Three Comedies

Leonarda. And my answer is that one who is alone can get along without the world's sympathy—but it is different with a couple. They will soon feel the cold wind of the world's displeasure blowing between them.

Hagbart. When you answer me, it makes what I have said seem so formal and ceremonious—so clumsy. But I must just be as I am; I cannot alter myself. Dearest, from the moment I felt certain that it was you I loved, only one thing seemed of any importance to me—everything else was blotted out. And that is why I do not understand what you say. Do you suppose they will try to make me tire of you? Do you suppose that is possible?

Leonarda. Not now, but later on. There will come a time—

Hagbart. Yes, a time of work—self-development! It has come now. That is why I, am here! Perhaps a time of conflict may come too—heaven send that it may! Are we to pay any heed to that? No! You are free, and I am free; and our future is in our own hands.

Leonarda. Besides, I have grown old—

Hagbart. You!

Leonarda.—and jealous, and troublesome; while you are the incarnation of youth and joy.

Hagbart. You have more youth in you than I. You are an enchantress! All your life you will be showing me new aspects of yourself—as you are doing now. Each year will invest you with a new beauty, new spiritual power. Do you think I only half understand you, or only half love you? I want to sit close in your heart, warmed by its glow. It is the irresistible power of truth that has drawn me to you. My whole life will not be long enough for me to sound the unfathomable depths of your soul.

Leonarda. Your words are like the spring breezes, alluring and intoxicating, but full of deadly peril too.

Hagbart. You love me! I knew it before I came here to-day. I saw it the moment I stood here. Love is the very breath of life to you, surpassingly more than to any one else I have ever seen; and that is why you have suffered so terribly from the disappointments and emptiness of life. And now, when love is calling to you—love that is true and sincere—you are trembling!

Leonarda. You understand me in a way I thought impossible! It takes away all my resolution; it—

Hagbart. Surely you saw it in all the many talks we love had?

Leonarda. Yes.

Hagbart. Then is that not a proof that we two—?

Leonarda. Yes, it is true! I can hide nothing from you. (Bursts into tears.)

Hagbart. But why this unhappiness?

Leonarda. I don't know! It pursues me all day, and all through the sleepless night. (Weeps helplessly.)

Hagbart. But it has no real existence. It might, in the case of others; but not in our case—not for us.

Leonarda. I spoke in my distress, without thinking. I threw out the first thing that came into my head, to try and stop you. But it is not that—oh, God! (Sways as if half swooning.)

Hagbart (rushing to her side). Leonarda!

Leonarda. No, no! Let me be!

Hagbart. You know your love is too strong for you—will you not give way to it?

Leonarda. Hagbart, there is something about it that is not right—

Hagbart. Do you mean in the way it has come about? In Aagot's having been the means of leading me to you? Think of it, and you will see that it could not have happened otherwise.

Leonarda. Talking about it will not help me. I must see Aagot; I must speak to Aagot.

Hagbart. But you have done that! You know it is you that love me, and not she. You know it is you that I love, and not her. What more do you need?

Leonarda. I want time. I want not to lose the self-control I have won for myself by years of renunciation and self-sacrifice, and was so proud of. But it won't obey me when you speak to me. Your words possess me in spite of myself. If there is any happiness on earth, it is to find one's every thought faultlessly understood. But that happiness brings a pain with it—for me, at any rate. No, don't answer! You are too strong for me; because I love you—love you as only one can who has never believed such joy could exist or could possibly come to her—and now the depths of my peace are troubled with the thought that it is treachery to my child.

Hagbart. But you know that it is not!

Leonarda. I don't know. Let me have time to think! I am afraid, and my fear revives forgotten memories. More than that—I am afraid of the immensity of my love for you, afraid of dragging you with me into a whirlpool of disaster!—No, don't answer! Don't touch me!—Hagbart, do you love me?

Hagbart. Can you ask that?

Leonarda. Then help me! Go away!—Be generous. Let my heart know this triumph and see you in its glorious rays! Other women do not need that, perhaps—but I need it—go!

Hagbart. Leonarda!

Leonarda. Wait till you hear from me. It will not be long. Whatever happens, be patient—and remember, I love you!—No, don't say anything! I have neither courage nor strength for anything more. (Her voice sinks to a whisper.) Go! (He turns to go.) Hagbart! (He stops.) What you have said to me to-day has given me the greatest happiness of my life. But your going away now without a word will be more to me than all you have sail. (He goes out.)

Leonarda (stands for some moments in a kind of ecstasy, moves, and stands still again. Suddenly she calls out): Aagot!

Aagot (from without). Are you there?

Leonarda. My dear child! (Goes out, and cones in again with AAGOT in her arms.) Did you walk?

Aagot. The whole way! (She is carrying her hat in her hand, appears hot and sunburnt, and bears evident signs of laving made a long journey on foot. She takes off a knapsack which she has been carrying on her back.) I washed in a brook to-day and used it as a looking-glass as well!

Leonarda. Have you been walking all night?

Aagot. No; I slept for a little while at Opsal, but I was out by sunrise. It was lovely!

Leonarda. And I have just been arranging to send and fetch you.

Aagot. Really? Well, they can fetch my things. I could not wait any longer.

Leonarda. You look so well.

Aagot. Oh, that is because I am so sunburnt.

Leonarda. You are feeling all right again, then—now?

Aagot. Splendid, aunt! All that is over, now.—I have had a letter from grandmother.

Leonarda. Was that letter from her that I sent on to you? I could not make out whom it was from.

Aagot. Yes, it was from her. Here it is. You must hear it.

Leonarda. Yes.

Aagot (reads). "My dear child. I have not written a letter for many years, so I do not know what this will be like. But Hagbart is away, so I must tell you myself. Do not be distressed any longer. As soon as you are married, I will come and live with you." Isn't that glorious, aunt? (She is trembling with happiness, and throws her arms round LEONARDA'S neck.)

Leonarda. But—

Aagot. But what? There is no more "but" about it, don't you see! It is on your account.

Leonarda. On my account? Yes, but—what about you? How do you stand—with Hagbart?

Aagot. Oh, that?—Well, I will tell you the whole story! I can do that now.—Oh, don't take it all so seriously, aunt! It really is nothing. But let us sit down. (Brings forward a seat, as she speaks.) I really feel as if I wanted to sit down for a little while, too!—Well, you see, it came upon me like an unexpected attack—a blow from behind, as it were. Now, my dear aunt, don't look so troubled. It is all over now. As a matter of fact, the beginning of it all was a play I saw.

Leonarda. A play?

Aagot. We saw it together once, you and I, do you remember? Scribe's Bataille de Dames.

Leonarda. Yes.

Aagot. And I remember thinking and saying to you: That fellow Henri, in the play, was a stupid fellow. He had the choice between a strong-natured, handsome, spirited woman, who was ready to give her life for him, and a child who was really a stupid little thing—for she was, it is no use denying it, aunt—and he chose the insignificant little person. No, I would rather sit down here; I can rest better so. Ah, that is good! And now you mustn't look me in the face oftener than I want to let you, because you take it too dreadfully solemnly, and I am going to tell you something foolish now.—All of a sudden it flashed across my mind: Good heavens! the woman was—, and the little hussy with the curly hair was—, and he? But Hagbart is a man of some sense: he had chosen otherwise! And I did not know; but I realised at the same time that almost from the first day Hagbart used always to talk to you, and only to you, and hardly at all to me except to talk about you. I got so miserable about it that I felt as if some one had put a knife into my heart; and from that moment—I am so ashamed of it now—I had no more peace. I carried an aching pain in my heart night and day, and I thought my heart itself would break merely to see him speak to you or you to him. I am ashamed of myself; because what was more natural than that he should never be tired of talking to you? I never should, myself!

Leonarda. But still I don't see—I don't understand yet—

Aagot. Wait a bit! Oh, don't look so anxiously at me! It is all over now, you know.

Leonarda. What is all over?

Aagot. Bless my soul, wait! Aunt, dear, you are more impatient than I am myself! I do not want you to think me worse than I am, so I must first tell you how I fought with myself. I lay and cried all night, because I could not talk to you about it, and in the daytime I forced myself to seem merry and lively and happy. And then, aunt, one day I said to myself quite honestly: Why should you feel aggrieved at his loving her more than you? What are you, compared with her? And how splendid it would be, I thought, for my dear aunt to find some one she could truly love, and that it should be I that had brought them together!

Leonarda. That was splendid of you, Aagot!

Aagot. Yes, but now I mustn't make myself out better than I am, either. Because I did not always manage to look at it that way; very often something very like a sob kept rising in my throat. But then I used to talk to myself seriously, and say: Even supposing it is your own happiness you are giving up for her sake, is that too much for you to do for her? No, a thousand times no! And even supposing he does not love you any more, ought you not to be able to conquer your own feelings? Surely it would be cowardly not to be able to do that! Think no more of him, if he does not love you!

Leonarda. Aagot, I cannot tell you how I admire you, and love you, and how proud I am of you!

Aagot. Oh, aunt, I never realised as I did then what you have been to me! I knew that if I were capable of any great deed, anything really good or really fine, it was you that had planted the impulse in me. And then I sought every opportunity to bring this about; I wanted to take ever so humble a part in it, but without your hearing a word or a sigh from me. Besides, I had you always before me as an example; because I knew that you would have done it for me—indeed that you had already done as much. Your example was like a shining beacon to me, aunt!

Leonarda. Aagot!

Aagot. But you don't seem to be as happy about it as I am! Don't you understand yet how it all happened?

Leonarda. Yes, but—about the result of it?

Aagot. Dearest, you know all about that!—No, it is true, you don't! I must not forget to tell you that; otherwise you won't be able to understand why I behaved so stupidly at the Bishop's.

Leonarda. No.

Aagot. Well, you see, when I was full of this splendid determination to sacrifice myself so as to make you happy, I used to feel a regular fury come over me because Hagbart noticed no change in me—or, to be more correct, did not understand it in the least. He used to go about as if he were in a dream. Isn't it extraordinary how one thing leads to another? My feeling was stronger than I had any idea of; because when the Bishop wanted to slight you—and that was like a stab from behind, too!—I absolutely lost my head with Hagbart because of his not having prevented that, instead of going about dreaming. I don't know—but—well, you saw yourself what happened. I blurted out the first thing that came into my head and was abominably rude; you were angry; then we made friends again and I went away—and then, aunt—

Leonarda. And then—?

Aagot. Then I thought it all over! All the beautiful things you said to me about him, as we were going home, came back to me more and more forcibly. I saw you as I had always known you, noble and gentle.—It was so wonderful up there, too! The air, the clearness, the sense of space! And the lake, almost always calm, because it was so sheltered! And the wonderful stillness, especially in the evening!—And so it healed, just as a wound heals.

Leonarda. What healed?

Aagot. The pain in my heart, aunt. All the difficulties vanished. I know Hagbart to be what you said—noble and true. And you too, aunt! You would neither of you have wished to give me a moment's pain, even unconsciously, I knew. It was so good to realise that! It was so restful, that often while I was thinking of it, I went to sleep where I sat—I was so happy!—Ah, how I love him! And then came grandmother's letter—.

[HANS comes in, but does not see AAGOT at first.]

Hans. Then I am to fetch Miss Aagot—why, there she is!

Aagot (getting up). You quite frightened me, Hans!

Hans. Welcome back, miss!

Aagot. Thank you.

Hans. Well, you have saved me a journey, miss, I suppose?

Aagot. Yes. But someone must go and fetch my things.

Hans. Of course, miss.—But what is the matter with the mistress?

Aagot. Aunt!—Heavens, what is the matter?

Hans. The mistress has not looked well lately.

Aagot. Hasn't she? Aunt, dear! Shall I—? Would you like to—? Aunt!

Hans. Shall I fetch some one to—

Leonarda. No, no!—But you, Aagot—will you-. Oh, my God!—Will you run in—and get—

Aagot. Your bottle of drops?

Leonarda. Yes. (AAGOT runs out.) Hans, go as quickly as you can to the General's—ask him to come here! At once!

Hans. Yes, ma'am.

Leonarda. Hans!

Hans. Yes, ma'am.

Leonarda. Go on horseback. You may not find the General at home—and have to go elsewhere after him.

Hans. Yes, ma'am. (Goes out. AAGOT re-enters.)

Aagot. Here it is, aunt!

Leonarda. Thank you. It is over now.

Aagot. But what was it, aunt?

Leonarda. It was something, dear—something that comes over one sometimes at the change of the year.

[Curtain.]

(The interval between this act and the next should be very short.)

ACT IV

(SCENE.—A room in the BISHOP'S house, the same evening. The lights are lit. The BISHOP comes in with LEONARDA, who is in travelling dress, with a shawl over her arm and a bag in her hand. The BISHOP makes a movement as though to relieve her of them, but she puts them down herself.)

Leonarda. Your lordship must excuse me for troubling you so late as this; but the reason of it is something over which I have no control.–Is your nephew here?

Bishop. No, but I expect him. He has been here twice this afternoon already to see me, but I was out.

Leonarda. I will make haste then, and do what I have to do before he comes.

Bishop. Shall I give instructions that we are to be told when he comes in?

Leonarda. If you please.

Bishop (ringing the bell). Grandmother says that as soon as he came back to-day, he went at once to see you.

Leonarda. Yes.

[Enter a Maid.]

Bishop (to the Maid). Be so good as to let me know when Mr. Hagbart comes in. (Exit Maid.)

Leonarda. Has he had a talk with his grandmother?

Bishop. Yes.

Leonarda. After he—? (Checks herself.)

Bishop. After he had been to see you.

Leonarda. Did he tell her anything?

Bishop. He was very much agitated, apparently. I did not ask grandmother any further questions; I can imagine what passed between them.—Has he spoken to you?

Leonarda. Yes.

Bishop. And you, Mrs. Falk?

Leonarda. I—? Well, I am here.

Bishop. Going on a journey, if I am not mistaken?

Leonarda. Going on a journey. Things are turning out as you wished after all, my lord.

Bishop. And he is to know nothing about it?

Leonarda. No one—except the person who will accompany me. I am sailing for England by to-night's boat.

Bishop (looking at his watch). You haven't much time, then.

Leonarda. I only want to entrust to your lordship a deed of gift of my property here.

Bishop. In favour of your niece?

Leonarda. Yes, for Aagot. She shall have everything.

Bishop. But last time, Mrs. Falk, you said—

Leonarda. Oh, I have enough for my journey. Later on I shall want nothing; I can provide for myself.

Bishop. But what about Aagot? Will you not wait until she comes home?

Leonarda. She came home to-day. She is resting now. But I have sent back my carriage to bring her here immediately. I want to ask you to take her in—I know no one else—and to comfort her—

Bishop. Indeed I will, Mrs. Falk. I understand what this must cost you.

Leonarda. And will you try—to—to bring those two together again?

Bishop. But they don't love each other!

Leonarda. Aagot loves him. And—as they both love me—my idea was that when I am gone, and they know that it was my wish, the love they both have for me may bring them together again. I hope so—they are both so young.

Bishop. I will do all I can.

Leonarda. Thank you. And I want to make bold to beg you to let grandmother go and live in the country with Aagot—or let Aagot come and live here, whichever they prefer. It would divert Aagot's mind if she had the care of grandmother; and she is very fond of her.

Bishop. And grandmother of her.

Leonarda. And wherever the grandmother is, Hagbart will be too. Very likely the old lady would help them.

Bishop. I think your idea is an excellent one; and I am amazed that you have had time and strength to think it all out in this manner.

Leonarda. Is grandmother still up?

Bishop. Yes; I have just come from her room. Hagbart has excited her; she can stand so little.

Leonarda. Then I expect I had better not go and bid her good-bye. I should have liked to, otherwise.

Bishop. I don't think I ought to allow it.

Leonarda. Then please say good-bye to her from me—and thank her.

Bishop. I will.

Leonarda. And ask her—to help—

Bishop. I will do everything I possibly can.

Leonarda. And your lordship must forgive me for all the upset I have caused here. I did not intend it.

Bishop. I am only sorry that I did not know you sooner. Many things might have been different.

Leonarda. We won't talk about that now.

[Enter Maid.]

Maid. I was asked to bring you this card, ma'am.

Leonarda. Thank you. Is the General in the hall?

Maid. Yes.

Bishop. General Rosen—here?

Leonarda. I took the liberty of asking him to call for me here when the boat was signalled.

Bishop. Ask the General to come in. (Exit Maid.) Then it is General Rosen that is to—. (Checks himself.)

Leonarda (searching in her bag).—that is to accompany me? He is my husband.

Bishop. The husband you divorced.

Leonarda. Yes.

Bishop. I see I have done you a great injustice, Mrs. Falk.

Leonarda. Yes. (GENERAL ROSEN comes in, dressed in a smart travelling suit and looking very spruce.)

General Rosen. I beg your lordship's pardon—but, time is up.—Mrs. Falk, is this yours? (Gives her a letter.)

Leonarda. Yes.—When Aagot comes, will your lordship give her this?—and help her?

Bishop. I will, Mrs. Falk. God bless you!

[Enter Maid.]

Maid. Mr. Hagbart has just come in.

Leonarda. Good-bye!—Say good-bye to—

Bishop (taking her hand). What you are doing is more than any one of us could have done.

Leonarda. It all depends on how deeply one loves.—Thank you, and good-bye!

Bishop. Good-bye! (GENERAL ROSEN offers LEONARDA his arm. She takes it, and they go out. The BISHOP follows them. HAGBART comes in from the right, looks round in astonishment, then goes towards the back of the room and meets the BISHOP in the doorway.)

Bishop. Is that you? (Both come forward without speaking.)

Hagbart (in a low voice, but evidently under the influence of great emotion). I can tell by your voice—and your face—that you know about it.

Bishop. You mean that you think I have had a talk with grandmother?

Hagbart. Yes.

Bishop. Well, I have. She told me nothing definite, but I see how things stand. I saw that sooner than you did yourself, you know.

Hagbart. That is true. The fight is over now, as far as I am concerned.

Bishop. Scarcely that, Hagbart.

Hagbart. Oh, you won't admit it, I know. But I call it the most decisive victory of my life. I love Mrs. Falk—and she loves me.

Bishop. If you were not in such an excited condition—

Hagbart. It is not excitement, it is happiness. But here, with you—oh, I have not come to ask for your blessing; we must do without that! But I have come to tell you the fact, because it was my duty to do so.—Does it grieve you so much?

Bishop. Yes.

Hagbart. Uncle, I feel hurt at that.

Bishop. My boy—!

Hagbart. I feel hurt both on her account and on my own. It shows that you know neither of us.

Bishop. Let us sit down and talk quietly, Hagbart.

Hagbart. I must ask you to make no attempt to persuade me to alter my decision.

Bishop. Make your mind easy on that score. Your feelings do you honour—and I know now that she is worthy of them.

Hagbart. What—do you say that? (They sit down.)

Bishop. My dear Hagbart, let me tell you this at once. I have gone through an experience, too, since the last time we met. And it has taught me that I had no right to treat Mrs. Falk as I did.

Hagbart. Is it possible?

Bishop. I judged her both too quickly and too harshly. That is one of our besetting sins. And I have paid too much heed to the opinion of others, and too little to the charity that should give us courage to do good. She, whom I despised, has taught me that.

Hagbart. You do not know how grateful and how happy you have made me by saying that!

Bishop. I have something more to say. At the time we held that unjust opinion of her, we misled you—for you relied on our opinion then—until you ended by sharing our views and being even more vehement in the matter than we, as young people will. That created a reaction in you, which in the end led to love. If that love had been a sin, we should have been to blame for it.

Hagbart. Is it a sin, then?

Bishop. No. But when you felt that we were inclined to look upon it in that light, that very fact stirred up your sense of justice and increased your love. You have a noble heart.

Hagbart. Ah, how I shall love you after this, uncle!

Bishop. And that is why I wanted you to sit down here just now, Hagbart—to beg your pardon—and hers. And my congregation's, too. It is my duty to guide them, but I was not willing to trust them enough. By far the greater number among them are good people; they would have followed me if I had had the courage to go forward.

Hagbart. Uncle, I admire and revere you more than I have ever done before—more than any one has ever done!

Bishop (getting up). My dear boy!

Hagbart (throwing himself into his arms). Uncle!

Bishop. Is your love strong enough to bear—

Hagbart. Anything!

Bishop. Because sometimes love is given to us to teach us self-sacrifice.

[The GRANDMOTHER comes in.]

Grandmother. I heard Hagbart's voice.

Hagbart. Grandmother! (He and the BISHOP go to help her.) Grandmother! You don't know how happy I am! (Takes her by the arm.)

Grandmother. Is that true?

Bishop (taking her other arm). You should not walk about without help.

Grandmother. I heard Hagbart's voice. He was talking so loud, that I thought something had happened.

Hagbart. So it has—something good! Uncle consents! He is splendid! He has made everything all right again, and better than ever! Oh, grandmother, I wish you were not so old! I feel as if I should like to take you up in my arms and dance you round the room.

Grandmother. You mustn't do that, my dear. (They put her into her chair.) Now! What is your last bit of news?

Hagbart. My last bit of news? I have no fresh news! There is nothing more to tell!

Bishop. Yes, Hagbart, there is.

Hagbart. Why do you say that so seriously?—You look so serious—and seem agitated! Uncle! (The noise of wheels is heard outside.)