Nora. How?
Helmer. Because such an atmosphere of lies infects
and poisons the whole life of a home. Each breath
the children take in such a house is full of the germs
of evil.
Nora (coming nearer him). Are you sure of that?
Helmer. My dear, I have often seen it in the
course of my life as a lawyer. Almost everyone
who has gone to the bad early in life has had a deceitful
mother.
Nora. Why do you only say—mother?
Helmer. It seems most commonly to be the mother’s
influence, though naturally a bad father’s would
have the same result. Every lawyer is familiar
with the fact. This Krogstad, now, has been persistently
poisoning his own children with lies and dissimulation;
that is why I say he has lost all moral character.
(Holds out his hands to her.) That is why my sweet
little Nora must promise me not to plead his cause.
Give me your hand on it. Come, come, what is
this? Give me your hand. There now, that’s
settled. I assure you it would be quite impossible
for me to work with him; I literally feel physically
ill when I am in the company of such people.
Nora (takes her hand out of his and goes to the opposite
side of the Christmas Tree). How hot it is in
here; and I have such a lot to do.
Helmer (getting up and putting his papers in order).
Yes, and I must try and read through some of these
before dinner; and I must think about your costume,
too. And it is just possible I may have something
ready in gold paper to hang up on the Tree. (Puts his
hand on her head.) My precious little singing-bird!
(He goes into his room and shuts the door after him.)
Nora (after a pause, whispers). No, no—it
isn’t true. It’s impossible; it must
be impossible.
(The nurse opens the door on the left.)
Nurse. The little ones are begging so hard to
be allowed to come in to mamma.
Nora. No, no, no! Don’t let them come
in to me! You stay with them, Anne.
Nurse. Very well, ma’am. (Shuts the door.)
Nora (pale with terror). Deprave my little children?
Poison my home? (A short pause. Then she tosses
her head.) It’s not true. It can’t
possibly be true.
(The same scene.—The
Christmas Tree is in the corner by the piano, stripped
of its ornaments and with burnt-down candle-ends on
its dishevelled branches. Nora’s cloak
and hat are lying on the sofa. She is alone in
the room, walking about uneasily. She stops by
the sofa and takes up her cloak.)
Nora (drops her cloak). Someone is coming now!
(Goes to the door and listens.) No—it is
no one. Of course, no one will come today, Christmas
Day—nor tomorrow either. But, perhaps—(opens
the door and looks out). No, nothing in the letterbox;
it is quite empty. (Comes forward.) What rubbish!
of course he can’t be in earnest about it.
Such a thing couldn’t happen; it is impossible—I
have three little children.
