_Copyright Edition_ _First printed March 1907_ _Second Impression June 1910_ _Copyright 1907 by William Heinemann_ CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION TO “AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE” vii INTRODUCTION TO “THE WILD DUCK” xvii “AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE” 1 _Translated by_ MRS. ELEANOR MARX-AVELING “THE WILD DUCK” 189 _Translated by_ MRS. FRANCES E. ARCHER AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE. INTRODUCTION. From _Pillars of Society_ to _John Gabriel Borkman_, all Ibsen’s plays, with one exception, succeeded each other at intervals of two years. The single exception was _An Enemy of the People_. The storm of obloquy which greeted _Ghosts_ stirred him to unwonted rapidity of production. _Ghosts_ had appeared in December 1881; already, in the spring of 1882, Ibsen, then living in Rome, was at work upon its successor; and he finished it at Gossensass, in the Tyrol, in the early autumn. It appeared in Copenhagen at the end of November. John Paulsen[1] relates an anecdote of the poet’s extreme secretiveness during the process of composition, which may find a place here: “One summer he was travelling by rail with his wife and son. He was engaged upon a new play at the time; but neither Fru Ibsen nor Sigurd had any idea as to what it was about. Of course they were both very curious. It happened that, at a station, Ibsen left the carriage for a few moments. As he did so he dropped a scrap of paper. His wife picked it up, and read on it only the words, ‘The doctor says....’ Nothing more. Fru Ibsen showed it laughingly to Sigurd, and said, ‘Now we will tease your father a little when he comes back. He will be horrified to find that we know anything of his play.’ When Ibsen entered the carriage his wife looked at him roguishly, and said, ‘What doctor is it that figures in your new piece? I am sure he must have many interesting things to say.’ But if she could have foreseen the effect of her innocent jest, Fru Ibsen would certainly have held her tongue. For Ibsen was speechless with surprise and rage. When at last he recovered his speech, it was to utter a torrent of reproaches. What did this mean? Was he not safe in his own house? Was he surrounded with spies? Had his locks been tampered with, his desk rifled? And so forth, and so forth. His wife, who had listened with a quiet smile to the rising tempest of his wrath, at last handed him the scrap of paper. ‘We know nothing more than what is written upon this slip which you let fall. Allow me to return it to you.’ There stood Ibsen crestfallen. All his suspicions had vanished into thin air. The