SCENE — A room in Ulfheim's hut in the mountains. Left, up stage, a bear skin couch. Right, ditto, an open fireplace. On left wall, down stage, a rude wooden shelf, middle of which is ornamented with a bust of Ibsen; on left end of shelf a human skull, which is instantly recognized (by all of the audience who have read "When We Dead Awaken") as that of Arnold Rubek. On right end of shelf a little book. The nearest seat in the orchestra is thirty feet from this book, but every one in the house perceives at once that the title on this book reads "The Quintessence of Ibsenism: By G. Bernard Shaw." Ulfheim is discovered devouring bear steaks, the bones of which he throws to his two dogs, who eat them with less voracity than does their master the steaks. The room is filled with smoke arising from the bear steak, which Maia is with difficulty cooking as fast as Ulfheim can eat.

MAIA.

      (Throwing down the fryingpan) - There, Ulfheim, I declare I'll not fry you an other steak to-night.

ULFHEIM.

      (Stretching himself contentedly and filling his pipe) — Well, I've had about enough, little woman. Won't you have a bit? I don't want any more.

MAIA.

      (Pettishly) — Thank you; you are really too kind. But I'm too tired to eat.

ULFHEIM.

      Tired? I don't see what's made you tired.

MAIA.

      Your society.

ULFHEIM.

      Oh, come, now.

MAIA.

      Yes, your society in this (glancing around) prison.

ULFHEIM.

      You seem to get yourself into prison everywhere you go. When you left Rubek you sang something about "No More Life in His Prison for You."

MAIA.

      (Taking up the skull almost tenderly) — Ah, poor Rubek; he wasn't a bad fellow after all. And with all his faults he had the advantage of being my husband.

ULFHEIM.

      (Snatching the skull from her and throwing it across the room) — What stuff! The very thing you wanted to get rid of — and the snowslide saved me the trouble of doing it for you.

MAIA.

      (Thoughtfully) — Yes, but I sometimes think I made a mistake — several mistakes.

ULFHEIM.

      For instance?

MAIA.

      Well, mistake number one was you. You're not such a pleasant person to live with as I imagined, Ulfheim.

ULFHEIM.

      Well, thank God, I'm not an artist, at any rate; I'm a Primitive Man. You said you wanted to be free and live with a Primitive Man.

MAIA.

      Yes but you're too primitive for anybody but a Hottentot, Ulfheim. You do nothing but hunt all day and get drunk every night.

ULFHEIM.

      Well, what would you have? I'm only following my instinct, and our friend Ibsen there (points with his pipe to the bust) tells you that's the highest morality.

MAIA.

      That's all very well for you; but it doesn't suit me. Where do I come in on this arrangement? I'm sick of hunting and of cooking for you, and I don't drink.

ULFHEIM.

      You come in whenever I please. You took me with your eyes open, and I didn't make any bargain to keep you amused. Yes, but you might do something to make my life a little more cheerful. It's awfully stupid here, with only you and the dogs.

ULFHEIM.

      Why don't you go down and call on some of the other women at the hotel?

MAIA.

      (Savagely) — I did — and what do you think?

ULFHEIM.

      What?

MAIA.

      They never returned my calls.

ULFHEIM.

      Why not?

MAIA.

      I couldn't find out until my old friend Nora came last week.

ULFHEIM.

      That woman that used to live in the Doll's House?

MAIA.

      Yes, Nora; after following Mr. Anstey's advice and taking a course in morality at the Norwegian theaters, she settled down and married a widower with six children; quite respectable, you know.

ULFHEIM.

      Well, what did she tell you?

MAIA.

      (Excitedly) — She said that the reason the other women didn't return my calls was because — because — (very excitedly) you'll hardly believe it when I tell you.

ULFHEIM.

      Out with it.

MAIA.

      Because I wasn't married to you. There!

ULFHEIM.

      Silly old fools! Have they read Ibsen?

MAIA.

      (Beginning to break down) — I don't know and I don't care.

ULFHEIM.

      Send 'em down Shaw's book; perhaps you can convert 'em.

MAIA.

      I — I don't want to convert them. (Tearfully) — I'm beginning to think they're not altogether wrong.

ULFHEIM.

      (Jumping up and kicking a dog into each corner of the room. The reader will please remember that a stageroom has only two corners; that's why we have two dogs, not four) — What! You mean to say that you believe that society has any rights the individual is bound to respect? (More firmly) — I don't pretend to decide for men, but for women I should say yes.

ULFHEIM.

      (Contemptuously) — You're a sweet kind of an Advanced Woman, you are; you've no more capacity for imbibing the true Ibsen philosophy than a kitten has for swimming. (Refilling his pipe) — It takes a man like me to practice as well as to preach the Gospel of Instinctive Individualism.

MAIA.

      (Earnestly) — Do you really believe that? That each person has a right to do as he or she pleases?

ULFHEIM.

      (Confidently) — Of course I do.

MAIA.

      (Putting on her hat and moving toward the door) Good-by.

ULFHEIM.

      (Jumping up) — Good-by? What do you mean?

MAIA.

      Only that my instinct tells me I'd be happier to leave you; so — I'm going.

ULFHEIM.

      (With an oath) — Not by a long chalk!

MAIA.

      Why not? I am an individual; I have a right to do as I please.

ULFHEIM.

      Not where I'm concerned. You're a good cook and you're pretty, Maia, and you're a jolly companion. I say you shan't go.

MAIA.

      Will you marry me if I stay?

ULFHEIM.

      (Reluctantly) — Yes.

MAIA.

      But I won't marry you and I won't stay. Three months of you is enough, but a life time — Heavens! I'd rather die.

ULFHEIM.

      (Angrily, advancing toward her) — Then you shall die!

MAIA.

      (Firmly facing him) — I'm not afraid of you, Ulfheim. You may kill me if you please, but you cannot make me continue to live a life without self-respect. No true woman can do that, and I'm going to be a true woman after this, or nothing.

ULFHEIM.

      (Furiously) — You shall be nothing! (He raises his arm and rushes in to strike her. As he does so his dogs fly at him and pin him to the ground. In the confusion Maia escapes. After a desperate struggle Ulfheim succeeds in freeing himself from the dogs, only to hear the voice of Maia singing in the far distance:

I am free! I am free! No more life with Ulfheim for me. No more life in the prison for me!

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      The author of this mediated tragedy confesses himself unable to imagine how the scene with the dogs could be put upon the stage, but he feels that no apology is due the audience from him, since things more wonderful and more improbable happen in the Ibsen plays. Witness the gentleman who goes duck-hunting inside his house ("The Wild Duck"); the merchant who sends eighteen men to certain death in a rotten ship in order to preserve his social reputation ("Pillars of Society"), and the numerous incidents turning upon hereditary diseases, the obscure laws of which Ibsen expounds with a confidence that would put to shame a Galton or a Haeckel.