things. I only know that I think quite differently from you about them. I hear too that the laws are different from what I thought; but I can't believe that they are right. It appears that a woman has no right to spare her dying father or to save her husband's life. I don't believe that. Helmer.-You talk like a child. You don't understand the society in which you live. Nora.-No, I don't. But I shall try to. I must make up my mind which is right-society or I. Helmer.-Nora, you are ill, you are feverish. I almost think you are out of your senses. Nora. I have never felt so much clearness and certainty as to-night. Helmer. You are clear and certain enough to forsake husband and children? Nora.-Yes, I am. Helmer. Then there is only one explanation pos sible. Nora.-What is that? Helmer.-You no longer love me. Nora.-No, that is just it. Helmer.-Nora! Can you say so? Nora.-Oh, I'm so sorry, Torvald; for you've al ways been so kind to me. do not love you any longer. But I can't help it. I Helmer [keeping his composure with difficulty]. —Are you clear and certain on this point too? Nora.-Yes, quite. That is why I won't stay here any longer. Helmer. And can you also make clear to me how I have forfeited your love? Nora.-Yes, I can. It was this evening, when the miracle did not happen; for then I saw you were not the man I had taken you for. Helmer. Explain yourself more clearly: I don't understand. Nora. I have waited so patiently all these eight years; for of course I saw clearly enough that miracles don't happen every day. When the crushing blow threatened me, I said to myself confidently, "Now comes the miracle!" When Krogstad's letter lay in the box, it never occurred to me that you would think of submitting to that man's conditions. I was convinced that you would say to him, "Make it known to all the world"; and that then Helmer.-Well? When I had given my own wife's name up to disgrace and shame-? Nora. Then I firmly believed that you would come forward, take everything upon yourself, and say, "I am the guilty one." Helmer.-Nora! Nora.-You mean I would never have accepted such a sacrifice? No, certainly not. But what would my assertions have been worth in opposition to yours? That was the miracle that I hoped for and dreaded. And it was to hinder that that I wanted to die. Helmer. I would gladly work for you day and night, Nora,-bear sorrow and want for your sake,— but no man sacrifices his honor, even, for one he loves. Nora.-Millions of women have done so. Helmer.—Oh, you think and talk like a silly child. Nora. Very likely. But you neither think nor talk like the man I can share my life with. When your terror was over, not for me, but for yourself, -when there was nothing more to fear, then it was to you as though nothing had happened. I was your lark again, your doll-whom you would take twice as much care of in the future, because she was so weak and fragile. [Stands up.] Torvald, in that moment it burst upon me that I had been living here these eight years with a strange man and had borne him three children. Oh! I can't bear to think of it-I could tear myself to pieces! Helmer [sadly].—I see it, I see it; an abyss has opened between us. But, Nora, can it never be filled up? Nora. As I now am, I am no wife for you. Helmer. I have strength to become another man. Nora.-Perhaps when your doll is taken away from you. Helmer. To part-to part from you! No, Nora, no; I can't grasp the thought. Nora [going into room, right].—The more reason for the thing to happen. [She comes back with outdoor things and a small traveling-bag, which she puts on a chair.] Helmer.-Nora, Nora, not now! Wait till to morrow. Nora [putting on cloak]. I can't spend the night in a strange man's house. Helmer. But can't we live here as brother and sister? Nora [fastening her hat].—You know very well that wouldn't last long. Good-by, Torvald. No, I won't go to the children. I know they're in better hands than mine. As I now am, I can be nothing to them. Helmer.-But sometime, Nora-sometime— Nora.-How can I tell? I have no idea what will become of me. Helmer. But you are my wife, now and always! Nora.-Listen, Torvald: when a wife leaves her husband's house, as I am doing, I have heard that in the eyes of the law he is free from all duties toward her. At any rate I release you from all duties. You must not feel yourself bound any more than I shall. There must be perfect freedom on both sides. There, there is your ring back. Give me mine. Helmer. That too? Nora.-That too. Helmer. Here it is. Nora.-Very well. Now it's all over. Here are the keys. The servants know about everything in the house better than I do. To-morrow when I have started, Christina will come to pack me up my things. I will have them sent after me. Helmer.-All over! All over! Nora, will you never think of me again? Nora. Oh, I shall often think of you, and the children and this house. Helmer.-May I write to you, Nora? Nora.-Nothing, nothing. Helmer.-I must help you if you need it. Nora. No, I say. I take nothing from strangers. Helmer.-Nora, can I never be more than a stranger to you? Nora [taking her traveling-bag].-O Torvald, then the miracle of miracles would have to happen. Helmer.-What is the miracle of miracles? Nora. Both of us would have to change so thatO Torvald, I no longer believe in miracles. Helmer. But I will believe. We must so change that Nora. That communion between us shall be a marriage. Good-by. [She goes out.] Helmer [sinks into a chair by the door with his face in his hands].-Nora! Nora! [He looks around and stands up.] Empty. She's gone! [A hope inspires him.] Ah! The miracle of miracles-? [From below is heard the reverberation of a heavy door closing.] JEAN INGELOW JEAN INGELOW, English poetess and novelist, born at Boston, England, in 1830; died at Kensington, in 1897. Her father was an intellectual man, and Miss Ingelow was early acquainted with the best authors of her own and other days. In 1863 she published a volume of poems containing among other notable pieces, "High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire." It at once placed the author in the first rank of British poets, and this position is still given her by critics. The chief charm of her writing lies in her accurate observation, and simple mode of expression. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE (1571) HE old mayor climbed the belfry tower; TH The ringers ran by two, by three: "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers pull your best," quoth he. Men say it was a stolen tyde The Lord that sent it, he knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. |