way to that! Never mind the Past, Rebecca; I once thought that I had made the grand discovery that, if one is only virtuous, one will be happy. I see now it was too daring, too original—an immature dream. What bothers me is that I can't—somehow I can't—believe entirely in you—I am not even sure that I have ennobled you so very much—isn't it terrible?
Rebecca.
[Wringing her hands.] Oh, this killing doubt! [Looks darkly at him.] Is there anything I can do to convince you?
Rosmer.
[As if impelled to speak against his will.] Yes, one thing—only I'm afraid you wouldn't see it in the same light. And yet I must mention it. It is like this. I want to recover faith in my mission, in my power to ennoble human souls. And, as a logical thinker, this I cannot do now, unless—well, unless you jump into the mill-race, too, like Beata!
Rebecca.
[Takes up her antimacassar, with composure, and puts it on her head.] Anything to oblige you.
Rosmer.
[Springs up.] What? You really will! You are sure you don't mind? Then, Rebecca, I will go further. I will even go—yes—as far as you go yourself!
Rebecca.
[Bows her head towards his breast.] You will see me off? Thanks. Now you are indeed an Ibsenite.
[Smiles almost imperceptibly.
Rosmer.
[Cautiously.] I said as far as you go. I don't commit myself further than that. Shall we go?
Rebecca.
First tell me this. Are you going with me, or am I going with you?
Rosmer.
A subtle psychological point—but we have not time to think it out here. We will discuss it as we go along. Come!
[Rosmer takes his hat and stick, Rebecca her reticule, with sandwiches. They go out hand-in-hand through the door, which they leave open. The room (as is not uncommon with rooms in Norway) is left empty. Then Madam Helseth enters through another door.
Madam Helseth.
The cab, Miss—not here! [Looks out.] Out together—at this time of night—upon my—not on the garden seat? [Looks out of window.] My goodness! what is that white thing on the bridge—the Horse at last! [Shrieks aloud.] And those two sinful creatures running home!
Enter Rosmer and Rebecca, out of breath.
Rosmer.
[Scarcely able to get the words out.] It's no use, Rebecca—we must put it off till another evening. We can't be expected to jump off a footbridge which already has a White Horse on it. And if it comes to that, why should we jump at all? I know now that I really have ennobled you, which was all I wanted. What would be the good of recovering faith in my mission at the bottom of a mill-pond? No, Rebecca—[Lays his hand on her head]—there is no judge over us, and therefore——
Rebecca.
[Interrupting gravely.] We will bind ourselves over in our own recognisances to come up for judgment when called upon.
[Madam Helseth holds on to a chair-back. Rebecca finishes the antimacassar calmly as Curtain falls.
NORA; OR, THE BIRD-CAGE
(ET DIKKISVÖET)
ACT FIRST
A room tastefully filled with cheap Art-furniture. Gimcracks in an étagère: a festoon of chenille monkeys hanging from the gaselier. Japanese fans, skeletons, cotton-wool spiders, frogs and lizards, scattered everywhere about. Drain-pipes with tall dyed grasses. A porcelain stove decorated with transferable pictures. Showily-bound books in book-case. Window. The Visitor's bell rings in the hall outside. The hall-door is heard to open, and then to shut. Presently Nora walks in with parcels; a porter carries a large Christmas-tree after her—which he puts down. Nora gives him a shilling—and he goes out grumbling.
Nora hums contentedly, and eats macaroons. Then Helmer puts his head out of his Manager's room, and Nora hides macaroons cautiously.
Helmer.
[Playfully.] Is that my little squirrel twittering—that my lark frisking in here?
Nora.
Ess! [To herself.] I have only been married eight years, so these marital amenities have not yet had time to pall!
Helmer.
[Threatening with his finger.] I hope the little bird has surely not been digging its beak into any macaroons, eh?
Nora.
[Bolting one, and wiping her mouth.] No, most certainly not. [To herself] The worst of being so babyish is—one does have to tell such a lot of taradiddles! [To Helmer.] See what I've bought—it's been such fun! [Hums.
Helmer.
[Inspecting parcels.] H'm—rather an expensive little lark!
[Takes her playfully by the ear.
Nora.
Little birds like to have a flutter occasionally. Which reminds me—— [Plays with his coat-buttons.] I'm such a simple ickle sing—but if you are thinking of giving me a Christmas present, make it cash!
Helmer.
Just like your poor father, he always asked me to make it cash—he never made any himself! It's heredity, I suppose. Well—well!
[Goes back to his Bank. Nora goes on humming.
[Enter Mrs. Linden, doubtfully.
Nora.
What, Christina—why, how old you look! But then you are poor. I'm not. Torvald has just been made a Bank Manager. [Tidies the room.] Isn't it really wonderfully delicious to be well off? But of course, you wouldn't know. We were poor once, and, do you know, when Torvald was ill, I—[tossing her head]—though I am such
