 Act First of Little A.O.F. by Henry Gibson, translated by William Arthur. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Alfred Olmers, read by Bruce Peary. Rita Olmers, read by Elizabeth Clutt. A.O.F. read by Katie Riley. Miss Asta Olmers, read by Ariel Lipshaw. Engineer Borgheim. Read by M.B. The Rat Wife. Read by Ruth Golding. Narrator Stage Directions. Read by Nadine Gertboulet. Act First. A pretty and richly decorated garden room, full of furniture, flowers and plants. At the back, open glass doors leading out to a veranda. An extensive view over the fjord. In the distance, wooded hillsides. The door in each of the sidewalls, the one on the right, a folding door, placed far back. In front of the right, a sofa with cushions and rugs. Beside the sofa, a small table and chairs. In front, on the left, a larger table with armchairs rounded. On the table stands an open handbag. It is an early summer morning with warm sunshine. Mrs. Rita Olmers stands beside the table, facing towards the left, engaged in unpacking the bag. She is a handsome, rather tall, well-developed blonde, about 30 years of age, dressed in a light-colored morning gown. Shortly after, Miss Asta Olmers enters by the door on the right, wearing a light-brown summer dress with hat, jacket and parasol. Under her arm, she carries a locked portfolio of considerable size. She is slim, of middle height, with dark hair and deep, earnest eyes, 25 years old. As she enters... Good morning, my dear Rita. ...turns her head and nods to her. What is that you, Asta? Come all the way from town so early. ...takes off her things and lays them on a chair beside the door. Yes, such a restless feeling came over me. I felt I must come out today and see how little Aof was getting on, and you too. Lays the portfolio on the table beside the sofa. So I took the steamer and here I am, smiling to her. And I dare say you met one or other of your friends on board, quite by chance, of course. No, I did not meet a soul I knew. Sees the bag. Why, Rita, what have you got there? Still unpacking. Alfred's traveling bag, don't you recognize it? Joyfully approaching her. What? Has Alfred come home? Yes, only think he came quite unexpectedly by the late train last night. Oh, then that was what my feeling meant. It was that that drew me out here, and he hadn't written a line to let you know. Not even a postcard? Not a single word. Did he not even telegraph? Yes, an hour before he arrived, quite curtly and coldly. Don't you think that was like him, Asta? Yes, he goes so quietly about everything. But that made it all the more delightful to have him again. Yes, I am sure it would. A whole fortnight before I expected him. And is he quite well, not in low spirits? Closes the bag with a snap and smiles at her. He looked quite transfigured as he stood in the doorway. And was he not the least bit tired, either? Oh, yes, he seemed to be tired enough. Very tired, in fact. But, poor fellow, he had come on foot the greater part of the way. And then perhaps the high mountain air may have been rather too keen for him. Oh, no, I don't think so at all. I haven't heard him cough once. Ah, there you see now. It was a good thing, after all, that the doctor talked him into taking this tour. Yes, now that it is safely over. But I can tell you, it has been a terrible time for me, Asta. I have never cared to talk about it. And you so seldom came out to see me, too. Yes, I dare say that wasn't very nice of me, but— Well, well, well, of course you had your school to attend to in town. Smiling. And then our road-maker friend—of course he was away, too. Oh, don't talk like that, Rita. Very well, then, we will leave the road-maker out of the question. Oh, you can't think how I have been longing for Alfred. How empty the place seemed! How desolate! Oh, it felt as if there had been a funeral in the house. Why, dear me, only six or seven weeks. Yes, but you must remember that Alfred has never been away from me before. Never so much as twenty-four hours. Not once in all these ten years. No, but that is just why I really think it was high time he should have a little outing this year. He ought to have gone for a tramp in the mountains every summer. He really ought. Have smiling. Oh, yes, it's all very well for you to talk. If I were as—as reasonable as you, I suppose I should have let him go before. Perhaps. But I positively could not, Asta. It seemed to me I should never get him back again. Surely you can understand that. No. But I dare say that is because I have no one to lose. With a teasing smile. Really? No one at all? Not that I know of. Changing the subject. But tell me, Rita, where is Alfred? Is he still asleep? Oh, not at all. He got up as early as ever today. Then he can't have been so very tired after all. Yes, he was last night when he arrived. But now he has had little A.O.F. with him in his room for a whole hour and more. Poor little white-faced boy. Hands he to be forever at his lessons again. With a slight shrug. Alfred will have it so, you know. Yes, but I think you ought to put down your foot about it, Rita. Oh, no. Come now. I really cannot meddle with that. Alfred knows so much better about these things than I do. And what would you have A.O.F. do? He can't run about in play, you see. Like other children. I will talk to Alfred about this. Yes, do. I wish you would. Oh, here he is. Alfred Olmos, dressed in light summer clothes, enters by the door on the left, leading A.O.F. by the hand. He is a slim, lightly-built man of about thirty-six or thirty-seven, with gentle eyes and thin brow hair and beard. His expression is serious and thoughtful. A.O.F. wears a suit cut like a uniform with gold braid and gilt military buttons. He is lame and walks with a crutch under his left arm. His leg is shrunken. He is undersized and looks delicate, but has beautiful, intelligent eyes. Drops A.O.F.'s hand, goes up to A.O.F. with an expression of marked pleasure and holds out both his hands to her. A.O.F. my dearest A.O.F. to think of your coming, to think of my seeing you so soon. I felt I must. Welcome home again. Shake in her hands. Thank you for coming. Doesn't he look well? Gaze as fixedly at him. Splendid. Quite splendid. His eyes are so much brighter, and I suppose you have done a great deal of writing on your travels. I shouldn't wonder if you had finished the whole book, Alfred. Shrugging his shoulders. The book? Oh, the book. Yes, I would sure you would find it go so easily when once you got away. So I thought too, but, you know, I didn't find it so at all. The truth is I have not written a line of the book. Not a line? Oh, ho! I wondered when I found all the paper lying untouched in your bag. But, my dear Alfred, what have you been doing all this time? Smiling. Only thinking and thinking and thinking. Putting Aram around his neck. And thinking a little too of those you had left at home. Yes, you may be sure of that. I have thought a great deal of you every single day. Taking Aram away. That is all I care about. But you haven't even touched the book, and yet you can look so happy and contented. That is not what you generally do. I mean when your work is going badly. You are right there. You see, I have been such a fool hitherto. All the best that is in you goes into thinking. What you put on paper is worth very little. Worth very little? What an absurd thing to say, Alfred. Looks confidingly up at him. Oh, yes, Papa. What you write is worth a great deal. Smiling and stroking his hair. Well, well, since you say so. But I can tell you, someone is coming after me, who will do it better. Who can that be? Oh, tell me. Only wait. You may be sure he will come and let us hear of him. And what will you do then? Then I will go to the mountains again. Fine, Alfred, for shame. Up to the peaks and the great waste places. Papa, don't you think I shall soon be well enough for you to take me with you? With painful emotion. Oh, yes, perhaps, my little boy. It would be so splendid, you know, if I could climb the mountains like you. Changing the subject. Why, how beautifully you are dressed today, A.A. off. Yes, don't you think so, Auntie? Yes, indeed. Is it in honor of Papa that you have got your new clothes on? Yes, I asked Mama to let me. I wanted so to let Papa see me in them. Toreta. You shouldn't have given him clothes like that. In low voice. Oh, he's teased me so long about them. He'd set his heart on them. He gave me no peace. And I forgot to tell you, Papa. Burkheim has brought me a new bow. And he has taught me how to shoot with it, too. Ah, there now. That's just the sort of thing for you, A.A. off. And next time he comes, I shall ask him to teach me to swim, too. To swim? Oh, what makes you want to learn swimming? Well, you know all the boys down at the beach can swim. I am the only one that can't. The emotion, taking him in his arms. You shall learn whatever you like, everything you really want to. Then do you know what I want most of all, Papa? No, tell me. I want most of all to be a soldier. Oh, little A.A. off, there are many, many other things that are better than that. Ah, but when I grow big, then I shall have to be a soldier. You know that, don't you? Clenching his hands together. Well, well, well, we shall see. She's sitting herself at the table on the left. A.A. off, come here to me and I will tell you something. Goes up to her. What is it, Auntie? What do you think, A.A. off? I have seen the rat-wife. What? Seen the rat-wife? You're only making a fool of me. No, it's quite true. I saw her yesterday. Where did you see her? I saw her on the road outside the town. I saw her, too, somewhere up in the country. Who is sitting on the sofa? It's our turn to see her next, A.A. off. Auntie, isn't it strange that she should be called the rat-wife? Oh, people just give her that name because she wanders round the country driving away all the rats. I have heard that her real name is Varg. Varg? That means a wolf, doesn't it? Petting him on the head. So you know that, do you? Then perhaps it may be true, after all, that she is a werewolf at night. Do you believe that, Papa? Oh, no, I don't believe it. Now, you ought to go and play a little in the garden. Should I not take some books with me? No. No books after this. You would better go down to the beach to the other boys. No, Papa. I won't go down to the boys today. Why not? Oh, because I have these clothes on. Knitting his brows. Do you mean that they make fun of your pretty clothes? No. They dare not, for then I would trash them. Aha. Then why? You see, they are so naughty, these boys. And then they say I can never be a soldier. With suppressed indignation. Why do they say that, do you think? I suppose they are jealous of me. For you know, Papa, they are so poor. They have to go about barefoot. Softly. With choking voice. Oh, Rita, how it rings my heart. Soothingly. Rising. Oh, there, there, there. But these rascals shall soon find out who is the master down at the beach. There is someone knocking. Oh, I'm sure it's Borkheem. Come in. The rat-wife comes softly and noiselessly in by the door on the right. She is a thin little shrunken figure, old and grey-haired, with keen piercing eyes, dressed in an old-fashioned flowered gown with a black hood and cloak. She has in her hand a large red umbrella and carries a black bag by a loop over her arm. Softly, taking hold of her stress. Auntie, that must surely be her. Curt sighing at the door. I humbly beg pardon, but are your worships troubled with any annoying things in the house? Here, no, I don't think so. For it would be such a pleasure to me to rid your worship's house of them. Yes, yes, we understand, but we have nothing of the sort here. That's very unlucky, that is. For I just happen to be on my rounds now, and goodness knows when I may be in these parts again. Oh, how tired I am. Pointing to a chair. Yes, you look tired. I know one ought never to get tired of doing good to the poor little things that I hated and persecuted so cruelly. But it takes your strength out of you, it does. Won't you sit down and rest a little? I thank your ladyship with all my heart. Seats herself on a chair between the door and the sofa. I have been out all night at my work. Have you indeed? Yes, over on the islands. The people sent for me, I can assure you. They didn't like it a bit, but there was nothing else to be done. They had to put a good face on it and bite the sour apple. Looks at Ayov and nods. The sour apple, little master. The sour apple. Involuntarily, a little timidly. Why did they have to... What? To bite it. Why? Because they couldn't keep body and soul together on account of the rats. And all the little rat children you see, young master. Oh, poor people. Have they so many of them? Yes, it was all alive and swarming with them. They came, creepy, crawly up into the beds all night long. They plumped into the milk cans. And they went pittering and pattering all over the floor, backwards and forwards and up and down. I shall never go there, auntie. But then I came, I and another along with me. And we took them with us every one, their sweet little creatures. We made an end of every one of them. Papa, look, look. Good heavens, Ayov. What's the matter? Pointing there's something wriggling in the bag. At the extreme left, shrieks. Oh, send her away, Alfred. Oh, dearest lady, you needn't be frightened of such a little mannequin. But what is the thing? Why, it's only little mobsy man. Loosening the string of the bag. Come up out of the dark, my own little darling friend. A little dog with a brood-black snout pokes its head out of the bag, nodding and beckoning to Ayov. Come along, don't be afraid, my little wounded warrior. We won't bite. Come here. Come here. Clinging to Esther. No, I dare not. Don't you think he has a gentle, lovable countenance, my young master? Astonished, pointing. That thing there? Yes, this thing here. Almost under his breath, staring fixedly at the dog. I think he has the horriblest countenance I ever saw. Closing the bag. Oh, it will come. It will come right enough. Involuntarily drawing nearer, at last goes right up to her and strokes the bag. But he is lovely. Lovely all the same. In a tune of cushion. Ah, now he is so tired and weary, poor thing. He's utterly tired out he is. Looks at Ormus. For it takes the strength out of you, that sort of game I can tell you, sir. What sort of game do you mean? The luring game. Do you mean that it is the dog that lures the rats? Nodding. Mobsy man and I, we two do it together. And it goes so smoothly for all you can see at any rate. I just slip a string through his collar. And then I lead him three times round the house and play on my pants pipes. When they hear that, they have got to come up from the cellars and down from the garret and out of their holes all the blessed little creatures. And does he bite them to death then? Oh, not at all. No, we go down to the boat he and I do. And then they follow after us, both the big ones and the little ratty kin. And what then? Tell me. Then we push out from the land and the ice skull with one oar and play on my pants pipes. And mobsy man he swims behind. With glittering eyes. And all the creepers and crawlers they follow and follow us out into the deep, deep waters. For they have to. Why do they have to? Just because they want not to. Just because they are so deadly afraid of the water. That is why they have got to plunge into it. Are they drowned then? Every blessed one. And there it is all as still and soft and dark as their hearts can desire. The lovely little things. Down there they sleep along sweet sleep. With no one to hate them or persecute them anymore. Rizas. In the old days I can tell you I didn't need any mobsy man. Then I did the luring myself. I alone. And what did you lure then? Men. One most of all. Oh, who was that one? Tell me. It was my own sweetheart it was. Little heartbreaker. And where is he now then? Down where all the rats are. But now I must be off and get to business again. Always on the move. To Rita. So your ladyship has no sort of use for me today? I could finish it all off while I'm about it. No, thank you. I don't think we require anything. Well, well, your sweet ladyship you can never tell. If your ladyship should find that there is anything here that keeps nibbling and gnawing and creeping and crawling then just see and get hold of me and mobsy man. Goodbye. Goodbye. A kind goodbye to you all. She goes out by the door on the right. Softly and triumphantly to Esther. Only think aunty, now I have seen the rat-wife too. Rita goes out upon the veranda and fans herself with her pocket-hankerchief. Shortly afterwards A.F. slips cautiously and a note is out to the right. Takes up the portfolio from the table by the sofa. Is this your portfolio, Esther? Yes, I have some of the old letters in it. Ah, the family letters. You know you asked me to arrange them for you while you were away. That's her on the head. And you have actually found time to do that, dear. Oh, yes, I have done it partly out here and partly at my own rooms in town. Thanks, dear. Did you find anything particular in them? Oh, you know you're always finding something or other in such old papers. It is the letters to mother that are in this portfolio. Those, of course, you must keep yourself. With an effort. No, I am determined that you shall look through them too, Alfred. Sometime, later on in life. I haven't the key of the portfolio with me just now. It doesn't matter, my dear Asta, for I shall never read your mother's letters in any case. Fixing her eyes on him. Then some time or other. Some quiet evening. I will tell you a little of what is in them. Yes, that will be much better. But do you keep your mother's letters? You haven't so many mementos of her. He hands Asta the portfolio. She takes it and lays it on the chair under her outdoor things. Rita comes into the room again. I feel as if that horrible old woman had brought a sort of graveyard smell with her. Yes, she was rather horrible. I felt almost sick while she was in the room. However, I can very well understand the sort of spellbound fascination that she talked about. The loneliness of the mountain peaks and of the great waste places has something of the same magic about it. Looks attentively at him. What is it that has happened to you, Alfred? Smiling. To me? Yes, something has happened. Something seems almost to have transformed you. Rita noticed it too. Yes, I saw at the moment you came. A change for the better, I hope. Alfred? It ought to be for the better, and it must and shall come to good. You have had some adventure on your journey. Don't deny it. I can see it in your face. Shaking his head. No adventure in the world outwardly, at least. But... But? It is true that within me there has been something of a revolution. Oh heavens! Soothingly patting her hand. Only for the better, my dear Rita. You may be perfectly certain of that. Seats herself on the sofa. You must tell us all about it at once. Tell us everything. Turning to Asta. Yes, let us sit down too, Asta. Then I will try to tell you as well as I can. He seats himself on the sofa at Rita's side. Asta moves the chair forward and places herself near him, looking at him expectantly. Well? Gazing straight before him. When I look back over my life and my fortunes for the last ten or eleven years, it seems to me almost like a fairy tale or a dream. Don't you think so too, Asta? Yes, in many ways I think so. When I remember what we two used to be, Asta, we two poor orphan children. Oh, that is such an old, old story. Not listening to her. And now here I am in comfort and luxury. I have been able to follow my vocation. I have been able to work and study, just as I had always longed to. Holds out his hand. And all this great, this fabulous good fortune that we owe to you, my dearest Rita. I have playfully, have angrily, slaps his hand. I do wish you would stop talking like that. I speak of it only as a sort of introduction. Then do skip the introduction. Rita, you must not think it was the doctor's advice that drove me up to the mountains. Was it not, Alfred? What was it then? It was this. I found there was no more peace for me there in my study. No peace? Why, who disturbed you? Shake in his head. No one from without, but I felt as though I were positively abusing or, say, rather wasting my best powers, frittering away the time. With wide eyes. When you were writing it your book? Nothing. For I cannot think that my powers are confined to that alone. I must surely have it in me to do one or two other things as well. Was that what you sat there brooding over? Yes, mainly that. And so that is what has made you so discontented with yourself of late, and with the rest of us as well. For you know you were discontented, Alfred. Keezing straight before him. There I sat, bent over my table, day after day, and often half the night, too, writing and writing at the great thick book on human responsibility. Laying her hand upon his arm. But Alfred, that book is to be your life work. Yes, you have said so often enough. I thought so. Ever since I grew up I have thought so. With an affectionate expression in his eyes. And it was you that enabled me to devote myself to it, my dear Rita. Nonsense. Smiling to her. You, with your gold and your green forests. Half laughing, half vexed. If you begin all that rubbish again I shall beat you. Look insorrowfully at him. But the book, Alfred. It began as it were to drift away from me. But I was more and more beset by the thought of the higher duties that laid their claims upon me. Beaming, seizes his hand. Alfred. The thought of Aeoth, my dear Rita. Disappointed, drops his hand. Ah, of Aeoth. Poor little Aeoth has taken deeper and deeper hold of me. After that unlucky fall from the table, and especially since we have been assured that the injury is incurable. But you take all the care you possibly can of him, Alfred. As a schoolmaster, yes, but not as a father. And it is a father that I want henceforth to be to Aeoth. Looking at him and shaking her head. I don't think I quite understand you. I mean that I will try with all my might to make his misfortune as painless and easy to him as it can possibly be. Oh, but dear. I think, Heaven, I don't think he feels it so deeply. With emotion. Yes, Rita, he does. Yes, you may be sure he feels it deeply. But Alfred, what more can you do for him? I will try to perfect all the rich possibilities that are dawning in his childish soul. I will foster all the germs of good in his nature, make them blossom and bear fruit. With more and more warmth, rising. And I will do more than that. I will help him to bring his desires into harmony with what lies attainable before him. That is just what at present they are not. All his longings are for things that must forever remain unattainable to him. But I will create a conscious happiness in his mind. He goes once or twice up and down the room. Esther and Rita follow him with their eyes. You should take these things more quietly, Alfred. Stops beside the table on the left and looks at them. A elf shall carry on my life work if he wants to. Or he shall choose one that is altogether his own. Perhaps that would be best. At all events I shall let mine rest as it is. Rising. But Alfred, dear, can you not work both for yourself and for A elf? No, I cannot. It is impossible. I cannot divide myself in this matter, and therefore I efface myself. A elf shall be the complete man of our race, and it shall be my new life work to make him the complete man. Has risen and now goes up to him. This must have cost you a terribly hard struggle, Alfred. Yes, it has. At home here I should never have conquered myself, never brought myself to the point of renunciation, never at home. Then that was why you went away this summer. With shining eyes. Yes, I went up into the infinite solitudes. I saw the sunrise gleaming on the mountain peaks. I felt myself nearer the stars. I seemed almost to be in sympathy and communion with them, and then I found the strength for it. Looking sadly at him. But you will never write any more of your book on human responsibility? No, never, Asta. I tell you, I cannot split up my life between two vocations, but I will act out my human responsibility in my own life. With a smile. Do you think you can live up to such high resolves at home here? Taking her hand. With you to help me, I can. Holds out the other hand. And with you too, Asta. Drawing her hand away. Ah, with both of us. So, after all, you can divide yourself. Why, my dearest Rita. Rita moves away from him and stands in the garden doorway. A light and rapid knock is heard at the door on the right. Engineer Borgheim enters quickly. He is a young man of a little over thirty. His expression is bright and cheerful and he holds himself erect. Good morning, Mrs. Almers. Stops with an expression of pleasure on seeing Almers. Why, what's this? Home again already, Mr. Almers? Shake in hands with him. Yes, I arrived last night. His leave was up, Mr. Borgheim? No, you know it wasn't, Rita. Approaching. Oh, yes, but it was, though. His furlough had run out. I see you hold your husband well in hand, Mrs. Almers. I hold to my rights. And besides, everything must have an end. Oh, not everything. I hope. Good morning, Mrs. Almers. Holding aloof from him. Good morning. Looking at Borgheim. Not everything, you say. Oh, I am firmly convinced that there are some things in the world that will never come to an end. I suppose you are thinking of love and that sort of thing. I'm thinking of all that is lovely. And that never comes to an end. Yes, let us think of that. Hope for that, all of us. Coming up to them. I suppose you will soon have finished your road work out here. I finished it already, finished it yesterday. It has been a long business, but thank heaven, that has come to an end. And you are beaming with joy over that. Yes, I am indeed. Well, I must say. What, Mrs. Almers? I don't think it is particularly nice of you, Mr. Borgheim. Indeed? Why not? Well, I suppose we shan't often see you in these parts after this. No, that is true. I hadn't thought of that. Well, I suppose you will be able to look in upon us now and then, all the same. No, unfortunately, that will be out of my power for a very long time. Indeed? How so? The fact is, I have got a big piece of new work that I must set about at once. Have you indeed? Pressing his hand. I am heartily glad to hear it. I congratulate you, Mr. Borgheim. Hush, hush. I really ought not to talk of it openly as yet. But I can't help coming out with it. It is a great piece of road-making. Up in the north, with mountain ranges to cross, and most tremendous difficulties to overcome. With an outpost of gladness. What a glorious world this is! And what a joy it is to be a road-maker in it! Smiling, and looking teasingly at him. Is it road-making business that has brought you out here today in such wild spirits? No, not that alone. I am thinking of all the bright and hopeful prospects that are opening out before me. Then perhaps you have something still more exquisite in reserve? Glancing towards Esther. When once happiness comes to us, it is apt to come like a spring flood. Turns to Esther. Miss Olmers, would you not like to take a little walk with me, as we used to? No. No, thank you. Not now, not today. Oh, do come. Only a little bit of a walk. I have so much I want to talk to you about before I go. And something else, perhaps, that you must not talk openly about as yet. Hmm, that depends. But there is nothing to prevent your whispering, you know. I have a side. Esther, you must really go with him. But my dear Rita... Miss Esther, remember it is to be a farewell walk. The last for many a day. Takes her head in parasol. Very well. Suppose we take a stroll in the garden then. Oh, thank you. Thank you. And while you are there, you can see what A'olf is doing. Ah, A'olf, by the by. Where is A'olf today? I've got something for him. He is out playing somewhere. Is he really? That he has begun to play now. He used always to be sitting indoors over his books. There is to be an end of that now. I am going to make a regular open-air boy of him. Ah, now that's right. Out into the open-air with him, poor little fellow. Good Lord, what can we possibly do better than play in this blessed world? For my part, I think all life is one long playtime. Come, Miss Esther. Borgheim and Esther go out on the veranda and down through the garden. Stands looking after them. Rita, do you think there is anything between those two? I don't know what to say. I used to think there was. But Esther has grown so strange to me. So utterly incomprehensible of late. Indeed. Has she? While I have been away? Yes. Within the last week or two. And do you think she doesn't care very much about him now? Not seriously. Not utterly and entirely. Not unreservedly. I'm sure she doesn't. Looks searching near him. Would it displease you if she did? It would not exactly displease me, but it would certainly be a disquieting thought. Disquieting? Yes. You must remember that I am responsible for Esther, for her life's happiness. Oh, come. Responsible? Surely Esther has come to years of discretion. I should say she was capable of choosing for herself. Yes, we must hope so, Rita. For my part, I don't think at all ill of Borgheim. No, dear. No more do I. Quite the contrary. But all the same. And I should be very glad indeed if he and Esther were to make a match of it. Oh. Why should you be? Why, for then, she would have to go far, far away with him. And she could never come out here to us as she does now. What? Can you really wish Esther to go away? Yes. Yes, Alfred. Why in all the world? Throwing her arms passionately round his neck. For then at last I should have you to myself alone. And yet not even then. Not wholly to myself. Oh, Alfred. Alfred, I cannot give you up. Gently releasing himself. My dearest Rita, do be reasonable. I don't care a bit about being reasonable. I care only for you. Only for you in all the world. Again, throwing her arms round his neck. For you. For you. For you. Let me go. Let me go. You are strangling me. Letting him go. How I wish I could. Looking at him with flashing eyes. Oh, if you knew how I have hated you. Hated me? Yes. When you shut yourself up in your room and brooded over your work till long, long into the night. So long. So late, Alfred. Oh, how I hated your work. But now I have done with that. Ha! Oh, yes. Now you have given yourself up to something worse. Worse? Do you call our child something worse? Yes, I do. As he comes between you and me, I call him so. For the book. The book was not a living being as the child is. But I won't endure it, Alfred. I will not endure it. I tell you so plainly. Look steadily at her and says in a low voice. I am often almost afraid of you, Rita. I am often afraid of myself. And for that very reason you must not awake the evil in me. Why, good heavens, do I do that? Yes, you do. When you tear to shreds the holiest bonds between us. Think what you're saying, Rita. It is your own child, our only child, that you are speaking of. The child is only half mine. But you shall be mine alone. You shall be wholly mine. That I have a right to demand of you. Shrugging his shoulders. Oh, my dear Rita, it is of no use demanding anything. Everything must be freely given. Looks anxiously at him. And that you cannot do henceforth? No, I cannot. I must divide myself between Eolth and you. But if Eolth had never been born, what then? Oh, that would be another matter. Then I should have only you to care for. Then I wish he had never been born. Rita, you don't know what you are saying. Trembling with emotion. It was in pain unspeakable that I brought him into the world. But I bore it all with joy and rapture for your sake. Oh, yes, I know. I know. But there it must end. I will live my life, together with you, wholly with you. I cannot go on being only Eolth's mother, only his mother and nothing more. I will not, I tell you. I cannot. I will be all in all to you, to you, Alfred. But that is just what you are, Rita, through our child. Ah, vapid, nauseous phrases, nothing else. No, Alfred, I am not to be put off like that. I was fitted to become the child's mother, but not to be a mother to him. You must take me as I am, Alfred. And yet you used to be so fond of Eolth. I was so sorry for him, because you troubled yourself so little about him. You kept him reading and grinding at books. You scarcely even saw him. Nothing slowly. Now, I was blind. The time had not yet come for me. Looking in his face. But now I suppose it has come. Yes, at last. Now I see that the highest task I can have in the world is to be a true father to Eolth. And to me. What will you be to me? I will always go on caring for you, with calm, deep tenderness. He tries to take her hands, evading him. I don't care a bit for your calm, deep tenderness. I want you utterly and entirely and alone, just as I had you in the first rich, beautiful days. Never. Never will I consent to be put off with scraps and leavings, Alfred. I should have thought there was happiness in plenty for all three of us, Rita. Then you are easy to please. Seats herself at the table on the left. Now listen to me. Approaching. Well, what is it? Looking up at him with a veil glow in her eyes. When I got to her telegram yesterday evening. Yes, what then? Then I dressed myself in white. Yes, I noticed you were in white when I arrived. I had let down my hair. Your sweet masses of hair. So that it flowed down my neck and shoulders. I saw it. I saw it. Oh, how lovely you were, Rita. There were rose-tinted shades over both the lamps. And we were alone. We, too, the only waking beings in the whole house and there was champagne on the table. I did not drink any of it. Looking bitterly at him. No. That is true. There stood the champagne, but you tasted it not, as the poet says. She rises from the armchair, goes with a layer of weariness over to the sofa and seats herself half reclining upon it, crosses the room and stands before her. I was so taken up with serious thoughts, I had made up my mind to talk to you of our future, Rita, and first and foremost of Eolf. And so you did. No, I had not time to, for you began to undress. Yes, and meanwhile you talked about Eolf. Don't you remember? You wanted to know all about little Eolf's digestion. Looking reproachfully at her. Rita. And then you got into your bed and slept the sleep of the just. Shaking his head. Rita, Rita. Lying at full length and looking up at him. Alfred. Yes? There stood your champagne, but you tasted it not. No, I did not taste it. He goes away from her and stands in the garden doorway. Rita lies for some time motionless with closed eyes. Suddenly springing up. But let me tell you one thing, Alfred. Turning in the doorway. Well? You ought not to feel quite so secure as you do. Not secure? No. You ought not to be so indifferent. Not certain of your property in me. Drawing nearer. What do you mean by that? Never in a single thought have I been untrue to you, Alfred. Never for an instant. No, Rita, I know that. I who know you so well. With sparking eyes. But if you disdain me. Disdain? I don't understand what you mean. Oh, you don't know all that might rise up within me if— If? If I should ever see that you did not care for me, that you did not love me as you used to. But, my dearest Rita, years bring a certain change with them. And that must one day occur even in us, as in everyone else. Never in me. And I will not hear of any change in you either. I could not bear it, Alfred. I want to keep you to myself alone. Looking at her with concern. You have a terribly jealous nature. I can't make myself different from what I am. If you go and divide yourself between me and anyone else. What then? Then I will take my revenge on you, Alfred. How take your revenge? I don't know how. Oh, yes, I do know well enough. Well? I will go and throw myself away. Throw yourself away, do you say? Yes, that I will. I'll throw myself straight into the arms of the first man that comes in my way. Looking tenderly at her and shaking his head. That you will never do. My loyal, proud, true-hearted Rita. Putting her arms round his neck. Oh, you don't know what I might come to be if you— If you did not love me any more. Did not love you, Rita. How can you say such a thing? Half- laughing. Let's him go. Why should I not spread my gnats for that— that road-maker man that hangs about here? Oh, thank goodness, you were only joking. Not at all. He would do as well as anyone else. Ah, but I suspect he is more or less taken up already. So much the better. For then I should take him away from someone else and that is just what Eilf has done to me. Can you say that our little Eilf has done that? Pointing with her forefinger. There, you see? You see? The moment you mention Eilf's name you grow tender and your voice quivers. Threateningly, clenching her hands. You almost tempt me to wish. Looking at her anxiously. What do I tempt you to wish, Rita? Vemently, going away from him. No, no, no, I won't tell you that, never. Drawing nearer to her. Rita, I implore you for my sake and for your own. Do not let yourself be tempted into evil. Borgheim and Asta come up from the garden. They both show signs of restrained emotion. They look serious and dejected. Asta remains out on the veranda. Borgheim comes into the room. So that is over. Miss Almers and I have had our last walk together. Looks at him with surprise. Ah! And there is no longer a journey to follow the walk. Yes, for me. For you alone? Yes, for me alone. Glences darkly and almost. Do you hear that? Turns to Borgheim. I'll wager to someone with the evil eye that has played you this trick. The evil eye? Yes, the evil eye. Do you believe in the evil eye, Mrs. Almers? Yes, I have begun to believe in the evil eye. Especially in a child's evil eye. Rita, how can you? It is you that make me so wicked and hateful, Alfred. Confused cries and shrieks are heard in the distance from the direction of the fjord. Going to the glass door. What noise is that? In the doorway. Look at all those people running down to the pier. What can it be? Looks out for a moment. No doubt it's those street urchins at some mischief again. Calls leaning over the veranda railings. I say you boys down there! What's the matter? Several voices are heard answering indistinctly and confusingly. What do they say? They say it's a child that's drowned. A child drowned? A little boy, they say. Oh, they could all swim, every one of them. Where is Eolf? Keep quiet, quiet. Eolf is down in the garden playing. No, he wasn't in the garden. With upstretched arms. Oh, if only it isn't he. Listens and calls down. Whose child is it, do you say? Indistinct voices are heard. Borgeheim and Asta utter a suppressed cry and rush out through the garden in an agony of dread. It isn't Eolf, it isn't Eolf, Rita. On the veranda, listening. Hush, be quiet, let me hear what they are saying. Rita rushes back with a piercing shriek into the room, following her. What did they say? Sinking down beside the armchair on the left. They said the crutch is floating. Almost paralyzed. No, no, no. Eolf, Eolf. Oh, but they must save him. They must, they must. So precious a life. He rushes down through the garden. End of Act First. Act Second of Little Eolf by Henrik Ibsen. Translated by William Archer. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Second. A little narrow glen by the side of the fjord on Almus' property. On the left, lofty old trees overarch the spot. Down the slope in the background, a brook comes sleeping and loses itself among the stones on the margin of the wood. A path winds along by the brookside. To the right, there are only a few single trees between which the fjord is visible. In front is seen the corner of a boat shed with a boat drawn up. Under the old trees on the left stands a table with a bench and one or two chairs, all made of thin birch staves. It is a heavy, damp day with driving mistraths. Alfred Almus, dressed as before, sits on the bench, leaning his arms on the table. His head lies before him. He gazes absently and immovably out over the water. Presently, Esther Almus comes down the wood path. She is carrying an open umbrella. Goes quietly and cautiously up to him. You ought not to sit down here in this gloomy weather, Alfred. Almus, not slowly without answering, closing her umbrella. I have been searching for you such a long time. Without expression. Thank you. Move the chair and seat yourself close to him. Have you been sitting here long, all the time? Does not answer at first. Presently, he says. No, I cannot grasp it. It seems so utterly impossible. Laying her hand compassionately on his arm. Poor Alfred! Gazing at her. Is it really true then, Esther, or have I gone mad? Or am I only dreaming? Oh, if it were only a dream. Just think if I were to awaken now. Oh, if I could only waken you. Looking out over the water. How pitiless the fjord looks today. Lying so heavy and drowsy. Lead in grey with splashes of yellow. And reflecting the rain clouds. Oh, Alfred, don't sit staring out over the fjord. Over the surface, yes. But in the depths, there sweeps the rushing undertoe. Oh, for God's sake, don't think of the depths. Looking gently at her. I suppose you think he is lying close outside here? But he is not, Esther. You must not think that. You must remember how fiercely the current sweeps out here, straight to the open sea. Threws herself forward against the table. And sobbing, buries her face in her hands. Oh, God! Oh, God! So you see, little Ayof has passed so far. Far away from us now. Floringly up at him. Oh, Alfred, don't say such things. Why, you can reckon it out for yourself. You that are so clever. In eight and twenty hours. Nine and twenty hours. Let me see. Let me see. Shrieking and stopping her ears. Alfred! Clenching his hand firmly upon the table. Can you conceive the meaning of a thing like this? Looks at him. Of what? Of this that has been done to Rita and me. The meaning of it? Yes, the meaning, I say. For after all, there must be a meaning in it. Life, existence, destiny cannot be so utterly meaningless. Oh, who can say anything with certainty about these things, my dear Alfred? No, no. I believe you are right there. Perhaps the whole thing goes simply by haphazard, taking its own course like a drifting wreck without a rudder. I daresay that is how it is. At least it seems very like it. What if it only seems? Ah, perhaps you can unravel the mystery for me. I certainly cannot. Here is a yoth just entering upon conscious life, full of such infinite possibilities, splendid possibilities perhaps. He would have filled my life with pride and gladness. And then a crazy old woman has only to come this way and show a kerr in a bag. But we don't in the least know how it really happened. Yes, we do. The boys saw her row out over the fjord. They saw a yoth standing alone at the very end of the pier. They saw him gazing after her. And then he seemed to turn giddy. And that was how he fell over and disappeared. Yes, yes, but all the same. She has drawn him down into the depths. That you may be sure of, dear. But Alfred, why should she? Yes, that is just the question. Why should she? There's no retribution behind it at all. No atonement, I mean. A yoth never did her any harm. He never called names after her. He never threw stones at her dog. Why, he had never set eyes, either on her or her dog till yesterday. So there is no retribution. The whole thing is utterly groundless and meaningless, Asta. And yet the order of the world requires it. Have you spoken to Rita of these things? Shakes his head. I feel as if I can talk better to you about them. And about everything else as well. Asta takes serving materials and a little paper parser out of her pocket. Almost sits looking unabsently. What have you got there, Asta? Taking his head. Some black crepe. Oh, what is the use of that? Rita asked me to put it on. May I? Oh, yes, as far as I'm concerned. She soothes the crepe on his head, sitting and looking at her. Where is Rita? She is walking about the garden a little, I think. Borchheim is with her. Indeed, is Borchheim out here today again? Yes, he came out by the midday train. I didn't expect that. He was so fond of Aulf. Borchheim is a faithful soul, Asta. With quiet warmth. Yes, faithful he is indeed. That is certain. Fixing his eyes upon her. You are really fond of him? Yes, I am. And yet you cannot make up your mind, too. Oh, my dear Alfred, don't talk of that. Yes, yes, tell me why you cannot. Oh, no, please, you really must not ask me. You see, it's so painful for me. There now, the hat is done. Thank you. And now for the left arm. Am I to have crepe on it, too? Yes, that is the custom. Well, as you please. She moves close up to him and begins to sue. Keep your arms still, then I won't prick you. With a half smile. This is like the old days. Yes, don't you think so? When you were a little girl, you used to sit just like this, mending my clothes. The first thing you ever sewed for me, that was black crepe, too. Was it? Round my student's cap at the time of Father's death. Could I sew, then? Fancy, I have forgotten it. Oh, you were such a little thing, then. Yes, I was little, then. And then, two years afterwards, when we lost your mother, then again you sewed a big crepe band on my sleeve. I thought it was the right thing to do. Batting her hand. Yes, yes, it was the right thing to do, Asta. And then, when we were left alone in the world, we, too... Are you done already? Yes. Putting together her sewing materials. It was really a beautiful time for us, Alfred. We, too, alone. Yes, it was. Though we had to toil so hard. You toiled. Oh, you toiled, too, in your way, I can assure you. Smiling. My dear faithful Aeolphe. Oh, you mustn't remind me of that stupid nonsense about the name. Well, if you had been a boy, you would have been called Aeolphe. Yes, if, but when you began to go to college... Smiling involuntarily. I wonder how you could be so childish. Was it I that was childish? Yes, indeed, I think it was, as I look back upon it all. You were ashamed of having no brother, only a sister. No, no, it was you, dear. You were ashamed. Oh, yes, I, too, perhaps. A little. And somehow or other I was sorry for you. Yes, I believe you were. And then you hunted up some of my old boy's clothes. Your fine Sunday clothes, yes. Do you remember the blue blouse and knickerbockers? He's eyes dwelling upon her. And I remember so well how you looked when you used to wear them. Only when we were at home alone, though. And how serious we were, dear, and how mightily pleased with ourselves. I always called you Aeolphe. Oh, Alfred, I hope you have never told Rita this. Yes, I believe I did once tell her. Oh, Alfred, how could you do that? Well, you see, one tells one's wife everything, very nearly. Yes, I suppose one does. Awakening, clutches at his forehead and starts up. Oh, how can I sit here and... Rising, looks sorrowfully at him. What is the matter? He had almost passed away from me. He had passed quite away. Aeolphe. Here I sat, living in these recollections, and he had no part in them. Yes, Alfred. Little Aeolphe was behind it all. No, he was not. He slipped out of my memory, out of my thoughts. I did not see him for a moment as we sat here talking. I utterly forgot him all that time. But surely you must take some rest in your sorrow. No, no, no, that is just what I will not do. I must not. I have no right, and no heart for it, either. Going in great excitement towards the right. All my thoughts must be out there, where he lies, drifting in the depths. Fullying him and holding him back. Alfred, Alfred, don't go to the fjord. I must go out to him. Let me go, Asta. I will take the boat. Don't go to the fjord, I say. Yielding. No, no, I will not. Only let me alone. Leading him back to the table. You must rest from your thoughts, Alfred. Come here and sit down. Making as if to sit himself on the bench. Well, well, as you please. No, I won't let you sit there. Yes, let me. No, don't, for then you will only sit looking out. Forces him down upon a chair with his back to the right. There now. Now that's right. Seats herself upon the bench. And now we can talk a little again. It was good to dead in the sorrow and heartache for a moment. You must do so, Alfred. But don't you think it is terribly weak and unfeeling of me to be able to do so? Oh, no. I am sure it is impossible to keep circling forever round one fixed thought. Yes, for me it is impossible. Before you came to me here I sat, torturing myself unspeakably with this crushing, gnawing sorrow. Yes. And would you believe it, Asta? Hmm. Well? In the midst of all the agony, I found myself speculating what we should have for dinner today. Well, well, if only it rests you too. Yes. Just fancy, dear. It seemed as if it did give me rest. It pulls out his hand to her across the table. How good it is, Asta, that I have you with me. I am so glad of that. Glad, glad, even in my sorrow. Looking earnestly at him. You aren't most about to be glad that you have Rita. Yes, of course I should, but Rita is no kin to me. It isn't like having a sister. Do you say that, Alfred? Yes, our family is a thing apart. We have always had vowels for our initials. Do you remember how often we used to speak of that? And all our relations all equally poor. And we have all the same colour of eyes. Do you think I have...? No, you take entirely after your mother. You are not in the least like the rest of us, not even like father, but all the same. All the same? Well, I believe that living together has, as it were, stamped us in each other's image, mentally, I mean. Oh, you must never say that, Alfred. It is only I that have taken my stamp from you, and it is to you that I owe everything, every good thing in the world. Shake in his head. You owe me nothing, Asta. On the contrary. I owe you everything. You must never doubt that. No sacrifice has been too great for you. Oh, nonsense, sacrifice. Don't talk of such a thing. I have only loved you, Asta, ever since you were a little child. And then it always seemed to me that I had so much injustice to make up to you for. Injustice? You? Not precisely on my own account, but... But... On fathers? Half-rising from the bench. On fathers? Sitting down again. What do you mean by that, Alfred? Father was never really kind to you. Oh, don't say that. Yes, it is true. He did not love you not as he ought to have. No, perhaps not as he loved you. That was only natural. And he was very often hard to your mother, too. At least in the last years. Mother was so much, much younger than he. Remember that. Do you think they were not quite suited to each other? Perhaps not. Yes, but still. Father, who in other ways was so gentle and warm-hearted, so kindly towards everyone. Mother, too, was not always as she ought to have been. Your mother was not? Perhaps not always. Towards father, do you mean? Yes. I never noticed that. Struggling with her tears? Rises. Oh, my dear Alfred, let them rest, those who are gone. She goes towards the right. Rising. Yes, let them rest. Ring in his hands. But those who are gone, it is they that won't let us rest, Esther, neither day nor night. Luke's warm near to him. Time will make it all seem easier, Alfred. Luke in helplessly at her. Yes, don't you think it will? But how am I to get over these terrible first days? That is what I cannot imagine. Imploringly, laying her hands on his shoulders. Go up to Rita, oh please do. vehemently, withdrawing from her. No, no, no, don't talk to me of that. I cannot, I tell you. Let me remain here with you. Well, I will not leave you. Seizing her hand and holding it fast. Thank you for that. Looks out for a time over the fjord. Here is my little ayoth now. Smiling sadly to her. Can you tell me that, my big, wise ayoth? Shake in his head. No one in all the world can tell me that. I know only this one terrible thing, that he is gone from me. Looking up to the left and withdrawing her hand. Here they are coming. Mrs. Olmos and engineer Borgheim come down by the woodpath. She leading the way. She wears a dark dress and a black veil over her head. He has an umbrella under his arm. Going to meet her. How is it with you, Rita? Passing him. Oh, don't ask. Why do you come here? Only to look for you. What are you doing? Nothing. Asta came down to me. Yes, but before Asta came, you've been away from me all the morning. I have been sitting here looking out over the water. Ugh, how can you? I like best to be alone now. Moving restlessly about. Then to sit still, to stay in one place. I have nothing in the world to move for. I cannot bear to be anywhere long. Least of all, here with the Fjord at my very feet. It is just the nearness of the Fjord. To Borgheim. Don't you think he should come back with the rest of us? To Olmos. I believe it would be better for you. No, no. Let me stay where I am. Then I will stay with you, Alfred. Very well. Do so then. You remain too, Asta. Whispers to Borgheim. Let us leave them alone. With a glance of comprehension. Miss Olmers, shall we go a little further along the shore? For the very last time. Taking her umbrella. Yes, come. Let us go a little further. Asta and Borgheim go out together behind the boat-shed. Olmos wonders about her little. Then he seats himself on a stone under the trees on the left. Comes up and stands before him, her hands folded and hanging down. Can you think the thought, Alfred? That we have lost Aeth? Looking sadly at the ground. We must accustom ourselves to think it. I cannot. I cannot. And then that horrible sight that will haunt me all my life long. Looking up. What sight? What have you seen? I have seen nothing myself. I have only heard it told. Oh. You may as well tell me at once. I got Borgheim to go down with me to the pier. What did you want there? To question the boys as to how it happened. But we know that. We got to know more. Well? It is not true that he disappeared all at once. Do they say that now? Yes. They say they saw him lying down on the bottom. Deep down in the clear water. Griding his teeth. And they didn't save him. I suppose they could not. They could swim every one of them. Did they tell you how he was lying whilst they could see him? Yes. They said he was lying on his back. And with great open eyes. Open eyes. But quite still. Yes. Quite still. And then something came and swept him away. They called it the undertow. Nothing slowly. So that was the last they saw of him? Yes. And never. Never will anyone see him again. I shall see him. Day and night. As he lay down there. With great open eyes. Yes. With great open eyes. I see them. I see them now. Rises slowly and looks with quiet menace at her. Were they evil? Those eyes, Rita? Turning pale. Evil? Going close up to her. Were they evil eyes that stared up? Up from the depths? Shrinking from him. Alfred? Following her. Answer me. Were they a child's evil eyes? Alfred! Alfred! Now things have come about just as you wished, Rita. I...what did I wish? That Aeolph were not here. Never for a moment have I wished that. That Aeolph should not stand between us. That was what I wished. Well, well, he does not stand between us anymore. Softly, gazing straight before her. Perhaps now more than ever. With a sudden shadow. Oh, that horrible sight. Nuts. The child's evil eyes. In dread, recoiling from him. Let me be, Alfred. I am afraid of you. I have never seen you like this before. Looks harshly and coldly at her. Sorrow makes us wicked and hateful. Terrified and yet defiant. That is what I feel, too. Almost goes towards the right and looks out over the fjord. Rita seats herself at the table. A short pose. Turning his head towards her. You never really and truly loved him, never. With cold self-control. Aeolph would never let me take him really and truly to my heart. Because you did not want to. Oh, yes, I did. I did want to. But someone stood in the way even from the first. Turning right round. Do you mean that I stood in the way? Oh, no. Not at first. Coming nearer her. Who then? His aunt. Asta? Yes. Asta stood and barred the way for me. Can you say that, Rita? Yes. Asta. She took him to her heart from the moment that happened. That miserable fall. If she did so, she did it in love. That is just it. I cannot endure to share anything with anyone. Not in love. We too could have shared him between us in love. Look in scornfully at him. We? Oh, the truth is you have never had any real love for him either. Looks at her in astonishment. I have not. No, you have not. At first you were so utterly taken up by that book of yours. About responsibility. Yes, I was. But my very book I sacrificed for Ayof's sake. Not out of love for him. Why then do you suppose? Because you were consumed with mistrust of yourself. Because you had begun to doubt whether you had any great vacation to live for in the world. Observing her closely. Could you see that in me? Oh, yes. Little by little. And then you needed something new to fill up your life. It seems I was not enough for you any longer. That is the law of change, Rita. And that was why you wanted to make a prodigy of poor little Ayof. That was not what I wanted. I wanted to make a happy human being of him. That and nothing more. But not out of love for him. Look into yourself. With a certain shyness of expression. Search out all that lies under and behind your action. Avoiding her eyes. There is something you shrink from saying. And you too. Looks thoughtfully at her. If it is as you say, then we too have never really possessed our own child. No. Not in perfect love. And yet we are sorrowing so bitterly for him. Yes. Isn't it curious that we should grieve like this over a little stranger boy? Oh, don't call him a stranger. Sadly, shake in her head. We never won the boy, Alfred. Not I. Nor you either. Ringing his hands. And now it is too late. Too late. And no consolation anywhere. In anything. You are the guilty one in this. Rising. I. Yes, you. It was your fault that he became what he was. It was your fault that he could not save himself when he fell into the water. With a gesture of reproachin'. Alfred, you shall not throw the blame upon me. More and more beside himself. Yes, yes, I do. It was you that left the hapless child unwatched upon the table. He was lying so comfortably among the cushions and sleeping so soundly. And you had promised to look after him. Yes, I had. But then you came. You. You. You. And lured me to you. Look indefinitely at him. Oh, better own it once that you forgot the child and everything else. In suppressed desperation. Yes, that is true. I forgot the child in your arms. Alfred. Alfred, this is intolerable of you. In the lovahs clenching his fists before her face. In that hour you condemned little Aoth to death. You, too. You, too, if it is as you say. Oh, yes. Call me to account, too, if you will. We have sinned both of us. And so, after all, there was retribution in Aoth's death. With more self-control. Yes, judgment upon you and me. Now, as we stand here, we have our desserts. While he lived, we let ourselves shrink away from him in secret abject remorse. We could not bear to see it the thing he had to drag with him. The crutch. Yes, that. And now what we now call sorrow and heartache is really the gnawing of conscience, Rita, nothing else. Gazing helplessly at him. I feel as if all this must end in despair, in madness for both of us. For we can never, never make it good again. Passing into a calmer mood. I dreamed about Aoth's last night. I thought I saw him coming up from the pier. He could run like other boys. So nothing had happened to him, neither the one thing nor the other. And the torturing reality was nothing but a dream, I thought. Oh, how I thanked and blessed. Joking himself. Looking at him. Whom? Whom? Yes. Whom did you thank and bless? Putting aside the question. I was only dreaming, you know. One whom you yourself do not believe in. That was how I felt, all the same. Of course, I was sleeping. You should not have taught me to doubt, Alfred. Would it have been right of me to let you go through life with your mind full of empty fictions? It would have been better for me. For then I should have had something to take refuge in. Now I am utterly at sea. Observing her closely. If you had the choice now, if you could follow Aoth to where he is. Yes. What then? If you were fully assured that you would find him again, know him, understand him. Yes. Yes. What then? Would you of your own free will take the leap over to him? Of your own free will leave everything behind you, renounce your whole earthly life? Would you, Rita? Now. At once. Yes. Today. This very hour. Answer me. Would you? Oh, I don't know, Alfred. No. I think I should have to stay here with you. A little while. For my sake? Yes. Only for your sake. And afterwards, would you then? Answer. What can I answer? I cannot go away from you. Never. Never. But suppose now I went to Aoth, and you had the fullest assurance that you would meet both him and me there. Then would you come over to us? I should want to. So much. So much. But... Well? I could not. I feel it. No. No. I never could. Not for all the glory of heaven. Nor I. No. You feel it so too, don't you, Alfred? You could not either, could you? No. For it is here, in the life of earth, that we living beings are at home. Yes. Here lies the kind of happiness that we can understand. No. Happiness. Happiness. You mean that happiness? That we can never find it again? Looks inquiringly at him. But if... No. No. I dare not say it, nor even think it. Yes. Say it. Say it, Rita. Could we not try to... Would it not be possible to forget him? Forget Aoth? Forget the anguish and remorse, I mean. Can you wish it? Yes, if it were possible. For this, I cannot bear this forever. How can we not think of something that will bring its forgetfulness? Shakespeare's head. What could that be? Could we not see what travelling would do, far away from here? From home? When you know you are never really well anywhere but here? Well, then, let us have crowds of people about us. Keep open house. Plunge into something that can deaden and dull our thoughts. Such a life would be impossible for me. No. Rather than that, I would try to take up my work again. Your work? The work that is always stood like a dead wall between us? Slowly. Looking fixedly at her. There must always be a dead wall between us, too, from this time forth. Why must there? Who knows but that a child's great open eyes are watching us day and night. Softly. Shuddering. Oh, Alfred! How terrible to think of! Our love has been like a consuming fire. Now it must be quenched. With the movement towards him. Quenched? It is quenched in one of us. And you dare say that to me? It is dead, Rita. But in what I now feel for you in our common guilt in need of atonement, I seem to foresee a sort of resurrection. I don't care a bit about any resurrection. Rita. I am a warm-blooded being. I don't go drowsing about with fishes' blood in my veins. Ring in her hands. And now to be imprisoned for life in anguish and remorse, imprisoned with one who is no longer mine, mine, mine. It must have ended so some time, Rita. Must have ended so? The love that in the beginning rushed forth so eagerly to meet with love? My love did not rush forth to you in the beginning. What did you feel for me first of all? Dread. That I can understand. How was it then that I won you after all? You were so entrancingly beautiful, Rita. Looked searchingly at him. Then that was the only reason? Say it, Alfred. The only reason? Conquering himself. No, there was another as well. I can guess what that was. It was my gold and my green forests, as you call it. Was it not so, Alfred? Yes. Looked at him with deeper approach. How could you? How could you? I had asked her to think of. Yes. Asta. Then it was really Asta that brought us two together. She knew nothing about it. She has no suspicion of it even to this day. Rejecting the plea. It was Asta, nevertheless. Smiling with a side-long glance of scorn. Oh, no. It was little Eilf. Little Eilf, my dear. Eilf? Yes. You used to call her Eilf, did you not? I seem to remember you're telling me so. Once in a moment of confidence. Coming up to him. Do you remember it? That entrancingly beautiful hour, Alfred. Recoiling as if in horror. I remember nothing. I will not remember. Following him. It was in that hour when your other little Eilf was crippled for life. In a hollow voice supporting himself against the table. Retribution. Yes, retribution. Asta and Borgheim return by way of the Boat Shed. She is carrying some water lilies in her hand. Well, Asta. Have you and Mr. Borgheim talked things thoroughly over? Oh yes, pretty well. She puts down her umbrella and lays the flowers upon a chair. Miss Amherst has been very silent during our walk. Indeed. Has she? Well, Alfred and I have talked things out thoroughly enough. Looking eagerly at both of them. What is this? Enough to last all our lifetime, I say. Break enough. Come now. Let us go up to the house, all four of us. We must have company about us in future. It will never do for Alfred and me to be alone. Yes, do you go ahead, you two? Turning. I must speak a word to you before we go, Asta. Looking at him. Indeed. Well then. You come with me, Mr. Borgheim. Rita and Borgheim go up the woodpath. Alfred, what is the matter? Only that I cannot endure to be here anymore. Here? With Rita, do you mean? Yes, Rita and I cannot go on living together. Seizes his arm and shakes it. Oh, Alfred, don't say anything so terrible. It is the truth, I'm telling you. We are making each other wicked and hateful. I had never, never dreamt of anything like this. I did not realize it either, till today. And now you want to... What is it you really want, Alfred? I want to get away from everything here, far, far away from it all. And to stand quite alone in the world? Not so. As I used to, before, yes. But you are not fitted for living alone? Oh, yes, I was so in the old days at any rate. In the old days, yes, for then you had me with you. Trying to take her hand? Yes, and it is to you, Asta, that I now want to come home again. Eluding him. To me? No, no, Alfred, that is quite impossible. Look sadly at her. Then Borgheim stands in the way after all. No, no, he does not, that is quite a mistake. Good, then I will come to you. My dear, dear sister, I must come to you again. Home to you to be purified and ennobled after my life with... Alfred, you are doing Rita a great wrong. I have done her a great wrong, but not in this. Oh, think of it, Asta, think of our life together, yours and mine. Was it not like one long holy day from first to last? Yes, it was, Alfred, but we can never live it over again. Do you mean that marriage has so irreparably ruined me? No, that is not what I mean. Well, then we too will live our old life over again. We cannot, Alfred. Yes, we can, for the love of a brother and sister. What of it? That is the only relation in life that is not subject to the law of change. But if that relation were not... Not? Not our relation. Stares at her in astonishment. Not ours? Why, what can you mean by that? It is best I should tell you at once, Alfred. Yes, yes, tell me. The letters to mother, those in my portfolio. Well? You must read them when I am gone. Why must I? Struggling with herself. For then you will see that... Well? That I have no right to bear your father's name. Staggering backwards. Asta, what is this you say? Read the letters, then you will see and understand, and perhaps have some forgiveness for mother too. Clutching at his forehead. I cannot grasp this. I cannot realize the thought. You, Asta, you are not... You are not my brother, Alfred. Quickly, have defiantly, look in at her. Well, but what difference does that really make in our relation? Partically none at all. Shake in her head. It makes all the difference, Alfred. Our relation is not that of brother and sister. No, no. But it is none of us sacred for that. It will always be equally sacred. Do not forget that it is subject to the law of change as you said just now. Looks inquiringly at her. Do you mean that? Not a word more, my dear, dear Alfred. Takes up the flowers from the chair. Do you see these water lilies? Nutting slowly. They are the sort that shoot up from the very depth. I pulled them in the tarn, where it flows out into the fjord. Holds them out to him. Will you take them, Alfred? Taking them. Thanks. With tears in her eyes. They are a last greeting to you from... from little Eolf. Look in at her. From Eolf out yonder? Or from you? From both of us. Taking up her umbrella. Now come with me to Rita. She goes up the woodpath, takes up his hat from the table, and whispers sadly. Aster. Eolf. Little Eolf. He follows her up the path. End of act second. Act third of little Eolf by Henry Gibson. Translated by William Otter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act third. An elevation overgrown with shrubs, in almost as garden. At the back a sheer cliff, with a railing along its edge, and with steps on the left leading downwards. An extensive view over the fjord, which lies deep below. A flagstaff with lines, but no flag, stands by the railing. In front on the right, a summer house, covered with creepers and wild vines. Outside it a bench. It is a late summer evening, with clear sky, deepening twilight. Aster is sitting on the bench, with her hands in her nap. She is wearing her outdoor dress and a hat, has her parasol at her side, and a little travelling bag on the strap over her shoulder. Borgheim comes up from the back on the left. He too has a travelling bag over his shoulder. He is carrying a rolled up flag, catching sight of Aster. Oh, so you're up here? Yes, I am taking my last look out over the fjord. Then I'm glad I happened to come up. Have you been searching for me? Yes, I have. I wanted to say goodbye to you for the present. Not for good and all, I hope. With a faint smile. You are persevering. A road maker has got to be. Have you seen anything of Alfred or of Rita? Yes, I saw them both. Together? No. Apart. What are you going to do with that flag? Mrs. Olmer's asked me to come up and hoist it. Hoist a flag just now? Half-mast high. She wants it to fly both night and day, she says. Poor Rita. And poor Alfred. Busy with the flag. Have you the heart to leave them? I ask because I see you are in travelling dress. I must go. Well, if you must, then... And you are going too, tonight. I must too. I'm going by the train. Are you going that way? No. I shall take the steamer. Glancing at her. We each take our own way, then. Yes. She sits and looks on while he hoists the flag half-mast high. When he is done, he goes up to her. Miss Asta, you can't think how grieved I am about the lay-off. Yes, I'm sure you feel it deeply. And the feeling tortures me. For the fact is... grief is not much in my way. Raising her eyes to the flag. It will pass over in time. All of it. All are sorrow. All? Do you believe that? Like a squall at sea. When once you have got far away from here, then... It will have to be very far away indeed. And then you have this great new road work, too. But no one to help me in it. Oh, yes, surely you have. Shake in his head. No one. No one to share this gladness with. For it is gladness that most needs sharing. Not the labor and trouble? Poo, that sort of thing one can always get through alone. But the gladness, that must be shared with someone, you think. Yes, if not, what would be the pleasure in being glad? Ah, yes. Perhaps there is something in that. Just for a certain time you can go on feeling glad in your own heart, but it won't do in the long run. No, it takes two to be glad. Always two. Never more, never many. Well, you see, then it becomes a quite different matter. Miss Asta, are you sure you can never make up your mind to share gladness and success and labor and trouble with one alone in all the world? I have tried it once. Have you? Yes, all the time that my brother, that Alfred and I lived together. Oh, with your brother, yes, but that is altogether different. That ought rather to be called peace than happiness, I should say. It was delightful, all the same. There now, you see, even that seemed to you delightful. But just think now, if he had not been your brother. Makes a movement to rise, but remains sitting. Then we should never have been together. For I was a child, then, and he wasn't much more. After a pause. Was it so delightful, that time? Oh, yes, indeed it was. Was there much that was really bright and happy in your life, then? Oh, yes, so much. You cannot think how much. Tell me a little about it, Miss Asta. Oh, there are only trifles to tell. Such as? Well? Such as the time when Alfred had passed his examination and had distinguished himself, and then from time to time when he got a post in some school or other, or when he would sit at home working at an article and would read it aloud to me, and then when it would appear in some magazine. Yes, I can quite see that it must have been a peaceful, delightful life. A brother and sister sharing all their joys. Shaking his head. What I cannot understand is that your brother could ever give you up, Asta. With suppressed emotion. Alfred married, you know. Was not that very hard for you? Yes, at first. It seemed as though I had utterly lost him all at once. Well, luckily it was not so bad as that. No. But all the same, how could he go and marry, I mean, when he could have kept you with him alone? Looking straight in front of her. He was subject to the law of change, I suppose. The law of change? So Alfred calls it. Poo, what a stupid law that must be. I don't believe a bit in that law. Rising. You may come to believe in it in time. Never in all my life. But listen now, Miss Asta. Do be reasonable for once, in a way. In this matter, I mean. Oh no, no. Don't let us begin upon that again. Yes, Asta. I can't possibly give you up so easily. Now your brother has everything as he wishes it. He can live his life quite contentedly without you. He doesn't require you at all. Then this. This that had one blow has changed your whole position here. With a start. What do you mean by that? The loss of the child. What else should I mean? Recovering her self-control. Little A.O.F. is gone, yes. And what more does that leave you to do here? You have not the poor little boy to take care of. You have no duties, no claims upon you of any sort. Oh please, Mr. Borkheim. Don't make it so hard for me. I must. I should be mad if I did not try my uttermost. I shall be leaving town before very long. And perhaps I shall have no opportunity of meeting you there. Perhaps I shall not see you again for a long, long time. And who knows what may happen in the meanwhile? With a grave smile. So you are afraid of the law of change after all? No, not in the least. And there is nothing to be changed either. Not in you, I mean. For I can see you don't care much about me. You know very well that I do. Perhaps, but not nearly enough. Not as I want you to. By Hevelasta, Miss Asta, I cannot tell you how strongly I feel that you are wrong in this. A little onward perhaps from today and tomorrow, all life's happiness may be awaiting us, and we must needs pass it by. Do you think we will not come to repent of it, Asta? I don't know. I only know that they are not for us, all these bright possibilities. Looks at her with self-control. Then I must make my roads alone. Oh, how I wish I could stand by you in it all. Help you in the labour, share the gladness with you. Would you, if you could? Yes, that I would. But you cannot. Look in down. Would you be content to have only half of me? No, you must be utterly and entirely mine. Looks at him and says quietly. Then I cannot. Goodbye then, Miss Asta. He is on the point of going. Almost comes up from the left at the back. Borgheim stops. The moment he has reached the top of the steps, points and says in a low voice, Is Rita in there in the summer house? No. There's no one here but Miss Asta. Almost comes forward, going towards him. Shall I go down and look for her? Shall I get her to come up here? With a negative gesture. No, no, no. Let it alone. To Borgheim. Is it you that have hoisted the flag? Yes. Mrs. Almos asked me to. That was what brought me up here. And are you going to start tonight? Yes. Tonight I go away in good earnest. With a glance at Asta. And you have made sure of pleasant company, I daresay. Shake in his head. I'm going alone. Alone. Utterly alone. Indeed. And I shall have to remain alone too. There is something horrible in being alone. The thought of it runs like ice through my blood. Oh, but Alfred, you are not alone. There may be something horrible in that too, Asta. Oh, don't talk like that. Don't think like that. Not listening to her. But since you are not going with him, since there is nothing to bind you, why will you not remain out here with me and with Rita? No. No, I cannot. I must go back to town now. But only into town, Asta. Do you hear? Yes. And you must promise me that you will soon come out again. No. No, I dare not promise you that for the present. Well, as you will. We shall soon meet in town then. But Alfred, you must stay at home here with Rita now. Without answering, turns to Bogham. You may find it a good thing after all that you have to take your journey alone. Oh? How can you say such a thing? You see, you can never tell whom you might happen to meet afterwards on the way. Alfred! The right fellow-traveller, when it is too late, too late. Alfred! Alfred! Look in from one to the other. What is the meaning of this? I-I don't understand. Rita comes up from the left at the back. Oh, don't go away from me, all of you. Go into water. You said you preferred to be alone. Yes, but I dare not. It is getting so horribly dark. I seem to see great, open, fixed eyes upon me. What if it were so, Rita? You ought not to be afraid of those eyes. How can you say so? Not afraid. Asta, I beg you for heaven's sake. Remain here with Rita. Yes, and with Alfred, too. Do, do, Asta. Struggling with herself. Oh, I want to so much. Well, then do it. Poor Alfred and I cannot go alone through the sorrow and heartache. Say, rather, through the ranklings of remorse. Oh, whatever you like to call it. We cannot bear it alone, Rita. Oh, Asta, I beg and implore you. You stay here and help us. Take Eilf's place for us. Eilf's? Yes. Would you not have it, so, Alfred? If she can and will. You used to call her your little Eilf? Seizes her hand. Hands forth, you shall be our Eilf, Asta. Eilf as you were before. With concealed emotion. Remain and share our life with us, Asta. With Rita, with me, with me, your brother. With decision, snatch us her hand away. No, I cannot. Turning. Mr. Borkheim, what time does the steamer start? Now, at once. Then I must go on board. Will you go with me? Will I? Yes, yes. Then come. Ah, that is how it is. Well, then, you cannot stay with us. Throwing her arms round her neck. Thanks for everything, Rita. Goes up to Armus and grasps his hand. Alfred, good-bye. A thousand times, good-bye. What is this, Asta? It seems as though you were taking flight. Yes, Alfred, I am taking flight. Flight from me. From you. And from myself. Shrinking back. Ah. Asta rushes down the steps at the back. Borkheim waves his head and follows her. Rita leans against the entrance to the summer house. Armus goes in strong inward emotion, up to the railing, and stands there, gazing downwards. A pause. Turns and says with hard-won composure. There comes the steamer. Look, Rita. I dare not look at it. You dare not? No. For it has a red eye and a green one too. Great, glowing eyes. Oh, those are only the lights, you know. Henceforth they are eyes for me. They stare and stare out of the darkness and into the darkness. Now she is putting in to shore. Where are they mooring her this evening, then? Coming forward. At the pier, as usual. Drawing herself up. How can they moor her there? They must. But it was there that Eolf—how can they moor her there? Yes, life is pitiless, Rita. Men are heartless. They take no thought, whether for the living or for the dead. There you are right. Life goes its own way, just as if nothing in the world had happened. Gazing straight before her. And nothing has happened either. Not to others, only to us too. The pain reawakening. Yes, Rita, so it was to no purpose that you bore him in sorrow and anguish. For now he is gone again, and has left no trace behind him. Only the crutch was saved. Be silent. Do not let me hear that word. I cannot bear the thought that he is gone from us. You could very well do without him when he was with us. Half the day would often pass without your setting eyes on him. Yes, for I knew that I could see him whenever I wanted to. Yes. That is how we have gone and squandered the short time we had with little Eolf. Do you hear, Alfred? Now it is ringing again. Looking over the fjord. It is the steamer's bell that is ringing. She's just starting. Oh, it's not that bell, I mean. All day I have heard it ringing in my ears. Now it is ringing again. Going up to her. You are mistaken, Rita. No. I hear it so plainly. It sounds like a knell. Slow. Slow. And always the same words. Words? What words? Knudding her head in the rhythm. The crutch is floating. The crutch is floating. Surely you must hear it, too? Shaking his head. I hear nothing, and there is nothing to hear. Oh, you may say what you will. I hear it so plainly. Looking out over the railing. Now they are on board, Rita. Now the steamer is on her way to the town. Is it possible you do not hear it? The crutch is floating. The crutch is... Coming forward. You shall not stand there listening to a sound that does not exist. I tell you, Asta and Borkeheim are on board. They have started already. Asta is gone. Looks timidly at him. Then I suppose you will soon be gone, too, Alfred. What do you mean by that? That you will follow your sister. Has Asta told you anything? No. But you said yourself it was for Asta's sake that... that we came together. Yes, but you, you yourself have bound me to you by our life together. Oh, in your eyes I am not... I am not entrancingly beautiful anymore. The law of change may perhaps keep us together nonetheless. Nothing slowly. There is a change in me now. I feel the anguish of it. Anguish? Yes. For change, too, is a sort of birth. It is, or a resurrection. Transition to a higher life. Gazing sadly before her. Yes. With the loss of all, all life's happiness. That loss is just the gain. Oh, phrases. Good God, we are creatures of earth after all. But something akin to the sea and the heavens, too, Rita. You, perhaps. Not I. Oh, yes. You, too, more than you yourself suspect. Advancing a pace towards him. Tell me, Alfred. Could you think of taking up your work again? The work that you have hated so? I am easier to please now. I am willing to share you with the book. Why? Only to keep you here with me. To have you near me. Oh, it is so little I can do to help you, Rita. But perhaps I could help you. With my book, do you mean? No. But to live your life. Shake in his head. I seem to have no life to live. Well, then, to endure your life. Darkly, looking away from her. I think it would be best for both of us that we should part. Looking curiously at him. Then where would you go? Perhaps to Asta, after all? No. Never again to Asta. Where, then? Up into the solitudes. Up among the mountains. Is that what you mean? Yes. But that is mere dreaming, Alfred. You could not live up there. And yet I feel myself drawn to them. Why? Tell me. Sit down, and I will tell you something. Something that happened to you up there? Yes. And that you never told Asta and me? Yes. Oh, you are so silent about everything. You ought not to be. Sit down there, and I will tell you about it. Yes. Yes. Tell me. She sits on the bench beside the summer house. I was alone up there in the heart of the great mountains. I came to a wide dreary mountain lake, and that lake I had to cross. But I could not, for there was neither a boat nor anyone there. Well, and then? Then I went without any guidance into a side valley. I thought that by that way I could push on over the heights and between the peaks, and then down again on the other side of the lake. Oh, and you lost yourself, Alfred. Yes. I mistook the direction, for there was no path or track. And all day I went on, and all the next night, and at last I thought I should never see the face of man again. Not come home to us? Oh, then I am sure your thoughts were with us here. No. They were not. Not? It was so strange. Both you and Aeolphe seemed to have drifted far, far away from me, and Asta, too. Then what did you think of? I did not think. I dragged myself along among the precipices, and reveled in the peace and luxury of death. Springing up. Don't speak in that way of that horror. I did not feel it so. I had no fear. Here went death and I, it seemed to me, like two good fellow-travelers. It all seemed so natural, so simple, I thought. In my family we don't live to behold. Oh, don't say such things, Alfred. You see you came safely out of it, after all. Yes. All of a sudden I found myself where I wanted to be, on the other side of the lake. It must have been a night of terror for you, Alfred. But now that it is over, you will not admit it to yourself. That night sealed my resolution, and it was then that I turned about and came straight homewards, to Ayoff. Too late. Yes. And then when my fellow-traveller came and took him, then I felt the horror of it, of it all, of all that, in spite of everything, we dare not tear ourselves away from. So earthbound are we, both of us, Rita. With a gleam of tie. Yes, you are, too, are you not. Coming close to him. Oh, let us live our life together as long as we can. Live our life, yes, and have nothing to fill life with. An empty void on all sides, wherever I look. Oh, sooner or later you will go away from me, Alfred. I feel it. I can see it in your face. You will go away from me. With my fellow-traveller, do you mean? No, I mean worse than that. Of your own free will, you will leave me. For you think it's only here with me that you have nothing to live for. Here's not that what is in your thoughts. Look instead firstly at her. What if it were? A disturbance and the noise of angry, quarreling voices is heard from down below, in the distance. Almost goes to the raiding. What is that? Oh, you'll see, they have found him. He will never be found. But what is it then? Coming forward. Only fighting, as usual. Down on the beach? Yes, the whole village down there ought to be swept away. Now the men have come home, drunk, as they always are. They are beating the children, to hear the boys crying. The women are shrieking for help for them. Should we not get someone to go down and help them? Help them, who did not help Ayof? Let them go, as they let Ayof's go. Oh, you must not talk like that, Alfred, nor think like that. I cannot think otherwise. All the old hovels ought to be torn down. And then what is to become of all the poor people? They must go somewhere else. And the children too? Does it make much difference where they go to the dogs? You are forcing yourself into this harshness, Alfred. I have a right to be harsh now. It is my duty. Your duty? My duty to Ayof. He must not lie unevenged. Once for all, Rita, it is as I tell you. Think it over. Have the whole place down there raised to the ground, when I am gone. When you are gone? Yes, for that will at least give you something to fill your life with, and something you must have. There you are right. I must. But can you guess what I will set about when you are gone? Well, what? As soon as you are gone from me, I will go down to the beach and bring all the poor neglected children home with me, all the mischievous boys. What will you do with them here? I will take them to my heart. You? Yes, I will. From the day you leave me, they shall all be here, all of them, as if they were mine. In our little Ayof's place? Yes, in our little Ayof's place. They shall live in Ayof's rooms. They shall read his books. They shall play with his toys. They shall take it in turns to sit in his chair at table. But this is sheer madness in you. I do not know a creature in the world that is less fitted than you for anything of that sort. Then I shall have to educate myself for it, to train myself, to discipline myself. If you are really in earnest about this, about all you say, then there must indeed be a change in you. Yes, there is, Alfred. And for that I have you to thank. You have made an empty place within me, and I must try to fill it up with something, with something that is a little like love. Stands for a moment lost in thought, then looks at her. The truth is we have not done much for the poor people down there. We have done nothing for them. Scarcely even thought of them. Never thought of them in sympathy. We who had the gold and the green forests. Our hands were closed to them and our hearts too. Nuts. Then it was perhaps natural enough, after all, that they should not risk their lives to save little Ayof. Think, Alfred. Are you so certain that... that we would have risked ours? With an uneasy gesture of repulsion. You must never doubt that. Oh, we are children of earth. What do you really think you can do with all these neglected children? I suppose I must try if I cannot lighten and ennoble their lot in life. If you can do that, then Ayof was not born in vain. Nor taken from us in vain, either. Look instead firstly at her. Be quite clear about one thing, Rita. It is not love that is driving you to this. No. It is not at any rate, not yet. Well, then what is it? You have so often talked to Asta of human responsibility. Of the book that you hated. I hate that book still. But I used to sit and listen to what you told her, and now I will try to continue it in my own way. Shake in his head. It is not for the sake of that unfinished book. No. I have another reason as well. What is that? Softly, with a melancholy smile. I want to make my peace with the great open eyes you see. Struck, fixing his eyes upon her. Perhaps I could join you in that and help you, Rita? Would you? Yes, if I were only sure I could. But then you would have to remain here. Let us try if it could not be so. Yes. Let us, Alfred. Both are silent. Then almost goes up to the flagstaff and hoists the flag to the top. Rita stands beside the summer house and looks at him in silence. Coming forward again. We have a heavy day of work before us, Rita. You will see that now and then a sabbath peace will descend on us. Then perhaps we shall know that the spirits are with us. The spirits? Yes, they will perhaps be around us, those whom we have lost. Our little aleph. And your big aleph, too. Now and then perhaps we may still, on the way through life, have a little passing glimpse of them. When shall we look for them, Alfred? Fixing his eyes upon her. Upwards. Nuts in approval. Yes. Yes. Upwards. Upwards, towards the peaks, towards the stars. And towards the great silence. Giving him her hand. Thanks. End of Act III. End of Little Aleph by Henry Gibson. Translated by William Arter.