Miss Y. [Stares at MRS. X. curiously.]
Mrs. X. [Reflectively.] But everything went wrong, when you came to our house, because I saw that my husband couldn’t stand you—and I felt quite uncomfortable as though there was a hitch somewhere, and I did all I could to make him show himself friendly toward you, but without success—until you went and got engaged and then a keen friendship sprang up, so that it seemed for a moment as though you had only first dared to show your true feelings when you were in safety—and then it went on!… I didn’t get jealous—strangely enough— and I remember the christening when you stood godmother and I made him kiss you. Yes, I did that, and you got so embarrassed—I mean I didn’t notice it at the time—I haven’t thought of it since then either, I haven’t thought of it from then till now. [Gets up sharply.] Why don’t you say something? You haven’t said a word the whole time, but have just let me sit and talk; you have sat there with those eyes of yours and picked up all my thoughts—thoughts!—hallucinations perhaps—and worked them into your chain link by link. Ah, let me see. Why did you break off your engagement, and why, from that day to this, have you never come any more to our house? Why won’t you come in in the evening?
Miss Y. [Seems as though she were about to speak.]
Mrs. X. Stop! You needn’t say it! I quite understand now. It was because and because and because. Yes, it all fits in! That’s what it is. Ugh, I won’t sit at the same table with you. [Moves her things to another table,] That was why I had to embroider tulips on his slippers though I couldn’t stand them; that was why. [Throws the slippers on the floor.] That was why I had to spend the summer at Lake Malarn, because you couldn’t stand sea air; that was why my boy had to be called Eskil, because that was your father’s name; that was why I had to wear your colors, read your authors, eat your favorite dishes, drink your drinks—chocolate, for instance; that was why. O my God! it is ghastly to think of, ghastly; everything I got came from you to me, even your passions! Your soul crept into mine like a worm into an apple, ate and ate—burrowed and burrowed, till there was nothing left but the rotten core. I wanted to avoid you, but I could not; you lay there like a serpent with your black eyes of fascination—I knew that you would succeed at last in dragging me down; I was lying in a swamp with my feet tied, and the more violently I struggled with my hands the deeper did I work down, down to the bottom, while you lay there like a giant crab, and gripped me in your claws; and now here I am at the bottom! Oh, how I hate you, hate you, hate you! But you, you just sit there and say nothing, quiet, indifferent—indifferent. It is all the same to you if it is the beginning or the end of the month, Christmas or New Year, if the rest of the world is happy or unhappy, you can neither hate nor love; you sit as stolidly as a stork over a rat-trap. But you couldn’t capture your prey, mind you, you couldn’t pursue it; you could only wait for it. Here you sit in your lair—this nook, you know, has been called the Rat Trap— and you read your papers to see if somebody’s having a bad time of it, if somebody’s had a misfortune, if somebody’s been sacked from the theater; here you sit and survey your victims, reckon out your chances like a pilot his shipwrecks, take your toll.
My poor Amelia, do you know, I feel quite sorry for you, because I know that you are wretched, wretched, like a wounded creature, and malicious because you are wounded. I cannot be angry with you, although I should like to be, because you are the weaker—why, as to that little affair with Bob, I am not bothering about that— what did it really matter to me? Supposing it was you or somebody else who taught me to eat chocolate, what does it matter? [Drinks a spoonful out of her cup.] Besides, chocolate is very wholesome, and if I did learn to dress myself in your model, well tant mieux—it only strengthens my hold upon my husband—and you were the loser by it while I was the winner. Why, I had ample grounds for coming to the conclusion that you had already lost him—but it was you still thought that I should go my way! But now you carry on as though you were sitting and repenting; but, you see, I don’t do that. One mustn’t be petty, you know.
Why should I just take what nobody else will have? Perhaps you—taking it all round—are stronger than I am at this particular moment—you never got anything out of me, but you gave me something of yourself. Oh, it’s really a case of thieving, in my case, isn’t it?—and when you woke up I had possessed myself of the very thing you missed.
How else does it come about that everything you touched became worthless and sterile? You couldn’t keep any man’s love, with those tulips and those passions of yours—but I could; you weren’t able to learn the art of my life out of your authors, but I learned it; you haven’t got any little Eskil, although your papa was called Eskil.
Else why do you sit there without a word, and brood and brood and brood? I thought it was strength, but perhaps the reason is just that you haven’t anything to say, that’s because you couldn’t think of anything to say. [Rises and takes up the slippers.] I’m going home now—and taking these tulip things with me—your tulips, my dear; you couldn’t learn anything from others—you couldn’t yield, and that’s why you crumpled up like a dried-up leaf. I didn’t do that. I must really thank you, Amelia, for the excellent training you have given me—thank you for teaching my husband how to love. And now I’m going home to love him. [Exit.]
[Curtain.]
MOTHERLY LOVE
The Mother
A Dresser
The Daughter
Lise
SCENE I
[The MOTHER and the DRESSER are smoking cigars, drinking stout, and playing cards. The DAUGHTER sits by the window and looks out with intentness.]
Mother. Come along, Helen—it’s your deal.
Daughter. Oh, please let me off playing cards on a fine summer day like this. ,
Dresser. That’s right. Nice and affectionate to her mother, as usual.
Mother. Don’t sit like that on the veranda and get scorched.
Daughter. The sun isn’t a bit hot here.
Mother. Well, there’s a draught, anyway. [To the DRESSER.] Your deal, dear. Righto!
Daughter. Mayn’t I go and bathe this morning with the other girls?
Mother. Not without your mamma, you know that once for all.
Daughter. Oh, but the girls can swim, mamma, and you can’t swim at all.
Mother. That’s not the question, whether a body can swim or can’t, but you know, my child, that you mustn’t go out without your mamma.
Daughter. Do I know it? Since I’ve been able to understand the simplest thing, that’s been dinned into my ears.
Dresser. That only shows that Helen has had a most affectionate mother, who has always tried her best. Yes —yes; no doubt about it.
Mother. [Holds out her hand to the DRESSER.] Thank you for your kindly words, Augusta—whatever else I may have been—that—but I was always a tender-hearted mother. I can say that with a clear conscience.
Daughter. Then I suppose it’s no good my asking you if I can go down and have a game of tennis with the others?
Dresser. No, no, young lady. A girl shouldn’t sauce her mamma. And when she won’t oblige those who are nearest and dearest to her, by taking part in their harmless fun, it’s in a manner of speaking adding insult to injury for her to come and ask on top of it, if she can’t go and amuse herself with other people.