Daughter. Do you mean to say that my father hasn’t been what I always thought he was?
Lise. Yes, that’s just it.
Daughter. This is how I see him sometimes in dreams, since I lost all recollection of him—isn’t he fairly tall, with a dark beard and big blue sailor eyes?
Lise. Yes—more or less!
Daughter. And then—wait, now I remember. Do you see this watch? There’s a little compass fastened on to the chain, and on the compass at the north there’s an eye. Who gave me that?
Lise. Your father. I was there when he bought it.
Daughter. Then it’s he whom I’ve seen so often in the theater when I was playing. He always sat in the left stage box, and held his opera glasses trained on me. I never dared to tell mother because she was always so very nervous about me. And once he threw me flowers— t but mother burned them. Do you think it was he?
Lise. It was he; you can count on it that during all these years his eye has followed you like the eye of the needle on the compass.
Daughter. And you tell me that I shall see him—that he wants to meet me? It’s like a fairy tale.
Lise. The fairy tale’s over now. I hear your mother. You get back —I’m going first, to face the fire.
Daughter. Something dreadful’s going to happen now, I feel it. Why can’t people agree with each other and be at peace? Oh, if only it were all over! If mamma would only be nice. I will pray to God outside there to make her soft-hearted —but I’m certain He can’t do it—I don’t know why.
Lise. He can do it, and He will, if you can only have faith, have a little faith in happiness and your own strength.
Daughter. Strength? What for? To be selfish? I can’t do it. And the enjoyment of a happiness that is bought at the cost of someone else’s unhappiness cannot be lasting.
Lise. Indeed? Now go out.
Daughter. How can you possibly believe that this will turn out all right?
Lise. Hush!
SCENE IV
Previous characters. The MOTHER.
Lise. Madam.
Mother. Miss—if you don’t mind.
Lise. Your daughter
Mother. Yes, I have a daughter, even though I’m only a “Miss,” and indeed that happens to many of us, and I’m not a bit ashamed of it. But what’s it all about?
Lise. The fact is, I’m commissioned to ask you if Miss Helen can join in an excursion which some visitors have got up.
Mother. Hasn’t Helen herself answered you?
Lise. Yes; she has very properly answered that I should address myself to you.
Mother. That wasn’t a straightforward answer. Helen, my child, do you want to join a party to which your mother isn’t invited?
Daughter. Yes, if you allow it.
Mother. If I allow it! How can I decide what a big girl like you is to do? You yourself must tell the young lady what you want; if you want to leave your mother alone in disgrace, while you gad about and have a good time; if you want people to ask after mamma, and for you to have to try and wriggle out of the answer: “She has been left out of the invitation, because and because and because.” Now say what you really want to do.
Lise. My dear lady, don’t let’s beat about the bush. I know perfectly well the view Helen takes of this business, and I also know your method of getting her to make that particular answer which happens to suit you. If you are as fond of your daughter as you say you are, you ought to wish what is best for her, even though it might be humiliating for you.
Mother. Look here, my girl; I know what your name is, and who you are, even though I haven’t had the privilege of being introduced to you, but I should really like to know what a girl of your years has got to teach a woman of mine.
Lise. Who knows? For the last six years, since my mother died, I have spent all my time in bringing up my young sisters and brothers, and I’ve found out that there are people who never learn anything from life, however old they get.
Mother. What do you mean?
Lise. I mean this. Your daughter has now got an opportunity of taking her place in- the world; of either getting recognition for her talent or of contracting an alliance with a young man in good position.
Mother. That sounds all very fine, but what do you propose to do about me?
Lise. You’re not the point, your daughter is! Can’t you think about her for a single minute without immediately thinking of yourself?
Mother. Ah, but, mind you, when I think of myself I think of my daughter at the same time, because she has learned to love her mother.
Lise. I don’t think so. She depends on you because you’ve shut her off from all the rest of the world, and she must have someone to depend on, since you’ve stolen her away from her father.
Mother. What’s that you say?
Lise. That you took the child away from her father when he refused to marry you, because you hadn’t been faithful to him. You then prevented him from seeing his child, and avenged your own misconduct on him and upon your child.
Mother. Helen, don’t you believe a single word of anything that she says —that I should live to see such a day! For a stranger to intrude into my house and insult me in the presence of my own child!
Daughter. [Comes forward.] You have no business to say anything bad about my mother.
Lise. It’s impossible to do otherwise, if I’m to say anything good about my father. Anyway I observe that the conversation is nearly over, so allow me to give you one or two pieces of advice. Get rid of the procuress who finds herself so at home here under the name of Aunt Augusta if you don’t want your daughter’s reputation to be absolutely ruined. That’s tip number one. Further, put in order all your receipts for the money which you had from my father for Helen’s education, because settlement day’s precious near. That’s tip number two. And now for an extra tip. Leave off persecuting your daughter with your company in the street and, above all, at the theater, because if you don’t she’s barred from any engagement; and then you’ll go about trying to sell her favors, just as, up to the present, you’ve been trying to buy back your lost respectability at the expense of her father.