it matter where Papa is! I mean The Stranger. The English steamer is at the pier. It arrived last night. [Looks at Mrs. Wangel meaningly.] Mrs. Wangel. [Vaguely.] Is it, dear? You astonish me. Hilda. You will go and see him, won’t you? Mrs. Wangel. Oh, of course, of course. Hilda. I think it must be so perfectly thrilling to go down all by one’s self to a steamer to see a strange man who is not one’s husband. Mrs. Wangel. [Recalling with difficulty her old phrase.] Oh, yes—yes. It allures me wonderfully. Hilda. I should go at once, if I were you, before Papa comes out. Mrs. Wangel. Don’t you think I ought to tell Wangel? I have always been accustomed to consult him before eloping with anyone else. Hilda. I think not. You must go of your own free will. You see, Papa might urge you to go. And then it would not be altogether your own will that sent you, would it? It would be partly his. Mrs. Wangel. So it would. Hilda. Isn’t it splendid to think of your going away with him to-night, quite, quite away, across the sea? Mrs. Wangel. [Doubtfully.] Yes. Hilda. You know you always like the sea. You talk so much about it. It allures you, you know. Mrs. Wangel. Yes, the idea of it is wonderfully alluring. [With misgiving.] But I’ve never been on the sea. Hilda. [Enthusiastically.] That’s what makes the idea so thrilling. It will be quite a new sensation! The sea is so fresh and buoyant, you know! So rough! Not like these vapid fiords where it’s always calm. Quite different altogether. Mrs. Wangel. Ah, there’s Wangel. [Enter Dr. Wangel. Hilda. Bother! [She returns to her fishing for the carp, which are never caught. Dr. Wangel. Ah, Ellida, is that you? Mrs. Wangel. Yes, Wangel. Dr. Wangel. Not brooding, I trust, dear? Not letting your mind dwell on The Stranger, eh? Mrs. Wangel. [Always ready to adopt an idea from any quarter.] Of E. J. Wheeler. “Not brooding, I trust, dear?” Dr. Wangel. [Shaking his head.] Silly girl, silly girl. And the sea, too? Still full of the sea? Mrs. Wangel. [Taking up the cue at once.] Ah, the sea, the wonderful, changeful sea! So fresh and buoyant, you know! So rough! Not like these vapid fiords. I had a child whose eyes were like the sea. Dr. Wangel. [Testily.] I assure you, Ellida, you are wrong. The child’s eyes were just like other children’s eyes. All children’s eyes are. [Hilda suppresses a slight giggle. Wangel notices her for the first time.] Fishing, Hilda? Hilda. [Darkly.] Yes, Papa. Trying to hook a silly old carp. I think I sha Dr. Wangel. [With interest.] What bait do you use? Hilda. Oh, I have been very careful about the bait. My fish rose to it at once. Dr. Wangel. Well, well, I must go back to the surgery. Good-bye, Ellida; and, mind, no brooding about the sea! [Exit. Mrs. Wangel. [Ecstatically.] Oh, the sea, the sea! Hilda. Yes, you’ll be on it soon. Won’t it be thrilling? I really think you ought to start at once. Mrs. Wangel. [Helplessly.] I suppose I ought to pack a few things first? Hilda. I wouldn’t mind about that if I were you. I’d go down to the ship just as I was, slip on board without being noticed, and hide until I was well outside the fiord and began to feel the real sea heaving unde Mrs. Wangel. [Nervously.] Shall I like that? Hilda. Of course you will. It’s your native element, you know. You always said so. Before you’ve been on it half an hour you’ll wish you were overboard, you’ll like the sea so! Mrs. Wangel. [Fired by this vicarious enthusiasm.] I shall, I know I shall. He will be there too! And he’s so frightfully alluring. I must go at once. [Exit hurriedly by the garden gate. Hilda. [Giggling joyously.] Caught, by Jove! My fish caught! She’ll go off with her second mate on the English steamer, and never come back any more. What a triumph for my bait! [Picks up fishing tackle, and exit into the house in high good humour. Scene II.—The deck of the English steamer. The vessel has got outside the shelter of the fiord, and is beginning to Mrs. Wangel. This motion is very disagreeable—[The vessel gives a very heavy lurch]—most disagreeable! I wonder if I could speak to The Stranger now? Hilda said I ought to wait till we were out at sea. Oh! [The vessel gives another lurch.] A Steward. [Passing.] Did you call? Mrs. Wangel. No—er—that is, yes. Will you send Mr. Johnston to me. Steward. There’s no one of that name among the passengers, Madam. Mrs. Wangel. [Fretfully.] Mr. Johnston isn’t a passenger. Mr. Johnston is the second mate. [The vessel lurches again.] Oh, oh! Steward. [Looking suspiciously at her.] But the second mate’s name is Brown. Mrs. Wangel. [Under her breath.] Another alias! [Aloud.] It’s the same person. Will you ask him to come to me? Steward. Very well, Madam. [To himself.] Queer, that! Wants to see the second mate, and don’t remember his name. But, there, what can you expect on these excursion steamers! [Exit. Mrs. Wangel. [As the boat gets further out to sea and begins to roll heavily.] This is horrible. I begin to think I don’t like the sea at all. I feel positively ill. And I always thought the motion would be so exhilarating. It doesn’t exhilarate me in the least. I wish Johnston would come—or Brown, I mean Brown. Perhaps he could find somewhere for me to lie down. [Brown—or Johnston—accompanied by the Steward, comes up the hatchway. He is the same disreputable looking seaman whose acquaintance the reader of “The Lady from the Sea” has already made. Steward. This is the lady. [Indicating Mrs. Wangel.] Brown. [In his most nautical manner.] I know that you swob. Haven’t I eyes? Get out. [Exit Steward.] Well, woman, what do you want? Mrs. Wangel. [Faintly, too much overcome by the rolling of the vessel to resent his roughness.] I—I have come to you. Brown. So I see. Mrs. Wangel Don’t you want me, Alfred? Brown. My name isn’t Alfred. It’s John. Mrs. Wangel. [Plaintively.] It used to be Alfred. Brown. Well, now it’s John. Mrs. Wangel. Are you—glad to see me? Brown. [Briskly.] Not a bit. Never was so sorry to see a woman in my life. Mrs. Wangel. [In horror.] But you came for me. You said you wanted me. Brown. I know I did. Thought old Quangle-Wangle would buy me off if I put the screw on. He didn’t see it. Stingy old cuss! Mrs. Wangel. [Appalled at this way of speaking of her husband.] But you never asked Dr. Wangel for anything? Brown. No fear. Too old a hand for that. He’d have put me in prison for trying to extort money. Mrs. Wangel. How could you expect him to give you money if you didn’t ask for it? Brown. I didn’t suppose he was an absolute fool. When a man has a crazy wife he can’t be such a b Mrs. Wangel. Wouldn’t part husband and wife, you mean? Brown. No, I don’t, and you know I don’t. Wouldn’t part with the dibs; that’s what I mean. Mrs. Wangel. [As the vessel gives a big roll.] Oh, I’m going to be very ill indeed. Why did I think I should like the sea? Brown. Why, indeed? I don’t know. Dash me if I do. Mad, I suppose. Mrs. Wangel. What am I to do now? Brown. Go back to old Quangle, if he’ll take you. He’s fool enough, I dare say. Mrs. Wangel. But I can’t. We’re out at sea. I can’t get back now. I think I’m going to die. [She sinks upon a seat. Brown. Die? You won’t die. No such luck. You’re going to be sea-sick, you are. Where’s your cabin? Mrs. Wangel. [Feebly.] I don’t know. Brown. Where’s your luggage? Hand me over your keys. Mrs. Wangel. I haven’t any luggage. Brown. Bilked again, s’help me! And not so much as a half a sovereign on you, I suppose? Mrs. Wangel. [Feeling limply in her pocket.] No. I must have left my purse at home. Brown. Well, I’m——! [He looks sourly at her. Mrs. Wangel. [Growing frightened.] What are you going to do Brown. Do with you? Send you back to Quangle by the first steamer, of course. You’ll have to work your passage back as stewardess. Heaven help the passengers! [He stalks to the hatchway and disappears. Mrs. Wangel, with a groan, resigns herself to sea-sickness. Curtain. |
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