Mr. Punch's Pocket Ibsen

Sitting-room at Rosmershölm, with a stove, flower-stand, windows, ancient and modern ancestors, doors, and everything handsome about it. Rebecca West is sitting knitting a large antimacassar which is nearly finished. Now and then she looks out of a window, and smiles and nods expectantly to someone outside. Madam Helseth is laying the table for supper.

[Folding up her work slowly.] But tell me precisely, what about this white horse?

[Smiling quietly.

Lord forgive you, Miss!—[fetching cruet-stand, and placing it on table]—but you're making fun of me!

[Gravely.] No, indeed. Nobody makes fun at Rosmershölm. Mr. Rosmer would not understand it. [Shutting window.] Ah, here is Rector Kroll. [Opening door.] You will stay to supper, will you not, Rector, and I will tell them to give us some little extra dish.

[Hanging up his hat in the hall.] Many thanks. [Wipes his boots.] May I come in? [Comes in, puts down his stick, sits down, and looks about him.] And how do you and Rosmer get on together, eh?

Ever since your sister, Beata, went mad and jumped into the mill-race, we have been as happy as two little birds together. [After a pause, sitting down in arm-chair.] So you don't really mind my living here all alone with Rosmer? We were afraid you might, perhaps.

Why, how on earth—on the contrary, I shouldn't object at all if you—[looks at her meaningly]—h'm!

[Interrupting, gravely.] For shame, Rector; how can you make such jokes?

[As if surprised.] Jokes! We do not joke in these parts—but here is Rosmer.

[Enter Rosmer, gently and softly.

So, my dear old friend, you have come again, after a year's absence. [Sits down.] We almost thought that——

[Nods.] So Miss West was saying—but you are quite mistaken. I merely thought I might remind you, if I came, of our poor Beata's suicide, so I kept away. We Norwegians are not without our simple tact.

It was considerate—but unnecessary. Reb—I mean, Miss West—and I often allude to the incident, do we not?

[Strikes Tändstickor.] Oh yes, indeed. [Lighting lamp.] Whenever we feel a little more cheerful than usual.

You dear good people! [Wanders up the room.] I came because the Spirit of Revolt has crept into my School. A Secret Society has existed for weeks in the Lower Third! To-day it has come to my knowledge that a booby trap was prepared for me by the hand of my own son, Laurits, and I then discovered that a hair had been inserted in my cane by my daughter Hilda! The only way in which a right-minded Schoolmaster can combat this anarchic and subversive spirit is to start a newspaper, and I thought that you, as a weak, credulous, inexperienced and impressionable kind of man, were the very person to be the Editor.

[Rebecca laughs softly, as if to herself.
Rosmer jumps up and sits down again.

[With a look at Rosmer.] Tell him now!

[Returning the look.] I can't—Some other evening. Well, perhaps—— [To Kroll.] I can't be your Editor—because [in a low voice] I—I am on the side of Laurits and Hilda!

[Looks from one to the other, gloomily.] H'm!

Yes. Since we last met, I have changed my views. I am going to create a new democracy, and awaken it to its true task of making all the people of this country noblemen, by freeing their wills, and purifying their minds!

What do you mean!

[Takes up his hat.

[Bowing his head.] I don't quite know, my dear friend; it was Reb—— I should say Miss West's scheme.

H'm! [A suspicion appears in his face.] Now I begin to believe that what Beata said about schemes—— no matter. But under the circumstances, I will not stay to supper.

[Takes up his stick, and walks out.

I told you he would be annoyed. I shall go to bed now. I don't want any supper. [He lights a candle, and goes out; presently his footsteps are heard overhead, as he undresses. Rebecca pulls a bell-rope.

[To Madam Helseth, who enters with dishes.] No, Mr. Rosmer will not have supper to-night. [In a lighter tone.] Perhaps he is afraid of the nightmare. There are so many sorts of White Horses in this world!

[Shaking.] Lord! lord! that Miss West—the things she does say!

[Rebecca goes out through door, knitting antimacassar thoughtfully, as Curtain falls.

---

Rosmer's study. Doors and windows, bookshelves, a writing-table. Door, with curtain, leading to Rosmer's bedroom. Rosmer discovered in a smoking jacket cutting a pamphlet with a paper-knife. There is a knock at the door. Rosmer says "Come in." Rebecca enters in a morning wrapper and curl-papers. She sits on a chair close to Rosmer, and looks over his shoulder as he cuts the leaves. Rector Kroll is shown up.

[Lays his hat on the table and looks at Rebecca from head to foot.] I am really afraid that I am in the way.

[Surprised.] Because I am in my morning wrapper and curl-papers? You forget that I am emancipated, Rector Kroll.

[She leaves them and listens behind curtain in Rosmer's bedroom.

Yes, Miss West and I have worked our way forward in faithful comradeship.

[Shakes his head at him slowly.] So I perceive. Miss West is naturally inclined to be forward. But, I say, really you know—— However, I came to tell you that poor Beata was not so mad as she looked, though flowers did bewilder her so. [Taking off his gloves meaningly.] She jumped into the mill-race because she had an idea that you ought to marry Miss West!

[Jumps half up from his chair.] I? Marry—Miss West! My good gracious, Kroll! I don't understand, it is most incomprehensible. [Looks fixedly before him.] How can people?—— [Looks at him for a moment, then rises.] Will you get out? [Still quiet and self-restrained.] But first tell me why you never mentioned this before?

Why? Because I thought you were both orthodox, which made all the difference. Now I know that you side with Laurits and Hilda, and mean to make the democracy into noblemen, and accordingly I intend to make it hot for you in my paper. Good morning!

[He slams the door with spite as Rebecca enters from bedroom.

[As if surprised..] You—in my bedroom! You have been listening, dear? But you are so emancipated. Ah, well! so our pure and beautiful friendship has been misinterpreted, bespattered! Just because you wear a morning wrapper, and have lived here alone for a year, people with coarse souls and ignoble eyes make unpleasant remarks! But what really did drive Beata mad? Why did she jump into the mill-race? I'm sure we did everything we could to spare her! I made it the business of my life to keep her in ignorance of all our interests—didn't I, now?

You did. But why brood over it? What does it matter? Get on with your great beautiful task, dear—[approaching him cautiously from behind]—winning over minds and wills, and creating noblemen, you know—joyful noblemen!

[Walking about restlessly, as if in thought.] Yes, I know. I have never laughed in the whole course of my life—we Rosmers don't—and so I felt that spreading gladness and light, and making the democracy joyful, was properly my mission. But now—I feel too upset to go on, Rebecca, unless—— [Shakes his head heavily.] Yes, an idea has just occurred to me—— [Looks at her, and then runs his hands through his hair]—Oh, my goodness! No—I can't.

[He leans his elbows on table.

Be a free man to the full, Rosmer—tell me your idea.

[Gloomily.] I don't know what you'll say to it. It's this: Our platonic comradeship was all very well while I was peaceful and happy. Now that I am bothered and badgered, I feel—why, I can't exactly explain, but I do feel that I must oppose a new and living reality to the gnawing memories of the past. I should perhaps, explain that this is equivalent to an Ibsenian proposal.

[Catches at the chair-back with joy.] How? at last—a rise at last! [Recollects herself.] But what am I about? Am I not an emancipated enigma? [Puts her hands over her ears as if in terror.] What are you saying? You mustn't. I can't think what you mean. Go away, do!

[Softly.] Be the new and living reality. It is the only way to put Beata out of the Saga. Shall we try it?

Never! Do not—do not ask me why—for I haven't a notion—but never! [Nods slowly to him and rises.] White Horses would not induce me! [With her hand on door-handle.] Now you know!

[She goes out.

[Sits up, stares, thunderstruck, at the stove, and says to himself.] Well—I—am——

Quick Curtain.

---

Sitting-room at Rosmershölm. Sun shining outside in the Garden. Inside Rebecca West is watering a geranium with a small watering-pot. Her crochet antimacassar lies in the arm-chair. Madame Helseth is rubbing the chairs with furniture-polish from a large bottle. Enter Rosmer, with his hat and stick in his hand. Madame Helseth corks the bottle and goes out to the right.

Good morning, dear. [A moment after—crocheting.] Have you seen Rector Kroll's paper this morning? There's something about you in it.

Oh, indeed? [Puts down hat and stick, and takes up paper.] H'm! [Reads—then walks about the room.] Kroll has made it hot for me. [Reads some more.] Oh, this is too bad! Rebecca, they do say such nasty spiteful things! they actually call me a renegade—and I can't think why! They mustn't go on like this. All that is good in human nature will go to ruin if they're allowed to attack an excellent man like me! Only think, if I can make them see how unkind they have been!

Yes, dear, in that you have a great and glorious object to attain—and I wish you may get it!

Thanks. I think I shall. [Happens to look through window and jumps.] Ah, no, I shan't—never now, I have just seen——

Not the White Horse, dear? We must really not overdo that White Horse!

No—the mill-race, where Beata—— [Puts on his hat—takes it off again.] I'm beginning to be haunted by—no, I don't mean the Horse—by a terrible suspicion that Beata may have been right after all! Yes, I do believe, now I come to think of it, that I must really have been in love with you from the first. Tell me your opinion.

[Struggling with herself, and still crocheting.] Oh—I can't exactly say—such an odd question to ask me!

[Shakes his head.] Perhaps; I have no sense of humour—no respectable Norwegian has—and I do want to know—because, you see, if I was in love with you, it was a sin, and if I once convinced myself of that——

[Wanders across the room.

[Breaking out.] Oh, these old ancestral prejudices! Here is your hat, and your stick, too; go and take a walk.

[Rosmer takes hat and stick, first, then goes out and takes a walk; presently Madam Helseth appears, and tells Rebecca something. Rebecca tells her something. They whisper together. Madam Helseth nods, and shows in Rector Kroll, who keeps his hat in his hand, and sits on a chair.

I merely called for the purpose of informing you that I consider you an artful and designing person, but that, on the whole, considering your birth and moral antecedents, you know—[nods at her]—it is not surprising. [Rebecca walks about wringing her hands.] Why, what is the matter? Did you really not know that you had no right to your father's name? I'd no idea you would mind my mentioning such a trifle!

[Breaking out.] I do mind. I am an emancipated enigma, but I retain a few little prejudices still. I don't like owning to my real age, and I do prefer to be legitimate. And, after your information—of which I was quite ignorant, as my mother, the late Mrs. Gamvik, never once alluded to it—I feel I must confess everything. Strong-minded advanced women are like that. Here is Rosmer. [Rosmer enters with his hat and stick.] Rosmer, I want to tell you and Rector Kroll a little story. Let us sit down, dear, all three of us. [They sit down, mechanically, on chairs.] A long time ago, before the play began—[in a voice scarcely audible]—in Ibsenite dramas, all the interesting things somehow do happen before the play begins—;

But, Rebecca, I know all this.

[Looks hard at her.] Perhaps I had better go?

No—I will be short. This was it. I wanted to take my share in the life of the New Era, and march onward with Rosmer. There was one dismal, insurmountable barrier—[to Rosmer, who nods gravely]—Beata! I understood where your deliverance lay—and I acted. I drove Beata into the mill-race.... There!

[After a short silence.] H'm! Well, Kroll—[takes up his hat]—if you're thinking of walking home, I'll go too. I'm going to be orthodox once more—after this!

[Severely and impressively, to Rebecca.] A nice sort of young woman you are! [Both go out hastily, without looking at Rebecca.

[Speaks to herself, under her breath.] Now I have done it. I wonder why. [Pulls bell-rope.] Madam Helseth, I have just had a glimpse of two rushing White Horses. Bring down my hair-trunk.

[Enter Madam Helseth, with large hair-trunk, as Curtain falls.

---

Late evening. Rebecca West stands by a lighted lamp, with a shade over it, packing sandwiches, &c., in a reticule, with a faint smile. The antimacassar is on the sofa. Enter Rosmer.

[Seeing the sandwiches, &c.] Sandwiches? Then you are going! Why, on earth—I can't understand!

Dear, you never can. Rosmershölm is too much for me. But how did you get on with Kroll?

We have made it up. He has convinced me that the work of ennobling men was several sizes too large for me—so I am going to let it alone——

[With her faint smile.] There I almost think, dear, that you are wise.

[As if annoyed.] What, so you don't believe in me either, Rebecca—you never did!

[Sits listlessly on chair.

Not much, dear, when you are left to yourself—but I've another confession to make.

What, another? I really can't stand any more confessions just now!

[Sitting close to him.] It is only a little one. I bullied Beata into the mill-race—because of a wild uncontrollable—— [Rosmer moves uneasily.] Sit still, dear—uncontrollable fancy—for you!

[Goes and sits on sofa.] Oh, my goodness, Rebecca—you mustn't, you know!

[He jumps up and down as if embarrassed.

Don't be alarmed, dear, it is all over now. After living alone with you in solitude, when you showed me all your thoughts without reserve—little by little, somehow the fancy passed off. I caught the Rosmer view of life badly, and dulness descended on my soul as an extinguisher upon one of our Northern dips. The Rosmer view of life is ennobling, very—but hardly lively. And I've more yet to tell you.

[Turning it off.] Isn't that enough for one evening?

[Almost voiceless.] No, dear. I have a Past—behind me!

Behind you? How strange. I had an idea of that sort already. [Starts, as if in fear.] A joke! [Sadly.] Ah, no—no, I must not give 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?

[Wringing her hands.] Oh, this killing doubt! [Looks darkly at him.] Is there anything I can do to convince you?

[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!

[Takes up her antimacassar, with composure, and puts it on her head.] Anything to oblige you.

[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.

[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?

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.

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.

[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——

[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.

---

---

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.

[Playfully.] Is that my little squirrel twittering—that my lark frisking in here?

Ess! [To herself.] I have only been married eight years, so these marital amenities have not yet had time to pall!

[Threatening with his finger.] I hope the little bird has surely not been digging its beak into any macaroons, eh?

[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.

[Inspecting parcels.] H'm—rather an expensive little lark!

[Takes her playfully by the ear.

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!

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.

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 a frivolous little squirrel, and all that, I actually borrowed £300 for him to go abroad. Wasn't that clever? Tra-la-la! I shan't tell you who lent it. I didn't even tell Torvald. I am such a mere baby I don't tell him everything. I tell Dr. Rank, though. Oh, I'm so awfully happy I should like to shout, "Dash it all!"

[Stroking her hair.] Do—it is a natural and innocent outburst—you are such a child! But I am a widow, and want employment. Do you think your husband could find me a place as clerk in his Bank? [Proudly.] I am an excellent knitter!

That would really be awfully funny. [To Helmer, who enters.] Torvald, this is Christina; she wants to be a clerk in your Bank—do let her! She thinks such a lot of you. [To herself.] Another taradiddle!

She is a sensible woman, and deserves encouragement. Come along, Mrs. Linden, and we'll see what we can do for you.

[He goes out through the hall with Mrs. Linden, and the front-door is heard to slam after them.

[Opens door, and calls.] Now, Emmy, Ivar, and Bob, come in and have a romp with Mamma—we will play hide-and-seek. [She gets under the table, smiling in quiet satisfaction; Krogstad enters—Nora pounces out upon him.] Boo!... Oh, I beg your pardon. I don't do this kind of thing generally—though I may be a little silly.

[Politely.] Don't mention it. I called because I happened to see your husband go out with Mrs. Linden—from which, being a person of considerable penetration, I infer that he is about to give her my post at the Bank. Now, as you owe me the balance of £300, for which I hold your acknowledgment, you will see the propriety of putting a stop to this little game at once.

But I don't at all—not a little wee bit! I'm so childish, you know—why should I?

[Sitting upright on carpet.

I will try to make it plain to the meanest capacity. When you came to me for the loan, I naturally required some additional security. Your father, being a shady Government official, without a penny—for, if he had possessed one, he would presumably have left it to you—without a penny, then—I, as a cautious man of business, insisted upon having his signature as a surety. Oh, we Norwegians are sharp fellows!

Well, you got papa's signature, didn't you?

Oh, I got it right enough. Unfortunately, it was dated three days after his decease—now, how do you account for that?

How? Why, as poor Papa was dead, and couldn't sign, I signed for him, that's all! Only somehow I forgot to put the date back. That's how. Didn't I tell you I was a silly, unbusiness like little thing? It's very simple.

Very—but what you did amounts to forgery, notwithstanding. I happen to know, because I'm a lawyer, and have done a little in the forging way myself. So, to come to the point—if I get kicked out, I shall not go alone!

[He bows, and goes out.

It can't be wrong! Why, no one but Krogstad would have been taken in by it! If the Law says it's wrong, the Law's a goose—a bigger goose than poor little me even! [To Helmer, who enters.] Oh, Torvald, how you made me jump!

Has anybody called? [Nora shakes her head.] Oh, my little squirrel mustn't tell naughty whoppers. Why, I just met that fellow Krogstad in the hall. He's been asking you to get me to take him back—now, hasn't he?

[Walking about.] Do just see how pretty the Christmas-tree looks!

Never mind the tree—I want to have this out about Krogstad. I can't take him back, because many years ago he forged a name. As a lawyer, a close observer of human nature, and a Bank Manager, I have remarked that people who forge names seldom or never confide the fact to their children—which inevitably brings moral contagion into the entire family. From which it follows, logically, that Krogstad has been poisoning his children for years by acting a part, and is morally lost. [Stretches out his hands to her.] I can't bear a morally lost Bank-cashier about me!

But you never thought of dismissing him till Christina came!

H'm! I've got some business to attend to—so good-bye, little lark!

[Goes into office and shuts door.

[Pale with terror.] If Krogstad poisons his children because he once forged a name, I must be poisoning Emmy, and Bob, and Ivar, because I forged papa's signature! [Short pause; she raises her head proudly.] After all, if I am a doll, I can still draw a logical inference! I mustn't play with the children any more—[hotly]—I don't care—I shall, though! Who cares for Krogstad?

[She makes a face, choking with suppressed tears, as Curtain falls.

---

The room, with the cheap Art-furniture as before—except that the candles on the Christmas tree have guttered down and appear to have been lately blown out. The cotton-wool frogs and the chenille monkeys are disarranged, and there are walking things on the sofa. Nora alone.

[Putting on a cloak and taking it off again.]

Bother Krogstad! There, I won't think of him. I'll only think of the costume ball at Consul Stenborg's, overhead, to-night, where I am to dance the Tarantella all alone, dressed as a Capri fisher-girl. It struck Torvald that, as I am a matron with three children, my performance might amuse the Consul's guests, and, at the same time, increase his connection at the Bank. Torvald is so practical. [To Mrs. Linden, who comes in with a large cardboard box.] Ah, Christina, so you have brought in my old costume? Would you mind, as my husband's new Cashier, just doing up the trimming for me?

Not at all—is it not part of my regular duties? [Sewing.] Don't you think, Nora, that you see a little too much of Dr. Rank?

Oh, I couldn't see too much of Dr. Rank! He is so amusing—always talking about his complaints, and heredity, and all sorts of indescribably funny things. Go away now, dear; I hear Torvald.

[Mrs. Linden goes. Enter Torvald from the Manager's room. Nora runs trippingly to him.

[Coaxing.] Oh, Torvald, if only you won't dismiss Krogstad, you can't think how your little lark would jump about and twitter.

The inducement would be stronger but for the fact that, as it is, the little lark is generally engaged in that particular occupation. And I really must get rid of Krogstad. If I didn't, people would say I was under the thumb of my little squirrel here, and then Krogstad and I knew each other in early youth; and when two people knew each other in early youth—[a short pause]—h'm! Besides, he will address me as, "I say, Torvald"—which causes me most painful emotion! He is tactless, dishonest, familiar, and morally ruined—altogether not at all the kind of person to be a Cashier in a Bank like mine.

But he writes in scurrilous papers—he is on the staff of the Norwegian Punch. If you dismiss him, he may write nasty things about you, as wicked people did about poor dear papa!

Your poor dear papa was not impeccable—far from it. I am—which makes all the difference. I have here a letter giving Krogstad the sack. One of the conveniences of living close to the Bank is, that I can use the housemaids as Bank-messengers. [Goes to door and calls.] Ellen! [Enter parlourmaid.] Take that letter—there is no answer. [Ellen takes it and goes.] That's settled—and now, Nora, as I am going to my private room, it will be a capital opportunity for you to practise the tambourine—thump away, little lark, the doors are double!

[Nods to her and goes in, shutting door.

[Stroking her face.] How am I to get out of this mess? [A ring at the visitors' bell.] Dr. Rank's ring! He shall help me out of it! [Dr. Rank appears in doorway, hanging up his great-coat.] Dear Dr. Rank, how are you?

[Takes both his hands.

[Sitting down near the stove.] I am a miserable, hypochondriacal wretch—that's what I am. And why am I doomed to be dismal? Why? Because my father died of a fit of the blues! Is that fair—I put it to you?

Do try to be funnier than that! See, I will show you the flesh-coloured silk tights that I am to wear to-night—it will cheer you up. But you must only look at the feet—well, you may look at the rest if you're good. Aren't they lovely? Will they fit me, do you think?

[Gloomily.] A poor fellow with both feet in the grave is not the best authority on the fit of silk stockings. I shall be food for worms before long—I know I shall!

You mustn't really be so frivolous! Take that! [She hits him lightly on the ear with the stockings; then hums a little.] I want you to do me a great service, Dr. Rank. [Rolling up stockings.] I always liked you. I love Torvald most, of course—but, somehow, I'd rather spend my time with you—you are so amusing!

If I am, can't you guess why? [A short silence.] Because I love you! You can't pretend you didn't know it!

Perhaps not—but it was really too clumsy of you to mention it just as I was about to ask a favour of you! It was in the worst taste! [With dignity.] You must not imagine because I joke with you about silk stockings, and tell you things I never tell Torvald, that I am therefore without the most delicate and scrupulous self-respect! I am really quite a good little doll, Dr. Rank, and now—[sits in rocking chair and smiles]—now I shan't ask you what I was going to!

[Ellen comes in with a card.

[Terrified.] Oh, my goodness!

[Puts it in her pocket.

Excuse my easy Norwegian pleasantry—but—h'm—anything disagreeable up?

[To herself.] Krogstad's card! I must tell another whopper! [To Rank.] No, nothing—only—only my new costume. I want to try it on here. I always do try on my dresses in the drawing-room—it's cosier, you know. So go in to Torvald and amuse him till I'm ready.

[Rank goes into Helmer's room, and Nora bolts the door upon him, as Krogstad enters from hall in a fur cap.

Well, I've got the sack, and so I came to see how you are getting on. I mayn't be a nice man, but—[with feeling]—I have a heart! And, as I don't intend to give up the forged I.O.U.. unless I'm taken back, I was afraid you might be contemplating suicide, or something of that kind; and so I called to tell you that, if I were you, I wouldn't. Bad thing for the complexion, suicide—and silly, too, because it wouldn't mend matters in the least. [Kindly.] You must not take this affair too seriously, Mrs. Helmer. Get your husband to settle it amicably by taking me back as Cashier; then I shall soon get the whip-hand of him, and we shall all be as pleasant and comfortable as possible together!

Not even that prospect can tempt me! Besides, Torvald wouldn't have you back at any price now!

All right, then. I have here a letter, telling your husband all. I will take the liberty of dropping it in the letter-box at your hall-door as I go out. I'll wish you good evening!

[He goes out; presently the dull sound of a thick letter dropping into a wire box is heard.

[Softly, and hoarsely.] He's done it! How am I to prevent Torvald from seeing it?

[Inside the door, rattling.] Hasn't my lark changed its dress yet? [Nora unbolts door.] What—so you are not in fancy costume, after all? [Enters with Rank.] Are there any letters for me in the box there?

[Voicelessly.] None—not even a postcard! Oh, Torvald, don't, please, go and look—promise me you won't! I do assure you there isn't a letter! And I've forgotten the Tarantella you taught me—do let's run over it. I'm so afraid of breaking down—promise me not to look at the letter-box. I can't dance unless you do.

[Standing still, on his way to the letter-box.] I am a man of strict business habits, and some powers of observation; my little squirrel's assurances that there is nothing in the box, combined with her obvious anxiety that I should not go and see for myself, satisfy me that it is indeed empty, in spite of the fact that I have not invariably found her a strictly truthful little dicky-bird. There—there. [Sits down to piano.] Bang away on your tambourine, little squirrel—dance away, my own lark!

[Dancing, with a long gay shawl.] Just won't the little squirrel! Faster—faster! Oh, I do feel so gay! We will have some champagne for dinner, won't we, Torvald?

[Dances with more and more abandonment.

[After addressing frequent remarks in correction.] Come, come—not this awful wildness! I don't like to see quite such a larky little lark as this.... Really it is time you stopped!

[Her hair coming down as she dances more wildly still, and swings the tambourine.] I can't....I can't! [To herself, as she dances.] I've only thirty-one hours left to be a bird in; and after that—[shuddering]—after that, Krogstad will let the cat out of the bag!

Curtain.

---

The same room—except that the sofa has been slightly moved, and one of the Japanese cotton-wool frogs has fallen into the fire-place. Mrs. Linden sits and reads a book—but without understanding a single line.

[Laying down her book, as a light tread is heard outside.] Here he is at last! [Krogstad comes in, and stands in the doorway.] Mr. Krogstad, I have given you a secret rendezvous in this room, because it belongs to my employer, Mr. Helmer, who has lately discharged you. The etiquette of Norway permits these slight freedoms on the part of a female cashier.

It does. Are we alone? [Nora is heard overhead dancing the Tarantella.] Yes, I hear Mrs. Helmer's fairy footfall above. She dances the Tarantella now—by-and-by she will dance to another tune! [Changing his tone.] I don't exactly know why you should wish to have this interview—after jilting me as you did, long ago, though?

Don't you? I do. I am a widow—a Norwegian widow. And it has occurred to me that there may be a nobler side to your nature somewhere—though you have not precisely the best of reputations.

Right. I am a forger, and a money-lender; I am on the staff of the Norwegian Punch—a most scurrilous paper. More, I have been blackmailing Mrs. Helmer by trading on her fears, like a low cowardly cur. But, in spite of all that—[clasping his hands]—there are the makings of a fine man about me yet, Christina!

I believe you—at least, I'll chance it. I want some one to care for, and I'll marry you.

[Suspiciously.] On condition, I suppose, that I suppress the letter denouncing Mrs. Helmer?

How can you think so? I am her dearest friend; but I can still see her faults, and it is my firm opinion that a sharp lesson will do her all the good in the world. She is much too comfortable. So leave the letter in the box, and come home with me.

I am wildly happy! Engaged to the female cashier of the manager who has discharged me, our future is bright and secure!

[He goes out; and Mrs. Linden sets the furniture straight; presently a noise is heard outside, and Helmer enters, dragging Nora in. She is in fancy dress, and he in an open black domino.

I shan't! It's too early to come away from such a nice party. I won't go to bed!

[She whimpers.

[Tenderly.] There'sh a naughty lil' larkie for you, Mrs. Linen! Poshtively had to drag her 'way! She'sh a capricious lil' girl—from Capri. 'Scuse me!—'fraid I've been and made a pun. Shan' 'cur again! Shplendid champagne the Consul gave us—'counts for it! [Sits down smiling.] Do you knit, Mrs. Cotton?... You shouldn't. Never knit. 'Broider. [Nodding to her, solemnly.] 'Member that. Alwaysh 'broider. More—[hiccoughing]—Oriental! Gobblesh you!—goo'ni!

I only came in to—to see Nora's costume. Now I've seen it, I'll go.

[Goes out.

Awful bore that woman—hate boresh! [Looks at Nora, then comes nearer.] Oh, you prillil squillikins, I do love you so! Shomehow, I feel sho lively thishevenin'!

[Goes to other side of table.] I won't have all that, Torvald!

Why? ain't you my lil' lark—ain't thish our lil' cage? Ver-well, then. [A ring.] Rank! confound it all! [Enter DR. Rank.] Rank, dear old boy, you've been [hiccoughs] going it upstairs. Cap'tal champagne, eh? 'Shamed of you, Rank!

[He sits down on sofa, and closes his eyes gently.

Did you notice it? [With pride.] It was almost incredible the amount I contrived to put away. But I shall suffer for it to-morrow. [Gloomily.] Heredity again! I wish I was dead! I do.

Don't apologise. Torvald was just as bad; but he is always so good-tempered after champagne.

Ah, well, I just looked in to say that I haven't long to live. Don't weep for me, Mrs. Helmer, it's chronic—and hereditary too. Here are my P.P.C. cards. I'm a fading flower. Can you oblige me with a cigar?

[With a suppressed smile.] Certainly. Let me give you a light?

[Doctor Rank lights his cigar, after several ineffectual attempts, and goes out.

[Compassionately.] Poo' old Rank—he'sh very bad to-ni'! [Pulls himself together.] But I forgot—Bishness—I mean, bu-si-ness—mush be 'tended to. I'll go and see if there are any letters. [Goes to box.] Hallo! some one's been at the lock with a hairpin—it's one of your hairpins!

[Holding it out to her.

[Quickly.] Not mine—one of Bob's, or Ivar's—they both wear hairpins!

[Turning over letters absently.] You must break them of it—bad habit! What a lot o' lettersh! double usual quantity. [Opens Krogstad's.] By Jove! [Reads it and falls back completely sobered.] What have you got to say to this?

[Crying aloud.] You shan't save me—let me go! I won't be saved!

Save you, indeed! Who's going to save Me? You miserable little criminal. [Annoyed.] Ugh—ugh!

[With hardening expression.] Indeed, Torvald, your singing-bird acted for the best!

Singing-bird! Your father was a rook—and you take after him. Heredity again! You have utterly destroyed my happiness. [Walks round several times.] Just as I was beginning to get on, too!

I have—but I will go away and jump into the water.

What good will that do me? People will say I had a hand in this business. [Bitterly.] If you must forge, you might at least put your dates in correctly! But you never had any principle! [A ring.] The front-door bell! [A fat letter is seen to fall into the box; Helmer takes it, opens it, sees enclosure, and embraces Nora.] Krogstad won't split. See, he returns the forged I.O.U.! Oh, my poor little lark, what you must have gone through! Come under my wing, my little scared song-bird.... Eh? you won't! Why, what's the matter now?

[With cold calm.] I have wings of my own, thank you, Torvald, and I mean to use them!

What—leave your pretty cage, and [pathetically] the old cock bird, and the poor little innocent eggs!

Exactly. Sit down, and we will talk it over first. [Slowly.] Has it ever struck you that this is the first time you and I have ever talked seriously together about serious things?

Come, I do like that! How on earth could we talk about serious things when your mouth was always full of macaroons?

[Shakes her head.] Ah, Torvald, the mouth of a mother of a family should have more solemn things in it than macaroons! I see that now, too late. No, you have wronged me. So did papa. Both of you called me a doll, and a squirrel, and a lark! You might have made something of me—and instead of that, you went and made too much of me—oh, you did!

Well, you didn't seem to object to it, and really I don't exactly see what it is you do want!

No more do I—that is what I have got to find out. If I had been properly educated, I should have known better than to date poor papa's signature three days after he died. Now I must educate myself. I have to gain experience, and get clear about religion, and law, and things, and whether Society is right or I am—and I must go away and never come back any more till I am educated!

Then you may be away some little time? And what's to become of me and the eggs meanwhile?

That, Torvald, is entirely your own affair. I have a higher duty than that towards you and the eggs. [Looking solemnly upward.] I mean my duty towards Myself!

And all this because—in a momentary annoyance at finding myself in the power of a discharged cashier who calls me "I say, Torvald," I expressed myself with ultra-Gilbertian frankness! You talk like a silly child!

Because my eyes are opened, and I see my position with the eyes of Ibsen. I must go away at once, and begin to educate myself.

May I ask how you are going to set about it?

Certainly. I shall begin—yes, I shall begin with a course of the Norwegian theatres. If that doesn't take the frivolity out of me, I don't really know what will!

[She gets her bonnet and ties it tightly.

Then you are really going? And you'll never think about me and the eggs any more! Oh, Nora!

Indeed, I shall—occasionally—as strangers. [She puts on a shawl sadly, and fetches her dressing-bag.] If I ever do come back, the greatest miracle of all will have to happen. Good-bye!

[She goes out through the hall; the front door is heard to bang loudly.

[Sinking on a chair.] The room empty? Then she must be gone! Yes, my little lark has flown! [The dull sound of an unskilled latchkey is heard trying the lock; presently the door opens, and Nora, with a somewhat foolish expression, reappears.] What? back already! Then you are educated?

[Puts down dressing-bag.] No, Torvald, not yet. Only, you see, I found I had only threepence-halfpenny in my purse, and the Norwegian theatres are all closed at this hour—and so I thought I wouldn't leave the cage till to-morrow—after breakfast.

[As if to himself.] The greatest miracle of all has happened. My little bird is not in the bush just yet!

[Nora takes down a showily-bound dictionary from the shelf and begins her education; Helmer fetches a bag of macaroons, sits near her, and tenders one humbly. A pause. Nora repulses it, proudly. He offers it again. She snatches at it suddenly, still without looking at him, and nibbles it thoughtfully as Curtain falls.

---

Scene—A sitting-room cheerfully decorated in dark colours. Broad doorway, hung with black crape, in the wall at back, leading to a back drawing-room, in which, above a sofa in black horsehair, hangs a posthumous portrait of the late General Gabler. On the piano is a handsome pall. Through the glass panes of the back drawing-room window are seen a dead wall and a cemetery. Settees, sofas, chairs, &c., handsomely upholstered in black bombazine, and studded with small round nails. Bouquets of immortelles and dead grasses are lying everywhere about.

Enter Aunt Julie (a good-natured-looking lady in a smart hat.)

Well, I declare, if I believe George or Hedda are up yet! [Enter George Tesman, humming, stout, careless, spectacled.] Ah, my dear boy, I have called before breakfast to inquire how you and Hedda are after returning late last night from your long honeymoon. Oh, dear me, yes; am I not your old aunt, and are not these attentions usual in Norway?

Good Lord, yes! My six months' honeymoon has been quite a little travelling scholarship, eh? I have been examining archives. Think of that! Look here, I'm going to write a book all about the domestic interests of the Cave-dwellers during the Deluge. I'm a clever young Norwegian man of letters, eh?

Fancy your knowing about that too! Now, dear me, thank Heaven!

Let me, as a dutiful Norwegian nephew, untie that smart, showy hat of yours. [Unties it, and pats her under the chin.] Well, to be sure, you have got yourself really up—fancy that!

[He puts hat on chair close to table.

[Giggling.] It was for Hedda's sake—to go out walking with her in. [Hedda approaches from the back-room; she is pallid, with cold, open, steel-grey eyes; her hair is not very thick, but what there is of it is an agreeable medium brown.] Ah, dear Hedda!

[She attempts to cuddle her.

[Shrinking back.] Ugh, let me go, do! [Looking at Aunt Julie's hat.] Tesman, you must really tell the housemaid not to leave her old hat about on the drawing-room chairs. Oh, is it your hat? Sorry I spoke, I'm sure!

[Annoyed.] Good gracious, little Mrs. Hedda; my nice new hat that I bought to go out walking with you in!

[Patting her on the back.] Yes, Hedda, she did, and the parasol too! Fancy, Aunt Julie always positively thinks of everything, eh?

[Coldly.] You hold your tongue. Catch me going out walking with your aunt! One doesn't do such things.

[Beaming.] Isn't she a charming woman? Such fascinating manners! My goodness, eh? Fancy that!

Ah, dear George, you ought indeed to be happy—but [brings out a flat package wrapped in newspaper] look here, my dear boy!

[Opens it.] What? my dear old morning shoes! my slippers! [Breaks down.] This is positively too touching, Hedda, eh? Do you remember how badly I wanted them all the honeymoon? Come and just have a look at them—you may!

Bother your old slippers and your old aunt too! [aunt Julie goes out annoyed, followed by George, still thanking her warmly for the slippers; Hedda yawns; George comes back and places his old slippers reverently on the table.] Why, here comes Mrs. Elvsted—another early caller! She had irritating hair, and went about making a sensation with it—an old flame of yours, I've heard.

Enter Mrs. Elvsted; she is pretty and gentle, with copious wavy white-gold hair and round prominent eyes, and the manner of a frightened rabbit.

[Nervous.] Oh, please, I'm so perfectly in despair. Ejlert Lövborg, you know, who was our tutor; he's written such a large new book. I inspired him. Oh, I know I don't look like it—but I did—he told me so. And, good gracious! now he's in this dangerous wicked town all alone, and he's a reformed character, and I'm so frightened about him; so, as the wife of a sheriff twenty years older than me, I came up to look after Mr. Lövborg. Do ask him here—then I can meet him. You will? How perfectly lovely of you! My husband's so fond of him!

George, go and write an invitation at once; do you hear? [George looks around for his slippers, takes them up and goes out.] Now we can talk, my little Thea. Do you remember how I used to pull your hair when we met on the stairs, and say I would scorch it off? Seeing people with copious hair always does irritate me.

Goodness, yes, you were always so playful and friendly, and I was so afraid of you. I am still. And please, I've run away from my husband. Everything around him was distasteful to me. And Mr. Lövborg and I were comrades—he was dissipated, and I got a sort of power over him, and he made a real person out of me—which I wasn't before, you know; but, oh, I do hope I'm real now. He talked to me and taught me to think—chiefly of him. So, when Mr. Lövborg came here, naturally I came too. There was nothing else to do! And fancy, there is another woman whose shadow still stands between him and me! She wanted to shoot him once, and so, of course, he can never forget her. I wish I knew her name—perhaps it was that red-haired opera-singer?

[With cold self-command.] Very likely—but nobody does that sort of thing here. Hush! Run away now. Here comes Tesman with Judge Brack. [Mrs. Elvsted goes out; George comes in with Judge Brack, who is a short and elastic gentleman, with a round face, carefully brushed hair, and distinguished profile.] How awfully funny you do look by daylight, Judge!

[Holding his hat and dropping his eye-glass.] Sincerest thanks. Still the same graceful manners, dear little Mrs. Hed—Tesman! I came to invite dear Tesman to a little bachelor-party to celebrate his return from his long honeymoon. It is customary in Scandinavian society. It will be a lively affair, for I am a gay Norwegian dog.

Asked out—without my wife! Think of that! Eh? Oh, dear me, yes, I'll come!

By the way, Lövborg is here; he has written a wonderful book, which has made a quite extraordinary sensation. Bless me, yes!

Lövborg—fancy! Well, I am—glad. Such marvellous gifts! And I was so painfully certain he had gone to the bad. Fancy that, eh? But what will become of him now, poor fellow, eh? I am so anxious to know!

Well, he may possibly put up for the Professorship against you, and, though you are an uncommonly clever man of letters—for a Norwegian—it's not wholly improbable that he may cut you out!

But, look here, good Lord, Judge Brack!—[gesticulating]—that would show an incredible want of consideration for me! I married on my chance of getting that professorship. A man like Lövborg, too, who hasn't even been respectable, eh? One doesn't do such things as that!

Really? You forget we are all realistic and unconventional persons here, and do all kinds of odd things. But don't worry yourself!

[He goes out.

[To Hedda.] Oh, I say, Hedda, what's to become of our fairyland now, eh? We can't have a liveried servant, or give dinner parties, or have a horse for riding. Fancy that!

[Slowly, and wearily.] No, we shall really have to set up as fairies in reduced circumstances, now.

[Cheering up.] Still, we shall see Aunt Julie every day, and that will be something, and I've got back my old slippers. We shan't be altogether without some amusements, eh?

[Crosses the floor.] Not while I have one thing to amuse myself with, at all events.

[Beaming with joy.] Oh, Heaven be praised and thanked for that! My goodness, so you have! And what may that be, Hedda, eh?

[At the doorway, with suppressed scorn.] Yes, George you have the old slippers of the attentive aunt, and I have the horse-pistols of the deceased general!

[In an agony.] The pistols! Oh, my goodness! what pistols?

[With cold eyes.] General Gabler's pistols—same which I shot—[recollecting herself]—no, that's Thackeray, not Ibsen—a very different person.

[She goes through the back drawing-room.

[At doorway, shouting after her.] Dearest Hedda, not those dangerous things, eh? Why, they have never once been known to shoot straight yet! Don't! Have a catapult. For my sake, have a catapult!

[Curtain.

---

Scene—The cheerful dark drawing-room. It is afternoon. Hedda stands loading a revolver in the back drawing-room.

[Looking out and shouting.] How do you do, Judge? [Aims at him.] Mind yourself!

[She fires.

[Entering.] What the devil! Do you usually take pot-shots at casual visitors?

[Annoyed.

Invariably, when they come by the back-garden. It is my unconventional way of intimating that I am at home. One does do these things in realistic dramas, you know. And I was only aiming at the blue sky.

Which accounts for the condition of my hat. [Exhibiting it.] Look here—riddled!

Couldn't help myself. I am so horribly bored with Tesman. Everlastingly to be with a professional person!

[Sympathetically.] Our excellent Tesman is certainly a bit of a bore. [Looks searchingly at her.] What on earth made you marry him?

Tired of dancing, my dear, that's all. And then I used Tesman to take me home from parties; and we saw this villa; and I said I liked it, and so did he; and so we found some common ground, and here we are, do you see! And I loathe Tesman, and I don't even like the villa now; and I do feel the want of an entertaining companion so!

Try me. Just the kind of three-cornered arrangement that I like. Let me be the third person in the compartment—[confidentially]—the tried friend, and, generally speaking, cock of the walk!

[Audibly drawing in her breath.] I cannot resist your polished way of putting things. We will conclude a triple alliance. But hush!—here comes Tesman.

[Enter George with a number of books under his arm.

Puff! I am hot, Hedda. I've been looking into Lövborg's new book. Wonderfully thoughtful—confound him! But I must go and dress for your party, Judge.

[He goes out.

I wish I could get Tesman to take to politics, Judge. Couldn't he be a Cabinet Minister, or something?

H'm!

[A short pause; both look at one another, without speaking. Enter George, in evening dress with gloves.

It is afternoon, and your party is at half-past seven—but I like to dress early. Fancy that! And I am expecting Lövborg.

Ejlert Lövborg comes in from the hall; he is worn and pale, with red patches on his cheek-bones, and wears an elegant perfectly new visiting-suit and black gloves.

Welcome! [Introduces him to Brack.] Listen—I have got your new book, but I haven't read it through yet.

You needn't—it's rubbish. [Takes a packet of MSS. out.] This isn't. It's in three parts; the first about the civilising forces of the future, the second about the future of the civilising forces, and the third about the forces of the future civilisation. I thought I'd read you a little of it this evening?

[Hastily.] Awfully nice of you—but there's a little party this evening—so sorry we can't stop! Won't you come too?

No, he must stop and read it to me and Mrs. Elvsted instead.

It would never have occurred to me to think of such clever things! Are you going to oppose me for the professorship, eh?

[Modestly.] No; I shall only triumph over you in the popular judgment—that's all!

Oh, is that all? Fancy! Let us go into the back drawing-room and drink cold punch.

Thanks—but I am a reformed character, and have renounced cold punch—it is poison.

[George and Brack go into the back-room and drink punch, whilst Hedda shows Lövborg a photograph album in the front.

[Slowly, in a low tone.] Hedda Gabler! how could you throw yourself away like this!—Oh, is that the Ortler Group? Beautiful!—— Have you forgotten how we used to sit on the settee together behind an illustrated paper, and—yes, very picturesque peaks—I told you all about how I had been on the loose?

Now, none of that here! These are the Dolomites.—Yes, I remember; it was a beautiful fascinating Norwegian intimacy—but it's over now. See, we spent a night in that little mountain village, Tesman and I.

Did you, indeed? Do you remember that delicious moment when you threatened to shoot me down? [Tenderly.] I do!

[Carelessly.] Did I! I have done that to so many people. But now all that is past, and you have found the loveliest consolation in dear, good, little Mrs. Elvsted—ah, here she is! [Enter Mrs. Elvsted.] Now, Thea, sit down and drink up a good glass of cold punch. Mr. Lövborg is going to have some. If you don't, Mr. Lövborg, George and the Judge will think you are afraid of taking too much if you once begin.

Oh, please, Hedda! When I've inspired Mr. Lövborg so—good gracious! don't make him drink cold punch!

You see, Mr. Lövborg, our dear little friend can't trust you!

So that is my comrade's faith in me! [Gloomily.] I'll show her if I am to be trusted or not. [He drinks a glass of punch.] Now I'll go to the Judge's party. I'll have another glass first. Your health, Thea! So you came up to spy on me, eh? I'll drink the Sheriff's health—everybody's health!

[He tries to get more punch.

[Stopping him.] No more now. You are going to a party, remember.

[George and Tesman come in from back-room.

Don't be angry, Thea. I was fallen for a moment. Now I'm up again! [Mrs. Elvsted beams with delight.] Judge, I'll come to your party, as you are so pressing, and I'll read George my manuscript all the evening. I'll do all in my power to make that party go!

No? fancy! that will be amusing!

There, go away, you wild rollicking creatures! But Mr. Lövborg must be back at ten, to take dear Thea home!

Oh, goodness, yes! [In concealed agony.] Mr. Lövborg, I shan't go away till you do!

[The three men go out laughing merrily; the Act-drop is lowered for a minute; when it is raised, it is 7 A.M., and Mrs. Elvsted and Hedda are discovered sitting up, with rugs around them.

[Wearily.] Seven in the morning, and Mr. Lövborg not here to take me home yet! what can he be doing?

[Yawning.] Reading to Tesman, with vine-leaves in his hair, I suppose. Perhaps he has got to the third part.

Oh, do you really think so, Hedda. Oh, if I could but hope he was doing that!

You silly little ninny! I should like to scorch your hair off. Go to bed!

[Mrs. Elvsted goes. Enter George.

I'm a little late, eh? But we made such a night of it. Fancy! It was most amusing. Ejlert read his book to me—think of that! Astonishing book! Oh, we really had great fun! I wish I'd written it. Pity he's so irreclaimable.

I suppose you mean he has more of the courage of life than most people?

Good Lord! He had the courage to get more drunk than most people. But, altogether, it was what you might almost call a Bacchanalian orgy. We finished up by going to have early coffee with some of these jolly chaps, and poor old Lövborg dropped his precious manuscript in the mud, and I picked it up—and here it is! Fancy if anything were to happen to it! He never could write it again. Wouldn't it be sad, eh? Don't tell any one about it.

[He leaves the packet of MSS. on a chair, and rushes out; Hedda hides the packet as Brack enters.

Another early call, you see! My party was such a singularly animated soirée that I haven't undressed all night. Oh, it was the liveliest affair conceivable! And, like a true Norwegian host, I tracked Lövborg home; and it is only my duty, as a friend of the house, and cock of the walk, to take the first opportunity of telling you that he finished up the evening by coming to mere loggerheads with a red-haired opera-singer, and being taken off to the police-station! You mustn't have him here any more. Remember our little triple alliance!

[Her smile fading away.] You are certainly a dangerous person—but you must not get a hold over me!

[Ambiguously.] What an idea! But I might—I am an insinuating dog. Good morning!

[Goes out.

[Bursting in, confused and excited.] I suppose you've heard where I've been?

[Evasively.] I heard you had a very jolly party at Judge Brack's.

[Mrs. Elvsted comes in.

It's all over. I don't mean to do any more work. I've no use for a companion now, Thea. Go home to your sheriff!

[Agitated.] Never! I want to be with you when your book comes out!

It won't come out—I've torn it up! [Mrs. Elvsted rushes out, wringing her hands.] Mrs. Tesman, I told her a lie—but no matter. I haven't torn my book up—I've done worse! I've taken it about to several parties, and it's been through a police-row with me—now I've lost it. Even if I found it again, it wouldn't be the same—not to me! I am a Norwegian literary man, and peculiar. So I must make an end of it altogether!

Quite so—but look here, you must do it beautifully. I don't insist on your putting vine-leaves in your hair—but do it beautifully. [Fetches pistol.] See, here is one of General Gabler's pistols—do it with that!

Thanks!

[He takes the pistol, and goes out through the hall-door; as soon as he has gone, Hedda brings out the manuscript, and puts it on the fire, whispering to herself, as Curtain falls.

---

Scene.—The same room, but—it being evening—darker than ever. The crape curtains are drawn. A servant, with black ribbons in her cap, and red eyes, comes in and lights the gas quietly and carefully. Chords are heard on the piano in the back drawing-room. Presently Hedda comes in and looks out into the darkness. A short pause. Enter George Tesman.

I am so uneasy about poor Lövborg. Fancy! he is not at home. Mrs. Elvsted told me he has been here early this morning, so I suppose you gave him back his manuscript, eh?

[Cold and immovable, supported by arm-chair.] No, I put it on the fire instead.

On the fire! Lövborg's wonderful new book that he read to me at Brack's party, when we had that wild revelry last night! Fancy that! But, I say, Hedda—isn't that rather—eh? Too bad, you know—really. A great work like that. How on earth did you come to think of it?

[Suppressing an almost imperceptible smile.] Well, dear George, you gave me a tolerably strong hint.

Me? Well, to be sure—that is a joke! Why, I only said that I envied him for writing such a book, and it would put me entirely in the shade if it came out, and if anything was to happen to it, I should never forgive myself, as poor Lövborg couldn't write it all over again, and so we must take the greatest care of it! And then I left it on a chair and went away—that was all! And you went and burnt the book all up! Bless me, who would have expected it?

Nobody, you dear simple old soul! But I did it for your sake—it was love, George!

[In an outburst between doubt and joy.] Hedda, you don't mean that! Your love takes such queer forms sometimes. Yes, but yes——[laughing in excess of joy] why, you must be fond of me! Just think of that now! Well, you are fun, Hedda! Look here, I must just run and tell the housemaid that—she will enjoy the joke so, eh?

[Coldly, in self-command.] It is surely not necessary even for a clever Norwegian man of letters in a realistic social drama, to make quite such a fool of himself as all that.

No, that's true too. Perhaps we'd better keep it quiet—though I must tell Aunt Julie—it will make her so happy to hear that you burnt a manuscript on my account! And, besides, I should like to ask her whether that's a usual thing with young wives. [Looks uneasy and pensive again.] But poor old Ejlert's manuscript! Oh Lor', you know! Well, well!

[Mrs. Elvsted comes in.

Oh, please, I'm so uneasy about dear Mr. Lövborg. Something has happened to him, I'm sure!

[Judge Brack comes in from the hall, with a new hat in his hand.

You have guessed it, first time. Something has!

Oh, dear, good gracious! What is it? Something distressing, I'm certain of it!

[Shrieks aloud.

[Pleasantly.] That depends on how one takes it. He has shot himself, and is in a hospital now, that's all!

[Sympathetically.] That's sad, eh? poor old Lövborg! Well, I am cut up to hear that. Fancy, though, eh?

Was it through the temple, or through the breast? The breast? Well, one can do it beautifully through the breast, too. Do you know, as an advanced woman, I like an act of that sort—it's so positive to have the courage to settle the account with himself—it's beautiful, really!

Oh, Hedda, what an odd way to look at it! But never mind poor dear Mr. Lövborg now. What we've got to do is to see if we can't put his wonderful manuscript, that he said he had torn to pieces, together again. [Takes a bundle of small pages out of the pocket of her mantle.] There are the loose scraps he dictated it to me from. I hid them on the chance of some such emergency. And if dear Mr. Tesman and I were to put our heads together, I do think something might come of it.

Fancy! I will dedicate my life—or all I can spare of it—to the task. I seem to feel I owe him some slight amends, perhaps. No use crying over spilt milk, eh, Mrs. Elvsted? We'll sit down—just you and I—in the back drawing-room, and see if you can't inspire me as you did him, eh?

Oh, goodness, yes! I should like it—if it only might be possible!

[George and Mrs. Elvsted go into the back drawing-room and become absorbed in eager conversation; Hedda sits in a chair in the front room, and a little later Brack crosses over to her

[In a low tone.] Oh, Judge, what a relief to know that everything—including Lövborg's pistol—went off so well! In the breast! Isn't there a veil of unintentional beauty in that? Such an act of voluntary courage, too!

[Smiles.] H'm!—perhaps, dear Mrs. Hedda——

[Enthusiastically.] But wasn't it sweet of him! To have the courage to live his own life after his own fashion—to break away from the banquet of life—so early and so drunk! A beautiful act like that does appeal to a superior woman's imagination!

Sorry to shatter your poetical illusions, little Mrs. Hedda, but, as a matter of fact, our lamented friend met his end under other circumstances. The shot did not strike him in the breast—but——

[Pauses.

[Excitedly.] General Gabler's pistols! I might have known it! Did they ever shoot straight? Where was he hit, then?

[In a discreet undertone.] A little lower down!

Oh, how disgusting!—how vulgar!—how ridiculous!—like everything else about me!

Yes, we're realistic types of human nature, and all that—but a trifle squalid, perhaps. And why did you give Lövborg your pistol, when it was certain to be traced by the police? For a charming cold-blooded woman with a clear head and no scruples, wasn't it just a leetle foolish!

Perhaps; but I wanted him to do it beautifully, and he didn't! Oh, I've just admitted that I did give him the pistol—how annoyingly unwise of me! Now I'm in your power, I suppose?

Precisely—for some reason it's not easy to understand. But it's inevitable, and you know how you dread anything approaching scandal. All your past proceedings show that. [To George and Mrs. Elvsted who come in together from the back-room.] Well, how are you getting on with the reconstruction of poor Lövborg's great work, eh?

Capitally; we've made out the first two parts already. And really, Hedda, I do believe Mrs. Elvsted is inspiring me; I begin to feel it coming on. Fancy that!

Yes, goodness! Hedda, won't it be lovely if I can. I mean to try so hard!

Do, you dear little silly rabbit; and while you are trying I will go into the back drawing-room and lie down.

[She goes into the back room and draws the curtains. Short pause. Suddenly she is heard playing "The Bogie Man" within on the piano.

But, dearest Hedda, don't play "The Bogie Man" this evening. As one of my aunts is dead, and poor old Lövborg has shot himself, it seems just a little pointed, eh?

[Puts her head out between the curtains.] All right. I'll be quiet after this. I'm going to practise with the late General Gabler's pistol!

[Closes the curtains again; George gets behind the stove, Judge Brack under the table, and Mrs. Elvsted under the sofa. A shot is heard within.

[Behind the stove.] Eh, look here, I tell you what—she's hit me! Think of that!

[His legs are visibly agitated for a short time. Another shot is heard.

[Under the sofa.] Oh, please, not me! Oh, goodness, now I can't inspire anybody any more. Oh!

[Her feet, which can be seen under the valance, quiver a little and then are suddenly still.

[Vivaciously, from under the table.] I say, Mrs. Hedda, I'm coming in every evening—we will have great fun here togeth—— [Another shot is heard.] Bless me! to bring down the poor old cock-of-the-walk—it's unsportsmanlike!—people don't do such things as that!

[The table-cloth is violently agitated for a minute, and presently the curtains open, and Hedda appears.

[Clearly and firmly.] I've been trying in there to shoot myself beautifully—but with General Gabler's pistol—[She lifts the table-cloth, then looks behind the stove and under the sofa.] What! the accounts of all those everlasting bores settled? Then my suicide becomes unnecessary. Yes, I feel the courage of life once more!

[She goes into the back-room and plays "The Funeral March of a Marionette" as the Curtain falls.

---

At Werle's house. In front a richly-upholstered study. (R.) A green baize door leading to Werle's office. At back, open folding doors, revealing an elegant dining-room, in which a brilliant Norwegian dinner-party is going on. Hired Waiters in profusion. A glass is tapped with a knife. Shouts of "Bravo!" Old Mr. Werle is heard making a long speech, proposing—according to the custom of Norwegian society on such occasions—the health of his House-keeper, Mrs. Sörby. Presently several short-sighted, flabby, and thin-haired Chamberlains enter from the dining-room with Hialmar Ekdal, who writhes shyly under their remarks.

As we are the sole surviving specimens of Norwegian nobility, suppose we sustain our reputation as aristocratic sparklers by enlarging upon the enormous amount we have eaten, and chaffing Hialmar Ekdal, the friend of our host's son, for being a professional photographer?

Bravo! We will.

[They do; delight of Hialmar. Old Werle comes in, leaning on his Housekeeper's arm, followed by his son, Gregers Werle.

[Dejectedly.] Thirteen at table! [To Gregers, with a meaning glance at Hialmar.] This is the result of inviting an old college friend who has turned photographer! Wasting vintage wines on him, indeed.

[He passes on gloomily.

[To Gregers.] I am almost sorry I came. Your old man is not friendly. Yet he set me up as a photographer fifteen years ago. Now he takes me down! But for him, I should never have married Gina, who, you may remember, was a servant in your family once.

What? my old college friend married fifteen years ago—and to our Gina, of all people! If I had not been up at the works all these years, I suppose I should have heard something of such an event. But my father never mentioned it. Odd!

[He ponders; Old Ekdal comes out through the green baize-door, bowing, and begging pardon, carrying copying work. Old Werle says "Ugh" and "Pah" involuntarily. Hialmar shrinks back, and looks another way. A Chamberlain asks him pleasantly if he knows that old man.

I—oh no. Not in the least. No relation!

[Shocked.] What, Hialmar, you, with your great soul, deny your own father!

[Vehemently.] Of course—what else can a photographer do with a disreputable old parent, who has been in a penitentiary for making a fraudulent map? I shall leave this splendid banquet. The Chamberlains are not kind to me, and I feel the crushing hand of fate on my head!

[Goes out hastily, feeling it.

[Archly.] Any nobleman here say "Cold Punch"?

[Every nobleman says "Cold Punch" and follows her out in search of it with enthusiasm. Gregers approaches his father, who wishes he would go.

Father, a word with you in private. I loathe you. I am nothing if not candid. Old Ekdal was your partner once, and it's my firm belief you deserved a prison quite as much as he did. However, you surely need not have married our Gina to my old friend Hialmar. You know very well she was no better than she should have been!

True—but then no more is Mrs. Sörby. And I am going to marry her—if you have no objection, that is.

None in the world! How can I object to a step-mother who is playing Blind Man's Buff at the present moment with the Norwegian nobility? I am not so overstrained as all that. But really I cannot allow my old friend Hialmar, with his great, confiding, childlike mind, to remain in contented ignorance of Gina's past. No, I see my mission in life at last! I shall take my hat, and inform him that his home is built upon a lie. He will be so much obliged to me!

[Takes his hat, and goes out.

Ha!—I am a wealthy merchant, of dubious morals, and I am about to marry my house-keeper, who is on intimate terms with the Norwegian aristocracy. I have a son who loathes me, and who is either an Ibsenian satire on the Master's own ideals, or else an utterly impossible prig—I don't know or care which. Altogether, I flatter myself my household affords an accurate and realistic picture of Scandinavian Society!

[Curtain.

---

Hialmar Ekdal's Photographic Studio. Cameras, neck-rests, and other instruments of torture lying about. Gina Ekdal and Hedvig, her daughter, aged 14, and wearing spectacles, discovered sitting up for Hialmar.

Grandpapa is in his room with a bottle of brandy and a jug of hot water, doing some fresh copying work. Father is in society, dining out. He promised he would bring me home something nice!

[Coming in, in evening dress.] And he has not forgotten his promise, my child. Behold! [He presents her with the menu card; Hedvig gulps down her tears; Hialmar notices her disappointment, with annoyance.] And this all the gratitude I get! After dining out and coming home in a dress-coat and boots, which are disgracefully tight! Well well, just to show you how hurt I am, I won't have any beer now! What a selfish brute I am! [Relenting.] You may bring me just a little drop. [He bursts into tears.] I will play you a plaintive Bohemian dance on my flute. [He does.] No beer at such a sacred moment as this! [He drinks.] Ha, this is real domestic bliss!

[Gregers Werle comes in, in a countrified suit.

I have left my father's home—dinner-party and all—for ever. I am coming to lodge with you.

[Still melancholy.] Have some bread and butter. You won't?—then I will. I want it, after your father's lavish hospitality. [Hedvig goes to fetch bread and butter.] My daughter—a poor short-sighted little thing—but mine own.

My father has had to take to strong glasses, too—he can hardly see after dinner. [To Old Ekdal, who stumbles in very drunk.] How can you, Lieutenant Ekdal, who were such a keen sportsman once, live in this poky little hole?

I am a sportsman still. The only difference is that once I shot bears in a forest, and now I pot tame rabbits in a garret. Quite as amusing—and safer.

[He goes to sleep on a sofa.

[With pride.] It is quite true. You shall see.

[He pushes back sliding doors, and reveals a garret full of rabbits and poultry—moonlight effect. Hedvig returns with bread and butter.

[To Gregers.] If you stand just there, you get the best view of our Wild Duck. We are very proud of her, because she gives the play its title, you know, and has to be brought into the dialogue a good deal. Your father peppered her out shooting, and we saved her life.

Yes, Gregers, our estate is not large—but still we preserve, you see. And my poor old father and I sometimes get a day's gunning in the garret. He shoots with a pistol, which my illiterate wife here will call a "pigstol." He once, when he got into trouble, pointed it at himself. But the descendant of two lieutenant-colonels who had never quailed before living rabbit yet, faltered then. He didn't shoot. Then I put it to my own head. But at the decisive moment, I won the victory over myself. I remained in life. Now we only shoot rabbits and fowls with it. After all I am very happy and contented as I am.

[He eats some bread and butter.

But you ought not to be. You have a good deal of the Wild Duck about you. So have your wife and daughter. You are living in marsh vapours. Tomorrow I will take you out for a walk and explain what I mean. It is my mission in life. Good night!

[He goes out.

What was the gentleman talking about, father?

[Eating bread and butter.] He has been dining, you know. No matter—what we have to do now, is to put my disreputable old whitehaired pariah of a parent to bed.

[He and Gina lift Old Eccles—we mean Old Ekdal—up by the legs and arms, and take him off to bed as the Curtain falls.

---

Hialmar's Studio. A photograph has just been taken. Gina and Hedvig are tidying up.

[Apologetically.] There should have been a luncheon-party in this act, with Dr. Relling and Mölvik, who would have been in a state of comic "chippiness," after his excesses overnight. But, as it hadn't much to do with such plot as there is, we cut it out. It came cheaper. Here comes your father back from his walk with that lunatic, young Werle—you had better go and play with the Wild Duck.

[Hedvig goes.

[Coming in.] I have been for a walk with Gregers; he meant well—but it was tiring. Gina, he has told me that, fifteen years ago, before I married you, you were rather a Wild Duck, so to speak. [Severely.] Why haven't you been writhing in penitence and remorse all these years, eh?

[Sensibly.] Why? Because I have had other things to do. You wouldn't take any photographs, so I had to.

All the same—it was a swamp of deceit. And where am I to find elasticity of spirit to bring out my grand invention now? I used to shut myself up in the parlour, and ponder and cry, when I thought that the effort of inventing anything would sap my vitality. [Pathetically.] I did want to leave you an inventor's widow; but I never shall now, particularly as I haven't made up my mind what to invent yet. Yes, it's all over. Rabbits are trash, and even poultry palls. And I'll wring that cursed Wild Duck's neck!

[Coming in beaming.] Well, so you've got it over. Wasn't it soothing and ennobling, eh? and ain't you both obliged to me?

No; it's my opinion you'd better have minded your own business.

[Weeps.

[In great surprise.] Bless me! Pardon my Norwegian naïveté, but this ought really to be quite a new starting-point. Why, I confidently expected to have found you both beaming!—Mrs. Ekdal, being so illiterate, may take some little time to see it—but you, Hialmar, with your deep mind, surely you feel a new consecration, eh?

[Dubiously.] Oh—er—yes. I suppose so—in a sort of way.

[Hedvig runs in, overjoyed.

Father, only see what Mrs. Sörby has given me for a birthday present—a beautiful deed of gift!

[Shows it.

[Eluding her.] Ha! Mrs. Sörby, the family house-keeper. My father's sight failing! Hedvig in goggles! What vistas of heredity these astonishing coincidences open up! I am not short-sighted, at all events, and I see it all—all! This is my answer. [He takes the deed, and tears it across.] Now I have nothing more to do in this house. [Puts on overcoat.] My home has fallen in ruins about me. [Bursts into tears.] My hat!

Oh, but you mustn't go. You must be all three together, to attain the true frame of mind for self-sacrificing forgiveness, you know!

Self-sacrificing forgiveness be blowed!

[He tears himself away, and goes out.

[With despairing eyes.] Oh, he said it might be blowed! Now he'll never come home any more!

Shall I tell you how to regain your father's confidence, and bring him home surely? Sacrifice the Wild Duck.

Do you think that will do any good?

You just try it!

[Curtain.

---

Same Scene. Gregers enters, and finds Gina retouching photographs.

[Pleasantly.] Hialmar not come in yet, after last night, I suppose?

Not he! He's been out on the loose all night with Relling and Mölvik. Now he's snoring on their sofa.

[Disappointed.] Dear!—dear!—when he ought to be yearning to wrestle in solitude and self-examination!

[Rudely.] Self-examine your grandmother!

[She goes out; Hedvig comes in.

[To Hedvig.] Ah, I see you haven't found courage to settle the Wild Duck yet!

No—it seemed such a delightful idea at first. Now it strikes me as a trifle—well, Ibsenish.

[Reprovingly.] I thought you hadn't grown up quite unharmed in this house! But if you really had the true, joyous spirit of self-sacrifice, you'd have a shot at that Wild Duck, if you died for it!

[Slowly.] I see; you mean that my constitution's changing, and I ought to behave as such?

Exactly, I'm what Americans would term a "crank"—but I believe in you, Hedvig.

[Hedvig takes down the pistol from the mantelpiece, and goes into the garret with flashing eyes; Gina comes in.

[Looking in at door with hesitation; he is unwashed and dishevelled.] Has anybody happened to see my hat?

Gracious, what a sight you are! Sit down and have some breakfast, do.

[She brings it.

[Indignantly.] What! touch food under this roof? Never! [Helps himself to bread-and-butter and coffee.] Go and pack up my scientific uncut books, my manuscripts, and all the best rabbits, in my portmanteau. I am going away for ever. On second thoughts, I shall stay in the spare room for another day or two—it won't be the same as living with you!

[He takes some salt meat.

Must you go? Just when you've got nice firm ground to build upon—thanks to me! Then there's your great invention, too.

Everything's invented already. And I only cared about my invention because, although it doesn't exist yet, I thought Hedvig believed in it, with all the strength of her sweet little short-sighted eyes! But now I don't believe in Hedvig!

[He pours himself out another cup of coffee.

[Earnestly.] But, Hialmar, if I can prove to you that she is ready to sacrifice her cherished Wild Duck? See!

[He pushes back sliding-door, and discovers Hedvig aiming at the Wild Duck with the butt-end of the pistol. Tableau.

[Excitedly.] But don't you see? It's the pigstol—that fatal Norwegian weapon which, in Ibsenian dramas, never shoots straight! And she has got it by the wrong end too. She will shoot herself!

[Quietly.] She will! Let the child make amends. It will be a most realistic and impressive finale!

No, no—put down the pigstol, Hedvig. Do you hear, child?

[Still aiming.] I hear—but I shan't unless father tells me to.

Hialmar, show the great soul I always said you had. This sorrow will set free what is noble in you. Don't spoil a fine situation. Be a man! Let the child shoot herself!

[Irresolutely.] Well, really, I don't know. There's a good deal in what Gregers says. H'm!

A good deal of tomfool rubbish! I'm illiterate, I know. I've been a Wild Duck in my time, and I waddle. But for all that, I'm the only person in the play with a grain of common-sense. And I'm sure—whatever Mr. Ibsen or Gregers choose to say—that a screaming burlesque like this ought not to end like a tragedy—even in this queer Norway of ours! And it shan't, either! Tell the child to put that nasty pigstol down, and come away—do!

[Yielding.] Ah, well, I am a farcical character myself, after all. Don't touch a hair of that duck's head, Hedvig. Come to my arms and all shall be forgiven!

[Hedvig throws down the pistol—which goes off and kills a rabbit—and rushes into her father's arms. Old Ekdal comes out of a corner with a fowl on each shoulder, and bursts into tears. Affecting family picture.

[Annoyed.] It's all very pretty, I dare say—but it's not Ibsen! My real mission is to be the thirteenth at table. I don't know what I mean—but I fly to fulfil it!

[He goes.

And now we've got rid of him, Hedvig, fetch me the deed of gift I tore up, and a slip of paper, and a penny bottle of gum, and we'll soon make a valid instrument of it again.

[He pastes the torn deed together as the Curtain slowly descends.

---

[Prefatory Note.—The original title—Mester-Pjil-drögster Herdal—would sound a trifle too uncouth to the Philistine ear, and is therefore modified as above, although the term "drögster," strictly speaking, denotes a practitioner who has not received a regular diploma].

---

An elegantly furnished drawing-room at Dr. Herdal's. In front, on the left, a console-table, on which is a large round bottle full of coloured water. On the right a stove, with a banner-screen made out of a richly-embroidered chest-protector. On the stove, a stethoscope and a small galvanic battery. In one corner, a hat and umbrella stand: in another, a desk, at which stands Senna Blakdraf, making out the quarterly accounts. Through a glass-door at the back is seen the Dispensary, where Rübub Kalomel is seated, occupied in rolling a pill. Both go on working in perfect silence for four minutes and a half.

[Enters through hall-door; he is elderly, with a plain sensible countenance, but slightly weak hair and expression.] Come here Miss Blakdraf. [Hangs up hat, and throws his mackintosh on a divan.] Have you made out all those bills yet?

[Looks sternly at her.

[In a low hesitating voice.] Almost. I have charged each patient with three attendances daily. Even when you only dropped in for a cup of tea and a chat. [Passionately.] I felt I must—I must!

[Alters his tone, clasps her head in his hands, and whispers.] I wish you could make out the bills for me, always.

[In nervous exaltation.] How lovely that would be! Oh, you are so unspeakably good to me! It is too enthralling to be here!

[Sinks down and embraces his knees.

So I've understood. [With suppressed irritation.] For goodness' sake, let go my legs! I do wish you wouldn't be so confoundedly neurotic!

[Has risen, and comes in through glass-door, breathing with difficulty; he is a prematurely bald young man of fifty-five, with a harelip, and squints slightly.] I beg pardon, Dr. Herdal, I see I interrupt you. [As Senna rises.] I have just completed this pill. Have you looked at it?

[He offers it for inspection, diffidently.

[Evasively.] It appears to be a pill of the usual dimensions.

[Cast down.] All these years you have never given me one encouraging word! Can't you praise my pill?

[Struggles with himself.] I—I cannot. You should not attempt to compound pills on your own account.

[Breathing laboriously.] And yet there was a time when you, too——

[Complacently.] Yes, it was certainly a pill that came as a lucky stepping stone—but not a pill like that!

[Vehemently.] Listen! Is that your last word? Is my aged mother to pass out of this world without ever knowing whether I am competent to construct an effective pill or not?

[As if in desperation.] You had better try it upon your mother—it will enable her to form an opinion. Only mind—I will not be responsible for the result.

I understand. Exactly as you tried your pill, all those years ago, upon Dr. Ryval.

[He bows and goes out.

[Uneasily.] He said that so strangely, Senna. But tell me now—when are you going to marry him?

[Starts—half glancing up at him.] I—I don't know. This year—next year—now—never! I cannot marry him ... I cannot—I cannot—it is so utterly impossible to leave you!

Yes, I can understand that. But, my poor Senna, hadn't you better take a little walk?

[Clasps her hands gratefully.] How sweet and thoughtful you are to me! I will take a walk.

[With a suppressed smile.] Do! And—h'm!—you needn't trouble to come back. I have advertised for a male book-keeper—they are less emotional. Good-night, my little Senna!

[Softly and quiveringly.] Good-night, Dr. Herdal!

[Staggers out of hall-door, blowing kisses.

[Enters through the window, plaintively.] Quite an acquisition for you, Haustus, this Miss Blakdraf!

She's—h'm—extremely civil and obliging. But I am parting with her, Aline—mainly on your account.

[Evades him.] Was it on my account, indeed, Haustus? You have parted with so many young persons on my account—so you tell me!

[Depressed.] Oh, but this is hopeless! When I have tried so hard to bring a ray of sunlight into your desolate life! I must give Rübub Kalomel notice too—his pill is really too preposterous!

[Feels gropingly for a chair, and sits down on the floor.] Him, too! Ah, Haustus, you will never make my home a real home for me. My poor first husband, Halvard Solness, tried—and he couldn't! When one has had such misfortunes as I have—all the family portraits burnt, and the silk dresses, too, and a pair of twins, and nine lovely dolls.

[Chokes with tears.

[As if to lead her away from the subject.] Yes, yes, yes, that must have been a heavy blow for you, my poor Aline. I can understand that your spirits can never be really high again. And then for poor Master Builder Solness to be so taken up with that Miss Wangel as he was—that, too, was so wretched for you. To see him topple off the tower, as he did that day ten years ago——

Yes, that too, Haustus. But I did not mind it so much—it all seemed so perfectly natural in both of them.

Natural! For a girl of twenty three to taunt a middle-aged architect, whom she knew to be constitutionally liable to giddiness, never to let him have any peace till he had climbed a spire as dizzy as himself—and all for the fun of seeing him fall off—how in the world——!

[Laying the table for supper with dried fish and punch.] The younger generation have a keener sense of humour than we elder ones, Haustus, and perhaps after all, she was only a perplexing sort of allegory.

Yes, that would explain her to some extent, no doubt. But how he could be such an old fool!

That Miss Wangel was a strangely fascinating type of girl. Why, even I myself——

[Sits down and takes some fish.] Fascinating? Well, goodness knows, I couldn't see that at all. [Seriously.] Has it never struck you, Aline, that elderly Norwegians are so deucedly impressionable—mere bundles of overstrained nerves, hypersensitive ganglia. Except, of course, the Medical Profession.

Yes, of course; those in that profession are not so inclined to gangle. And when one has succeeded by such a stroke of luck as you have——

[Drinks a glass of punch.] You're right enough there. If I had not been called in to prescribe for Dr. Ryval, who used to have the leading practice here, I should never have stepped so wonderfully into his shoes as I did. [Changes to a tone of quiet chuckling merriment.] Let me tell you a funny story, Aline; it sounds a ludicrous thing—but all my good fortune here was based upon a simple little pill. For if Dr. Ryval had never taken it——

[Anxiously.] Then you do think it was the pill that caused him to——?

On the contrary; I am perfectly sure the pill had nothing whatever to do with it—the inquest made it quite clear that it was really the liniment. But don't you see, Aline, what tortures me night and day is the thought that it might unconsciously have been the pill which—— Never to be free from that! To have such a thought gnawing and burning always—always, like a moral mustard plaster!

[He takes more punch.

Yes; I suppose there is a poultice of that sort burning on every breast—and we must never take it off either—it is our simple duty to keep it on. I too, Haustus, am haunted by a fancy that if this Miss Wangel were to ring at our bell now——

After she has been lost sight of for ten years? She is safe enough in some sanatorium, depend upon it. And what if she did come? Do you think, my dear good woman, that I—a sensible clear-headed general practitioner, who have found out all I know for myself—would let her play the deuce with me as she did with poor Halvard? No, general practitioners don't do such things—even in Norway!

Don't they indeed, Haustus? [The surgery-bell rings loudly.] Did you hear that? There she is! I will go and put on my best cap. It is my duty to show her that small attention.

[Laughing nervously.] Why, what on earth!—— It's the night-bell. It is most probably the new book-keeper! [Mrs. Herdal goes out; Dr. Herdal rises with difficulty, and opens the door.] Goodness gracious!—it is that girl, after all!

[Hilda Wangel enters through the dispensary door. She wears a divided skirt, thick boots, and a Tam o' Shanter with an eagle's wing in it. Somewhat freckled. Carries a green tin cylinder slung round her, and a rug in a strap. Goes straight up to Herdal, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

How are you? I've run you down, you see! The ten years are up. Isn't it scrumptiously thrilling, to see me like this?

[Politely retreating.] It is—very much so—but still I don't in the least understand——

[Measures him with a glance.] Oh, you will. I have come to be of use to you. I've no luggage, and no money. Not that that makes any difference. I never have. And I've been allured and attracted here. You surely know how these things come about?

[Throws her arms round him.

What the deuce! Miss Wangel, you mustn't. I'm a married man! There's my wife!

[Mrs. Herdal enters.

As if that mattered—it's only dear, sweet Mrs. Solness. She doesn't mind—do you, dear Mrs. Solness?

It does not seem to be of much use minding, Miss Wangel. I presume you have come to stay?

[In amused surprise.] Why, of course—what else should I come for? I always come to stay, until—h'm! [Nods slowly, and sits down at table.

[Involuntarily.] She's drinking my punch! If she thinks I'm going to stand this sort of thing, she's mistaken. I'll soon show her a pill-doctor is a very different kind of person from a mere Master Builder!

[Hilda finishes the punch with an indefinable expression in her eyes, and Dr. Herdal looks on gloomily as the Curtain falls.

---

Dr. Herdal's drawing-room and dispensary, as before. It is early in the day. Dr. Herdal sits by the little table, taking his own temperature with a clinical thermometer. By the door stands the New Book-keeper; he wears blue spectacles and a discoloured white tie, and seems slightly nervous.

Well, now you understand what is necessary. My late book-keeper, Miss Blakdraf, used to keep my accounts very cleverly—she charged every visit twice over.

I am familiar with book-keeping by double entry. I was once employed at a bank.

I am discharging my assistant, too; he was always trying to push me out with his pills. Perhaps you will be able to dispense?

[Modestly.] With an additional salary, I should be able to do that too.

Capital! You shall dispense with an additional salary. Go into the dispensary, and see what you can make of it. You may mistake a few drugs at first—but everything must have a beginning.

[As the New Book-keeper retires, Mrs. Herdal enters in a hat and cloak with a watering-pot, noiselessly.

Miss Wangel got up early, before breakfast, and went for a walk. She is so wonderfully vivacious!

So I should say. But tell me, Aline, is she really going to stay with us here?

[Nervously.

[Looks at him.] So she tells me. And, as she has brought nothing with her except a tooth-brush and a powder-puff, I am going into the town to get her a few articles. We must make her feel at home.

[Breaking out.] I will make her not only feel but be at home, wherever that is, this very day! I will not have a perambulating Allegory without a portmanteau here on an indefinite visit. I say, she shall go—do you hear, Aline? Miss Wangel will go!

[Raps with his fist on table.

[Quietly.] If you say so, Haustus, no doubt she will have to go. But you must tell her so yourself.

[Puts the watering-pot on the console table, and goes out, as Hilda enters, sparkling with pleasure.

[Goes up straight to him.] Good morning, Dr. Herdal. I have just seen a pig killed. It was ripping—I mean, gloriously thrilling! And your wife has taken a tremendous fancy to me. Fancy that!

[Gloomily.] It is eccentric certainly. But my poor dear wife was always a little——

[Nods her head slowly several times.] So you have noticed that too? I have had a long talk with her. She can't get over your discharging Mr. Kalomel—he is the only man who ever really understood her.

If I could only pay her off a little bit of the huge, immeasurable debt I owe her—but I can't!

[Looks hard at him.] Can't I help you? I helped Ragnar Brovik. Didn't you know I stayed with him and poor little Kaia—after that accident to my Master Builder? I did. I made Ragnar build me the loveliest castle in the air—lovelier, even, than poor Mr. Solness's would have been—and we stood together on the very top. The steps were rather too much for Kaia. Besides, there was no room for her on top. And he put towering spires on all his semi-detached villas. Only, somehow, they didn't let. Then the castle in the air tumbled down, and Ragnar went into liquidation, and I continued my walking-tour.

[Interested against his will.] And where did you go after that, may I ask, Miss Wangel?

Oh, ever so far north. There I met Mr. and Mrs. Tesman—the second Mrs. Tesman—she who was Mrs. Elvsted, with the irritating hair, you know. They were on their honeymoon, and had just decided that it was impossible to reconstruct poor Mr. Lövborg's great book out of Mrs. Elvsted's rough notes. But I insisted on George's attempting the impossible—with Me. And what do you think Mrs. Tesman wears in her hair now?

Why, really I could not say. Vine-leaves, perhaps.

Wrong—straws! Poor Tesman didn't fancy that—so he shot himself, un-beautifully, through his ticket-pocket. And I went on and took Rosmershölm for the summer. There had been misfortune in the house, so it was to let. Dear good old Rector Kroll acted as my reference; his wife and children had no sympathy with his views, so I used to see him every day. And I persuaded him, too, to attempt the impossible—he had never ridden anything but a rocking-horse in his life, but I made him promise to mount the White Horse of Rosmershölm. He didn't get over that. They found his body, a fortnight afterwards, in the mill-dam. Thrilling!

[Shakes his finger at her.] What a girl you are, Miss Wangel! But you mustn't play these games here, you know.

[Laughs to herself.] Of course not. But I suppose I am a strange sort of bird.

You are like a strong tonic. When I look at you I seem to be regarding an effervescing saline draught. Still, I really must decline to take you.

[A little sulky.] That is not how you spoke ten years ago, up at the mountain station, when you were such a flirt!

Was I a flirt? Deuce take me if I remember. But I am not like that now.

Then you have really forgotten how you sat next to me at the table d'hôte, and made pills and swallowed them, and were so splendid and buoyant and free that all the old women who knitted left next day?

What a memory you have for trifles, Miss Wangel; it's quite wonderful!

Trifles! There was no trifling on your part. When you promised to come back in ten years, like a troll, and fetch me!

Did I say all that? It must have been after table d'hôte!

It was. I was a mere chit then—only twenty-three; but I remember. And now I have come for you.

Dear, dear! But there is nothing of the troll about me now I have married Mrs. Solness.

[Looking sharply at him.] Yes, I remember you were always dropping in to tea in those days.

[Seems hurt.] Every visit was duly put down in the ledger and charged for—as poor little Senna will tell you.

Little Senna? Oh, Dr. Herdal, I believe there is a bit of the troll left in you still!

[Laughs a little.] No, no; my conscience is perfectly robust—always was.

Are you quite quite sure that, when you went indoors with dear Mrs. Solness that afternoon, and left me alone with my Master Builder, you did not foresee—perhaps wish—intend, even a little, that—— H'm?

That you would talk the poor man into clambering up that tower? You want to drag Me into that business now!

[Teasingly.] Yes, I certainly think that then you went on exactly like a troll.

[With uncontrollable emotion.] Hilda, there is not a corner of me safe from you! Yes, I see now that must have been the way of it. Then I was a troll in that, too! But isn't it terrible the price I have had to pay for it? To have a wife who—— No, I shall never roll a pill again—never, never!

[Lays her head on the stove, and answers as if half asleep.] No more pills? Poor Doctor Herdal!

[Bitterly.] No—nothing but cosy commonplace grey powders for a whole troop of children.

[Lively again..] Not grey powders! [Quite seriously.] I will tell you what you shall make next. Beautiful rainbow-coloured powders that will give one a real grip on the world. Powders to make every one free and buoyant, and ready to grasp at one's own happiness, to dare what one would. I will have you make them. I will—I will!

H'm! I am not quite sure that I clearly understand. And then the ingredients——?

What stupid people all of you pill-doctors are, to be sure! Why, they will be poisons, of course!

Poisons? Why in the world should they be that?

[Without answering him.] All the thrillingest, deadliest poisons—it is only such things that are wholesome, nowadays.

[As if caught by her enthusiasm.] And I could colour them, too, by exposing them to rays cast through a prism. Oh, Hilda, how I have needed you all these years! For, you see, with her it was impossible to discuss such things.

[Embraces her.

[Enters noiselessly through hall-door.] I suppose, Haustus, you are persuading Miss Wangel to start by the afternoon steamer? I have bought her a pair of curling-tongs, and a packet of hairpins. The larger parcels are coming on presently.

[Uneasily.] H'm! Hilda—Miss Wangel I should say—is kindly going to stay on a little longer, to assist me in some scientific experiments. You wouldn't understand them if I told you.

Shouldn't I, Haustus? I daresay not.

[The NEW BOOK-KEEPER looks through the glass door of dispensary.

[Starts violently and points—then in a whisper.] Who is that?

Only the new Book-keeper and Assistant—a very intelligent person.

[Looks straight in front of her with a far-away expression, and whispers to herself.] I thought at first it was.... But no—that would be too frightfully thrilling!

[To himself.] I'm turning into a regular old troll now—but I can't help myself. After all, I am only an elderly Norwegian. We are made like that.... Rainbow powders—real rainbow powders! With Hilda!.... Oh, to have the joy of life once more!

[Takes his temperature again as Curtain falls.

---

[On the right, a smart verandah, attached to Dr. Herdal's dwelling-house, and communicating with the drawing-room and dispensary by glass doors. On the left a tumble-down rockery, with a headless plaster Mercury. In front, a lawn, with a large silvered glass globe on a stand. Chairs and tables. All the furniture is of galvanised iron. A sunset is seen going on among the trees.

[Comes out of dispensary-door cautiously, and whispers.] Hilda, are you in there?

[Taps with fingers on drawing-room door.

[Comes out with a half-teasing smile.] Well—and how is the rainbow-powder getting on, Dr. Herdal?

[With enthusiasm.] It is getting on simply splendidly. I sent the new assistant out to take a little walk, so that he should not be in the way. There is arsenic in the powder, Hilda, and digitalis too, and strychnine, and the best beetle-killer!

[With happy, wondering eyes.] Lots of beetle-killer. And you will give some of it to her, to make her free and buoyant. I think one really has the right—when people happen to stand in the way——!

Yes, you may well say so, Hilda. Still—[dubiously]—it does occur to me that such doings may perhaps be misunderstood—by the narrow-minded and conventional.

[They go on the lawn, and sit down.

[With an outburst.] Oh, that all seems to me so foolish—so irrelevant! As if the whole thing wasn't intended as an allegory!

[Relieved.] Ah, so long as it is merely allegorical, of course—— But what is it an allegory of, Hilda?

[Reflects in vain.] How can you sit there and ask such questions? I suppose I am a symbol—of some sort.

[As a thought flashes upon him.] A cymbal? That would certainly account for your bra—— Then, am I a cymbal too, Hilda?

Why yes—what else? You represent the artist-worker, or the elder generation, or the pursuit of the ideal, or a bilious conscience—or something or other. You're all right!

[Shakes his head.] Am I? But I don't quite see—— Well, well, cymbals are meant to clash a little. And I see plainly now that I ought to prescribe this powder for as many as possible. Isn't it terrible, Hilda, that so many poor souls never really die their own deaths—pass out of the world without even the formality of an inquest? As the district Coroner, I feel strongly on the subject.

And, when the Coroner has finished sitting on all the bodies, perhaps—but I shan't tell you now. [Speaks as if to a child.] There, run away and finish making the rainbow-powder, do!

[Skips up into the dispensary.] I will—I will! Oh, I do feel such a troll—such a light-haired, light-headed old devil!

[Enters garden-gate.] I have had my dismissal—but I'm not going without saying good-bye to Mrs. Herdal.

Dr. Herdal would disapprove—you really must not, Mr. Kalomel. And, besides, Mrs. Herdal is not at home. She is in the town buying me a reel of cotton. Dr. Herdal is in. He is making real rainbow powders for regenerating everybody all round. Won't that be fun?

Making powders? Ha! ha! But you will see he won't take one himself. It is quite notorious to us younger men that he simply daren't do it.

[With a little snort of contempt.] Oh, I daresay—that's so likely! [Defiantly.] I know he can, though. I've seen him!

There is a tradition that he once—but not now—he knows better. I think you said Mrs. Herdal was in the town? I will go and look for her. I understand her so well.

[Goes out by gate.

[Calls.] Dr. Herdal! Come out this minute. I want you—awfully!

[Puts his head out.] Just when I am making such wonderful progress with the powder. [Comes down and leans on a table.] Have you hit upon some way of giving it to Aline? I thought if you were to put it in her arrowroot——?

No, thanks. I won't have that now. I have just recollected that it is a rule of mine never to injure anybody I have once been formally introduced to. Strangers don't count. No, poor Mrs. Herdal mustn't take that powder!

[Disappointed.] Then is nothing to come of making rainbow powders, after all, Hilda?

[Looks hard at him.] People say you are afraid to take your own physic. Is that true?

Yes, I am. [After a pause—with candour.] I find it invariably disagrees with me.

[With a half-dubious smile.] I think I can understand that. But you did once. You swallowed your own pills that day at the table d'hôte, ten years ago. And I heard a harp in the air, too!

[Open-mouthed.] I don't think that could have been me. I don't play any instrument. And that was quite a special thing, too. It's not every day I can do it. Those were only bread pills, Hilda.

[With flashing eyes.] But you rolled them, you took them. And I want to see you stand once more free and high and great, swallowing your own preparations. [Passionately.] I will have you do it! [Imploringly.] Just once more, Dr. Herdal!

If I did, Hilda, my medical knowledge, slight as it is, leads me to the conclusion that I should in all probability burst.

[Looks deeply into his eyes.] So long as you burst beautifully! But no doubt that Miss Blakdraf——

You must believe in me utterly and entirely. I will do anything—anything, Hilda, to provide you with agreeable entertainment. I will swallow my own powder! [To himself, as he goes gravely up to dispensary.] If only the drugs are sufficiently adulterated!

[Goes in; as he does so, the New Assistant enters the garden in blue spectacles, unseen by Hilda, and follows him, leaving open the glass door.

[Comes wildly out of drawing-room.] Where is dear Dr. Herdal? Oh, Miss Wangel, he has discharged me—but I can't—I simply can't live away from that lovely ledger.

[Jubilantly.] At this moment Dr. Herdal is in the dispensary, taking one of his own powders.

[Despairingly.] But—but it is utterly impossible! Miss Wangel, you have such a firm hold of him—don't let him do that!

I have already done all I can.

[Rübub appears, talking confidentially with Mrs. Herdal, at gate.

Oh, Mrs. Herdal, Rübub! The Pill-Doctor is going to take one of his own preparations. Save him—quick!

[With cold politeness.] I am sorry to hear it—for his sake. But it would be quite contrary to professional etiquette to prevent him.

And I never interfere with my husband's proceedings. I know my duty, Miss Blakdraf, if others don't!

[Exulting with great intensity.] At last! Now I see him in there, great and free again, mixing the powder in a spoon—with jam!... Now he raises the spoon. Higher—higher still! [A gulp is audible from within.] There, didn't you hear a harp in the air? [Quietly.] I can't see the spoon any more. But there is one he is striving with, in blue spectacles!

[Within.] The Pill-Doctor Herdal has taken his own powder!

[As if petrified.] That voice! Where have I heard it before? No matter—he has got the powder down! [Waves a shawl in the air, and shrieks with wild jubilation.] It's too awfully thrilling! My—my Pill-Doctor!

[Comes out on verandah.] I am happy to inform you that—as, to avoid accidents, I took the simple precaution of filling all the dispensary-jars with camphorated chalk—no serious results may be anticipated from Dr. Herdal's rashness. [Removes spectacles.] Nora, don't you know me?

[Reflects.] I really don't remember having the pleasure—— And I'm sure I heard a harp in the air!

I fancy, Miss Wangel, it must have been merely a bee in your bonnet.

[Tenderly.] Still the same little singing-bird! Oh, Nora, my long-lost lark!

[Sulkily.] I'm not a lark—I'm a bird of prey—and when I get my claws into anything——!

Macaroons, for instance? I remember your tastes of old. See, Nora! [Produces a paper-bag from his coat-tail pocket.] They were fresh this morning!

[Wavering.] If you insist on calling me Nora, I think you must be just a little mad yourself.

We are all a little mad—in Norway. But Torvald Helmer is sane enough still to recognise his own little squirrel again! Surely, Nora, your education is complete at last—you have gained the experience you needed?

[Nods slowly.] Yes, Torvald, you're right enough there. I have thought things out for myself, and have got clear about them. And I have quite made up my mind that Society and the Law are all wrong, and that I am right.

[Overjoyed.] Then you have learnt the Great Lesson, and are fit to undertake the charge of your children's education at last! You've no notion how they've grown! Yes, Nora, our marriage will be a true marriage now. You will come back to the Dolls' House, won't you?

[Hesitates.] Will you let me forge cheques if I do, Torvald?

[Ardently.] All day. And at night, Nora, we will falsify the accounts—together!

[Throws herself into his arms, and helps herself to macaroons.] That will be fearfully thrilling! My—my Manager!

[Comes out very pale, from dispensary.] Hilda I did take the—— I'm afraid I interrupt you?

Not in the least. But this lady is my little lark, and she is going back to her cage by the next steamer.

[Bitterly.] Am I never to have a gleam of happiness? But stay—do I see my little Senna once more?

Pardon me—my little Senna. She always believed so firmly in my pill!

Well—well. If it must be. Rübub, I will take you into partnership, and we will take out a patent for that pill, jointly. Aline, my poor dear Aline, let us try once more if we cannot bring a ray of brightness into our cheerless home!

Oh, Haustus, if only we could—but why do you propose that to me—now?

[Softly—to himself.] Because I have tried being a troll—and found that nothing came of it, and it wasn't worth sixpence!

[Hilda-Nora goes off to the right with Helmer; Senna to the left with Rübub; Dr. Herdal and Mrs. Herdal sit on two of the galvanised-iron chairs, and shake their heads disconsolately as the Curtain falls.

---

"Written with brightness and elegance, and embellished with illustrations by Dudley Hardy in his happiest sketchy vein."—Daily Telegraph.

"Shrewd observation and brisk utterances."—Athenæum.

"It gratifies curiosity in a manner peculiarly agreeable."—Queen.

"You will enjoy reading the book."—Truth.

"Full of good feeling and good sense."—Daily Chronicle.

---

"Most strongly to be recommended to all classes of readers."—Athenæum.

"Mr. Zangwill has a very bright and a very original humour, and every page of this closely printed book is full of point and go, and full, too, of a healthy satire that is really humorously applied common sense."—National Review.

"There is excellent fooling in the big book."—World.

"Extremely amusing. The illustrations add greatly to the fun of the book."—Literary World.

---

ON A BED OF SICKNESS.—ON MATRIMONY.—ON THE POSTCARD.—ON THE SEA.—ON VISITORS.—ON LUCK.—ON UNSELFISHNESS.—ON GOOD WORKS.—ON LOVE.—ON THE MUSIC STOOL.—ON PURPOSE.—ON GIRL.—ON SUNDAY MORNING.—ON MEALS.—ON HEART.—ON SLEEP.—ON SOCIETIES.—ON LANGUAGE.—ON LEARNING.—ON OUR OWN BUSINESS.—ON PLEASURE.—ON OUR BIRTHPLACE.—ON OUR DOGS.—ON BEING ENGAGED.—ON LETTERS.—ON CHURCH.—ON COURAGE.—ON HONOUR AND GLORY.—THE LAST WORD.

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AS PLEASINGLY EXEMPLIFIED IN MANY INSTANCES, WHEREIN THE SERIOUS ONES OF THIS EARTH, CAREFULLY EXASPERATED, HAVE BEEN PRETTILY SPURRED ON TO INDISCRETION AND UNSEEMLINESS, WHILE OVERCOME BY AN UNDUE SENSE OF RIGHT.

"The book in itself, in its binding, print, and arrangement, is a work of art."—Punch.

"There is no lack of wit, bright and original, in the book; indeed, Mr. Whistler's happy thoughts are often irresistibly comic, the very perfection of flippancy and banter."—St. James's Gazette.

"The book is altogether so curious, so dainty in all externals, so absolutely unlike anything that ever before has proceeded from a printing-press."—Academy.

---

Telegraphic Address:

Sunlocks, London.

21 Bedford Street, W.C.

March 1893.

The Books mentioned in this List can be obtained to order by any Bookseller if not in stock, or will be sent by the Publisher post free on receipt of price.

---

ÉMILE MICHEL,

FREDERICK WEDMORE.

Nothing need be said in justification of a comprehensive book upon the life and work of Rembrandt. A classic among classics, he is also a modern of moderns. His works are to-day more sought after and better paid for than ever before; he is now at the zenith of a fame which can hardly decline.

The author of this work is perhaps, of all living authorities on Rembrandt, the one who has had the largest experience, the best opportunity of knowing all that can be known of the master.

The latest inventions in photogravure and process-engraving have enabled the publisher to reproduce almost everything that is accessible in the public galleries of Europe, as well as most of the numerous private collections containing specimens of Rembrandt's work in England and on the Continent.

This work will be published in two volumes 4to, each containing over 300 pages. There will be over 30 photogravures, about 40 coloured reproductions of paintings and chalk drawings, and 250 illustrations in the text.

Two Editions will be printed—one on Japanese vellum, limited to 200 numbered copies (for England and America), with duplicates of the plates on India paper, price £10 10s. net. The ordinary edition will be published at £2 2s. net.

An illustrated prospectus is now ready and may be had on application. Orders will be received by all booksellers, in town and country.

---

QUESTIONS AT ISSUE. Essays. By Edmund Gosse. In One Volume, crown 8vo (uniform with "Gossip in a Library").

A FRIEND OF THE QUEEN. Being Correspondence between Marie Antoinette and Monsieur de Fersen. By Paul Gaulot. In One Volume, 8vo.

FROM WISDOM COURT. By Henry Seton Merriman and Stephen Graham Tallentyre. With 50 Illustrations by E. Courboin. In One Volume, crown 8vo (uniform with "Woman through a Man's Eyeglass" and "The Old Maid's Club").

THE ART OF TAKING A WIFE. By Professor Mantegazza. Translated from the Italian. In One Volume. Crown 8vo.

THE SALON; or Letters on Art, Music, Popular Life, and Politics. By Heinrich Heine. Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland. Crown 8vo (Heine's Works, Vol. 4).

THE BOOK OF SONGS. By Heinrich Heine. Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland. Crown 8vo (Heine's Works, Vol. 9).

THE WORKS OF HEINRICH HEINE. Large Paper Edition, limited to 100 Numbered Copies. Price 15s. per volume net, sold only to subscribers for the complete work. Vols. I. II. and III. are now ready.

LIFE OF HEINRICH HEINE. By Richard Garnett, LL.D. With Portrait. Crown 8vo (uniform with the translation of Heine's Works).

LITTLE JOHANNES. By Frederick van Eeden. Translated from the Dutch by Clara Bell. With an Introduction by Andrew Lang. Illustrated.

STRAY MEMORIES. By Ellen Terry. In one volume. 4to. Illustrated.

SONGS ON STONE. By J. McNeill Whistler. A series of lithographic drawings in colour, by Mr. Whistler, will appear from time to time in parts, under the above title. Each containing four plates. The first issue of 200 copies will be sold at Two Guineas net per part, by Subscription for the Series only.

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A Series of Volumes by Eminent Writers, presenting in their entirety "A Biographical History of Education."

The Times.—"A Series of Monographs on 'The Great Educators' should prove of service to all who concern themselves with the history, theory, and practice of education."

The Speaker.—"There is a promising sound about the title of Mr. Heinemann's new series, 'The Great Educators.' It should help to allay the hunger and thirst for knowledge and culture of the vast multitude of young men and maidens which our educational system turns out yearly, provided at least with an appetite for instruction."

Each subject will form a complete volume, crown 8vo, 5s.

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ARISTOTLE, and the Ancient Educational Ideals. Thomas Davidson, M.A., LL.D.

The Times.—"A very readable sketch of a very interesting subject."

LOYOLA, and the Educational System of the Jesuits. By Rev. Thomas Hughes, S.J.

Saturday Review.—"Full of valuable information.... If a schoolmaster would learn how the education of the young can be carried on so as to confer real dignity on those engaged in it, we recommend him to read Mr. Hughes' book."

ALCUIN, and the Rise of the Christian Schools. By Professor Andrew F. West, Ph.D.

FROEBEL, and Education by Self-Activity. By H. Courthope Bowen, M.A.

ABELARD, and the Origin and Early History of Universities. By Jules Gabriel Compayre, Professor in the Faculty of Toulouse.

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ROUSSEAU; or, Education according to Nature.

HERBART; or, Modern German Education.

PESTALOZZI; or, the Friend and Student of Children

HORACE MANN, and Public Education in the United States. By Nicholas Murray Butler, Ph.D.

BELL, LANCASTER, and ARNOLD; or, the English Education of To-Day. By J. G. Fitch, LL.D., Her Majesty's Inspector of Schools.

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VICTORIA: Queen and Empress. By John Cordy Jeaffreson, Author of "The Real Lord Byron," &c. In Two Volumes, 8vo. With Portraits. £1 10s.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON: a Study of his Life and Work. By Arthur Waugh, B.A. Oxon. With Twenty Illustrations, from Photographs Specially Taken for this Work, and Five Portraits. Second Edition, Revised. In One Volume, demy 8vo, 10s. 6d.

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS IN THE SECRET SERVICE. The Recollections of a Spy. By Major Le Caron. Eighth Edition. In One Volume, 8vo. With Portraits and Facsimiles. Price 14s.

RECOLLECTIONS OF COUNT LEO TOLSTOY. Together with a Letter to the Women of France on the "Kreutzer Sonata." By C. A. Behrs. Translated from the Russian by C. E. Turner, English Lecturer in the University of St. Petersburg. In One Volume, 8vo. With Portrait. 10s. 6d.

THE GREAT WAR IN 189—. A Forecast. By Rear-Admiral Colomb, Col. Maurice, R.A., Captain Maude, Archibald Forbes, Charles Lowe, D. Christie Murray, and F. Scudamore. In One Volume, large 8vo. With numerous Illustrations, 12s. 6d.

THE FAMILY LIFE OF HEINRICH HEINE. Illustrated by one hundred and twenty-two hitherto unpublished letters addressed by him to different members of his family. Edited by his nephew Baron Ludwig Von Embden, and translated by Charles Godfrey Leland. In One Volume, 8vo. With 4 Portraits. 12s. 6d.

THE WORKS OF HEINRICH HEINE. Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland, M.A., F.R.L.S. (Hans Breitmann.) Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s. per Volume.

Times.—"We can recommend no better medium for making acquaintance at first hand with 'the German Aristophanes' than the works of Heinrich Heine, translated by Charles Godfrey Leland. Mr. Leland manages pretty successfully to preserve the easy grace of the original."

I. FLORENTINE NIGHTS, SCHNABELEWOPSKI, THE RABBI OF BACHARACH, and SHAKESPEARE'S MAIDENS AND WOMEN.

II., III. PICTURES OF TRAVEL. 1823-1828. In Two Volumes.

IV. THE SALON.

V., VI. GERMANY. In Two Volumes.

VII., VIII. FRENCH AFFAIRS. Letters from Paris 1832, and Lutetia. In Two Vols.

IX. THE BOOK OF SONGS. [Others in preparation.

THE OLD MAIDS' CLUB. By I. Zangwill, Author of "The Bachelors' Club." Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.

WOMAN—THROUGH A MAN'S EYEGLASS. By Malcolm C. Salaman. With Illustrations by Dudley Hardy. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.

GIRLS AND WOMEN. By E. Chester. Pott 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d., or gilt extra, 3s. 6d.

GOSSIP IN A LIBRARY. By Edmund Gosse, Author of "Northern Studies," &c. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 7s. 6d.

THE LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. By Henrik Jæger. Translated by Clara Bell. With the Verse done into English from the Norwegian Original by Edmund Gosse. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

DE QUINCEY MEMORIALS. Being Letters and other Records here first Published, with Communications from Coleridge, The Wordsworths, Hannah More, Professor Wilson and others. Edited with Introduction, Notes, and Narrative, by Alexander H. Japp, LL.D. F.R.S.E. In two volumes, demy 8vo, cloth, with portraits, 30s. net.

THE POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY. Edited with Introduction and Notes from the Author's Original MSS., by Alexander H. Japp, LL.D., F.R.S.E., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. each.

I. SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS. With other Essays.

II. CONVERSATION AND COLERIDGE. With other Essays.

STUDIES OF RELIGIOUS HISTORY. By Ernest Renan, late of the French Academy. In One Volume, 8vo, 7s. 6d.

THE ARBITRATOR'S MANUAL. Under the London Chamber of Arbitration. Being a Practical Treatise on the Power and Duties of an Arbitrator, with the Rules and Procedure of the Court of Arbitration, and the Forms. By Joseph Seymour Salaman, Author of "Trade Marks," etc. Fcap. 8vo, 3s. 6d.

THE GENTLE ART OF MAKING ENEMIES. As pleasingly exemplified in many instances, wherein the serious ones of this earth, carefully exasperated, have been prettily spurred on to indiscretions and unseemliness, while overcome by an undue sense of right. By J. M'Neill Whistler. A New Edition. Pott 4to, half-cloth, 10s. 6d.

THE JEW AT HOME. Impressions of a Summer and Autumn Spent with Him in Austria and Russia. By Joseph Pennell. With Illustrations by the Author. 4to, cloth, 5s.

THE NEW EXODUS. A Study of Israel in Russia. By Harold Frederic. Demy 8vo. Illustrated. 16s.

PRINCE BISMARCK. An Historical Biography. By Charles Lowe, M.A. With Portraits. Crown 8vo, 6s.

QUEEN JOANNA I. OF NAPLES, SICILY, AND JERUSALEM; Countess of Provence Forcalquier, and Piedmont. An Essay on her Times. By St. Clair Baddeley. Imperial 8vo. With Numerous Illustrations. 16s.

THE COMING TERROR. And other Essays and Letters. By Robert Buchanan. Second Edition. Demy 8vo, cloth, 12s. 6d.

ARABIC AUTHORS: A Manual of Arabian History and Literature. By F. F. Arbuthnot, M.R.A.S., Author of "Early Ideas," "Persian Portraits," &c. 8vo, cloth, 5s.

THE LABOUR MOVEMENT IN AMERICA. By Richard T. Ely, Ph.D., Associate in Political Economy, Johns Hopkins University. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

THE LITTLE MANX NATION. (Lectures delivered at the Royal Institution, 1891.) By Hall Caine, Author of "The Bondman," "The Scapegoat," &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.; paper, 2s. 6d.

NOTES FOR THE NILE. Together with a Metrical Rendering of the Hymns of Ancient Egypt and of the Precepts of Ptah-hotep (the oldest book in the world). By Hardwicke D. Rawnsley, M.A. 16mo, cloth, 5s.

DENMARK: Its History, Topography, Language, Literature, Fine Arts, Social Life, and Finance. Edited by H. Weitemeyer. Demy 8vo, cloth, with Map, 12s. 6d.

THE REALM OF THE HABSBURGS. By Sidney Whitman, Author of "Imperial Germany." In One Volume. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d.

IMPERIAL GERMANY. A Critical Study of Fact and Character. By Sidney Whitman. New Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Crown 8vo, cloth 2s. 6d.; paper, 2s.

THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS. By Professor R. L. Garner. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d.

THE WORD OF THE LORD UPON THE WATERS. Sermons read by His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Germany, while at Sea on his Voyages to the Land of the Midnight Sun. Composed by Dr. Richter, Army Chaplain, and Translated from the German by John R. Mcilraith. 4to, cloth, 2s. 6d.

THE HOURS OF RAPHAEL, IN OUTLINE. Together with the Ceiling of the Hall where they were originally painted. By Mary E. Williams. Folio, cloth, £2 2s. net.

THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU, 1890. By F. W. Farrar, D.D., F.R.S., Archdeacon and Canon of Westminster, &c. &c. 4to, cloth, 2s. 6d.

THE GARDEN'S STORY; or, Pleasures and Trials of an Amateur Gardener. By G. H. Ellwanger. With an Introduction by the Rev. C. Wolley Dod. 12mo, cloth, with Illustrations, 5s.

IDLE MUSINGS: Essays in Social Mosaic. By E. Conder Gray, Author of "Wise Words and Loving Deeds," &c. &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

THE CANADIAN GUIDE-BOOK. Part I. The Tourist's and Sportsman's Guide to Eastern Canada and Newfoundland, including full descriptions of Routes, Cities, Points of Interest, Summer Resorts, Fishing Places, &c., in Eastern Ontario, The Muskoka District, The St. Lawrence Region, The Lake St. John Country, The Maritime Provinces, Prince Edward Island, and Newfoundland. With an Appendix giving Fish and Game Laws, and Official Lists of Trout and Salmon Rivers and their Lessees. By Charles G. D. Roberts, Professor of English Literature in King's College, Windsor, N.S. With Maps and many Illustrations. Crown 8vo, limp cloth, 6s.

Part II. WESTERN CANADA. Including the Peninsula and Northern Regions of Ontario, the Canadian Shores of the Great Lakes, the Lake of the Woods Region, Manitoba and "The Great North-West," The Canadian Rocky Mountains and National Park, British Columbia, and Vancouver Island. By Ernest Ingersoll. With Maps and many Illustrations. Crown 8vo, limp cloth, 6s.

THE GENESIS OF THE UNITED STATES. A Narrative of the Movement in England, 1605-1616, which resulted in the Plantation of North America by Englishmen, disclosing the Contest between England and Spain for the Possession of the Soil now occupied by the United States of America; set forth through a series of Historical Manuscripts now first printed, together with a Re-issue of Rare Contemporaneous Tracts, accompanied by Bibliographical Memoranda, Notes, and Brief Biographies. Collected, Arranged, and Edited by Alexander Brown, F.R.H.S. With 100 Portraits, Maps, and Plans. In two volumes. Royal 8vo. Buckram, £3 13s. 6d.

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KITTY'S FATHER. By Frank Barrett, Author of "The Admirable Lady Biddy Fane," &c.

THE HEAVENLY TWINS. By Sarah Grand, Author of "Ideala," &c.

ORIOLE'S DAUGHTER. By Jessie Fothergill, Author of "The First Violin," &c. [Just ready.

THE LAST SENTENCE. By Maxwell Gray, Author of "The Silence of Dean Maitland," &c. [In April.

THE COUNTESS RADNA. By W. E. Norris, Author of "Matrimony," &c. [In May.

BENEFITS FORGOT. By Wolcott Balestier. [In June.

THE HOYDEN. By Mrs. Hungerford. [In July.

AS A MAN IS ABLE. By Dorothy Leighton. [In preparation.

A COMEDY OF MASKS. By Ernest Dowson and Arthur Moore. [In preparation.

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WOMAN AND THE MAN. A Love Story. By Robert Buchanan, Author of "Come Live with Me and be My Love," "The Moment After," "The Coming Terror," &c. [In preparation.

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THE NAULAHKA. A Tale of West and East. By Rudyard Kipling and Wolcott Balestier. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. Second Edition.

AVENGED ON SOCIETY. By H. F. Wood, Author of "The Englishman of the Rue Cain," "The Passenger from Scotland Yard." Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

THE O'CONNORS OF BALLINAHINCH. By Mrs. Hungerford, Author of "Molly Bawn," &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

PASSION THE PLAYTHING. A Novel. By R. Murray Gilchrist. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

THE SECRET OF NARCISSE. By Edmund Gosse. Crown 8vo, 5s.

ACCORDING TO ST. JOHN. By Amélie Rives, Author of "The Quick or the Dead." Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

THE PENANCE OF PORTIA JAMES. By Tasma, Author of "Uncle Piper of Piper's Hill," &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

INCONSEQUENT LIVES. A Village Chronicle, shewing how certain folk set out for El Dorado; what they attempted; and what they attained. By J. H. Pearce, Author of "Esther Pentreath," &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

A QUESTION OF TASTE. By Maarten Maartens, Author of "An Old Maid's Love," &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

COME LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE. By Robert Buchanan, Author of "The Moment After," "The Coming Terror," &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

VANITAS. By Vernon Lee, Author of "Hauntings," &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

THE DOMINANT SEVENTH. A Musical Story. By Kate Elizabeth Clarke. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

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THE TOWER OF TADDEO. By Ouida, Author of "Two Little Wooden Shoes," &c. New Edition.

CHILDREN OF THE GHETTO. By I. Zangwill, Author of "The Old Maids' Club," &c. New Edition.

A BATTLE AND A BOY. By Blanche Willis Howard, Author of "Guenn," &c.

WRECKERS AND METHODISTS. By H. D. Lowry.

MR. BAILEY MARTIN. By Percy White.

APPASSIONATA: The Story of a Musician. By Elsa D'esterre Keeling.

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New Review.—"If you have any pernicious remnants of literary chauvinism I hope it will not survive the series of foreign classics of which Mr. William Heinemann, aided by Mr. Edmund Gosse, is publishing translations to the great contentment of all lovers of literature."

IN GOD'S WAY. From the Norwegian of Björnstjerne Björnson.

Athenæum.—"Without doubt the most important and the most interesting work published during the twelve months."

PIERRE AND JEAN. From the French of Guy de Maupassant.

Pall Mall Gazette.—"Admirable from beginning to end."

Athenæum.—"Ranks amongst the best gems of modern French fiction."

THE CHIEF JUSTICE. From the German of Karl Emil Franzos, Author of "For the Right," &c.

New Review.—"Few novels of recent times have a more sustained and vivid human interest."

WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT. From the Russian of Count Leo Tolstoy.

Manchester Guardian.—"Readable and well translated; full of high and noble feeling."

FANTASY. From the Italian of Matilde Serao.

Scottish Leader.—"The book is full of a glowing and living realism.... There is nothing like 'Fantasy' in modern literature."

FROTH. From the Spanish of Don Armando Palacio-Valdés.

Daily Telegraph.—"Vigorous and powerful in the highest degree."

FOOTSTEPS OF FATE. From the Dutch of Louis Couperus.

Gentlewoman.—"The consummate art of the writer prevents this tragedy from sinking to melodrama. Not a single situation is forced or a circumstance exaggerated."

PEPITA JIMÉNEZ. From the Spanish of Juan Valera.

New Review (Mr. George Saintsbury):—"There is no doubt at all that it is one of the best stories that have appeared in any country in Europe for the last twenty years."

THE COMMODORE'S DAUGHTERS. From the Norwegian of Jonas Lie.

Athenæum.—"Everything that Jonas Lie writes is attractive and pleasant; the plot of deeply human interest, and the art noble."

THE HERITAGE OF THE KURTS. From the Norwegian of Björnstjerne Björnson.

National Observer.—"It is a book to read and a book to think about, for, incontestably, it is the work of a man of genius."

LOU. From the German of Baron Alexander Von Roberts.

DONA LUZ. From the Spanish of Juan Valera.

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WITHOUT DOGMA. From the Polish of H. Sienkiewicz.

MOTHER'S HANDS, and other Stories. From the Norwegian of Björnstjerne Björnson.

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CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON, The Blind Mother, and The Last Confession. By Hall Caine, Author of "The Bondman," "The Scapegoat," &c.

THE SCAPEGOAT. By Hall Caine, Author of "The Bondman," &c.

Mr. Gladstone writes:—"I congratulate you upon 'The Scapegoat' as a work of art, and especially upon the noble and skilfully drawn character of Israel."

Times.—"In our judgment it excels in dramatic force all his previous efforts. For grace and touching pathos Naomi is a character which any romancist in the world might be proud to have created."

THE BONDMAN. A New Saga. By Hall Caine. Twentieth Thousand.

Mr. Gladstone.—"'The Bondman' is a work of which I recognise the freshness, vigour, and sustained interest no less than its integrity of aim."

Standard.—"Its argument is grand, and it is sustained with a power that is almost marvellous."

DESPERATE REMEDIES. By Thomas Hardy, Author of "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," &c.

Saturday Review.—"A remarkable story worked out with abundant skill."

A LITTLE MINX. By Ada Cambridge, Author of "A Marked Man," &c.

A MARKED MAN: Some Episodes in his Life. By ADA CAMBRIDGE, Author of "Two Years' Time," "A Mere Chance," &c.

Morning Post.—"A depth of feeling, a knowledge of the human heart, and an amount of tact that one rarely finds. Should take a prominent place among the novels of the season."

THE THREE MISS KINGS. By Ada Cambridge, Author of "A Marked Man."

Athenæum.—"A charming study of character. The love stories are excellent, and the author is happy in tender situations."

NOT ALL IN VAIN. By Ada Cambridge, Author of "A Marked Man," "The Three Miss Kings," &c.

Guardian.—"A clever and absorbing story."

Queen.—"All that remains to be said is 'read the book.'"

A KNIGHT OF THE WHITE FEATHER. By Tasma, Author of "The Penance of Portia James," "Uncle Piper of Piper's Hill," &c.

UNCLE PIPER OF PIPER'S HILL. By Tasma. New Popular Edition.

Guardian.—"Every page of it contains good wholesome food, which demands and repays digestion. The tale itself is thoroughly charming, and all the characters are delightfully drawn. We strongly recommend all lovers of wholesome novels to make acquaintance with it themselves, and are much mistaken if they do not heartily thank us for the introduction."

THE RETURN OF THE O'MAHONY. By Harold Frederic, Author of "In the Valley," &c. With Illustrations.

IN THE VALLEY. By Harold Frederic, Author of "The Lawton Girl," "Seth's Brother's Wife," &c. With Illustrations.

Times.—"The literary value of the book is high; the author's studies of bygone life presenting a life-like picture."

PRETTY MISS SMITH. By Florence Warden, Author of "The House on the Marsh," "A Witch of the Hills," &c.

Punch.—"Since Miss Florence Warden's 'House on the Marsh,' I have not read a more exciting tale."

THE STORY OF A PENITENT SOUL. Being the Private Papers of Mr. Stephen Dart, late Minister at Lynnbridge, in the County of Lincoln. By Adeline Sergeant, Author of "No Saint," &c.

NOR WIFE, NOR MAID. By Mrs. Hungerford, Author of "Molly Bawn," &c.

Queen.—"It has all the characteristics of the writer's work, and greater emotional depth than most of its predecessors."

Scotsman.—"Delightful reading, supremely interesting."

MAMMON. A Novel. By Mrs. Alexander, Author of "The Wooing O't," &c.

Scotsman.—"The present work is not behind any of its predecessors. 'Mammon' is a healthy story, and as it has been thoughtfully written it has the merit of creating thought in its readers."

DAUGHTERS OF MEN. By Hannah Lynch, Author of "The Prince of the Glades," &c.

Daily Telegraph.—"Singularly clever and fascinating."

Academy.—"One of the cleverest, if not also the pleasantest, stories that have appeared for a long time."

A ROMANCE OF THE CAPE FRONTIER. By Bertram Mitford, Author of "Through the Zulu Country," &c.

Observer.—"This is a rattling tale, genial, healthy, and spirited."

'TWEEN SNOW AND FIRE. A Tale of the Kafir War of 1877. By Bertram Mitford.

THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS. By ELIZABETH Stuart Phelps and Herbert D. Ward.

Athenæum.—"A thrilling story."

THE HEAD OF THE FIRM. By Mrs. Riddell, Author of "George Geith," "Maxwell Drewett," &c. [In preparation.

THE AVERAGE WOMAN. By Wolcott Balestier. With an Introduction by Henry James.

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL, and Other Sketches of War. By Emile Zola. With an essay on the short stories of M. Zola by Edmund Gosse.

WRECKAGE, and other Stories. By Hubert Crackanthorpe.

MADEMOISELLE MISS, and Other Stories. By Henry Harland, Author of "Mea Culpa," &c. [In the Press.

LOS CERRITOS. A Romance of the Modern Time. By GERTRUDE FRANKLIN ATHERTON, Author of "Hermia Suydam," and "What Dreams May Come."

Athenæum.—"Full of fresh fancies and suggestions. Told with strength and delicacy. A decidedly charming romance."

A MODERN MARRIAGE. By the Marquise CLARA LANZA.

Queen.—"A powerful story, dramatically and consistently carried out."

Black and White.—"A decidedly clever book."

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MADAME VALERIE. By F. C. Philips, Author of "As in a Looking-Glass," &c.

THE MOMENT AFTER: A Tale of the Unseen. By Robert Buchanan.

Athenæum.—"Should be read—in daylight."

Observer.—"A clever tour de force."

Guardian.—"Particularly impressive, graphic, and powerful."

CLUES; or, Leaves from a Chief Constable's Note-Book. By William Henderson, Chief Constable of Edinburgh.

Mr. Gladstone.—"I found the book full of interest."

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THE MASTER BUILDER. A Play in Three Acts. By Henrik Ibsen. Translated from the Norwegian by Edmund Gosse and William Archer. Small 4to, with Portrait, 5s. [Just ready.

A NEW PLAY. By Björnstjerne Björnson. Translated from the Norwegian. [In preparation.

THE PRINCESSE MALEINE: A Drama in Five Acts (Translated by Gerard Harry), and THE INTRUDER: A Drama in One Act. By Maurice Maeterlinck. With an Introduction by Hall Caine, and a Portrait of the Author. Small 4to, cloth, 5s.

Athenæum.—"In the creation of the 'atmosphere' of the play M. Maeterlinck shows his skill. It is here that he communicates to us the nouveau frisson, here that he does what no one else has done. In 'The Intruder' the art consists of the subtle gradations of terror, the slow, creeping progress of the nightmare of apprehension. Nothing quite like it has been done before—not even by Poe—not even by Villiers."

THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT: A Comedy in Four Acts. By Count Lyof Tolstoy. Translated from the Russian by E. J. Dillon. With Introduction by A. W. Pinero. Small 4to, with Portrait, 5s.

Pall Mall Gazette.—"The whole effect of the play is distinctly Molièresque; it has something of the large humanity of the master. Its satire is genial, almost gay."

HEDDA GABLER: A Drama in Four Acts. By Henrik Ibsen. Translated from the Norwegian by Edmund Gosse. Small 4to, cloth, with Portrait, 5s. Vaudeville Edition, paper, 1s. Also a Limited Large Paper Edition, 21s. net.

Times.—"The language in which this play is couched is a model of brevity, decision, and pointedness.... Every line tells, and there is not an incident that does not bear on the action immediate or remote. As a corrective to the vapid and foolish writing with which the stage is deluged 'Hedda Gabler' is perhaps entitled to the place of honour."

THE DRAMA, ADDRESSES. By Henry Irving. Fcap. 8vo. With Portrait by J. McN. Whistler. 3s. 6d. Second Edition.

SOME INTERESTING FALLACIES OF THE MODERN STAGE. An Address delivered to the Playgoers' Club at St. James's Hall, on Sunday, 6th December, 1891. By Herbert Beerbohm Tree. Crown 8vo, sewed, 6d.

THE LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. By Henrik Jæger. Translated by Clara Bell. With the Verse done into English from the Norwegian Original by Edmund Gosse. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

St. James's Gazette.—"Admirably translated. Deserves a cordial and emphatic welcome."

Guardian.—"Ibsen's dramas at present enjoy a considerable vogue, and their admirers will rejoice to find full descriptions and criticisms in Mr. Jæger's book."

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THE TIMES: A Comedy in Four Acts. With a Preface by the Author. (Vol. I.)

Daily Telegraph.—"'The Times' is the best example yet given of Mr. Pinero's power as a satirist. So clever is his work that it beats down opposition. So fascinating is his style that we cannot help listening to him."

Morning Post.—"Mr. Pinero's latest belongs to a high order of dramatic literature, and the piece will be witnessed again with all the greater zest after the perusal of such admirable dialogue."

THE PROFLIGATE: A Play in Four Acts. With Portrait of the Author, after J. Mordecai. (Vol. II.)

Pall Mall Gazette.—"Will be welcomed by all who have the true interests of the stage at heart."

THE CABINET MINISTER: A Farce in Four Acts. (Vol. III.)

Observer.—"It is as amusing to read as it was when played."

THE HOBBY HORSE: A Comedy in Three Acts. (Vol. IV.)

St. James's Gazette.—"Mr. Pinero has seldom produced better or more interesting work than in 'The Hobby Horse.'"

LADY BOUNTIFUL: A Play in Four Acts. (Vol. V.)

THE MAGISTRATE: A Farce in Three Acts. (Vol. VI.)

DANDY DICK: A Farce in Three Acts. (Vol. VII.)

SWEET LAVENDER. (Vol. VIII.)

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LOVE SONGS OF ENGLISH POETS, 1500-1800 With Notes by Ralph H. Caine. Fcap. 8vo, rough edges, 3s. 6d.

IVY AND PASSION FLOWER: Poems. By Gerard Bendall, Author of "Estelle," &c. &c. 12mo, cloth, 3s. 6d.

Scotsman.—"Will be read with pleasure."

Musical World.—"The poems are delicate specimens of art, graceful and polished."

VERSES. By Gertrude Hall. 12mo, cloth, 3s. 6d.

Manchester Guardian.—"Will be welcome to every lover of poetry who takes it up."

IDYLLS OF WOMANHOOD. By C. Amy Dawson. Fcap. 8vo, gilt top, 5s.

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MANUAL OF BACTERIOLOGY. By A. B. Griffiths, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S. Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated. 7s. 6d.

Pharmaceutical Journal.—"The subject is treated more thoroughly and completely than in any similar work published in this country.... It should prove a useful aid to pharmacists, and all others interested in the increasingly important subject of which it treats, and particularly so to those possessing little or no previous knowledge concerning the problems of micro-biology."

MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, AND LEAD ORES. By Walter Lee Brown, B.Sc. Revised, Corrected, and considerably Enlarged, with a chapter on the Assaying of Fuel, &c. By A. B. Griffiths, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S. Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated, 7s. 6d.

Colliery Guardian.—"A delightful and fascinating book."

Financial World.—"The most complete and practical manual on everything which concerns assaying of all which have come before us."

GEODESY. By J. Howard Gore. Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated, 5s.

St. James's Gazette.—"The book may be safely recommended to those who desire to acquire an accurate knowledge of Geodesy."

Science Gossip.—"It is the best we could recommend to all geodetic students. It is full and clear, thoroughly accurate, and up to date in all matters of earth-measurements."

THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES. By Arthur L. Kimball, of the Johns Hopkins University. Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated, 5s.

Chemical News.—"The man of culture who wishes for a general and accurate acquaintance with the physical properties of gases, will find in Mr. Kimball's work just what he requires."

HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY. By Professor R. H. Thurston, of Cornell University. Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated, 5s.

Manchester Examiner.—"Bears out the character of its predecessors for careful and correct statement and deduction under the light of the most recent discoveries."

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