Three Comedies

Christensen. When there is a prospect of a good marriage, yes! I entirely agree with you, Mrs. Riis—for the first time. Moreover, I think there is another side to it. Isn't it possible that women have not suffered so much after all from the fact that men are men? What? I fancy the suffering has been more acute than serious—something like sea-sickness; when it is over—well, it is over. And so when it is the daughters' turn to go on board, the dear mothers think: "Oh, they will be able to get over it too! Only let us get them off!" For they are so anxious to get them off, that is the truth!

Mrs. Riis (getting up and coming forward). Well, if it is so, surely it is nothing to make fun of! It only shows what a woman can sink to, from living with a man.

Christensen Indeed!

Mrs. Riis. Yes—because each generation of women is endowed with a stronger and stronger aspiration for a pure life. It results unconsciously from the maternal instinct, and is intended as a protection for the defenceless. Even worthless mothers feel that. But if they succumb in spite of it, and each generation of married women in its turn sinks as deep as you say, the reason of it can only be the privilege that men enjoy as part of their education.

Christensen. What privilege?

Mrs. Riis. That of living as they please when they are bachelors, and then having their word of honour believed in when they choose to enter the married state. As long as women are powerless to put an end to that horrible privilege or to make themselves independent of it, so long will one half of the world continue to be sacrificed on account of the other half—on account of the other half's lack of self-control. That one privilege turns out to be more powerful than all the striving for liberty in the world. And that is not a laughing matter.

Christensen. You are picturing to yourself a different world from this, and different natures from ours, Mrs. Riis. And that—if you will excuse my saying so—is obviously all the answer that is necessary to what you say.

Mrs. Riis. Well, then, give that answer openly! Why do you not openly acknowledge that as your standpoint?

Christensen. But don't we?

Mrs. Riis. No—not here, at all events. On the contrary, you range yourselves ostensibly under our banner, while all the time you are secretly betraying it. Why have you not the courage to unfurl your own? Let these bachelor customs of yours be sanctioned as entirely suitable—then we should be able to join issue with you. And then every innocent bride would be able to know what it is she is entering upon—and in what capacity.

Nordan. That would be simply nothing more or less than abolishing marriage.

Mrs. Riis. Would not that be more honest, too? Because now it is only being corrupted, long before it begins.

Christensen. Oh, of course it is all the men's fault! It is the fashion to say that now—it is part of the "struggle for freedom." Down with man's authority, of course!

Mrs. Riis. The authority his bachelor life has won for him!

Nordan. Ha, ha!

Mrs. Riis. Do not let us cover up the real issue with phrases! Let us rather speak of the "desolate hearth" that the poet writes of. Marriage laid in ruins is what he means by that; and what is the cause of it? What is the cause of the chilly, horrible commonplace of every-day life—sensual, idle, brutish? I could paint it even more vividly, but I will not. I will refrain, for instance, from bringing up the subject of hereditary disease. Let the question be thrashed out openly! Then perhaps a fire will be kindled—and our consciences stirred! It must become the most momentous question in every home. That is what is needed!

Christensen. Our conversation has soared to such heights that it really seems quite an anti-climax for me to say that I must go to a "higher place"!—but you must excuse me all the same.

Mrs. Riis. I hope I have not delayed you?

Christensen. No, there is plenty of time. I am only longing fervently—you really must not be offended—to get away from here.

Mrs. Riis. To your—equals?

Christensen. What a remarkable thing that you should remind me of them! And, by the way, that reminds me that I am scarcely likely to meet you or your family in future.

Mrs. Riis. No. Our acquaintance with you is at an end.

Christensen. Thank God for that!—All I hope now is that I shall succeed in apportioning the ridicule with some degree of justice.

Mrs. Riis. You need only publish your autobiography!

Christensen. No—I think it should rather be your family principles, madam! They are really very quaint. And when I relate the manner in which they are put into practice by yourselves, I rather think that people will be quite sufficiently amused. To speak seriously for a moment—I mean to attack your husband's reputation in private and in public, until he quits the town. I am not the sort of man to accept a humiliation like this without returning the compliment. (Turns to go.)

Nordan. This is shocking!

Alfred (appearing in the doorway of the house). Father!

Christensen. You here?—How ill you look, my boy! Where have you been?

Alfred. I came here at the same time as you did, and have heard everything. Let me tell you this at once, that if you take another step against the Riis's, I shall go round and tell every one the reason why Miss Riis threw me over. I shall tell them exactly what it was. Oh, it is no use looking at me with that mocking expression! I shall do it—and at once, too.

Christensen. I think you may spare yourself the trouble. The gossip about a broken engagement will get all over the town quicker than you could spread it.

Nordan (going up to ALFRED). One word, my boy—do you still love her?

Alfred. Do you ask that because she has been unjust to me? Well, now I know quite well what led to it—and inevitably led to it. I understand now!

Christensen. And forgive her? Without anything more?

Alfred. I love her more than ever—whatever she thinks of me!

Christensen. Well, upon my word! What next, I should like to know? You claim your right to resume the rôle of lover, and leave us and other honest folk to put the best face we can on the muddle you have made! I suppose you are going across the road now to tell her how much you enjoyed yourself yesterday?—or to ask for a respite till to-morrow, to give you time to pass decently through a process of purification? May I ask where you are going to find it and what it is going to consist of? Oh, don't look so melodramatic! If you can put up with what you got from Riis's girl yesterday and her mother to-day, surely you can put up with a little angry talk or a little chaff from your father. I have had to put up with the whole affair—the betrothal and the breaking it off as well! And then to be sprinkled with essence of morality into the bargain! Good Lord! I hope at least I shall not smell of it still when I get to the palace. (Goes towards the house, but turns back at the door.) You will find same money in the office to pay for a trip abroad. (Exit.)

Nordan. Does that mean banishment?

Alfred. Of course it does. (Appears very much agitated.)

Mrs. Riis. Doctor, you must come over to our house with me—and at once!

Nordan. How is she?

Mrs. Riis. I don't know.

Nordan. You don't know?

Mrs. Riis. She wanted to be alone yesterday. And to-day she went out early.

Nordan. Has anything happened, then?

Mrs. Riis. Yes. You told me yesterday that you had given her a hint about—her father.

Nordan. Well?

Mrs. Riis. And so I felt that it could not be concealed any longer.

Nordan. And you have—?

Mrs. Riis. I have written to her.

Nordan. Written?

Mrs. Riis. It seemed the easiest way—and we should escape talking about it. All yesterday afternoon and last night I was writing, and tearing it up, and writing again—writing—writing! It was not a long letter, when all was done, but it took it out of me.