The Lady From The Sea [24]
doubt that is the result of her morbid state of mind.
Wangel. Not altogether. When you go down to the bedrock, it was born in her. Ellida belongs to the sea-folk. That is the matter.
Arnholm. What do you really mean, my dear doctor?
Wangel. Haven't you noticed that the people from out there by the open sea are, in a way, a people apart? It is almost as if they themselves lived the life of the sea. There is the rush of waves, and ebb and flow too, both in their thoughts and in their feelings, and so they can never bear transplanting. Oh! I ought to have remembered that. It was a sin against Ellida to take her away from there, and bring her here.
Arnholm. You have come to that opinion?
Wangel. Yes, more and more. But I ought to have told myself this beforehand. Oh! I knew it well enough at bottom! But I put it from me. For, you see, I loved her so! Therefore, I thought of myself first of all. I was inexcusably selfish at that time!
Arnholm. Hm. I suppose every man is a little selfish under such circumstances. Moreover, I've never noticed that vice in you, Doctor Wangel.
Wangel (walks uneasily about the room). Oh, yes! And I have been since then, too. Why, I am so much, much older than she is. I ought to have been at once as a father to her and a guide. I ought to have done my best to develop and enlighten her mind. Unfortunately nothing ever came of that. You see, I hadn't stamina enough, for I preferred her just as she was. So things went worse and worse with her, and then I didn't know what to do. (In a lower voice.) That was why I wrote to you in my trouble, and asked you to come here.
Arnholm (looks at him in astonishment). What, was it for this you wrote?
Wangel. Yes; but don't let anyone notice anything.
Arnholm. How on earth, dear doctor--what good did you expect me to be? I don't understand it.
Wangel. No, naturally. For I was on an altogether false track. I thought Ellida's heart had at one time gone out to you, and that she still secretly cared for you a little--that perhaps it would do her good to see you again, and talk of her home and the old days.
Arnholm. So it was your wife you meant when you wrote that she expected me, and--and perhaps longed for me.
Wangel. Yes, who else?
Arnholm (hurriedly). No, no. You're right. But I didn't understand.
Wangel. Naturally, as I said, for I was on an absolutely wrong track.
Arnholm. And you call yourself selfish!
Wangel. Ah! but I had such a great sin to atone for. I felt I dared not neglect any means that might give the slightest relief to her mind.
Arnholm. How do you really explain the power this stranger exercises over her?
Wangel. Hm--dear friend--there may be sides to the matter that cannot be explained.
Arnholm. Do you mean anything inexplicable in itself--absolutely inexplicable?
Wangel. In any case not explicable as far as we know.
Arnholm. Do you believe there is something in it, then?
Wangel. I neither believe nor deny; I simply don't know. That's why I leave it alone.
Arnholm. Yes. But just one thing: her extraordinary, weird assertion about the child's eyes--
Wangel (eagerly). I don't believe a word about the eyes. I will not believe such a thing. It must be purely fancy on her part, nothing else.
Arnholm. Did you notice the man's eyes when you saw him yesterday?
Wangel. Of course I did.
Arnholm. And you saw no sort of resemblance?
Wangel (evasively). Hm--good heavens! What shall I say? It wasn't quite light when I saw him; and, besides, Ellida had been saying so much about this resemblance, I really don't know if I was capable of observing quite impartially.
Arnholm. Well, well, may be. But that other matter? All this terror and unrest coming upon her at the very time, as it seems, this strange man was on his way home.
Wangel. That--oh! that's something she must have persuaded and dreamed herself into since it happened. She was not seized with this so suddenly--all at once--as she now maintains. But since she heard from young Lyngstrand that Johnston--or Friman, or whatever
Wangel. Not altogether. When you go down to the bedrock, it was born in her. Ellida belongs to the sea-folk. That is the matter.
Arnholm. What do you really mean, my dear doctor?
Wangel. Haven't you noticed that the people from out there by the open sea are, in a way, a people apart? It is almost as if they themselves lived the life of the sea. There is the rush of waves, and ebb and flow too, both in their thoughts and in their feelings, and so they can never bear transplanting. Oh! I ought to have remembered that. It was a sin against Ellida to take her away from there, and bring her here.
Arnholm. You have come to that opinion?
Wangel. Yes, more and more. But I ought to have told myself this beforehand. Oh! I knew it well enough at bottom! But I put it from me. For, you see, I loved her so! Therefore, I thought of myself first of all. I was inexcusably selfish at that time!
Arnholm. Hm. I suppose every man is a little selfish under such circumstances. Moreover, I've never noticed that vice in you, Doctor Wangel.
Wangel (walks uneasily about the room). Oh, yes! And I have been since then, too. Why, I am so much, much older than she is. I ought to have been at once as a father to her and a guide. I ought to have done my best to develop and enlighten her mind. Unfortunately nothing ever came of that. You see, I hadn't stamina enough, for I preferred her just as she was. So things went worse and worse with her, and then I didn't know what to do. (In a lower voice.) That was why I wrote to you in my trouble, and asked you to come here.
Arnholm (looks at him in astonishment). What, was it for this you wrote?
Wangel. Yes; but don't let anyone notice anything.
Arnholm. How on earth, dear doctor--what good did you expect me to be? I don't understand it.
Wangel. No, naturally. For I was on an altogether false track. I thought Ellida's heart had at one time gone out to you, and that she still secretly cared for you a little--that perhaps it would do her good to see you again, and talk of her home and the old days.
Arnholm. So it was your wife you meant when you wrote that she expected me, and--and perhaps longed for me.
Wangel. Yes, who else?
Arnholm (hurriedly). No, no. You're right. But I didn't understand.
Wangel. Naturally, as I said, for I was on an absolutely wrong track.
Arnholm. And you call yourself selfish!
Wangel. Ah! but I had such a great sin to atone for. I felt I dared not neglect any means that might give the slightest relief to her mind.
Arnholm. How do you really explain the power this stranger exercises over her?
Wangel. Hm--dear friend--there may be sides to the matter that cannot be explained.
Arnholm. Do you mean anything inexplicable in itself--absolutely inexplicable?
Wangel. In any case not explicable as far as we know.
Arnholm. Do you believe there is something in it, then?
Wangel. I neither believe nor deny; I simply don't know. That's why I leave it alone.
Arnholm. Yes. But just one thing: her extraordinary, weird assertion about the child's eyes--
Wangel (eagerly). I don't believe a word about the eyes. I will not believe such a thing. It must be purely fancy on her part, nothing else.
Arnholm. Did you notice the man's eyes when you saw him yesterday?
Wangel. Of course I did.
Arnholm. And you saw no sort of resemblance?
Wangel (evasively). Hm--good heavens! What shall I say? It wasn't quite light when I saw him; and, besides, Ellida had been saying so much about this resemblance, I really don't know if I was capable of observing quite impartially.
Arnholm. Well, well, may be. But that other matter? All this terror and unrest coming upon her at the very time, as it seems, this strange man was on his way home.
Wangel. That--oh! that's something she must have persuaded and dreamed herself into since it happened. She was not seized with this so suddenly--all at once--as she now maintains. But since she heard from young Lyngstrand that Johnston--or Friman, or whatever