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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/2467-h.zip b/2467-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..62ba46d --- /dev/null +++ b/2467-h.zip diff --git a/2467-h/2467-h.htm b/2467-h/2467-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..39dd64e --- /dev/null +++ b/2467-h/2467-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6253 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of Ghosts, by Henrik Ibsen +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%;} + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.dialog {text-indent: -5%; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.stage {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ghosts, by Henrik Ibsen + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ghosts + A Domestic Tragedy in Three Acts + +Author: Henrik Ibsen + +Illustrator: R. Farquharson Sharp + +Posting Date: February 27, 2010 [EBook #2467] +Release Date: January, 2001 +Last Updated: November 24, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GHOSTS *** + + + + +Produced by Martin Adamson. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +GHOSTS +</H1> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +A Domestic Tragedy in Three Acts +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +by +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Henrik Ibsen +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Translated by R. Farquharson Sharp +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +DRAMATIS PERSONAE +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + Mrs. Alving (a widow).<BR> + Oswald Alving (her son, an artist).<BR> + Manders (the Pastor of the parish).<BR> + Engstrand (a carpenter).<BR> + Regina Engstrand (his daughter, in Mrs Alving's service).<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +(The action takes place at Mrs Alving's house on one of the larger +fjords of Western Norway.) +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +GHOSTS +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ACT I +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +(SCENE.—A large room looking upon a garden door in the left-hand wall, +and two in the right. In the middle of the room, a round table with +chairs set about it, and books, magazines and newspapers upon it. In +the foreground on the left, a window, by which is a small sofa with a +work-table in front of it. At the back the room opens into a +conservatory rather smaller than the room. From the right-hand side of +this, a door leads to the garden. Through the large panes of glass that +form the outer wall of the conservatory, a gloomy fjord landscape can +be discerned, half-obscured by steady rain. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +ENGSTRAND is standing close to the garden door. His left leg is +slightly deformed, and he wears a boot with a clump of wood under the +sole. REGINA, with an empty garden-syringe in her hand, is trying to +prevent his coming in.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (below her breath). What is it you want? Stay where you are. The +rain is dripping off you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. God's good rain, my girl. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. The Devil's own rain, that's what it is! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Lord, how you talk, Regina. (Takes a few limping steps +forward.) What I wanted to tell you was this— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Don't clump about like that, stupid! The young master is lying +asleep upstairs. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Asleep still? In the middle of the day? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Well, it's no business of yours. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I was out on a spree last night— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. I don't doubt it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, we are poor weak mortals, my girl— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. We are indeed. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. —and the temptations of the world are manifold, you +know—but, for all that, here I was at my work at half-past five this +morning. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, yes, but make yourself scarce now. I am not going to stand +here as if I had a rendezvous with you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. As if you had a what? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. I am not going to have anyone find you here; so now you know, +and you can go. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (coming a few steps nearer). Not a bit of it! Not before we +have had a little chat. This afternoon I shall have finished my job +down at the school house, and I shall be off home to town by tonight's +boat. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (mutters). Pleasant journey to you! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Thanks, my girl. Tomorrow is the opening of the Orphanage, +and I expect there will be a fine kick-up here and plenty of good +strong drink, don't you know. And no one shall say of Jacob Engstrand +that he can't hold off when temptation comes in his way. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Oho! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, because there will be a lot of fine folk here tomorrow. +Parson Manders is expected from town, too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina: What's more, he's coming today. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. There you are! And I'm going to be precious careful he +doesn't have anything to say against me, do you see? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Oh, that's your game, is it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (with a significant look at him). What is it you want to humbug +Mr. Manders out of this time? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Sh! Sh! Are you crazy? Do you suppose I would want to humbug +Mr. Manders? No, no—Mr. Manders has always been too kind a friend for +me to do that. But what I wanted to talk to you about, was my going +back home tonight. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. The sooner you go, the better I shall be pleased. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, only I want to take you with me, Regina. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (open-mouthed). You want to take me—? What did you say? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I want to take you home with me, I said. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (contemptuously). You will never get me home with you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Ah, we shall see about that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, you can be quite certain we shall see about that. I, who +have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving?—I, who have been +treated almost as if I were her own child?—do you suppose I am going +home with you?—to such a house as yours? Not likely! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. What the devil do you mean? Are you setting yourself up +against your father, you hussy? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (mutters, without looking at him). You have often told me I was +none of yours. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Bah!—why do you want to pay any attention to that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Haven't you many and many a time abused me and called me a —? +For shame? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I'll swear I never used such an ugly word. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Oh, it doesn't matter what word you used. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Besides, that was only when I was a bit fuddled...hm! +Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Ugh! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. And it was when your mother was in a nasty temper. I had to +find some way of getting my knife into her, my girl. She was always so +precious gentile. (Mimicking her.) "Let go, Jacob! Let me be! Please to +remember that I was three years with the Alvings at Rosenvold, and they +were people who went to Court!" (Laughs.) Bless my soul, she never +could forget that Captain Alving got a Court appointment while she was +in service here. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Poor mother—you worried her into her grave pretty soon. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (shrugging his shoulders). Of course, of course; I have got +to take the blame for everything. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (beneath her breath, as she turns away). Ugh—that leg, too! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. What are you saying, my girl? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Pied de mouton. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Is that English? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. You have had a good education out here, and no mistake; and +it may stand you in good stead now, Regina. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (after a short silence). And what was it you wanted me to come +to town for? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Need you ask why a father wants his only child? Ain't I a +poor lonely widower? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Oh, don't come to me with that tale. Why do you want me to go? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Well, I must tell you I am thinking of taking up a new line +now. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (whistles). You have tried that so often—but it has always +proved a fool's errand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Ah, but this time you will just see, Regina! Strike me dead +if— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (stamping her foot). Stop swearing! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Sh! Sh!—you're quite right, my girl, quite right! What I +wanted to say was only this, that I have put by a tidy penny out of +what I have made by working at this new Orphanage up here. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Have you? All the better for you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. What is there for a man to spend his money on, out here in +the country? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Well, what then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Well, you see, I thought of putting the money into something +that would pay. I thought of some kind of an eating-house for seafaring +folk— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Heavens! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Oh, a high-class eating-house, of course—not a pigsty for +common sailors. Damn it, no; it would be a place ships' captains and +first mates would come to; really good sort of people, you know. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. And what should I—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. You would help there: But only to make show, you know. You +wouldn't find it hard work, I can promise you, my girl. You should do +exactly as you liked. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Oh, yes, quite so! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. But we must have some women in the house; that is as clear +as daylight. Because in the evening we must make the place a little +attractive—some singing and dancing, and that sort of thing. Remember +they are seafolk—wayfarers on the waters of life! (Coming nearer to +her.) Now don't be a fool and stand in your own way, Regina. What good +are you going to do here? Will this education, that your mistress has +paid for, be of any use? You are to look after the children in the new +Home, I hear. Is that the sort of work for you? Are you so frightfully +anxious to go and wear out your health and strength for the sake of +these dirty brats? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. No, if things were to go as I want them to, then—. Well, it +may happen; who knows? It may happen! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. What may happen? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Never you mind. Is it much that you have put by, up here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Taking it all round, I should say about forty or fifty +pounds. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. That's not so bad. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. It's enough to make a start with, my girl. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Don't you mean to give me any of the money? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. No, I'm hanged if I do. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Don't you mean to send me as much as a dress-length of stuff, +just for once? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Come and live in the town with me and you shall have plenty +of dresses. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina: Pooh!—I can get that much for myself, if I have a mind to. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. But it's far better to have a father's guiding hand, Regina. +Just now I can get a nice house in Little Harbour Street. They don't +want much money down for it—and we could make it like a sort of +seamen's home, don't you know. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. But I have no intention of living with you! I'll have nothing +whatever to do with you: So now, be off! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. You wouldn't be living with me long, my girl. No such +luck—not if you knew how to play your cards. Such a fine wench as you +have grown this last year or two... +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Well—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. It wouldn't be very long before some first mate came +along—or perhaps a captain. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. I don't mean to marry a man of that sort. Sailors have no +savoir-vivre. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. What haven't they got? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They aren't the sort of +people to marry. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Well, don't bother about marrying them. You can make it pay +just as well. (More confidentially.) That fellow—the Englishman—the +one with the yacht—he gave seventy pounds, he did; and she wasn't a +bit prettier than you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (advancing towards him). Get out! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (stepping back). Here! here!—you're not going to hit me, I +suppose? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes! If you talk like that of mother, I will hit you. Get out, +I tell. You! (Pushes him up to the garden door.) And don't bang the +doors. Young Mr. Alving— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Is asleep—I know. It's funny how anxious you are about +young Mr. Alving. (In a lower tone.) Oho! is it possible that it is he +that—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Get out, and be quick about it! Your wits are wandering, my +good man. No, don't go that way; Mr. Manders is just coming along. Be +off down the kitchen stairs. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (moving towards the right). Yes, yes—all right. But have a +bit of a chat with him that's coming along. He's the chap to tell you +what a child owes to its father. For I am your father, anyway, you +know, I can prove it by the Register. (He goes out through the farther +door which REGINA has opened. She shuts it after him, looks hastily at +herself in the mirror, fans herself with her handkerchief and sets her +collar straight; then busies herself with the flowers. MANDERS enters +the conservatory through the garden door. He wears an overcoat, carries +an umbrella, and has a small travelling-bag slung over his shoulder on +a strap.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Good morning, Miss Engstrand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (turning round with a look of pleased surprise), Oh, Mr. +Manders, good morning. The boat is in, then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Just in. (Comes into the room.) It is most tiresome, this rain +every day. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (following him in). It's a splendid rain for the farmers, Mr. +Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, you are quite right. We townfolk think so little about +that. (Begins to take off his overcoat.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Oh, let me help you. That's it. Why, how wet it is! I will hang +it up in the hall. Give me your umbrella, too; I will leave it open, so +that it will dry. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(She goes out with the things by the farther door on the right. MANDERS +lays his bag and his hat down on a chair. REGINA re-enters.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Ah, it's very pleasant to get indoors. Well, is everything +going on well here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, thanks. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Properly busy, though, I expect, getting ready for tomorrow? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Oh, yes, there is plenty to do. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I hope? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, she is. She has just gone upstairs to take the young +master his chocolate. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Tell me—I heard down at the pier that Oswald had come back. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect him +until today. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Strong and well, I hope? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, thank you, well enough. But dreadfully tired after his +journey. He came straight from Paris without a stop—I mean, he came +all the way without breaking his journey. I fancy he is having a sleep +now, so we must talk a little bit more quietly, if you don't mind. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. All right, we will be very quiet. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (while she moves an armchair up to the table), Please sit down, +Mr. Manders, and make yourself at home. (He sits down; she puts a +footstool under his feet.) There! Is that comfortable? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Thank you, thank you. That is most comfortable; (Looks at +her.) I'll tell you what, Miss Engstrand, I certainly think you have +grown since I saw you last. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Do you think so? Mrs. Alving says, too—that I have developed. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Developed? Well, perhaps a little—just suitably. (A short +pause.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child. Now tell me, Regina +my dear, how has your father been getting on here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Thank you, Mr. Manders, he is getting on pretty well. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. He came to see me the last time he was in town. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Did he? He is always so glad when he can have a chat with you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And I suppose you have seen him pretty regularly every day? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. I? Oh, yes, I do—whenever I have time, that is to say. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Your father has not a very strong character, Miss Engstrand. +He sadly needs a guiding hand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, I can quite believe that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. He needs someone with him that he can cling to, someone whose +judgment he can rely on. He acknowledged that freely himself, the last +time he came up to see me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, he has said something of the same sort to me. But I don't +know whether Mrs. Alving could do without me—most of all just now, +when we have the new Orphanage to see about. And I should be dreadfully +unwilling to leave Mrs. Alving, too; she has always been so good to me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But a daughter's duty, my good child—. Naturally we should +have to get your mistress' consent first. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Still I don't know whether it would be quite the thing, at my +age, to keep house for a single man. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. What! My dear Miss Engstrand, it is your own father we are +speaking of! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, I dare say, but still—. Now, if it were in a good house +and with a real gentleman— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But, my dear Regina! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. —one whom I could feel an affection for, and really feel in +the position of a daughter to... +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Come, come—my dear good child— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. I should like very much to live in town. Out here it is +terribly lonely; and you know yourself, Mr. Manders, what it is to be +alone in the world. And, though I say it, I really am both capable and +willing. Don't you know any place that would be suitable for me, Mr. +Manders? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I? No, indeed I don't. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. But, dear Mr. Manders—at any rate don't forget me, in case— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (getting up). No, I won't forget you, Miss Engstrand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Because, if I— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Perhaps you will be so kind as to let Mrs. Alving know I am +here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. I will fetch her at once, Mr. Manders. (Goes out to the left. +MANDERS walks up and down the room once or twice, stands for a moment +at the farther end of the room with his hands behind his back and looks +out into the garden. Then he comes back to the table, takes up a book +and looks at the title page, gives a start, and looks at some of the +others.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Hm!—Really! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(MRS. ALVING comes in by the door on the left. She is followed by +REGINA, who goes out again at once through the nearer door on the +right.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (holding out her hand). I am very glad to see you, Mr. +Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. How do you do, Mrs. Alving. Here I am, as I promised. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Always punctual! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Indeed, I was hard put to it to get away. What with vestry +meetings and committees. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It was all the kinder of you to come in such good time; we +can settle our business before dinner. But where is your luggage? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (quickly). My things are down at the village shop. I am going +to sleep there tonight. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (repressing a smile). Can't I really persuade you to stay +the night here this time? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No, no; many thanks all the same; I will put up there, as +usual. It is so handy for getting on board the boat again. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Of course, you shall do as you please. But it seems to me +quite another thing, now we are two old people— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Ha! ha! You will have your joke! And it's natural you should +be in high spirits today—first of all there is the great event +tomorrow, and also you have got Oswald home. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, am I not a lucky woman! It is more than two years +since he was home last, and he has promised to stay the whole winter +with me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders, Has he, really? That is very nice and filial of him; because +there must be many more attractions in his life in Rome or in Paris, I +should think. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but he has his mother here, you see. Bless the dear +boy, he has got a corner in his heart for his mother still. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Oh, it would be very sad if absence and preoccupation with +such a thing as Art were to dull the natural affections. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It would, indeed. But there is no fear of that with him, I +am glad to say. I am quite curious to see if you recognise him again. +He will be down directly; he is just lying down for a little on the +sofa upstairs. But do sit down, my dear friend. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Thank you. You are sure I am not disturbing you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Of course not. (She sits down at the table.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Good. Then I will show you—. (He goes to the chair where his +bag is lying and takes a packet of papers from it; then sits down at +the opposite side of the table and looks for a clear space to put the +papers down.) Now first of all, here is—(breaks off). Tell me, Mrs. +Alving, what are these books doing here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. These books? I am reading them, +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Do you read this sort of thing? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Certainly I do. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Do you feel any the better or the happier for reading books of +this kind? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I think it makes me, as it were, more self-reliant. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. That is remarkable. But why? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well, they give me an explanation or a confirmation of +lots of different ideas that have come into my own mind. But what +surprises me, Mr. Manders, is that, properly speaking, there is nothing +at all new in these books. There is nothing more in them than what most +people think and believe. The only thing is, that most people either +take no account of it or won't admit it to themselves. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But, good heavens, do you seriously think that most people—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed, I do. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But not here in the country at any rate? Not here amongst +people like ourselves? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, amongst people like ourselves too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Well, really, I must say—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But what is the particular objection that you have to +these books? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. What objection? You surely don't suppose that I take any +particular interest in such productions? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. In fact, you don't know anything about what you are +denouncing? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I have read quite enough about these books to disapprove of +them: +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but your own opinion— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one +has to rely on the opinion of others. That is the way in this world, +and it is quite right that it should be so. What would become of +society, otherwise? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well, you may be right. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Apart from that, naturally I don't deny that literature of +this kind may have a considerable attraction. And I cannot blame you, +either, for wishing to make yourself acquainted with the intellectual +tendencies which I am told are at work in the wider world in which you +have allowed your son to wander for so long but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (lowering his voice). But one doesn't talk about it, Mrs. +Alving. One certainly is not called upon to account to everyone for +what one reads or thinks in the privacy of one's own room. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Certainly not. I quite agree with you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Just think of the consideration you owe to this Orphanage, +which you decided to build at a time when your thoughts on such +subjects were very different from what they are now—as far as I am +able to judge. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I freely admit that. But it was about the Orphanage... +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. It was about the Orphanage we were going to talk; quite so. +Well—walk warily, dear Mrs. Alving! And now let us turn to the +business in hand. (Opens an envelope and takes out some papers.) You +see these? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. The deeds? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, the whole lot—and everything in order; I can tell you it +has been no easy matter to get them in time. I had positively to put +pressure on the authorities; they are almost painfully conscientious +when it is a question of settling property. But here they are at last. +(Turns over the papers.) Here is the deed of conveyance of that part of +the Rosenvold estate known as the Solvik property, together with the +buildings newly erected thereon—the school, the masters' houses and +the chapel. And here is the legal sanction for the statutes of the +institution. Here, you see—(reads) "Statutes for the Captain Alving +Orphanage." +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (after a long look at the papers). That seems all in order. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I thought "Captain" was the better title to use, rather than +your husband's Court title of "Chamberlain." "Captain" seems less +ostentatious. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes; just as you think best. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And here is the certificate for the investment of the capital +in the bank, the interest being earmarked for the current expenses of +the Orphanage. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Many thanks; but I think it will be most convenient if you +will kindly take charge of them. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. With pleasure. I think it will be best to leave the money in +the bank for the present. The interest is not very high, it is true; +four per cent at six months' call; later on, if we can find some good +mortgage—of course it must be a first mortgage and on unexceptionable +security—we can consider the matter further. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Manders, you know best about all +that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I will keep my eye on it, anyway. But there is one thing in +connection with it that I have often meant to ask you about. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What is that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Shall we insure the buildings, or not? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Of course we must insure them. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Ah, but wait a moment, dear lady. Let us look into the matter +a little more closely. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Everything of mine is insured—the house and its contents, +my livestock—everything. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Naturally. They are your own property. I do exactly the same, +of course. But this, you see, is quite a different case. The Orphanage +is, so to speak, dedicated to higher uses. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Certainly, but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. As far as I am personally concerned, I can conscientiously say +that I don't see the smallest objection to our insuring ourselves +against all risks. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. That is exactly what I think. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But what about the opinion of the people hereabouts? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Their opinion—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Is there any considerable body of opinion here—opinion of +some account, I mean—that might take exception to it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What, exactly, do you mean by opinion of some account? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Well, I was thinking particularly of persons of such +independent and influential position that one could hardly refuse to +attach weight to their opinion. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. There are a certain number of such people here, who might +perhaps take exception to it if we— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. That's just it, you see. In town there are lots of them. All +my fellow-clergymen's congregations, for instance! It would be so +extremely easy for them to interpret it as meaning that neither you nor +I had a proper reliance on Divine protection. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But as far as you are concerned, my dear friend, you have +at all events the consciousness that— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes I know I know; my own mind is quite easy about it, it is +true. But we should not be able to prevent a wrong and injurious +interpretation of our action. And that sort of thing, moreover, might +very easily end in exercising a hampering influence on the work of the +Orphanage. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh, well, if that is likely to be the effect of it— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Nor can I entirely overlook the difficult—indeed, I may say, +painful—position I might possibly be placed in. In the best circles in +town the matter of this Orphanage is attracting a great deal of +attention. Indeed the Orphanage is to some extent built for the benefit +of the town too, and it is to be hoped that it may result in the +lowering of our poor-rate by a considerable amount. But as I have been +your adviser in the matter and have taken charge of the business side +of it, I should be afraid that it would be I that spiteful persons +would attack first of all. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, you ought not to expose yourself to that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Not to mention the attacks that would undoubtedly be made upon +me in certain newspapers and reviews. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Say no more about it, dear Mr. Manders; that quite decides +it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Then you don't wish it to be insured? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No, we will give up the idea. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (leaning back in his chair). But suppose, now, that some +accident happened?—one can never tell—would you be prepared to make +good the damage? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No; I tell you quite plainly I would not do so under any +circumstances. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Still, you know, Mrs. Alving—after all, it is a serious +responsibility that we are taking upon ourselves. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But do you think we can do otherwise? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No, that's just it. We really can't do otherwise. We ought not +to expose ourselves to a mistaken judgment; and we have no right to do +anything that will scandalise the community. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You ought not to, as a clergyman, at any rate. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And, what is more, I certainly think that we may count upon +our enterprise being attended by good fortune—indeed, that it will be +under a special protection. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Let us hope so, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Then we will leave it alone? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Certainly. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Very good. As you wish. (Makes a note.) No insurance, then. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It's a funny thing that you should just have happened to +speak about that today— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I have often meant to ask you about it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. —because yesterday we very nearly had a fire up there. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Do you mean it! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh, as a matter of fact it was nothing of any consequence. +Some shavings in the carpenter's shop caught fire. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Where Engstrand works? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes. They say he is often so careless with matches. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. He has so many things on his mind, poor fellow—so many +anxieties. Heaven be thanked, I am told he is really making an effort +to live a blameless life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Really? Who told you so? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. He assured me himself that it is so. He's good workman, too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes, when he is sober. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Ah, that sad weakness of his! But the pain in his poor leg +often drives him to it, he tells me. The last time he was in town, I +was really quite touched by him. He came to my house and thanked me so +gratefully for getting him work here, where he could have the chance of +being with Regina. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. He doesn't see very much of her. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But he assured me that he saw her every day. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh well, perhaps he does. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. He feels so strongly that he needs someone who can keep a hold +on him when temptations assail him. That is the most winning thing +about Jacob Engstrand; he comes to one like a helpless child and +accuses himself and confesses his frailty. The last time he came and +had a talk with me... Suppose now, Mrs. Alving, that it were really a +necessity of his existence to have Regina at home with him again— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (standing up suddenly). Regina! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. —you ought not to set yourself against him. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Indeed, I set myself very definitely against that. And, +besides, you know Regina is to have a post in the Orphanage. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But consider, after all he is her father— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I know best what sort of a father he has been to her. No, +she shall never go to him with my consent. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (getting up). My dear lady, don't judge so hastily. It is very +sad how you misjudge poor Engstrand. One would really think you were +afraid... +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (more calmly). That is not the question. I have taken +Regina into my charge, and in my charge she remains. (Listens.) Hush, +dear Mr. Manders, don't say any more about it. (Her face brightens with +pleasure.) Listen! Oswald is coming downstairs. We will only think +about him now. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand and smoking a big +meerschaum pipe, comes in by the door on the left.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (standing in the doorway). Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought you +were in the office. (Comes in.) Good morning, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (staring at him). Well! It's most extraordinary. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I-I-no, can it possibly be—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, it really is the prodigal son, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Oh, my dear young friend— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Well, the son came home, then. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so opposed to +the idea of his being a painter. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. We are only fallible, and many steps seem to us hazardous at +first, that afterwards—(grasps his hand). Welcome, welcome! Really, my +dear Oswald—may I still call you Oswald? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What else would you think of calling me? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Thank you. What I mean, my dear Oswald, is that you must not +imagine that I have any unqualified disapproval of the artist's life. I +admit that there are many who, even in that career, can keep the inner +man free from harm. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Let us hope so. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (beaming with pleasure). I know one who has kept both the +inner and the outer man free from harm. Just take a look at him, Mr. +Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (walks across the room). Yes, yes, mother dear, of course. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Undoubtedly—no one can deny it. And I hear you have begun to +make a name for yourself. I have often seen mention of you in the +papers—and extremely favourable mention, too. Although, I must admit, +lately I have not seen your name so often. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (going towards the conservatory). I haven't done so much +painting just lately. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. An artist must take a rest sometimes, like other people. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Of course, of course. At those times the artist is preparing +and strengthening himself for a greater effort. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes. Mother, will dinner soon be ready? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. In half an hour. He has a fine appetite, thank goodness. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And a liking for tobacco too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I found father's pipe in the room upstairs, and— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Ah, that is what it was! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. When Oswald came in at that door with the pipe in his mouth, I +thought for the moment it was his father in the flesh. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Really? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. How can you say so! Oswald takes after me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of his +mouth—something about the lips—that reminds me so exactly of Mr. +Alving—especially when he smokes. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I don't think so at all. To my mind, Oswald has much more +of a clergyman's mouth. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Menders. Well, yes—a good many of my colleagues in the church have a +similar expression. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But put your pipe down, my dear boy. I don't allow any +smoking in here. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (puts down his pipe). All right, I only wanted to try it, +because I smoked it once when I was a child. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes; it was when I was quite a little chap. And I can remember +going upstairs to father's room one evening when he was in very good +spirits. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh, you can't remember anything about those days. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, I remember plainly that he took me on his knee and let me +smoke his pipe. "Smoke, my boy," he said, "have a good smoke, boy!" And +I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was turning quite pale and +the perspiration was standing in great drops on my forehead. Then he +laughed—such a hearty laugh. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. It was an extremely odd thing to do. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Dear Mr. Manders, Oswald only dreamt it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. No indeed, mother, it was no dream. Because—don't you +remember—you came into the room and carried me off to the nursery, +where I was sick, and I saw that you were crying. Did father often play +such tricks? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. In his young days he was full of fun— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. And, for all that, he did so much with his life—so much that +was good and useful, I mean—short as his life was. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, my dear Oswald Alving, you have inherited the name of a +man who undoubtedly was both energetic and worthy. Let us hope it will +be a spur to your energies. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. It ought to be, certainly. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. In any case it was nice of you to come home for the day that +is to honour his memory. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I could do no less for my father. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And to let me keep him so long here—that's the nicest +part of what he has done. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, I hear you are going to spend the winter at home. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I am here for an indefinite time, Mr. Manders.—Oh, it's good +to be at home again! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (beaming). Yes, isn't it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (looking sympathetically at him). You went out into the world +very young, my dear Oswald. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I did. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't too young. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Not a bit of it. It is the best thing for an active boy, +and especially for an only child. It's a pity when they are kept at +home with their parents and get spoiled. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. That is a very debatable question, Mrs. Alving. A child's own +home is, and always must be, his proper place. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. There I agree entirely with Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Take the case of your own son. Oh yes, we can talk about it +before him. What has the result been in his case? He is six or seven +and twenty, and has never yet had the opportunity of learning what a +well-regulated home means. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Excuse me, Mr. Manders, you are quite wrong there. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Indeed? I imagined that your life abroad had practically been +spent entirely in artistic circles. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. So it has. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And chiefly amongst the younger artists. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Certainly. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But I imagined that those gentry, as a rule, had not the means +necessary for family life and the support of a home. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. There are a considerable number of them who have not the means +to marry, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. That is exactly my point. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. But they can have a home of their own, all the same; a good +many of them have. And they are very well-regulated and very +comfortable homes, too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(MRS. ALVING, who has listened to him attentively, nods assent, but +says nothing.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Oh, but I am not talking of bachelor establishments. By a home +I mean family life—the life a man lives with his wife and children. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Exactly, or with his children and his children's mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (starts and clasps his hands). Good heavens! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What is the matter? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Lives with-with-his children's mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Well, would you rather he should repudiate his children's +mother? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Then what you are speaking of are those unprincipled +conditions known as irregular unions! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I have never noticed anything particularly unprincipled about +these people's lives. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But do you mean to say that it is possible for a man of any +sort of bringing up, and a young woman, to reconcile themselves to such +a way of living—and to make no secret of it, either! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What else are they to do? A poor artist, and a poor girl—it +costs a good deal to get married. What else are they to do? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. What are they to do? Well, Mr. Alving, I will tell you what +they ought to do. They ought to keep away from each other from the very +beginning—that is what they ought to do! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. That advice wouldn't have much effect upon hot-blooded young +folk who are in love. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No, indeed it wouldn't. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (persistently). And to think that the authorities tolerate such +things! That they are allowed to go on, openly! (Turns to MRS. ALVING.) +Had I so little reason, then, to be sadly concerned about your son? In +circles where open immorality is rampant—where, one may say, it is +honoured— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Let me tell you this, Mr. Manders. I have been a constant +Sunday guest at one or two of these "irregular" households. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. On Sunday, too! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, that is the day of leisure. But never have I heard one +objectionable word there, still less have I ever seen anything that +could be called immoral. No; but do you know when and where I have met +with immorality in artists' circles? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No, thank heaven, I don't! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Well, then, I shall have the pleasure of telling you. I have +met with it when someone or other of your model husbands and fathers +have come out there to have a bit of a look round on their own account, +and have done the artists the honour of looking them up in their humble +quarters. Then we had a chance of learning something, I can tell you. +These gentlemen were able to instruct us about places and things that +we had never so much as dreamt of. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. What? Do you want me to believe that honourable men when they +get away from home will— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Have you never, when these same honourable men come home again, +heard them deliver themselves on the subject of the prevalence of +immorality abroad? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, of course, but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I have heard them, too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Well, you can take their word for it, unhesitatingly. Some of +them are experts in the matter. (Putting his hands to his head.) To +think that the glorious freedom of the beautiful life over there should +be so besmirched! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You mustn't get too heated, Oswald; you gain nothing by +that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. No, you are quite right, mother. Besides, it isn't good for me. +It's because I am so infernally tired, you know. I will go out and take +a turn before dinner. I beg your pardon, Mr. Manders. It is impossible +for you to realise the feeling; but it takes me that way (Goes out by +the farther door on the right.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. My poor boy! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You may well say so. This is what it has brought him to! (MRS. +ALVING looks at him, but does not speak.) He called himself the +prodigal son. It's only too true, alas—only too true! (MRS. ALVING +looks steadily at him.) And what do you say to all this? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I say that Oswald was right in every single word he said. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Right? Right? To hold such principles as that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. In my loneliness here I have come to just the same +opinions as he, Mr. Manders. But I have never presumed to venture upon +such topics in conversation. Now there is no need; my boy shall speak +for me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You deserve the deepest pity, Mrs. Alving. It is my duty to +say an earnest word to you. It is no longer your businessman and +adviser, no longer your old friend and your dead husband's old friend, +that stands before you now. It is your priest that stands before you, +just as he did once at the most critical moment of your life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And what is it that my priest has to say to me? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. First of all I must stir your memory. The moment is well +chosen. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of your husband's death; +tomorrow the memorial to the departed will be unveiled; tomorrow I +shall speak to the whole assembly that will be met together, But today +I want to speak to you alone. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving, Very well, Mr. Manders, speak! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Have you forgotten that after barely a year of married life +you were standing at the very edge of a precipice?—that you forsook +your house and home? that you ran away from your husband—yes, Mrs. +Alving, ran away, ran away-=and refused to return to him in spite of +his requests and entreaties? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Have you forgotten how unspeakably unhappy I was during +that first year? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. To crave for happiness in this world is simply to be possessed +by a spirit of revolt. What right have we to happiness? No! we must do +our duty, Mrs. Alving. And your duty was to cleave to the man you had +chosen and to whom you were bound by a sacred bond. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You know quite well what sort of a life my husband was +living at that time—what excesses he was guilty of. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Menders. I know only too well what rumour used to say of him; and I +should be the last person to approve of his conduct as a young man, +supposing that rumour spoke the truth. But it is not a wife's part to +be her husband's judge. You should have considered it your bounden duty +humbly to have borne the cross that a higher will had laid upon you. +But, instead of that, you rebelliously cast off your cross, you +deserted the man whose stumbling footsteps you should have supported, +you did what was bound to imperil your good name and reputation, and +came very near to imperilling the reputation of others into the bargain. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Of others? Of one other, you mean. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. It was the height of imprudence, your seeking refuge with me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. With our priest? With our intimate friend? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. All the more on that account; you should thank God that I +possessed the necessary strength of mind—that I was able to turn you +from your outrageous intention, and that it was vouchsafed to me to +succeed in leading you back into the path of duty, and back to your +lawful husband. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, Mr. Manders, that certainly was your doing. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I was but the humble instrument of a higher power. And is it +not true that my having been able to bring you again under the yoke of +duty and obedience sowed the seeds of a rich blessing on all the rest +of your life? Did things not turn out as I foretold to you? Did not +your husband turn from straying in the wrong path, as a man should? Did +he not, after that, live a life of love and good report with you all +his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the neighbourhood? Did he +not so raise you up to his level, so that by degree you became his +fellow-worker in all his undertakings—and a noble fellow-worker, too. +I know, Mrs. Alving; that praise I will give you. But now I come to the +second serious false step in your life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders, Just as once you forsook your duty as a wife, so, since then, +you have forsaken your duty as a mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You have been overmastered all your life by a disastrous +spirit of willfulness. All your impulses have led you towards what is +undisciplined and lawless. You have never been willing to submit to any +restraint. Anything in life that has seemed irksome to you, you have +thrown aside recklessly and unscrupulously, as if it were a burden that +you were free to rid yourself of if you would. It did not please you to +be a wife any longer, and so you left your husband. Your duties as a +mother were irksome to you, so you sent your child away among strangers. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true; I did that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Menders. And that is why you have become a stranger to him. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No, no, I am not that! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You are; you must be. And what sort of a son is it that you +have got back? Think over it seriously, Mrs. Alving. You erred +grievously in your husband's case—you acknowledge as much, by erecting +this memorial to him. Now you are bound to acknowledge how much you +have erred in your son's case; possibly there may still be time to +reclaim him from the path of wickedness. Turn over a new leaf, and set +yourself to reform what there may still be that is capable of +reformation in him. Because (with uplifted forefinger) in very truth, +Mrs. Alving, you are a guilty mother!—That is what I have thought it +my duty to say to you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(A short silence.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (speaking slowly and with self-control). You have had your +say, Mr. Manders, and tomorrow you will be making a public speech in +memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But now I wish to +speak to you for a little, just as you have been speaking to me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. By all means; no doubt you wish to bring forward some excuses +for your behaviour. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No. I only want to tell you something— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Well? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. In all that you said just now about me and my husband, and +about our life together after you had, as you put it, led me back into +the path of duty—there was nothing that you knew at first hand. From +that moment you never again set foot in our house—you, who had been +our daily companion before that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Remember that you and your husband moved out of town +immediately afterwards. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, and you never once came out here to see us in my +husband's lifetime. It was only the business in connection with the +Orphanage that obliged you to come and see me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (in a low and uncertain voice). Helen—if that is a reproach, I +can only beg you to consider— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. —the respect you owed by your calling?—yes. All the more +as I was a wife who had tried to run away from her husband. One can +never be too careful to have nothing to do with such reckless women. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. My dear—Mrs. Alving, you are exaggerating dreadfully. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,—very well. What I mean is this, that when you +condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon than +ordinary public opinion. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I admit it. What then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you the +truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day—you, and +you only! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And what may the truth be? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as great a +profligate as he had been all his life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as +profligate—in his desires at all events—as he was before you married +us. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions—his +irregularities—his excesses, if you like—as a profligate life! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I don't understand what you mean. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It is not necessary that you should. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. It makes my brain reel. To think that your marriage—all the +years of wedded life you spent with your husband—were nothing but a +hidden abyss of misery. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. That and nothing else. Now you know. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. This—this bewilders me. I can't understand it! I can't grasp +it! How in the world was it possible? How could such a state of things +remain concealed? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. That was just what I had to fight for incessantly, day +after day. When Oswald was born, I thought I saw a slight improvement. +But it didn't last long. And after that I had to fight doubly +hard—fight a desperate fight so that no one should know what sort of a +man my child's father was. You know quite well what an attractive +manner he had; it seemed as if people could believe nothing but good of +him. He was one of those men whose mode of life seems to have no effect +upon their reputations. But at last, Mr. Manders—you must hear this +too—at last something happened more abominable than everything else. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. More abominable than what you have told me! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I had borne with it all, though I knew only too well what +he indulged in in secret, when he was out of the house. But when it +came to the point of the scandal coming within our four walls— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Can you mean it! Here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, here, in our own home. It was in there (pointing to +the nearer door on the right) in the dining-room that I got the first +hint of it. I had something to do in there and the door was standing +ajar. I heard our maid come up from the garden with water for the +flowers in the conservatory. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Well—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Shortly afterwards I heard my husband come in too. I heard +him say something to her in a low voice. And then I heard—(with a +short laugh)—oh, it rings in my ears still, with its mixture of what +was heartbreaking and what was so ridiculous—I heard my own servant +whisper: "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!" +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. What unseemly levity on his part! But surely nothing more than +levity, Mrs. Alving, believe me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I soon knew what to believe. My husband had his will of +the girl—and that intimacy had consequences, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (as if turned to stone). And all that in this house! In this +house! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I have suffered a good deal in this house. To keep him at +home in the evening—and at night—I have had to play the part of boon +companion in his secret drinking-bouts in his room up there. I have had +to sit there alone with him, have had to hobnob and drink with him, +have had to listen to his ribald senseless talk, have had to fight with +brute force to get him to bed— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (trembling). And you were able to endure all this! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I had my little boy, and endured it for his sake. But when +the crowning insult came—when my own servant—then I made up my mind +that there should be an end of it. I took the upper hand in the house, +absolutely—both with him and all the others. I had a weapon to use +against him, you see; he didn't dare to speak. It was then that Oswald +was sent away. He was about seven then, and was beginning to notice +things and ask questions as children will. I could endure all that, my +friend. It seemed to me that the child would be poisoned if he breathed +the air of this polluted house. That was why I sent him away. And now +you understand, too, why he never set foot here as long as his father +was alive. No one knows what it meant to me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You have indeed had a pitiable experience. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I could never have gone through with it, if I had not had +my work. Indeed, I can boast that I have worked. All the increase in +the value of the property, all the improvements, all the useful +arrangements that my husband got the honour and glory of—do you +suppose that he troubled himself about any of them? He, who used to lie +the whole day on the sofa reading old official lists! No, you may as +well know that too. It was I that kept him up to the mark when he had +his lucid intervals; it was I that had to bear the whole burden of it +when he began his excesses again or took to whining about his miserable +condition. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And this is the man you are building a memorial to! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. There you see the power of an uneasy conscience. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. An uneasy conscience? What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I had always before me the fear that it was impossible +that the truth should not come out and be believed. That is why the +Orphanage is to exist, to silence all rumours and clear away all doubt. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You certainly have not fallen short of the mark in that, Mrs. +Alving. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I had another very good reason. I did not wish Oswald, my +own son, to inherit a penny that belonged to his father. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Then it is with Mr. Alving's property. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes. The sums of money that, year after year, I have given +towards this Orphanage, make up the amount of property—I have reckoned +it carefully—which in the old days made Lieutenant Alving a catch. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I understand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. That was my purchase money. I don't wish it to pass into +Oswald's hands. My son shall have everything from me, I am determined. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(OSWALD comes in by the farther door on the right. He has left his hat +and coat outside.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Back again, my own dear boy? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, what can one do outside in this everlasting rain? I hear +dinner is nearly ready. That's good! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(REGINA comes in front the dining-room, carrying a parcel.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. This parcel has come for you, ma'am. (Gives it to her.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (glancing at MANDERS). The ode to be sung tomorrow, I +expect. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Hm—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. And dinner is ready. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Good. We will come in a moment. I will just—(begins to +open the parcel). +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (to OSWALD). Will you drink white or red wine, sir? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Both, Miss Engstrand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Bien—very good, Mr. Alving. (Goes into the dining-room.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I may as well help you to uncork it—. (Follows her into the +dining-room, leaving the door ajar after him.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I thought so. Here is the ode, Mr Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (clasping his hands). How shall I ever have the courage +tomorrow to speak the address that— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh, you will get through it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (in a low voice, fearing to be heard in the dining room). Yes, +we must raise no suspicions. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (quietly but firmly). No; and then this long dreadful +comedy will be at an end. After tomorrow, I shall feel as if my dead +husband had never lived in this house. There will be no one else here +then but my boy and his mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(From the dining-room is heard the noise of a chair falling; then +REGINA'S voice is heard in a loud whisper: Oswald! Are you mad? Let me +go!) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (starting in horror). Oh—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(She stares wildly at the half-open door. OSWALD is heard coughing and +humming, then the sound of a bottle being uncorked.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (in an agitated manner). What's the matter? What is it, Mrs. +Alving? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (hoarsely). Ghosts. The couple in the conservatory—over +again. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. What are you saying! Regina—? Is SHE—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, Come. Not a word—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(Grips MANDERS by the arm and walks unsteadily with him into the +dining-room.) +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ACT II +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +(The same scene. The landscape is still obscured by Mist. MANDERS and +MRS. ALVING come in from the dining-room.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (calls into the dining-room from the doorway). Aren't you +coming in here, Oswald? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. No, thanks; I think I will go out for a bit. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, do; the weather is clearing a little. (She shuts the +dining-room door, then goes to the hall door and calls.) Regina! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (from without). Yes, ma'am? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Go down into the laundry and help with the garlands. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, ma'am. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(MRS. ALVING satisfies herself that she has gone, then shuts the door.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I suppose he can't hear us? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Not when the door is shut. Besides, he is going out. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I am still quite bewildered. I don't know how I managed to +swallow a mouthful of your excellent dinner. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (walking up and down, and trying to control her agitation). +Nor I. But, what are we to do? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, what are we to do? Upon my word I don't know; I am so +completely unaccustomed to things of this kind. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I am convinced that nothing serious has happened yet. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Heaven forbid! But it is most unseemly behaviour, for all that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It is nothing more than a foolish jest of Oswald's, you +may be sure. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Well, of course, as I said, I am quite inexperienced in such +matters; but it certainly seems to me— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Out of the house she shall go—and at once. That part of +it is as clear as daylight— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, that is quite clear. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But where is she to go? We should not be justified in— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Where to? Home to her father, of course. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. To whom, did you say? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. To her—. No, of course Engstrand isn't—. But, great heavens, +Mrs. Alving, how is such a thing possible? You surely may have been +mistaken, in spite of everything. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. There was no chance of mistake, more's the pity. Joanna +was obliged to confess it to me—and my husband couldn't deny it. So +there was nothing else to do but to hush it up. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No, that was the only thing to do. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. The girl was sent away at once, and was given a tolerably +liberal sum to hold her tongue. She looked after the rest herself when +she got to town. She renewed an old acquaintance with the carpenter +Engstrand; gave him a hint, I suppose, of how much money she had got, +and told him some fairy tale about a foreigner who had been here in his +yacht in the summer. So she and Engstrand were married in a great +hurry. Why, you married them yourself! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I can't understand it—, I remember clearly Engstrand's coming +to arrange about the marriage. He was full of contrition, and accused +himself bitterly for the light conduct he and his fiancee had been +guilty of. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Of course he had to take the blame on himself. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But the deceitfulness of it! And with me, too! I positively +would not have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall most certainly +give him a serious talking to. And the immorality of such a marriage! +Simply for the sake of the money—! What sum was it that the girl had? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It was seventy pounds. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Just think of it—for a paltry seventy pounds to let yourself +be bound in marriage to a fallen woman! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What about myself, then?—I let myself be bound in +marriage to a fallen man. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Heaven forgive you! What are you saying? A fallen man? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Do you suppose my husband was any purer, when I went with +him to the altar, than Joanna was when Engstrand agreed to marry her? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. The two cases are as different as day from night. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Not so very different, after all. It is true there was a +great difference in the price paid, between a paltry seventy pounds and +a whole fortune. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. How can you compare such totally different things! I presume +you consulted your own heart—and your relations. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (looking away from him). I thought you understood where +what you call my heart had strayed to at that time. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (in a constrained voice). If I had understood anything of the +kind, I would not have been a daily guest in your husband's house. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well, at any rate this much is certain—I didn't consult +myself in the matter at all. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Still you consulted those nearest to you, as was only +right—your mother, your two aunts. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true. The three of them settled the whole +matter for me. It seems incredible to me now, how clearly they made out +that it would be sheer folly to reject such an offer. If my mother +could only see what all that fine prospect has led to! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No one can be responsible for the result of it. Anyway there +is this to be said, that the match was made in complete conformity with +law and order. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (going to the window). Oh, law and order! I often think it +is that that is at the bottom of all the misery in the world. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Mrs. Alving, it is very wicked of you to say that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. That may be so; but I don't attach importance to those +obligations and considerations any longer. I cannot! I must struggle +for my freedom. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (taping on the window panes). I ought never to have +concealed what sort of a life my husband led. But I had not the courage +to do otherwise then—for my own sake, either. I was too much of a +coward. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. A coward? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. If others had known anything of what happened, they would +have said: "Poor man, it is natural enough that he should go astray, +when he has a wife that has run away from him." +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. They would have had a certain amount of justification for +saying so. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (looking fixedly at him). If I had been the woman I ought, +I would have taken Oswald into my confidence and said to him: "Listen, +my son, your father was a dissolute man"— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Miserable woman. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. —and I would have told him all I have told you, from +beginning to end. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs. Alving. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I know. I know quite well! I am shocked at myself when I +think of it. (Comes away from the window.) I am coward enough for that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Can you call it cowardice that you simply did your duty? Have +you forgotten that a child should love and honour his father and mother? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Don't let us talk in such general terms. Suppose we say: +"Ought Oswald to love and honour Mr. Alving?" +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You are a mother—isn't there a voice in your heart that +forbids you to shatter your son's ideals? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And what about the truth? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. What about his ideals? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward as I +am! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Do not spurn ideals, Mrs. Alving—they have a way of avenging +themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's own case, now. He hasn't many ideals, +more's the pity. But this much I have seen, that his father is +something of an ideal to him. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You are right there. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And his conception of his father is what you inspired and +encouraged by your letters. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I was swayed by duty and consideration for others; +that was why I lied to my son, year in and year out. Oh, what a +coward—what a coward I have been! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You have built up a happy illusion in your son's mind, Mrs. +Alving—and that is a thing you certainly ought not to undervalue. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Ah, who knows if that is such a desirable thing after +all!—But anyway I don't intend to put up with any goings on with +Regina. I am not going to let him get the poor girl into trouble. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Good heavens, no—that would be a frightful thing! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. If only I knew whether he meant it seriously, and whether +it would mean happiness for him. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. In what way? I don't understand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But that is impossible; Regina is not equal to it, +unfortunately. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders, I don't understand: What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. If I were not such a miserable coward, I would say to him: +"Marry her, or make any arrangement you like with her—only let there +be no deceit in the matter." +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Heaven forgive you! Are you actually suggesting anything so +abominable, so unheard of, as a marriage between them! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Unheard of, do you call it? Tell me honestly, Mr. Manders, +don't you suppose there are plenty of married couples out here in the +country that are just as nearly related as they are? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I am sure I don't understand you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Indeed you do. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I suppose you are thinking of cases where possibly—. It is +only too true, unfortunately, that family life is not always as +stainless as it should be. But as for the sort of thing you hint +at—well, it's impossible to tell, at all events, with any certainty. +Here on the other hand—for you, a mother, to be willing to allow your— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But I am not willing to allow it; I would not allow it for +anything in the world; that is just what I was saying. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No, because you are a coward, as you put it. But, supposing +you were not a coward—! Great heavens—such a revolting union! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well, for the matter of that, we are all descended from a +union of that description, so we are told. And who was it that was +responsible for this state of things, Mr. Manders? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I can't discuss such questions with you, Mrs. Alving; you are +by no means in the right frame of mind for that. But for you to dare to +say that it is cowardly of you—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I will tell you what I mean by that. I am frightened and +timid, because I am obsessed by the presence of ghosts that I never can +get rid of. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. The presence of what? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Ghosts. When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it was +just like seeing ghosts before my eyes. I am half inclined to think we +are all ghosts, Mr. Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from +our fathers and mothers that exists again in us, but all sorts of old +dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs and things of that kind. +They are not actually alive in us; but there they are dormant, all the +same, and we can never be rid of them. Whenever I take up a newspaper +and read it, I fancy I see ghosts creeping between the lines. There +must be ghosts all over the world. They must be as countless as the +grains of the sands, it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of +the light, all of us. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Ah!—there we have the outcome of your reading. Fine fruit it +has borne—this abominable, subversive, free-thinking literature! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You are wrong there, my friend. You are the one who made +me begin to think; and I owe you my best thanks for it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Menders. I! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, by forcing me to submit to what you called my duty +and my obligations; by praising as right and lust what my whole soul +revolted against, as it would against something abominable. That was +what led me to examine your teachings critically. I only wanted to +unravel one point in them; but as soon as I had got that unravelled, +the whole fabric came to pieces. And then I realised that it was only +machine-made. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (softly, and with emotion). Is that all I accomplished by the +hardest struggle of my life? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Call it rather the most ignominious defeat of your life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. It was the greatest victory of my life, Helen; victory over +myself. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It was a wrong done to both of us. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. A wrong?—wrong for me to entreat you as a wife to go back to +your lawful husband, when you came to me half distracted and crying: +"Here I am, take me!" Was that a wrong? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I think it was. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Menders. We two do not understand one another. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Not now, at all events. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Never—even in my most secret thoughts—have I for a moment +regarded you as anything but the wife of another. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Do you believe what you say? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Helen—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. One so easily forgets one's own feelings. Manders. Not I. +I am the same as I always was. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes—don't let us talk any more about the old days. +You are buried up to your eyes now in committees and all sorts of +business; and I am here, fighting with ghosts both without and within +me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I can at all events help you to get the better of those +without you. After all that I have been horrified to hear you from +today, I cannot conscientiously allow a young defenceless girl to +remain in your house. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Don't you think it would be best if we could get her +settled?—by some suitable marriage, I mean. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Undoubtedly. I think, in any case, it would have been +desirable for her. Regina is at an age now that—well, I don't know +much about these things, but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Regina developed very early. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, didn't she. I fancy I remember thinking she was +remarkably well developed, bodily, at the time I prepared her for +Confirmation. But, for the time being, she must in any case go home. +Under her father's care—no, but of course Engstrand is not. To think +that he, of all men, could so conceal the truth from me! (A knock is +heard at the hall door.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Who can that be? Come in! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(ENGSTRAND, dressed in his Sunday clothes, appears in the doorway.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I humbly beg pardon, but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Aha! Hm! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh, it's you, Engstrand! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. There were none of the maids about, so I took the great +liberty of knocking. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. That's all right. Come in. Do you want to speak to me? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (coming in). No, thank you very much, ma'am. It was Mr. +Menders I wanted to speak to for a moment. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (walking up and down). Hm!—do you. You want to speak to me, do +you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, sir, I wanted so very much to— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (stopping in front of him). Well, may I ask what it is you want? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. It's this way, Mr. Manders. We are being paid off now. And +many thanks to you, Mrs. Alving. And now the work is quite finished, I +thought it would be so nice and suitable if all of us, who have worked +so honestly together all this time, were to finish up with a few +prayers this evening. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Prayers? Up at the Orphanage? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, sir, but if it isn't agreeable to you, then— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Oh, certainly—but—hm!— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I have made a practice of saying a few prayers there myself +each evening. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Have you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, ma'am, now—and then—just as a little edification, so +to speak. But I am only a poor common man, and haven't rightly the +gift, alas—and so I thought that as Mr. Manders happened to be here, +perhaps— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Look here, Engstrand! First of all I must ask you a question. +Are you in a proper frame of mind for such a thing? Is your conscience +free and untroubled? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Heaven have mercy on me a sinner! My conscience isn't worth +our speaking about, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But it is just what we must speak about. What do you say to my +question? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. My conscience? Well—it's uneasy sometimes, of course. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Ah, you admit that at all events. Now will you tell me, +without any concealment—what is your relationship to Regina? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (hastily). Mr. Manders! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (calming her).—Leave it to me! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. With Regina? Good Lord, how you frightened me! (Looks at MRS +ALVING.) There is nothing wrong with Regina, is there? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Let us hope not. What I want to know is, what is your +relationship to her? You pass as her father, don't you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (unsteadily): Well—hm!—you know, sir, what happened between +me and my poor Joanna. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No more distortion of the truth! Your late wife made a full +confession to Mrs. Alving, before she left her service... +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. What!—do you mean to say—? Did she do that after all? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You see it has all come out, Engstrand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Do you mean to say that she, who gave me her promise and +solemn oath— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Did she take an oath? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Well, no—she only gave me her word, but as seriously as a +woman could. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And all these years you have been hiding the truth from +me—from me, who have had such complete and absolute faith in you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I am sorry to say I have, sir. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Did I deserve that from you, Engstrand? Haven't I been always +ready to help you in word and deed as far as lay in my power? Answer +me! Is it not so? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Indeed there's many a time I should have been very badly off +without you, sir. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And this is the way you repay me—by causing me to make false +entries in the church registers, and afterwards keeping back from me +for years the information which you owed it both to me and to your +sense of the truth to divulge. Your conduct has been absolutely +inexcusable, Engstrand, and from today everything is at an end between +us. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (with a sigh). Yes, I can see that's what it means. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, because how can you possibly justify what you did? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Was the poor girl to go and increase her load of shame by +talking about it? Just suppose, sir, for a moment that your reverence +was in the same predicament as my poor Joanna. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Good Lord, sir, I don't mean the same predicament. I mean, +suppose there were something your reverence was ashamed of in the eyes +of the world, so to speak. We men ought not judge a poor woman too +hardly, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small +question? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Ask away. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up the +fallen? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Of course it is. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honour? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Certainly he is; but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this +Englishman—or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they call +'em—well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had refused me +once or twice before; she only had eyes for good-looking men in those +days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your reverence will remember how +I had ventured up into a dancing-saloon where seafaring men were +revelling in drunkenness and intoxication, as they say. And when I +tried to exhort them to turn from their evil ways— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know—the rough brutes threw you +downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The affliction +to your leg is a credit to you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence. But +what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided in me +with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it went to my +heart to hear her. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Did it, indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Well, then I said to her: "The American is roaming about on +the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna," I said, "you have committed a +sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands Jacob Engstrand," I said, +"on two strong legs"—of course that was only speaking in a kind of +metaphor, as it were, your reverence. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I quite understand. Go on. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her my lawful +wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she had carried on with +the stranger. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. That was all very kindly done. The only thing I cannot justify +was your bringing yourself to accept the money. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Money? I? Not a farthing. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (to MRS. ALVING, in a questioning tare). But— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Ah, yes!—wait a bit; I remember now. Joanna did have a +trifle of money, you are quite right. But I didn't want to know +anything about that. "Fie," I said, "on the mammon of unrighteousness, +it's the price of your sin; as for this tainted gold"—or notes, or +whatever it was—"we will throw it back in the American's face," I +said. But he had gone away and disappeared on the stormy seas, your +reverence. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Was that how it was, my good fellow? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. It was, sir. So then Joanna and I decided that the money +should go towards the child's bringing-up, and that's what became of +it; and I can give a faithful account of every single penny of it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. This alters the complexion of the affair very considerably. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. That's how it was, your reverence. And I make bold to say +that I have been a good father to Regina—as far as was in my +power—for I am a poor erring mortal, alas! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. There, there, my dear Engstrand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, I do make bold to say that I brought up the child, and +made my poor Joanna a loving and careful husband, as the Bible says we +ought. But it never occurred to me to go to your reverence and claim +credit for it or boast about it because I had done one good deed in +this world. No; when Jacob Engstrand does a thing like that, he holds +his tongue about it. Unfortunately it doesn't often happen, I know that +only too well. And whenever I do come to see your reverence, I never +seem to have anything but trouble and wickedness to talk about. +Because, as I said just now—and I say it again—conscience can be very +hard on us sometimes. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand, +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Oh, sir, I don't like— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No nonsense, (Grasps his hand.) That's it! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. And may I make bold humbly to beg your reverence's pardon— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. You? On the contrary it is for me to beg your pardon— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Oh no, sir. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, certainly it is, and I do it with my whole heart. Forgive +me for having so much misjudged you. And I assure you that if I can do +anything for you to prove my sincere regret and my goodwill towards +you— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Do you mean it, sir? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. It would give me the greatest pleasure. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. As a matter of fact, sir, you could do it now. I am thinking +of using the honest money I have put away out of my wages up here, in +establishing a sort of Sailors' Home in the town. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, to be a sort of Refuge, as it were, There are such +manifold temptations lying in wait for sailor men when they are roaming +about on shore. But my idea is that in this house of mine they should +have a sort of parental care looking after them. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Menders. What do you say to that, Mrs. Alving! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I haven't much to begin such a work with, I know; but Heaven +might prosper it, and if I found any helping hand stretched out to me, +then— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Quite so; we will talk over the matter further. Your project +attracts me enormously. But in the meantime go back to the Orphanage +and put everything tidy and light the lights, so that the occasion may +seem a little solemn. And then we will spend a little edifying time +together, my dear Engstrand, for now I am sure you are in a suitable +frame of mind. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. I believe I am, sir, truly. Goodbye, then, Mrs. Alving, and +thank you for all your kindness; and take good care of Regina for me. +(Wipes a tear from his eye.) Poor Joanna's child—it is an +extraordinary thing, but she seems to have grown into my life and to +hold me by the heartstrings. That's how I feel about it, truly. (Bows, +and goes out.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Now then, what do you think of him, Mrs Alving! That was quite +another explanation that he gave us. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It was, indeed. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. There, you see how exceedingly careful we ought to be in +condemning our fellow-men. But at the same time it gives one genuine +pleasure to find that one was mistaken. Don't you think so? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What I think is that you are, and always will remain, a +big baby, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Menders. I? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (laying her hands on his shoulders). And I think that I +should like very much to give you a good hug. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (drawing beck hastily). No, no, good gracious! What an idea! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (with a smile). Oh, you needn't be afraid of me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (standing by the table). You choose such an extravagant way of +expressing yourself sometimes. Now I must get these papers together and +put them in my bag. (Does so.) That's it. And now goodbye, for the +present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I will come back +and see you again presently. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(He takes his hat and goes out by the hall door. MRS. ALVING sighs, +glances out of the window, puts one or two things tidy in the room and +turns to go into the dining-room. She stops in the doorway with a +stifled cry.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oswald, are you still sitting at table! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (from the dining-room). I am only finishing my cigar. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I thought you had gone out for a little turn. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (from within the room). In weather like this? (A glass is heard +clinking. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down with her +knitting on the couch by the window.) Wasn't that Mr. Manders that went +out just now? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, he has gone over to the Orphanage. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Oh. (The clink of a bottle on a glass is heard again.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (with an uneasy expression.) Oswald, dear, you should be +careful with that liqueur. It is strong. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. It's a good protective against the damp. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Wouldn't you rather come in here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. You know you don't like smoking in there. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You may smoke a cigar in here, certainly. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. All right; I will come in, then. Just one drop more. There! +(Comes in, smoking a cigar, and shuts the door after him. A short +silence.) Where has the parson gone? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I told you he had gone over to the Orphanage. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Oh, so you did. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald, +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (holding his cigar behind his back). But it's so nice and cosy, +mother dear. (Caresses her with one hand.) Think what it means to +me—to have come home; to sit at my mother's own table, in my mother's +own room, and to enjoy the charming meals she gives me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. My dear, dear boy! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (a little impatiently, as he walks tip and down smoking.) And +what else is there for me to do here? I have no occupation— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No occupation? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Not in this ghastly weather, when there isn't a blink of +sunshine all day long. (Walks up and down the floor.) Not to be able to +work, it's—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I don't believe you were wise to come home. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, mother; I had to. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Because I would ten times rather give up the happiness of +having you with me, sooner than that you should— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (standing still by the table). Tell me, mother—is it really +such a great happiness for you to have me at home? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Can you ask? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (crumpling up a newspaper). I should have thought it would have +been pretty much the same to you whether I were here or away. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. But you have been quite happy living without me so far. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I have lived without you—that is true. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(A silence. The dusk falls by degrees. OSWALD walks restlessly up and +down. He has laid aside his cigar.) Oswald (stopping beside MRS. +ALVING). Mother, may I sit on the couch beside you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Of course, my dear boy. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (sitting down). Now I must tell you something mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (staring in front of him). I can't bear it any longer. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Bear what? What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (as before). I couldn't bring myself to write to you about it; +and since I have been at home— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (catching him by the arm). Oswald, what is it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Both yesterday and today I have tried to push my thoughts away +from me—to free myself from them. But I can't. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (getting up). You must speak plainly, Oswald! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (drawing her down to her seat again). Sit still, and I will try +and tell you. I have made a great deal of the fatigue I felt after my +journey— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well, what of that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. But that isn't what is the matter. It is no ordinary fatigue— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. +I am not exactly ill—not ill in the usual sense. (Takes his head in +his hands.) Mother, it's my mind that has broken down—gone to +pieces—I shall never be able to work anymore! (Buries his face in his +hands and throws himself at her knees in an outburst of sobs.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it isn't +true! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be able to +work anymore! Never—never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine +anything so horrible! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing happened? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly +understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must +believe that of me, mother, I have never done that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I haven't a doubt of it, Oswald. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible disaster! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oh, but it will all come right again, my dear precious +boy. It is nothing but overwork. Believe me, that is so. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (dully). I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Tell me all about it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, I will. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. When did you first feel anything? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. It was just after I had been home last time and had got back to +Paris. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head—mostly at the +back, I think. It was as if a tight band of iron was pressing on me +from my neck upwards. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. At first I thought it was nothing but the headaches I always +used to be so much troubled with while I was growing. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. But it wasn't; I soon saw that. I couldn't work any longer. I +would try and start some big new picture; but it seemed as if all my +faculties had forsaken me, as if all my strengths were paralysed. I +couldn't manage to collect my thoughts; my head seemed to +swim—everything went round and round. It was a horrible feeling! At +last I sent for a doctor—and from him I learned the truth. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. In what way, do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. He was one of the best doctors there. He made me describe what +I felt, and then he began to ask me a whole heap of questions which +seemed to me to have nothing to do with the matter. I couldn't see what +he was driving at— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. At last he said: "You have had the canker of disease in you +practically from your birth"—the actual word he used was "vermoulu"... +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What did he mean by that? Oswald. I couldn't +understand, either—and I asked him for a clearer explanation, And then +the old cynic said—(clenching his fist). Oh! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What did he say? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. He said: "The sins of the fathers are visited on the children." +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (getting up slowly). The sins of the fathers—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I nearly struck him in the face. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (walking across the room). The sins of the fathers—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (smiling sadly). Yes, just imagine! Naturally I assured him that +what he thought was impossible. But do you think he paid any heed to +me? No, he persisted in his opinion; and it was only when I got out +your letters and translated to him all the passages that referred to my +father— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well, and then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Well, then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong +track; and then I learned the truth—the incomprehensible truth! I +ought to have had nothing to do with the joyous happy life I had lived +with my comrades. It had been too much for my strength. So it was my +own fault! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No, no, Oswald! Don't believe that— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. There was no other explanation of it possible, he said. That is +the most horrible part of it. My whole life incurably ruined—just +because of my own imprudence. All that I wanted to do in the world-=not +to dare to think of it any more—not to be able to think of it! Oh! if +only I could live my life over again—if only I could undo what I have +done! (Throws himself on his face on the couch. MRS. ALVING wrings her +hands, and walks up and down silently fighting with herself.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (looks up after a while, raising himself on his elbows). If only +it had been something I had inherited—something I could not help. But, +instead of that, to have disgracefully, stupidly, thoughtlessly thrown +away one's happiness, one's health, everything in the world—one's +future, one's life! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No, no, my darling boy; that is impossible! (Bending over +him.) Things are not so desperate as you think. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Ah, you don't know—(Springs up.) And to think, mother, that I +should bring all this sorrow upon you! Many a time I have almost wished +and hoped that you really did not care so very much for me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I, Oswald? My only son! All that I have in the world! The +only thing I care about! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (taking hold of her hands and kissing them). Yes, yes, I know +that is so. When I am at home I know that is true. And that is one of +the hardest parts of it to me. But now you know all about it; and now +we won't talk anymore about it today. I can't stand thinking about it +long at a time. (Walks across the room.) Let me have something to +drink, mother! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. To drink? What do you want? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Oh, anything you like. I suppose you have got some punch in the +house. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but my dear Oswald—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Don't tell me I mustn't, mother. Do be nice! I must have +something to drown these gnawing thoughts. (Goes into the +conservatory.) And how—how gloomy it is here! (MRS. ALVING rings the +bell.) And this incessant rain. It may go on week after week—a whole +month. Never a ray of sunshine. I don't remember ever having seen the +sunshine once when I have been at home. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oswald—you are thinking of going away from me! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Hm!—(sighs deeply). I am not thinking about anything. I can't +think about anything! (In a low voice.) I have to let that alone. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (coming from the dining-room). Did you ring, ma'am? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us have the lamp in. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. In a moment, ma'am; it is all ready lit. (Goes out.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (going up to OSWALD). Oswald, don't keep anything back from +me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I don't, mother. (Goes to the table.) It seems to me I have +told you a good lot. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(REGINA brings the lamp and puts it upon the table.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Regina, you might bring us a small bottle of champagne. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, ma'am. (Goes out.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (taking hold of his mother's face). That's right; I knew my +mother wouldn't let her son go thirsty. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. My poor dear boy, how could I refuse you anything now? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (eagerly). Is that true, mother? Do you mean it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Mean what? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. That you couldn't deny me anything? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. My dear Oswald— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Hush! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(REGINA brings in a tray with a small bottle of champagne and two +glasses, which she puts on the table.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Shall I open the bottle? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. No, thank you, I will do it. (REGINA goes out.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (sitting clown at the table). What did you mean, when you +asked if I could refuse you nothing? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (busy opening the bottle). Let us have a glass first—or two. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(He draws the cork, fills one glass and is going to fill the other.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (holding her hand over the second glass) No, thanks—not +for me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Oh, well, for me then! (He empties his glass, fills it again +and empties it; then sits down at the table.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (expectantly). Now, tell me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (without looking at her). Tell me this; I thought you and Mr. +Manders seemed so strange—so quiet—at dinner. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Did you notice that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes. Ahem! (After a short pause.) Tell me—what do you think of +Regina? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What do I think of her? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, isn't she splendid! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Dear Oswald, you don't know her as well as I do— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What of that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Regina was too long at home, unfortunately. I ought to +have taken her under my charge sooner. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, mother? (Fills his +glass,) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Regina has many serious faults— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, but what of that? (Drinks.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But I am fond of her, all the same; and I have made myself +responsible for her. I wouldn't for the world she should come to any +harm. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (jumping up). Mother, Regina is my only hope of salvation! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (getting up). What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I can't go on bearing all this agony of mind alone. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving, Haven't you your mother to help you to bear it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, I thought so; that was why I came home to you. But it is +no use; I see that it isn't. I cannot spend my life here. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I must live a different sort of life, mother; so I shall have +to go away from you, I don't want you watching it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, as long as you are ill like +this— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. If it was only a matter of feeling ill, I would stay with you, +mother. You are the best friend I have in the world. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I am that, Oswald, am I not? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (walking restlessly about). But all this torment—the regret, +the remorse—and the deadly fear. Oh—this horrible fear! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (following him). Fear? Fear of what? What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Oh, don't ask me any more about it. I don't know what it is. I +can't put it into words. (MRS. ALVING crosses the room and rings the +bell.) What do you want? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I want my boy to be happy, that's what I want. He mustn't +brood over anything. (To REGINA, who has come to the door.) More +champagne—a large bottle. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Mother! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Do you think we country people don't know how to live? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Isn't she splendid to look at? What a figure! And the picture +of health! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (sitting down at the table). Sit down, Oswald, and let us +have a quiet talk. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (sitting down). You don't know, mother, that I owe Regina a +little reparation. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Oh, it was only a little thoughtlessness—call it what you +like. Something quite innocent, anyway. The last time I was home— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. —she used often to ask me questions about Paris, and I told +her one thing and another about the life there. And I remember saying +one day: "Wouldn't you like to go there yourself?" +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I saw her blush, and she said: "Yes, I should like to very +much." "All right." I said, "I daresay it might be managed"—or +something of that sort. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I naturally had forgotten all about it; but the day before +yesterday I happened to ask her if she was glad I was to be so long at +home— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Well? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. —and she looked so queerly at me, and asked: "But what is to +become of my trip to Paris?" +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Her trip! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. And then I got it out of her that she had taken the thing +seriously, and had been thinking about me all the time, and had set +herself to learn French— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. So that was why— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Mother—when I saw this fine, splendid, handsome girl standing +there in front of me—I had never paid any attention to her before +then—but now, when she stood there as if with open arms ready for me +to take her to myself— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. —then I realised that my salvation lay in her, for I saw the +joy of life in her! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (starting back). The joy of life—? Is there salvation in +that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (coming in from the dining-room with a bottle of champagne). +Excuse me for being so long; but I had to go to the cellar. (Puts the +bottle down on the table.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Bring another glass, too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (looking at him in astonishment). The mistress's glass is there, +sir. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, but fetch one for yourself, Regina (REGINA starts, and +gives a quick shy glance at MRS. ALVING.) Well? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (in a low and hesitating voice). Do you wish me to, ma'am? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Fetch the glass, Regina. (REGINA goes into the +dining-room.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (looking after her). Have you noticed how well she walks?—so +firmly and confidently! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It cannot be, Oswald. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +Oswald. It is settled. You must see that. It is no use forbidding it. +(REGINA comes in with a glass, which she holds in her hand.) Sit down, +Regina. (REGINA looks questioningly at MRS. ALVING.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Sit down. (REGINA sits down on a chair near the +dining-room door, still holding the glass in her hand.) Oswald, what +was it you were saying about the joy of life? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Ah, mother—the joy of life! You don't know very much about +that at home here. I shall never realise it here. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Not even when you are with me? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Never at home. But you can't understand that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed I almost think I do understand you now. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. That—and the joy of work. They are really the same thing at +bottom. Put you don't know anything about that either. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Perhaps you are right. Tell me some more about it, Oswald. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Well, all I mean is that here people are brought up to believe +that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is a state +of wretchedness and that the sooner we can get out of it the better. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. A vale of tears, yes. And we quite conscientiously make +it so. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. But the people over there will have none of that. There is no +one there who really believes doctrines of that kind any longer. Over +there the mere fact of being alive is thought to be a matter for +exultant happiness. Mother, have you noticed that everything I have +painted has turned upon the joy of life?—always upon the joy of life, +unfailingly. There is light there, and sunshine, and a holiday +feeling—and people's faces beaming with happiness. That is why I am +afraid to stay at home here with you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I am afraid that all these feelings that are so strong in me +would degenerate into something ugly here. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (looking steadily at him). Do you think that is what would +happen? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I am certain it would. Even if one lived the same life at home +here, as over there—it would never really be the same life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (who has listened anxiously to him, gets up with a +thoughtful expression and says:) Now I see clearly how it all happened. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What do you see? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (getting up). Mother, I don't understand you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (who has got up also). Perhaps I had better go. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No, stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my son, you shall +know the whole truth. Oswald! Regina! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Hush!—here is the parson. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(MANDERS comes in by the hall door.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Well, my friends, we have been spending an edifying time over +there. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. So have we. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Engstrand must have help with his Sailors Home. Regina must go +home with him and give him her assistance. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. No, thank you, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (perceiving her for the first time). What—? You in here? —and +with a wineglass in your hand! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (putting down the glass hastily). I beg your pardon—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Regina is going away with me, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Going away! With you! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, as my wife—if she insists on that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But, good heavens—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. It is not my fault, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Or else she stays here if I stay. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (involuntarily). Here! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I am amazed at you, Mrs. Alving. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Neither of those things will happen, for now I can speak +openly. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But you won't do that! No, no, no! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I can and I will. And without destroying anyone's +ideals. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Mother, what is it that is being concealed from me? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (listening). Mrs. Alving! Listen! They are shouting outside. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(Goes into the conservatory and looks out.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (going to the window on the left). What can be the matter? Where +does that glare come from? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (calls out). The Orphanage is on fire! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (going to the window). On fire? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. On fire? Impossible. I was there just a moment ago. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Where is my hat? Oh, never mind that. Father's Orphanage—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(Runs out through the garden door.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in flames. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. How terrible! Mrs. Alving, that fire is a judgment on this +house of sin! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Quite so. Come, Regina. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(She and REGINA hurry out.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (clasping his hands). And no insurance! (Follows them out.) +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ACT III +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +(The same scene. All the doors are standing open. The lamp is still +burning on the table. It is dark outside, except for a faint glimmer of +light seen through the windows at the back. MRS. ALVING, with a shawl +over her head, is standing in the conservatory, looking out. REGINA, +also wrapped in a shawl, is standing a little behind her.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Everything bured—down to the ground. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. It is burning still in the basement. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I can't think why Oswald doesn't come back. There is no +chance of saving anything. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Shall I go and take his hat to him? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Hasn't he even got his hat? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (pointing to the hall). No, there it is, hanging up. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Never mind. He is sure to come back soon. I will go and +see what he is doing. (Goes out by the garden door. MANDERS comes in +from the hall.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Isn't Mrs. Alving here? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. She has just this moment gone down into the garden. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I have never spent such a terrible night in my life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Isn't it a shocking misfortune, sir! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Oh, don't speak about it. I scarcely dare to think about it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. But how can it have happened? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Don't ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should I know? Are you going +to suggest too—? Isn't it enough that your father—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. What has he done? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. He has nearly driven me crazy. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (coming in from the hall). Mr. Manders—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (turning round with a start). Have you ever followed me here! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, God help us all—! Great heavens! What a dreadful +thing, your reverence! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (walking up and down). Oh dear, oh dear! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. What do you mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Our little prayer-meeting was the cause of it all, don't you +see? (Aside, to REGINA.) Now we've got the old fool, my girl. (Aloud.) +And to think it is my fault that Mr. Manders should be the cause of +such a thing! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I assure you, Engstrand— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. But there was no one else carrying a light there except you, +sir. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (standing still). Yes, so you say. But I have no clear +recollection of having had a light in my hand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. But I saw quite distinctly your reverence take a candle and +snuff it with your fingers and throw away the burning bit of wick among +the shavings. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Did you see that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, distinctly. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I can't understand it at all. It is never my habit to snuff a +candle with my fingers. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Yes, it wasn't like you to do that, sir. But, who would have +thought it could be such a dangerous thing to do? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (walking restlessly backwards and forwards) Oh, don't ask me! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (following him about). And you hadn't insured it either, had +you, sir? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No, no, no; you heard me say so. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. You hadn't insured it—and then went and set light to the +whole place! Good Lord, what bad luck! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (wiping the perspiration from his forehead). You may well say +so, Engstrand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. And that it should happen to a charitable institution that +would have been of service both to the town and the country, so to +speak! The newspapers won't be very kind to your reverence, I expect. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No, that is just what I am thinking of. It is almost the worst +part of the whole thing. The spiteful attacks and accusations—it is +horrible to think of! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (coming in from the garden). I can't get him away from the +fire. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Alving. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You will escape having to make your inaugural address now, +at all events, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Oh, I would so gladly have— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (in a dull voice). It is just as well it has happened. This +Orphanage would never have come to any good. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Don't you think so? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Do you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. But it is none the less an extraordinary piece of ill luck. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. We will discuss it simply as a business matter. Are you +waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (at the hall door). Yes, I am. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Sit down then, while you are waiting. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. Thank you, I would rather stand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (to MANDERS). I suppose you are going by the boat? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes: It goes in about an hour— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Please take all the documents back with you. I don't want +to hear another word about the matter. I have something else to think +about now. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Mrs. Alving— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Later on I will send you a power of attorney to deal with +it exactly as you please. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. I shall be most happy to undertake that; I am afraid the +original intention of the bequest will have to be entirely altered now. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Of course. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Meanders. Provisionally, I should suggest this way of disposing of it: +Make over the Solvik property to the parish. The land is undoubtedly +not without a certain value; it will always be useful for some purpose +or another. And as for the interest on the remaining capital that is on +deposit in the bank, possibly I might make suitable use of that in +support of some undertaking that promises to be of use to the town. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Do exactly as you please. The whole thing is a matter of +indifference to me now. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. You will think of my Sailors' Home, Mr. Manders? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, certainly, that is a suggestion. But we must consider the +matter carefully. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (aside). Consider!—devil take it! Oh Lord. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (sighing). And unfortunately I can't tell how much longer I may +have anything to do with the matter—whether public opinion may not +force me to retire from it altogether. That depends entirely upon the +result of the inquiry into the cause of the fire. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What do you say? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. And one cannot in any way reckon upon the result beforehand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (going nearer to him). Yes, indeed one can; because here +stand I, Jacob Engstrand. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Quite so, but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (lowering his voice). And Jacob Engstrand isn't the man to +desert a worthy benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying is. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Yes, but, my dear fellow-how—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. You might say Jacob Engstrand is an angel of salvation, so +to speak, your reverence. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. No, no, I couldn't possibly accept that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand. That's how it will be, all the same. I know someone who has +taken the blame for someone else on his shoulders before now, I do. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Jacob! (Grasps his hand.) You are one in a thousand! You shall +have assistance in the matter of your Sailors' Home, you may rely upon +that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but is prevented by emotion.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (hanging his wallet over his shoulder). Now we must be off. We +will travel together. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (by the dining-room door, says aside to REGINA). Come with +me, you hussy! You shall be as cosy as the yolk in an egg! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (tossing her head). Merci! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(She goes out into the hall and brings back MANDERS' luggage.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! And may the spirit of order and of what +is lawful speedily enter into this house. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Goodbye, Mr. Manders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(She goes into the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in by the +garden door.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Engstrand (as he and REGINA are helping MANDERS on with his coat). +Goodbye, my child. And if anything should happen to you, you know where +Jacob Engstrand is to be found. (Lowering his voice.) Little Harbour +Street, ahem—! (To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD.) And my house for poor +seafaring men shall be called the "Alving Home," it shall. And, if I +can carry out my own ideas about it, I shall make bold to hope that it +may be worthy of bearing the late Mr. Alving's name. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Manders (at the door). Ahem—ahem! Come along, my dear Engstrand. +Goodbye—goodbye! +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(He and ENGSTRAND go out by the hall door.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (going to the table). What house was he speaking about? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I believe it is some sort of a Home that he and Mr. +Manders want to start. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. It will be burned up just like this one. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What makes you think that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Everything will be burned up; nothing will be left that is in +memory of my father. Here am I being burned up, too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(REGINA looks at him in alarm.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! You should not have stayed so long over there, my +poor boy. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (sitting down at the table). I almost believe you are right. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are all wet. (Wipes his +face with her handkerchief.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (looking straight before him, with no expression in his eyes). +Thank you, mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And aren't you tired, Oswald? Don't you want to go to +sleep? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (uneasily). No, no—not to sleep! I never sleep; I only pretend +to. (Gloomily.) That will come soon enough. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (looking at him anxiously). Anyhow you are really ill, my +darling boy. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (intently). Is Mr. Alving ill? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (impatiently). And do shut all the doors! This deadly fear— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Shut the doors, Regina. (REGINA shuts the doors and +remains standing by the hall door. MRS. ALVING takes off her shawl; +REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws up a chair near to OSWALD'S and +sits down beside him.) That's it! Now I will sit beside you— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, do. And Regina must stay in here too; Regina must always +be near me. You must give me a helping hand, you know, Regina. Won't +you do that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. I don't understand— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. A helping hand? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes—when there is need for it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Oswald, have you not your mother to give you a helping +hand? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. You? (Smiles.) No, mother, you will never give me the kind of +helping hand I mean. (Laughs grimly.) You! Ha, ha! (Looks gravely at +her.) After all, you have the best right. (Impetuously.) Why don't you +call me by my Christian name, Regina? Why don't you say Oswald? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (in a low voice). I did not think Mrs. Alving would like it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It will not be long before you have the right to do it. +Sit down here now beside us, too. (REGINA sits down quietly and +hesitatingly at the other side of the table.) And now, my poor tortured +boy, I am going to take the burden off your mind— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. You, mother? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. —all that you call remorse and regret and self-reproach. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. And you think you can do that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you were +talking about the joy of life, and what you said seemed to shed a new +light upon everything in my whole life. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (shaking his head). I don't in the least understand what you +mean. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You should have known your father in his young days in the +army. He was full of the joy of life, I can tell you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, I know. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It gave me a holiday feeling only to look at him, full of +irrepressible energy and exuberant spirits. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving, Well, then this boy, full of the joy of life—for he was +just like a boy, then—had to make his home in a second-rate town which +had none of the joy of life to offer him, but only dissipations. He had +to come out here and live an aimless life; he had only an official +post. He had no work worth devoting his whole mind to; he had nothing +more than official routine to attend to. He had not a single companion +capable of appreciating what the joy of life meant; nothing but idlers +and tipplers... +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Mother—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And so the inevitable happened! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What was the inevitable? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You said yourself this evening what would happen in your +case if you stayed at home. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Do you mean by that, that father—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Your poor father never found any outlet for the +overmastering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no holiday +spirit into his home, either. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. You didn't, either? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I had been taught about duty, and the sort of thing that I +believed in so long here. Everything seemed to turn upon duty—my duty, +or his duty—and I am afraid I made your poor father's home unbearable +to him, Oswald. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Why didn't you ever say anything about it to me in your letters? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I never looked at it as a thing I could speak of to you, +who were his son. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What way did you look at it, then? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I only saw the one fact, that your father was a lost man +before ever you were born. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (in a choking voice). Ah—! (He gets up and goes to the window.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And then I had the one thought in my mind, day and night, +that Regina in fact had as good a right in this house—as my own boy +had. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (turns round suddenly), Regina—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (gets up and asks in choking tones). I—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, now you both know it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Regina! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (to herself). So mother was one of that sort too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Your mother had many good qualities, Regina. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, but she was one of that sort too, all the same. I have +even thought so myself, sometimes, but—. Then, if you please, Mrs. +Alving, may I have permission to leave at once? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Do you really wish to, Regina? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Yes, indeed, I certainly wish to. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Of course you shall do as you like, but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (going up to REGINA). Leave now? This is your home. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Merci, Mr. Alving—oh, of course I may say Oswald now, but that +is not the way I thought it would become allowable. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Regina, I have not been open with you— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. No, I can't say you have! If I had known Oswald was ill— And +now that there can never be anything serious between us—. No, I really +can't stay here in the country and wear myself out looking after +invalids. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Not even for the sake of one who has so near a claim on you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. No, indeed I can't. A poor girl must make some use of her +youth, otherwise she may easily land herself out in the cold before she +knows where she is. And I have got the joy of life in me too, Mrs. +Alving! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, unfortunately; but don't throw yourself away, Regina. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Oh, what's going to happen will happen. If Oswald takes after +his father, it is just as likely I take after my mother, I expect.—May +I ask, Mrs. Alving, whether Mr. Manders knows this about me? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders knows everything. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (putting on her shawl). Oh, well then, the best thing I can do +is to get away by the boat as soon as I can. Mr. Manders is such a nice +gentleman to deal with; and it certainly seems to me that I have just +as much right to some of that money as he—as that horrid carpenter. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You are quite welcome to it, Regina. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina (looking at her fixedly). You might as well have brought me up +like a gentleman's daughter; it would have been more suitable. (Tosses +her head.) Oh, well—never mind! (With a bitter glance at the unopened +bottle.) I daresay someday I shall be drinking champagne with +gentlefolk, after all. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. If ever you need a home, Regina, come to me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. No, thank you, Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders takes an interest in +me, I know. And if things should go very badly with me, I know one +house at any rate where I shall feel at home. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Where is that? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. In the "Alving Home." +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Regina—I can see quite well—you are going to your ruin! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Regina. Pooh!—goodbye. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(She bows to them and goes out through the hall.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (standing by the window and looking out). Has she gone? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (muttering to himself). I think it's all wrong. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (going up to him from behind and putting her hands on his +shoulders). Oswald, my dear boy—has it been a great shock to you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (turning his face towards her). All this about father, do you +mean? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have +been too much for you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What makes you think that? Naturally it has taken me entirely +by surprise; but, after all, I don't know that it matters much to me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (drawing back her hands). Doesn't matter!—that your +father's life was such a terrible failure! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Of course I can feel sympathy for him, just as I would for +anyone else, but— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. No more than that! For your own father! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (impatiently). Father—father! I never knew anything of my +father. I don't remember anything else about him except that he once +made me sick. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It is dreadful to think of!—But surely a child should +feel some affection for his father, whatever happens? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. When the child has nothing to thank his father for? When he has +never known him? Do you really cling to that antiquated +superstition—you, who are so broad-minded in other things? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You call it nothing but a superstition! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, and you can see that for yourself quite well, mother. It +is one of those beliefs that are put into circulation in the world, +and— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Ghosts of beliefs! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (walking across the room). Yes, you might call them ghosts. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (with an outburst of feeling). Oswald! then you don't love +me either! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. You I know, at any rate— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You know me, yes; but is that all? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. And I know how fond you are of me, and I ought to be grateful +to you for that. Besides, you can be so tremendously useful to me, now +that I am ill. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, can't I, Oswald! I could almost bless your illness, +as it has driven you home to me. For I see quite well that you are not +my very own yet; you must be won. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (impatiently). Yes, yes, yes; all that is just a way of talking. +You must remember I am a sick man, mother. I can't concern myself much +with anyone else; I have enough to do, thinking about myself. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (gently). I will be very good and patient. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. And cheerful too, mother! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. (Goes up to him.) +Now have I taken away all your remorse and self-reproach? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, you have done that. But who will take away the fear? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. The fear? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (crossing the room). Regina would have done it for one kind word. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I don't understand you. What fear do you mean—and what +has Regina to do with it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Is it very late, mother? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. It is early morning. (Looks out through the conservatory +windows.) The dawn is breaking already on the heights. And the sky is +clear, Oswald. In a little while you will see the sun. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I am glad of that. After all, there may be many things yet for +me to be glad of and to live for— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I should hope so! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Even if I am not able to work— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You will soon find you are able to work again now, my dear +boy. You have no longer all those painful depressing thoughts to brood +over. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. No, it is a good thing that you have been able to rid me of +those fancies; if only, now, I could overcome this one thing— (Sits +down on the couch.) Let us have a little chat, mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us. (Pushes an armchair near to the couch and +sits down beside him.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. The sun is rising—and you know all about it; so I don't feel +the fear any longer. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I know all about what? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (without listening to her). Mother, isn't it the case that you +said this evening there was nothing in the world you would not do for +me if I asked you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, certainly I said so. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. And will you be as good as your word, mother? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. You may rely upon that, my own dear boy. I have nothing +else to live for, but you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, yes; well, listen to me, mother, You are very +strong-minded, I know. I want you to sit quite quiet when you hear what +I am going to tell you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. But what is this dreadful thing—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. You mustn't scream. Do you hear? Will you promise me that? We +are going to sit and talk it over quite quietly. Will you promise me +that, mother? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, I promise—only tell me what it is. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Well, then, you must know that this fatigue of mine—and my mot +being able to think about my work—all that is not really the illness +itself— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What is the illness itself? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. What I am suffering from is hereditary; it—(touches his +forehead, and speaks very quietly)—it lies here. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (almost speechless). Oswald! No—no! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Don't scream; I can't stand it. Yes, I tell you, it lies here, +waiting. And any time, any moment, it may break out. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. How horrible—! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Do keep quiet. That is the state I am in— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (springing up). It isn't true, Oswald! It is impossible! It +can't be that! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I had one attack while I was abroad. It passed off quickly. But +when I learned the condition I had been in, then this dreadful haunting +fear took possession of me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. That was the fear, then— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes, it is so indescribably horrible, you know If only it had +been an ordinary mortal disease—. I am not so much afraid of dying; +though, of course, I should like to live as long as I can. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. But this is so appallingly horrible. To become like a helpless +child again—to have to be fed, to have to be—. Oh, it's unspeakable! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. My child has his mother to tend him. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (jumping up). No, never; that is just what I won't endure! I +dare not think what it would mean to linger on like that for years—to +get old and grey like that. And you might die before I did. (Sits down +in MRS. ALVING'S chair.) Because it doesn't necessarily have a fatal +end quickly, the doctor said; he called it a kind of softening of the +brain—or something of that sort. (Smiles mournfully.) I think that +expression sounds so nice. It always makes me think of cherry-coloured +velvet curtains—something that is soft to stroke. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (with a scream). Oswald! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (jumps up and walks about the room). And now you have taken +Regina from me! If I had only had her, she would have given me a +helping hand, I know. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (going up to him). What do you mean, my darling boy? Is +there any help in the world I would not be willing to give you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. When I had recovered from the attack I had abroad, the doctor +told me that when it recurred—and it will recur—there would be no +more hope. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. And he was heartless enough to— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I insisted on knowing. I told him I had arrangements to make—. +(Smiles cunningly.) And so I had. (Takes a small box from his inner +breast-pocket.) Mother, do you see this? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. What is it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Morphia powders. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (looking at him in terror). Oswald—my boy! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. I have twelve of them saved up— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (snatching at it). Give me the box, Oswald! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Not yet, mother. (Puts it lack in his pocket.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I shall never get over this! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald, You must. If I had had Regina here now, I would have told her +quietly how things stand with me—and asked her to give me this last +helping hand. She would have helped me, I am certain. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Never! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. If this horrible thing had come upon me and she had seen me +lying helpless, like a baby, past help, past saving, past hope—with no +chance of recovering— +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Never in the world would Regina have done it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly +light-hearted. And she would very soon have tired of looking after an +invalid like me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Then thank heaven Regina is not here! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Well, now you have got to give me that helping hand, mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (with a loud scream). I! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Who has a better right than you? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I! Your mother! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Just for that reason. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. I, who gave you your life! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald, I never asked you for life. And what kind of a life was it that +you gave me? I don't want it! You shall take it back! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. Help! Help! (Runs into the hall.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (following her). Don't leave me! Where are you going? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (in the hall). To fetch the doctor to you, Oswald! Let me +out! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (going into the hall). You shan't go out. And no one shall come +in. (Turns the key in the lock.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (coming in again). Oswald! Oswald!—my child! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (following her). Have you a mother's heart—and can bear to see +me suffering this unspeakable terror? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (controlling herself, after a moment's silence). There is +my hand on it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Will you—? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving. If it becomes necessary. But it shan't become necessary: +No, no—it is impossible it should! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. +Thank you, mother. +</P> + +<P CLASS="stage"> +(He sits down in the armchair, which MRS. ALVING had moved beside the +couch. Day is breaking; the lamp is still burning on the table.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (coming cautiously nearer). Do you feel calmer now? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald. Yes. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (bending over him). It has only been a dreadful fancy of +yours, Oswald. Nothing but fancy. All this upset has been bad for you. +But now you will get some rest, at home with your own mother, my +darling boy. You shall have everything you want, just as you did when +you were a little child.—There, now. The attack is over. You see how +easily it passed off! I knew it would.—And look, Oswald, what a lovely +day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine. Now you will be able to +see your home properly. (She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. +It is sunrise. The glaciers and peaks in the distance are seen bathed +in bright morning fight.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (who has been sitting motionless in the armchair, with his back +to the scene outside, suddenly says:) Mother, give me the sun. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (standing at the table, and looking at him in amazement). +What do you say? +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (repeats in a dull, toneless voice). The sun—the sun. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (going up to him). Oswald, what is the matter with you? +(OSWALD seems to shrink up in the chair; all his muscles relax; his +face loses its expression, and his eyes stare stupidly. MRS. ALVING is +trembling with terror.) What is it! (Screams.) Oswald! What is the +matter with you! (Throws herself on her knees beside him and shakes +him.) Oswald! Oswald! Look at me! Don't you know me! +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (in an expressionless voice, as before). The sun—the sun. +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Mrs. Alving (jumps up despairingly, beats her head with her hands, and +screams). I can't bear it! (Whispers as though paralysed with fear.) I +can't bear it... I Never! (Suddenly.) Where has he got it? (Passes her +hand quickly over his coat.) Here! (Draws back a little spay and +cries:) No, no, no!—Yes!—no, no! (She stands a few steps from him, +her hands thrust into her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror.) +</P> + +<P CLASS="dialog"> +Oswald (sitting motionless, as before). The sun—the sun. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ghosts, by Henrik Ibsen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GHOSTS *** + +***** This file should be named 2467-h.htm or 2467-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/2467/ + +Produced by Martin Adamson. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ghosts + A Domestic Tragedy in Three Acts + +Author: Henrik Ibsen + +Illustrator: R. Farquharson Sharp + +Posting Date: February 27, 2010 [EBook #2467] +Release Date: January, 2001 +Last Updated: November 24, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GHOSTS *** + + + + +Produced by Martin Adamson. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +GHOSTS + +A Domestic Tragedy in Three Acts + + +by + +Henrik Ibsen + + + +Translated by R. Farquharson Sharp + + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + Mrs. Alving (a widow). + Oswald Alving (her son, an artist). + Manders (the Pastor of the parish). + Engstrand (a carpenter). + Regina Engstrand (his daughter, in Mrs Alving's service). + +(The action takes place at Mrs Alving's house on one of the larger +fjords of Western Norway.) + + + + +GHOSTS + + + + +ACT I + + +(SCENE.--A large room looking upon a garden door in the left-hand wall, +and two in the right. In the middle of the room, a round table with +chairs set about it, and books, magazines and newspapers upon it. In +the foreground on the left, a window, by which is a small sofa with a +work-table in front of it. At the back the room opens into a +conservatory rather smaller than the room. From the right-hand side of +this, a door leads to the garden. Through the large panes of glass that +form the outer wall of the conservatory, a gloomy fjord landscape can +be discerned, half-obscured by steady rain. + +ENGSTRAND is standing close to the garden door. His left leg is +slightly deformed, and he wears a boot with a clump of wood under the +sole. REGINA, with an empty garden-syringe in her hand, is trying to +prevent his coming in.) + +Regina (below her breath). What is it you want? Stay where you are. The +rain is dripping off you. + +Engstrand. God's good rain, my girl. + +Regina. The Devil's own rain, that's what it is! + +Engstrand. Lord, how you talk, Regina. (Takes a few limping steps +forward.) What I wanted to tell you was this-- + +Regina. Don't clump about like that, stupid! The young master is lying +asleep upstairs. + +Engstrand. Asleep still? In the middle of the day? + +Regina. Well, it's no business of yours. + +Engstrand. I was out on a spree last night-- + +Regina. I don't doubt it. + +Engstrand. Yes, we are poor weak mortals, my girl-- + +Regina. We are indeed. + +Engstrand. --and the temptations of the world are manifold, you +know--but, for all that, here I was at my work at half-past five this +morning. + +Regina. Yes, yes, but make yourself scarce now. I am not going to stand +here as if I had a rendezvous with you. + +Engstrand. As if you had a what? + +Regina. I am not going to have anyone find you here; so now you know, +and you can go. + +Engstrand (coming a few steps nearer). Not a bit of it! Not before we +have had a little chat. This afternoon I shall have finished my job +down at the school house, and I shall be off home to town by tonight's +boat. + +Regina (mutters). Pleasant journey to you! + +Engstrand. Thanks, my girl. Tomorrow is the opening of the Orphanage, +and I expect there will be a fine kick-up here and plenty of good +strong drink, don't you know. And no one shall say of Jacob Engstrand +that he can't hold off when temptation comes in his way. + +Regina. Oho! + +Engstrand. Yes, because there will be a lot of fine folk here tomorrow. +Parson Manders is expected from town, too. + +Regina: What's more, he's coming today. + +Engstrand. There you are! And I'm going to be precious careful he +doesn't have anything to say against me, do you see? + +Regina. Oh, that's your game, is it? + +Engstrand. What do you mean? + +Regina (with a significant look at him). What is it you want to humbug +Mr. Manders out of this time? + +Engstrand. Sh! Sh! Are you crazy? Do you suppose I would want to humbug +Mr. Manders? No, no--Mr. Manders has always been too kind a friend for +me to do that. But what I wanted to talk to you about, was my going +back home tonight. + +Regina. The sooner you go, the better I shall be pleased. + +Engstrand. Yes, only I want to take you with me, Regina. + +Regina (open-mouthed). You want to take me--? What did you say? + +Engstrand. I want to take you home with me, I said. + +Regina (contemptuously). You will never get me home with you. + +Engstrand. Ah, we shall see about that. + +Regina. Yes, you can be quite certain we shall see about that. I, who +have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving?--I, who have been +treated almost as if I were her own child?--do you suppose I am going +home with you?--to such a house as yours? Not likely! + +Engstrand. What the devil do you mean? Are you setting yourself up +against your father, you hussy? + +Regina (mutters, without looking at him). You have often told me I was +none of yours. + +Engstrand. Bah!--why do you want to pay any attention to that? + +Regina. Haven't you many and many a time abused me and called me a --? +For shame? + +Engstrand. I'll swear I never used such an ugly word. + +Regina. Oh, it doesn't matter what word you used. + +Engstrand. Besides, that was only when I was a bit fuddled...hm! +Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina. + +Regina. Ugh! + +Engstrand. And it was when your mother was in a nasty temper. I had to +find some way of getting my knife into her, my girl. She was always so +precious gentile. (Mimicking her.) "Let go, Jacob! Let me be! Please to +remember that I was three years with the Alvings at Rosenvold, and they +were people who went to Court!" (Laughs.) Bless my soul, she never +could forget that Captain Alving got a Court appointment while she was +in service here. + +Regina. Poor mother--you worried her into her grave pretty soon. + +Engstrand (shrugging his shoulders). Of course, of course; I have got +to take the blame for everything. + +Regina (beneath her breath, as she turns away). Ugh--that leg, too! + +Engstrand. What are you saying, my girl? + +Regina. Pied de mouton. + +Engstrand. Is that English? + +Regina. Yes. + +Engstrand. You have had a good education out here, and no mistake; and +it may stand you in good stead now, Regina. + +Regina (after a short silence). And what was it you wanted me to come +to town for? + +Engstrand. Need you ask why a father wants his only child? Ain't I a +poor lonely widower? + +Regina. Oh, don't come to me with that tale. Why do you want me to go? + +Engstrand. Well, I must tell you I am thinking of taking up a new line +now. + +Regina (whistles). You have tried that so often--but it has always +proved a fool's errand. + +Engstrand. Ah, but this time you will just see, Regina! Strike me dead +if-- + +Regina (stamping her foot). Stop swearing! + +Engstrand. Sh! Sh!--you're quite right, my girl, quite right! What I +wanted to say was only this, that I have put by a tidy penny out of +what I have made by working at this new Orphanage up here. + +Regina. Have you? All the better for you. + +Engstrand. What is there for a man to spend his money on, out here in +the country? + +Regina. Well, what then? + +Engstrand. Well, you see, I thought of putting the money into something +that would pay. I thought of some kind of an eating-house for seafaring +folk-- + +Regina. Heavens! + +Engstrand. Oh, a high-class eating-house, of course--not a pigsty for +common sailors. Damn it, no; it would be a place ships' captains and +first mates would come to; really good sort of people, you know. + +Regina. And what should I--? + +Engstrand. You would help there: But only to make show, you know. You +wouldn't find it hard work, I can promise you, my girl. You should do +exactly as you liked. + +Regina. Oh, yes, quite so! + +Engstrand. But we must have some women in the house; that is as clear +as daylight. Because in the evening we must make the place a little +attractive--some singing and dancing, and that sort of thing. Remember +they are seafolk--wayfarers on the waters of life! (Coming nearer to +her.) Now don't be a fool and stand in your own way, Regina. What good +are you going to do here? Will this education, that your mistress has +paid for, be of any use? You are to look after the children in the new +Home, I hear. Is that the sort of work for you? Are you so frightfully +anxious to go and wear out your health and strength for the sake of +these dirty brats? + +Regina. No, if things were to go as I want them to, then--. Well, it +may happen; who knows? It may happen! + +Engstrand. What may happen? + +Regina. Never you mind. Is it much that you have put by, up here? + +Engstrand. Taking it all round, I should say about forty or fifty +pounds. + +Regina. That's not so bad. + +Engstrand. It's enough to make a start with, my girl. + +Regina. Don't you mean to give me any of the money? + +Engstrand. No, I'm hanged if I do. + +Regina. Don't you mean to send me as much as a dress-length of stuff, +just for once? + +Engstrand. Come and live in the town with me and you shall have plenty +of dresses. + +Regina: Pooh!--I can get that much for myself, if I have a mind to. + +Engstrand. But it's far better to have a father's guiding hand, Regina. +Just now I can get a nice house in Little Harbour Street. They don't +want much money down for it--and we could make it like a sort of +seamen's home, don't you know. + +Regina. But I have no intention of living with you! I'll have nothing +whatever to do with you: So now, be off! + +Engstrand. You wouldn't be living with me long, my girl. No such +luck--not if you knew how to play your cards. Such a fine wench as you +have grown this last year or two... + +Regina. Well--? + +Engstrand. It wouldn't be very long before some first mate came +along--or perhaps a captain. + +Regina. I don't mean to marry a man of that sort. Sailors have no +savoir-vivre. + +Engstrand. What haven't they got? + +Regina. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They aren't the sort of +people to marry. + +Engstrand. Well, don't bother about marrying them. You can make it pay +just as well. (More confidentially.) That fellow--the Englishman--the +one with the yacht--he gave seventy pounds, he did; and she wasn't a +bit prettier than you. + +Regina (advancing towards him). Get out! + +Engstrand (stepping back). Here! here!--you're not going to hit me, I +suppose? + +Regina. Yes! If you talk like that of mother, I will hit you. Get out, +I tell. You! (Pushes him up to the garden door.) And don't bang the +doors. Young Mr. Alving-- + +Engstrand. Is asleep--I know. It's funny how anxious you are about +young Mr. Alving. (In a lower tone.) Oho! is it possible that it is he +that--? + +Regina. Get out, and be quick about it! Your wits are wandering, my +good man. No, don't go that way; Mr. Manders is just coming along. Be +off down the kitchen stairs. + +Engstrand (moving towards the right). Yes, yes--all right. But have a +bit of a chat with him that's coming along. He's the chap to tell you +what a child owes to its father. For I am your father, anyway, you +know, I can prove it by the Register. (He goes out through the farther +door which REGINA has opened. She shuts it after him, looks hastily at +herself in the mirror, fans herself with her handkerchief and sets her +collar straight; then busies herself with the flowers. MANDERS enters +the conservatory through the garden door. He wears an overcoat, carries +an umbrella, and has a small travelling-bag slung over his shoulder on +a strap.) + +Manders. Good morning, Miss Engstrand. + +Regina (turning round with a look of pleased surprise), Oh, Mr. +Manders, good morning. The boat is in, then? + +Manders. Just in. (Comes into the room.) It is most tiresome, this rain +every day. + +Regina (following him in). It's a splendid rain for the farmers, Mr. +Manders. + +Manders. Yes, you are quite right. We townfolk think so little about +that. (Begins to take off his overcoat.) + +Regina. Oh, let me help you. That's it. Why, how wet it is! I will hang +it up in the hall. Give me your umbrella, too; I will leave it open, so +that it will dry. + +(She goes out with the things by the farther door on the right. MANDERS +lays his bag and his hat down on a chair. REGINA re-enters.) + +Manders. Ah, it's very pleasant to get indoors. Well, is everything +going on well here? + +Regina. Yes, thanks. + +Manders. Properly busy, though, I expect, getting ready for tomorrow? + +Regina. Oh, yes, there is plenty to do. + +Manders. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I hope? + +Regina. Yes, she is. She has just gone upstairs to take the young +master his chocolate. + +Manders. Tell me--I heard down at the pier that Oswald had come back. + +Regina. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect him +until today. + +Manders. Strong and well, I hope? + +Regina. Yes, thank you, well enough. But dreadfully tired after his +journey. He came straight from Paris without a stop--I mean, he came +all the way without breaking his journey. I fancy he is having a sleep +now, so we must talk a little bit more quietly, if you don't mind. + +Manders. All right, we will be very quiet. + +Regina (while she moves an armchair up to the table), Please sit down, +Mr. Manders, and make yourself at home. (He sits down; she puts a +footstool under his feet.) There! Is that comfortable? + +Manders. Thank you, thank you. That is most comfortable; (Looks at +her.) I'll tell you what, Miss Engstrand, I certainly think you have +grown since I saw you last. + +Regina. Do you think so? Mrs. Alving says, too--that I have developed. + +Manders. Developed? Well, perhaps a little--just suitably. (A short +pause.) + +Regina. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here? + +Manders. Thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child. Now tell me, Regina +my dear, how has your father been getting on here? + +Regina. Thank you, Mr. Manders, he is getting on pretty well. + +Manders. He came to see me the last time he was in town. + +Regina. Did he? He is always so glad when he can have a chat with you. + +Manders. And I suppose you have seen him pretty regularly every day? + +Regina. I? Oh, yes, I do--whenever I have time, that is to say. + +Manders. Your father has not a very strong character, Miss Engstrand. +He sadly needs a guiding hand. + +Regina. Yes, I can quite believe that. + +Manders. He needs someone with him that he can cling to, someone whose +judgment he can rely on. He acknowledged that freely himself, the last +time he came up to see me. + +Regina. Yes, he has said something of the same sort to me. But I don't +know whether Mrs. Alving could do without me--most of all just now, +when we have the new Orphanage to see about. And I should be dreadfully +unwilling to leave Mrs. Alving, too; she has always been so good to me. + +Manders. But a daughter's duty, my good child--. Naturally we should +have to get your mistress' consent first. + +Regina. Still I don't know whether it would be quite the thing, at my +age, to keep house for a single man. + +Manders. What! My dear Miss Engstrand, it is your own father we are +speaking of! + +Regina. Yes, I dare say, but still--. Now, if it were in a good house +and with a real gentleman-- + +Manders. But, my dear Regina! + +Regina. --one whom I could feel an affection for, and really feel in +the position of a daughter to... + +Manders. Come, come--my dear good child-- + +Regina. I should like very much to live in town. Out here it is +terribly lonely; and you know yourself, Mr. Manders, what it is to be +alone in the world. And, though I say it, I really am both capable and +willing. Don't you know any place that would be suitable for me, Mr. +Manders? + +Manders. I? No, indeed I don't. + +Regina. But, dear Mr. Manders--at any rate don't forget me, in case-- + +Manders (getting up). No, I won't forget you, Miss Engstrand. + +Regina. Because, if I-- + +Manders. Perhaps you will be so kind as to let Mrs. Alving know I am +here? + +Regina. I will fetch her at once, Mr. Manders. (Goes out to the left. +MANDERS walks up and down the room once or twice, stands for a moment +at the farther end of the room with his hands behind his back and looks +out into the garden. Then he comes back to the table, takes up a book +and looks at the title page, gives a start, and looks at some of the +others.) + +Manders. Hm!--Really! + +(MRS. ALVING comes in by the door on the left. She is followed by +REGINA, who goes out again at once through the nearer door on the +right.) + +Mrs. Alving (holding out her hand). I am very glad to see you, Mr. +Manders. + +Manders. How do you do, Mrs. Alving. Here I am, as I promised. + +Mrs. Alving. Always punctual! + +Manders. Indeed, I was hard put to it to get away. What with vestry +meetings and committees. + +Mrs. Alving. It was all the kinder of you to come in such good time; we +can settle our business before dinner. But where is your luggage? + +Manders (quickly). My things are down at the village shop. I am going +to sleep there tonight. + +Mrs. Alving (repressing a smile). Can't I really persuade you to stay +the night here this time? + +Manders. No, no; many thanks all the same; I will put up there, as +usual. It is so handy for getting on board the boat again. + +Mrs. Alving. Of course, you shall do as you please. But it seems to me +quite another thing, now we are two old people-- + +Manders. Ha! ha! You will have your joke! And it's natural you should +be in high spirits today--first of all there is the great event +tomorrow, and also you have got Oswald home. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, am I not a lucky woman! It is more than two years +since he was home last, and he has promised to stay the whole winter +with me. + +Manders, Has he, really? That is very nice and filial of him; because +there must be many more attractions in his life in Rome or in Paris, I +should think. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but he has his mother here, you see. Bless the dear +boy, he has got a corner in his heart for his mother still. + +Manders. Oh, it would be very sad if absence and preoccupation with +such a thing as Art were to dull the natural affections. + +Mrs. Alving. It would, indeed. But there is no fear of that with him, I +am glad to say. I am quite curious to see if you recognise him again. +He will be down directly; he is just lying down for a little on the +sofa upstairs. But do sit down, my dear friend. + +Manders. Thank you. You are sure I am not disturbing you? + +Mrs. Alving. Of course not. (She sits down at the table.) + +Manders. Good. Then I will show you--. (He goes to the chair where his +bag is lying and takes a packet of papers from it; then sits down at +the opposite side of the table and looks for a clear space to put the +papers down.) Now first of all, here is--(breaks off). Tell me, Mrs. +Alving, what are these books doing here? + +Mrs. Alving. These books? I am reading them, + +Manders. Do you read this sort of thing? + +Mrs. Alving. Certainly I do. + +Manders. Do you feel any the better or the happier for reading books of +this kind? + +Mrs. Alving. I think it makes me, as it were, more self-reliant. + +Manders. That is remarkable. But why? + +Mrs. Alving. Well, they give me an explanation or a confirmation of +lots of different ideas that have come into my own mind. But what +surprises me, Mr. Manders, is that, properly speaking, there is nothing +at all new in these books. There is nothing more in them than what most +people think and believe. The only thing is, that most people either +take no account of it or won't admit it to themselves. + +Manders. But, good heavens, do you seriously think that most people--? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed, I do. + +Manders. But not here in the country at any rate? Not here amongst +people like ourselves? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, amongst people like ourselves too. + +Manders. Well, really, I must say--! + +Mrs. Alving. But what is the particular objection that you have to +these books? + +Manders. What objection? You surely don't suppose that I take any +particular interest in such productions? + +Mrs. Alving. In fact, you don't know anything about what you are +denouncing? + +Manders. I have read quite enough about these books to disapprove of +them: + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but your own opinion-- + +Manders. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one +has to rely on the opinion of others. That is the way in this world, +and it is quite right that it should be so. What would become of +society, otherwise? + +Mrs. Alving. Well, you may be right. + +Manders. Apart from that, naturally I don't deny that literature of +this kind may have a considerable attraction. And I cannot blame you, +either, for wishing to make yourself acquainted with the intellectual +tendencies which I am told are at work in the wider world in which you +have allowed your son to wander for so long but-- + +Mrs. Alving. But--? + +Manders (lowering his voice). But one doesn't talk about it, Mrs. +Alving. One certainly is not called upon to account to everyone for +what one reads or thinks in the privacy of one's own room. + +Mrs. Alving. Certainly not. I quite agree with you. + +Manders. Just think of the consideration you owe to this Orphanage, +which you decided to build at a time when your thoughts on such +subjects were very different from what they are now--as far as I am +able to judge. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I freely admit that. But it was about the Orphanage... + +Manders. It was about the Orphanage we were going to talk; quite so. +Well--walk warily, dear Mrs. Alving! And now let us turn to the +business in hand. (Opens an envelope and takes out some papers.) You +see these? + +Mrs. Alving. The deeds? + +Manders. Yes, the whole lot--and everything in order; I can tell you it +has been no easy matter to get them in time. I had positively to put +pressure on the authorities; they are almost painfully conscientious +when it is a question of settling property. But here they are at last. +(Turns over the papers.) Here is the deed of conveyance of that part of +the Rosenvold estate known as the Solvik property, together with the +buildings newly erected thereon--the school, the masters' houses and +the chapel. And here is the legal sanction for the statutes of the +institution. Here, you see--(reads) "Statutes for the Captain Alving +Orphanage." + +Mrs. Alving (after a long look at the papers). That seems all in order. + +Manders. I thought "Captain" was the better title to use, rather than +your husband's Court title of "Chamberlain." "Captain" seems less +ostentatious. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes; just as you think best. + +Manders. And here is the certificate for the investment of the capital +in the bank, the interest being earmarked for the current expenses of +the Orphanage. + +Mrs. Alving. Many thanks; but I think it will be most convenient if you +will kindly take charge of them. + +Manders. With pleasure. I think it will be best to leave the money in +the bank for the present. The interest is not very high, it is true; +four per cent at six months' call; later on, if we can find some good +mortgage--of course it must be a first mortgage and on unexceptionable +security--we can consider the matter further. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Manders, you know best about all +that. + +Manders. I will keep my eye on it, anyway. But there is one thing in +connection with it that I have often meant to ask you about. + +Mrs. Alving. What is that? + +Manders. Shall we insure the buildings, or not? + +Mrs. Alving. Of course we must insure them. + +Manders. Ah, but wait a moment, dear lady. Let us look into the matter +a little more closely. + +Mrs. Alving. Everything of mine is insured--the house and its contents, +my livestock--everything. + +Manders. Naturally. They are your own property. I do exactly the same, +of course. But this, you see, is quite a different case. The Orphanage +is, so to speak, dedicated to higher uses. + +Mrs. Alving. Certainly, but-- + +Manders. As far as I am personally concerned, I can conscientiously say +that I don't see the smallest objection to our insuring ourselves +against all risks. + +Mrs. Alving. That is exactly what I think. + +Manders. But what about the opinion of the people hereabouts? + +Mrs. Alving. Their opinion--? + +Manders. Is there any considerable body of opinion here--opinion of +some account, I mean--that might take exception to it? + +Mrs. Alving. What, exactly, do you mean by opinion of some account? + +Manders. Well, I was thinking particularly of persons of such +independent and influential position that one could hardly refuse to +attach weight to their opinion. + +Mrs. Alving. There are a certain number of such people here, who might +perhaps take exception to it if we-- + +Manders. That's just it, you see. In town there are lots of them. All +my fellow-clergymen's congregations, for instance! It would be so +extremely easy for them to interpret it as meaning that neither you nor +I had a proper reliance on Divine protection. + +Mrs. Alving. But as far as you are concerned, my dear friend, you have +at all events the consciousness that-- + +Manders. Yes I know I know; my own mind is quite easy about it, it is +true. But we should not be able to prevent a wrong and injurious +interpretation of our action. And that sort of thing, moreover, might +very easily end in exercising a hampering influence on the work of the +Orphanage. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, well, if that is likely to be the effect of it-- + +Manders. Nor can I entirely overlook the difficult--indeed, I may say, +painful--position I might possibly be placed in. In the best circles in +town the matter of this Orphanage is attracting a great deal of +attention. Indeed the Orphanage is to some extent built for the benefit +of the town too, and it is to be hoped that it may result in the +lowering of our poor-rate by a considerable amount. But as I have been +your adviser in the matter and have taken charge of the business side +of it, I should be afraid that it would be I that spiteful persons +would attack first of all. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, you ought not to expose yourself to that. + +Manders. Not to mention the attacks that would undoubtedly be made upon +me in certain newspapers and reviews. + +Mrs. Alving. Say no more about it, dear Mr. Manders; that quite decides +it. + +Manders. Then you don't wish it to be insured? + +Mrs. Alving. No, we will give up the idea. + +Manders (leaning back in his chair). But suppose, now, that some +accident happened?--one can never tell--would you be prepared to make +good the damage? + +Mrs. Alving. No; I tell you quite plainly I would not do so under any +circumstances. + +Manders. Still, you know, Mrs. Alving--after all, it is a serious +responsibility that we are taking upon ourselves. + +Mrs. Alving. But do you think we can do otherwise? + +Manders. No, that's just it. We really can't do otherwise. We ought not +to expose ourselves to a mistaken judgment; and we have no right to do +anything that will scandalise the community. + +Mrs. Alving. You ought not to, as a clergyman, at any rate. + +Manders. And, what is more, I certainly think that we may count upon +our enterprise being attended by good fortune--indeed, that it will be +under a special protection. + +Mrs. Alving. Let us hope so, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Then we will leave it alone? + +Mrs. Alving. Certainly. + +Manders. Very good. As you wish. (Makes a note.) No insurance, then. + +Mrs. Alving. It's a funny thing that you should just have happened to +speak about that today-- + +Manders. I have often meant to ask you about it. + +Mrs. Alving. --because yesterday we very nearly had a fire up there. + +Manders. Do you mean it! + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, as a matter of fact it was nothing of any consequence. +Some shavings in the carpenter's shop caught fire. + +Manders. Where Engstrand works? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes. They say he is often so careless with matches. + +Manders. He has so many things on his mind, poor fellow--so many +anxieties. Heaven be thanked, I am told he is really making an effort +to live a blameless life. + +Mrs. Alving. Really? Who told you so? + +Manders. He assured me himself that it is so. He's good workman, too. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes, when he is sober. + +Manders. Ah, that sad weakness of his! But the pain in his poor leg +often drives him to it, he tells me. The last time he was in town, I +was really quite touched by him. He came to my house and thanked me so +gratefully for getting him work here, where he could have the chance of +being with Regina. + +Mrs. Alving. He doesn't see very much of her. + +Manders. But he assured me that he saw her every day. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh well, perhaps he does. + +Manders. He feels so strongly that he needs someone who can keep a hold +on him when temptations assail him. That is the most winning thing +about Jacob Engstrand; he comes to one like a helpless child and +accuses himself and confesses his frailty. The last time he came and +had a talk with me... Suppose now, Mrs. Alving, that it were really a +necessity of his existence to have Regina at home with him again-- + +Mrs. Alving (standing up suddenly). Regina! + +Manders. --you ought not to set yourself against him. + +Mrs. Alving. Indeed, I set myself very definitely against that. And, +besides, you know Regina is to have a post in the Orphanage. + +Manders. But consider, after all he is her father-- + +Mrs. Alving. I know best what sort of a father he has been to her. No, +she shall never go to him with my consent. + +Manders (getting up). My dear lady, don't judge so hastily. It is very +sad how you misjudge poor Engstrand. One would really think you were +afraid... + +Mrs. Alving (more calmly). That is not the question. I have taken +Regina into my charge, and in my charge she remains. (Listens.) Hush, +dear Mr. Manders, don't say any more about it. (Her face brightens with +pleasure.) Listen! Oswald is coming downstairs. We will only think +about him now. + +(OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand and smoking a big +meerschaum pipe, comes in by the door on the left.) + +Oswald (standing in the doorway). Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought you +were in the office. (Comes in.) Good morning, Mr. Manders. + +Manders (staring at him). Well! It's most extraordinary. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders? + +Manders. I-I-no, can it possibly be--? + +Oswald. Yes, it really is the prodigal son, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Oh, my dear young friend-- + +Oswald. Well, the son came home, then. + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so opposed to +the idea of his being a painter. + +Manders. We are only fallible, and many steps seem to us hazardous at +first, that afterwards--(grasps his hand). Welcome, welcome! Really, my +dear Oswald--may I still call you Oswald? + +Oswald. What else would you think of calling me? + +Manders. Thank you. What I mean, my dear Oswald, is that you must not +imagine that I have any unqualified disapproval of the artist's life. I +admit that there are many who, even in that career, can keep the inner +man free from harm. + +Oswald. Let us hope so. + +Mrs. Alving (beaming with pleasure). I know one who has kept both the +inner and the outer man free from harm. Just take a look at him, Mr. +Manders. + +Oswald (walks across the room). Yes, yes, mother dear, of course. + +Manders. Undoubtedly--no one can deny it. And I hear you have begun to +make a name for yourself. I have often seen mention of you in the +papers--and extremely favourable mention, too. Although, I must admit, +lately I have not seen your name so often. + +Oswald (going towards the conservatory). I haven't done so much +painting just lately. + +Mrs. Alving. An artist must take a rest sometimes, like other people. + +Manders. Of course, of course. At those times the artist is preparing +and strengthening himself for a greater effort. + +Oswald. Yes. Mother, will dinner soon be ready? + +Mrs. Alving. In half an hour. He has a fine appetite, thank goodness. + +Manders. And a liking for tobacco too. + +Oswald. I found father's pipe in the room upstairs, and-- + +Manders. Ah, that is what it was! + +Mrs. Alving. What? + +Manders. When Oswald came in at that door with the pipe in his mouth, I +thought for the moment it was his father in the flesh. + +Oswald. Really? + +Mrs. Alving. How can you say so! Oswald takes after me. + +Manders. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of his +mouth--something about the lips--that reminds me so exactly of Mr. +Alving--especially when he smokes. + +Mrs. Alving. I don't think so at all. To my mind, Oswald has much more +of a clergyman's mouth. + +Menders. Well, yes--a good many of my colleagues in the church have a +similar expression. + +Mrs. Alving. But put your pipe down, my dear boy. I don't allow any +smoking in here. + +Oswald (puts down his pipe). All right, I only wanted to try it, +because I smoked it once when I was a child. + +Mrs. Alving. You? + +Oswald. Yes; it was when I was quite a little chap. And I can remember +going upstairs to father's room one evening when he was in very good +spirits. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, you can't remember anything about those days. + +Oswald. Yes, I remember plainly that he took me on his knee and let me +smoke his pipe. "Smoke, my boy," he said, "have a good smoke, boy!" And +I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was turning quite pale and +the perspiration was standing in great drops on my forehead. Then he +laughed--such a hearty laugh. + +Manders. It was an extremely odd thing to do. + +Mrs. Alving. Dear Mr. Manders, Oswald only dreamt it. + +Oswald. No indeed, mother, it was no dream. Because--don't you +remember--you came into the room and carried me off to the nursery, +where I was sick, and I saw that you were crying. Did father often play +such tricks? + +Manders. In his young days he was full of fun-- + +Oswald. And, for all that, he did so much with his life--so much that +was good and useful, I mean--short as his life was. + +Manders. Yes, my dear Oswald Alving, you have inherited the name of a +man who undoubtedly was both energetic and worthy. Let us hope it will +be a spur to your energies. + +Oswald. It ought to be, certainly. + +Manders. In any case it was nice of you to come home for the day that +is to honour his memory. + +Oswald. I could do no less for my father. + +Mrs. Alving. And to let me keep him so long here--that's the nicest +part of what he has done. + +Manders. Yes, I hear you are going to spend the winter at home. + +Oswald. I am here for an indefinite time, Mr. Manders.--Oh, it's good +to be at home again! + +Mrs. Alving (beaming). Yes, isn't it? + +Manders (looking sympathetically at him). You went out into the world +very young, my dear Oswald. + +Oswald. I did. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't too young. + +Mrs. Alving. Not a bit of it. It is the best thing for an active boy, +and especially for an only child. It's a pity when they are kept at +home with their parents and get spoiled. + +Manders. That is a very debatable question, Mrs. Alving. A child's own +home is, and always must be, his proper place. + +Oswald. There I agree entirely with Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Take the case of your own son. Oh yes, we can talk about it +before him. What has the result been in his case? He is six or seven +and twenty, and has never yet had the opportunity of learning what a +well-regulated home means. + +Oswald. Excuse me, Mr. Manders, you are quite wrong there. + +Manders. Indeed? I imagined that your life abroad had practically been +spent entirely in artistic circles. + +Oswald. So it has. + +Manders. And chiefly amongst the younger artists. + +Oswald. Certainly. + +Manders. But I imagined that those gentry, as a rule, had not the means +necessary for family life and the support of a home. + +Oswald. There are a considerable number of them who have not the means +to marry, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. That is exactly my point. + +Oswald. But they can have a home of their own, all the same; a good +many of them have. And they are very well-regulated and very +comfortable homes, too. + +(MRS. ALVING, who has listened to him attentively, nods assent, but +says nothing.) + +Manders. Oh, but I am not talking of bachelor establishments. By a home +I mean family life--the life a man lives with his wife and children. + +Oswald. Exactly, or with his children and his children's mother. + +Manders (starts and clasps his hands). Good heavens! + +Oswald. What is the matter? + +Manders. Lives with-with-his children's mother. + +Oswald. Well, would you rather he should repudiate his children's +mother? + +Manders. Then what you are speaking of are those unprincipled +conditions known as irregular unions! + +Oswald. I have never noticed anything particularly unprincipled about +these people's lives. + +Manders. But do you mean to say that it is possible for a man of any +sort of bringing up, and a young woman, to reconcile themselves to such +a way of living--and to make no secret of it, either! + +Oswald. What else are they to do? A poor artist, and a poor girl--it +costs a good deal to get married. What else are they to do? + +Manders. What are they to do? Well, Mr. Alving, I will tell you what +they ought to do. They ought to keep away from each other from the very +beginning--that is what they ought to do! + +Oswald. That advice wouldn't have much effect upon hot-blooded young +folk who are in love. + +Mrs. Alving. No, indeed it wouldn't. + +Manders (persistently). And to think that the authorities tolerate such +things! That they are allowed to go on, openly! (Turns to MRS. ALVING.) +Had I so little reason, then, to be sadly concerned about your son? In +circles where open immorality is rampant--where, one may say, it is +honoured-- + +Oswald. Let me tell you this, Mr. Manders. I have been a constant +Sunday guest at one or two of these "irregular" households. + +Manders. On Sunday, too! + +Oswald. Yes, that is the day of leisure. But never have I heard one +objectionable word there, still less have I ever seen anything that +could be called immoral. No; but do you know when and where I have met +with immorality in artists' circles? + +Manders. No, thank heaven, I don't! + +Oswald. Well, then, I shall have the pleasure of telling you. I have +met with it when someone or other of your model husbands and fathers +have come out there to have a bit of a look round on their own account, +and have done the artists the honour of looking them up in their humble +quarters. Then we had a chance of learning something, I can tell you. +These gentlemen were able to instruct us about places and things that +we had never so much as dreamt of. + +Manders. What? Do you want me to believe that honourable men when they +get away from home will-- + +Oswald. Have you never, when these same honourable men come home again, +heard them deliver themselves on the subject of the prevalence of +immorality abroad? + +Manders. Yes, of course, but-- + +Mrs. Alving. I have heard them, too. + +Oswald. Well, you can take their word for it, unhesitatingly. Some of +them are experts in the matter. (Putting his hands to his head.) To +think that the glorious freedom of the beautiful life over there should +be so besmirched! + +Mrs. Alving. You mustn't get too heated, Oswald; you gain nothing by +that. + +Oswald. No, you are quite right, mother. Besides, it isn't good for me. +It's because I am so infernally tired, you know. I will go out and take +a turn before dinner. I beg your pardon, Mr. Manders. It is impossible +for you to realise the feeling; but it takes me that way (Goes out by +the farther door on the right.) + +Mrs. Alving. My poor boy! + +Manders. You may well say so. This is what it has brought him to! (MRS. +ALVING looks at him, but does not speak.) He called himself the +prodigal son. It's only too true, alas--only too true! (MRS. ALVING +looks steadily at him.) And what do you say to all this? + +Mrs. Alving. I say that Oswald was right in every single word he said. + +Manders. Right? Right? To hold such principles as that? + +Mrs. Alving. In my loneliness here I have come to just the same +opinions as he, Mr. Manders. But I have never presumed to venture upon +such topics in conversation. Now there is no need; my boy shall speak +for me. + +Manders. You deserve the deepest pity, Mrs. Alving. It is my duty to +say an earnest word to you. It is no longer your businessman and +adviser, no longer your old friend and your dead husband's old friend, +that stands before you now. It is your priest that stands before you, +just as he did once at the most critical moment of your life. + +Mrs. Alving. And what is it that my priest has to say to me? + +Manders. First of all I must stir your memory. The moment is well +chosen. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of your husband's death; +tomorrow the memorial to the departed will be unveiled; tomorrow I +shall speak to the whole assembly that will be met together, But today +I want to speak to you alone. + +Mrs. Alving, Very well, Mr. Manders, speak! + +Manders. Have you forgotten that after barely a year of married life +you were standing at the very edge of a precipice?--that you forsook +your house and home? that you ran away from your husband--yes, Mrs. +Alving, ran away, ran away-=and refused to return to him in spite of +his requests and entreaties? + +Mrs. Alving. Have you forgotten how unspeakably unhappy I was during +that first year? + +Manders. To crave for happiness in this world is simply to be possessed +by a spirit of revolt. What right have we to happiness? No! we must do +our duty, Mrs. Alving. And your duty was to cleave to the man you had +chosen and to whom you were bound by a sacred bond. + +Mrs. Alving. You know quite well what sort of a life my husband was +living at that time--what excesses he was guilty of. + +Menders. I know only too well what rumour used to say of him; and I +should be the last person to approve of his conduct as a young man, +supposing that rumour spoke the truth. But it is not a wife's part to +be her husband's judge. You should have considered it your bounden duty +humbly to have borne the cross that a higher will had laid upon you. +But, instead of that, you rebelliously cast off your cross, you +deserted the man whose stumbling footsteps you should have supported, +you did what was bound to imperil your good name and reputation, and +came very near to imperilling the reputation of others into the bargain. + +Mrs. Alving. Of others? Of one other, you mean. + +Manders. It was the height of imprudence, your seeking refuge with me. + +Mrs. Alving. With our priest? With our intimate friend? + +Manders. All the more on that account; you should thank God that I +possessed the necessary strength of mind--that I was able to turn you +from your outrageous intention, and that it was vouchsafed to me to +succeed in leading you back into the path of duty, and back to your +lawful husband. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, Mr. Manders, that certainly was your doing. + +Manders. I was but the humble instrument of a higher power. And is it +not true that my having been able to bring you again under the yoke of +duty and obedience sowed the seeds of a rich blessing on all the rest +of your life? Did things not turn out as I foretold to you? Did not +your husband turn from straying in the wrong path, as a man should? Did +he not, after that, live a life of love and good report with you all +his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the neighbourhood? Did he +not so raise you up to his level, so that by degree you became his +fellow-worker in all his undertakings--and a noble fellow-worker, too. +I know, Mrs. Alving; that praise I will give you. But now I come to the +second serious false step in your life. + +Mrs. Alving. What do you mean? + +Manders, Just as once you forsook your duty as a wife, so, since then, +you have forsaken your duty as a mother. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh--! + +Manders. You have been overmastered all your life by a disastrous +spirit of willfulness. All your impulses have led you towards what is +undisciplined and lawless. You have never been willing to submit to any +restraint. Anything in life that has seemed irksome to you, you have +thrown aside recklessly and unscrupulously, as if it were a burden that +you were free to rid yourself of if you would. It did not please you to +be a wife any longer, and so you left your husband. Your duties as a +mother were irksome to you, so you sent your child away among strangers. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true; I did that. + +Menders. And that is why you have become a stranger to him. + +Mrs. Alving. No, no, I am not that! + +Manders. You are; you must be. And what sort of a son is it that you +have got back? Think over it seriously, Mrs. Alving. You erred +grievously in your husband's case--you acknowledge as much, by erecting +this memorial to him. Now you are bound to acknowledge how much you +have erred in your son's case; possibly there may still be time to +reclaim him from the path of wickedness. Turn over a new leaf, and set +yourself to reform what there may still be that is capable of +reformation in him. Because (with uplifted forefinger) in very truth, +Mrs. Alving, you are a guilty mother!--That is what I have thought it +my duty to say to you. + +(A short silence.) + +Mrs. Alving (speaking slowly and with self-control). You have had your +say, Mr. Manders, and tomorrow you will be making a public speech in +memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But now I wish to +speak to you for a little, just as you have been speaking to me. + +Manders. By all means; no doubt you wish to bring forward some excuses +for your behaviour. + +Mrs. Alving. No. I only want to tell you something-- + +Manders. Well? + +Mrs. Alving. In all that you said just now about me and my husband, and +about our life together after you had, as you put it, led me back into +the path of duty--there was nothing that you knew at first hand. From +that moment you never again set foot in our house--you, who had been +our daily companion before that. + +Manders. Remember that you and your husband moved out of town +immediately afterwards. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, and you never once came out here to see us in my +husband's lifetime. It was only the business in connection with the +Orphanage that obliged you to come and see me. + +Manders (in a low and uncertain voice). Helen--if that is a reproach, I +can only beg you to consider-- + +Mrs. Alving. --the respect you owed by your calling?--yes. All the more +as I was a wife who had tried to run away from her husband. One can +never be too careful to have nothing to do with such reckless women. + +Manders. My dear--Mrs. Alving, you are exaggerating dreadfully. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,--very well. What I mean is this, that when you +condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon than +ordinary public opinion. + +Manders. I admit it. What then? + +Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you the +truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day--you, and +you only! + +Manders. And what may the truth be? + +Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as great a +profligate as he had been all his life. + +Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying? + +Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as +profligate--in his desires at all events--as he was before you married +us. + +Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions--his +irregularities--his excesses, if you like--as a profligate life! + +Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it. + +Manders. I don't understand what you mean. + +Mrs. Alving. It is not necessary that you should. + +Manders. It makes my brain reel. To think that your marriage--all the +years of wedded life you spent with your husband--were nothing but a +hidden abyss of misery. + +Mrs. Alving. That and nothing else. Now you know. + +Manders. This--this bewilders me. I can't understand it! I can't grasp +it! How in the world was it possible? How could such a state of things +remain concealed? + +Mrs. Alving. That was just what I had to fight for incessantly, day +after day. When Oswald was born, I thought I saw a slight improvement. +But it didn't last long. And after that I had to fight doubly +hard--fight a desperate fight so that no one should know what sort of a +man my child's father was. You know quite well what an attractive +manner he had; it seemed as if people could believe nothing but good of +him. He was one of those men whose mode of life seems to have no effect +upon their reputations. But at last, Mr. Manders--you must hear this +too--at last something happened more abominable than everything else. + +Manders. More abominable than what you have told me! + +Mrs. Alving. I had borne with it all, though I knew only too well what +he indulged in in secret, when he was out of the house. But when it +came to the point of the scandal coming within our four walls-- + +Manders. Can you mean it! Here? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, here, in our own home. It was in there (pointing to +the nearer door on the right) in the dining-room that I got the first +hint of it. I had something to do in there and the door was standing +ajar. I heard our maid come up from the garden with water for the +flowers in the conservatory. + +Manders. Well--? + +Mrs. Alving. Shortly afterwards I heard my husband come in too. I heard +him say something to her in a low voice. And then I heard--(with a +short laugh)--oh, it rings in my ears still, with its mixture of what +was heartbreaking and what was so ridiculous--I heard my own servant +whisper: "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!" + +Manders. What unseemly levity on his part! But surely nothing more than +levity, Mrs. Alving, believe me. + +Mrs. Alving. I soon knew what to believe. My husband had his will of +the girl--and that intimacy had consequences, Mr. Manders. + +Manders (as if turned to stone). And all that in this house! In this +house! + +Mrs. Alving. I have suffered a good deal in this house. To keep him at +home in the evening--and at night--I have had to play the part of boon +companion in his secret drinking-bouts in his room up there. I have had +to sit there alone with him, have had to hobnob and drink with him, +have had to listen to his ribald senseless talk, have had to fight with +brute force to get him to bed-- + +Manders (trembling). And you were able to endure all this! + +Mrs. Alving. I had my little boy, and endured it for his sake. But when +the crowning insult came--when my own servant--then I made up my mind +that there should be an end of it. I took the upper hand in the house, +absolutely--both with him and all the others. I had a weapon to use +against him, you see; he didn't dare to speak. It was then that Oswald +was sent away. He was about seven then, and was beginning to notice +things and ask questions as children will. I could endure all that, my +friend. It seemed to me that the child would be poisoned if he breathed +the air of this polluted house. That was why I sent him away. And now +you understand, too, why he never set foot here as long as his father +was alive. No one knows what it meant to me. + +Manders. You have indeed had a pitiable experience. + +Mrs. Alving. I could never have gone through with it, if I had not had +my work. Indeed, I can boast that I have worked. All the increase in +the value of the property, all the improvements, all the useful +arrangements that my husband got the honour and glory of--do you +suppose that he troubled himself about any of them? He, who used to lie +the whole day on the sofa reading old official lists! No, you may as +well know that too. It was I that kept him up to the mark when he had +his lucid intervals; it was I that had to bear the whole burden of it +when he began his excesses again or took to whining about his miserable +condition. + +Manders. And this is the man you are building a memorial to! + +Mrs. Alving. There you see the power of an uneasy conscience. + +Manders. An uneasy conscience? What do you mean? + +Mrs. Alving. I had always before me the fear that it was impossible +that the truth should not come out and be believed. That is why the +Orphanage is to exist, to silence all rumours and clear away all doubt. + +Manders. You certainly have not fallen short of the mark in that, Mrs. +Alving. + +Mrs. Alving. I had another very good reason. I did not wish Oswald, my +own son, to inherit a penny that belonged to his father. + +Manders. Then it is with Mr. Alving's property. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes. The sums of money that, year after year, I have given +towards this Orphanage, make up the amount of property--I have reckoned +it carefully--which in the old days made Lieutenant Alving a catch. + +Manders. I understand. + +Mrs. Alving. That was my purchase money. I don't wish it to pass into +Oswald's hands. My son shall have everything from me, I am determined. + +(OSWALD comes in by the farther door on the right. He has left his hat +and coat outside.) + +Mrs. Alving. Back again, my own dear boy? + +Oswald. Yes, what can one do outside in this everlasting rain? I hear +dinner is nearly ready. That's good! + +(REGINA comes in front the dining-room, carrying a parcel.) + +Regina. This parcel has come for you, ma'am. (Gives it to her.) + +Mrs. Alving (glancing at MANDERS). The ode to be sung tomorrow, I +expect. + +Manders. Hm--! + +Regina. And dinner is ready. + +Mrs. Alving. Good. We will come in a moment. I will just--(begins to +open the parcel). + +Regina (to OSWALD). Will you drink white or red wine, sir? + +Oswald. Both, Miss Engstrand. + +Regina. Bien--very good, Mr. Alving. (Goes into the dining-room.) + +Oswald. I may as well help you to uncork it--. (Follows her into the +dining-room, leaving the door ajar after him.) + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I thought so. Here is the ode, Mr Manders. + +Manders (clasping his hands). How shall I ever have the courage +tomorrow to speak the address that-- + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, you will get through it. + +Manders (in a low voice, fearing to be heard in the dining room). Yes, +we must raise no suspicions. + +Mrs. Alving (quietly but firmly). No; and then this long dreadful +comedy will be at an end. After tomorrow, I shall feel as if my dead +husband had never lived in this house. There will be no one else here +then but my boy and his mother. + +(From the dining-room is heard the noise of a chair falling; then +REGINA'S voice is heard in a loud whisper: Oswald! Are you mad? Let me +go!) + +Mrs. Alving (starting in horror). Oh--! + +(She stares wildly at the half-open door. OSWALD is heard coughing and +humming, then the sound of a bottle being uncorked.) + +Manders (in an agitated manner). What's the matter? What is it, Mrs. +Alving? + +Mrs. Alving (hoarsely). Ghosts. The couple in the conservatory--over +again. + +Manders. What are you saying! Regina--? Is SHE--! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, Come. Not a word--! + +(Grips MANDERS by the arm and walks unsteadily with him into the +dining-room.) + + + + +ACT II + + +(The same scene. The landscape is still obscured by Mist. MANDERS and +MRS. ALVING come in from the dining-room.) + +Mrs. Alving (calls into the dining-room from the doorway). Aren't you +coming in here, Oswald? + +Oswald. No, thanks; I think I will go out for a bit. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, do; the weather is clearing a little. (She shuts the +dining-room door, then goes to the hall door and calls.) Regina! + +Regina (from without). Yes, ma'am? + +Mrs. Alving. Go down into the laundry and help with the garlands. + +Regina. Yes, ma'am. + +(MRS. ALVING satisfies herself that she has gone, then shuts the door.) + +Manders. I suppose he can't hear us? + +Mrs. Alving. Not when the door is shut. Besides, he is going out. + +Manders. I am still quite bewildered. I don't know how I managed to +swallow a mouthful of your excellent dinner. + +Mrs. Alving (walking up and down, and trying to control her agitation). +Nor I. But, what are we to do? + +Manders. Yes, what are we to do? Upon my word I don't know; I am so +completely unaccustomed to things of this kind. + +Mrs. Alving. I am convinced that nothing serious has happened yet. + +Manders. Heaven forbid! But it is most unseemly behaviour, for all that. + +Mrs. Alving. It is nothing more than a foolish jest of Oswald's, you +may be sure. + +Manders. Well, of course, as I said, I am quite inexperienced in such +matters; but it certainly seems to me-- + +Mrs. Alving. Out of the house she shall go--and at once. That part of +it is as clear as daylight-- + +Manders. Yes, that is quite clear. + +Mrs. Alving. But where is she to go? We should not be justified in-- + +Manders. Where to? Home to her father, of course. + +Mrs. Alving. To whom, did you say? + +Manders. To her--. No, of course Engstrand isn't--. But, great heavens, +Mrs. Alving, how is such a thing possible? You surely may have been +mistaken, in spite of everything. + +Mrs. Alving. There was no chance of mistake, more's the pity. Joanna +was obliged to confess it to me--and my husband couldn't deny it. So +there was nothing else to do but to hush it up. + +Manders. No, that was the only thing to do. + +Mrs. Alving. The girl was sent away at once, and was given a tolerably +liberal sum to hold her tongue. She looked after the rest herself when +she got to town. She renewed an old acquaintance with the carpenter +Engstrand; gave him a hint, I suppose, of how much money she had got, +and told him some fairy tale about a foreigner who had been here in his +yacht in the summer. So she and Engstrand were married in a great +hurry. Why, you married them yourself! + +Manders. I can't understand it--, I remember clearly Engstrand's coming +to arrange about the marriage. He was full of contrition, and accused +himself bitterly for the light conduct he and his fiancee had been +guilty of. + +Mrs. Alving. Of course he had to take the blame on himself. + +Manders. But the deceitfulness of it! And with me, too! I positively +would not have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall most certainly +give him a serious talking to. And the immorality of such a marriage! +Simply for the sake of the money--! What sum was it that the girl had? + +Mrs. Alving. It was seventy pounds. + +Manders. Just think of it--for a paltry seventy pounds to let yourself +be bound in marriage to a fallen woman! + +Mrs. Alving. What about myself, then?--I let myself be bound in +marriage to a fallen man. + +Manders. Heaven forgive you! What are you saying? A fallen man? + +Mrs. Alving. Do you suppose my husband was any purer, when I went with +him to the altar, than Joanna was when Engstrand agreed to marry her? + +Manders. The two cases are as different as day from night. + +Mrs. Alving. Not so very different, after all. It is true there was a +great difference in the price paid, between a paltry seventy pounds and +a whole fortune. + +Manders. How can you compare such totally different things! I presume +you consulted your own heart--and your relations. + +Mrs. Alving (looking away from him). I thought you understood where +what you call my heart had strayed to at that time. + +Manders (in a constrained voice). If I had understood anything of the +kind, I would not have been a daily guest in your husband's house. + +Mrs. Alving. Well, at any rate this much is certain--I didn't consult +myself in the matter at all. + +Manders. Still you consulted those nearest to you, as was only +right--your mother, your two aunts. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true. The three of them settled the whole +matter for me. It seems incredible to me now, how clearly they made out +that it would be sheer folly to reject such an offer. If my mother +could only see what all that fine prospect has led to! + +Manders. No one can be responsible for the result of it. Anyway there +is this to be said, that the match was made in complete conformity with +law and order. + +Mrs. Alving (going to the window). Oh, law and order! I often think it +is that that is at the bottom of all the misery in the world. + +Manders. Mrs. Alving, it is very wicked of you to say that. + +Mrs. Alving. That may be so; but I don't attach importance to those +obligations and considerations any longer. I cannot! I must struggle +for my freedom. + +Manders. What do you mean? + +Mrs. Alving (taping on the window panes). I ought never to have +concealed what sort of a life my husband led. But I had not the courage +to do otherwise then--for my own sake, either. I was too much of a +coward. + +Manders. A coward? + +Mrs. Alving. If others had known anything of what happened, they would +have said: "Poor man, it is natural enough that he should go astray, +when he has a wife that has run away from him." + +Manders. They would have had a certain amount of justification for +saying so. + +Mrs. Alving (looking fixedly at him). If I had been the woman I ought, +I would have taken Oswald into my confidence and said to him: "Listen, +my son, your father was a dissolute man"-- + +Manders. Miserable woman. + +Mrs. Alving. --and I would have told him all I have told you, from +beginning to end. + +Manders. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs. Alving. + +Mrs. Alving. I know. I know quite well! I am shocked at myself when I +think of it. (Comes away from the window.) I am coward enough for that. + +Manders. Can you call it cowardice that you simply did your duty? Have +you forgotten that a child should love and honour his father and mother? + +Mrs. Alving. Don't let us talk in such general terms. Suppose we say: +"Ought Oswald to love and honour Mr. Alving?" + +Manders. You are a mother--isn't there a voice in your heart that +forbids you to shatter your son's ideals? + +Mrs. Alving. And what about the truth? + +Manders. What about his ideals? + +Mrs. Alving. Oh--ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward as I +am! + +Manders. Do not spurn ideals, Mrs. Alving--they have a way of avenging +themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's own case, now. He hasn't many ideals, +more's the pity. But this much I have seen, that his father is +something of an ideal to him. + +Mrs. Alving. You are right there. + +Manders. And his conception of his father is what you inspired and +encouraged by your letters. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I was swayed by duty and consideration for others; +that was why I lied to my son, year in and year out. Oh, what a +coward--what a coward I have been! + +Manders. You have built up a happy illusion in your son's mind, Mrs. +Alving--and that is a thing you certainly ought not to undervalue. + +Mrs. Alving. Ah, who knows if that is such a desirable thing after +all!--But anyway I don't intend to put up with any goings on with +Regina. I am not going to let him get the poor girl into trouble. + +Manders. Good heavens, no--that would be a frightful thing! + +Mrs. Alving. If only I knew whether he meant it seriously, and whether +it would mean happiness for him. + +Manders. In what way? I don't understand. + +Mrs. Alving. But that is impossible; Regina is not equal to it, +unfortunately. + +Manders, I don't understand: What do you mean? + +Mrs. Alving. If I were not such a miserable coward, I would say to him: +"Marry her, or make any arrangement you like with her--only let there +be no deceit in the matter." + +Manders. Heaven forgive you! Are you actually suggesting anything so +abominable, so unheard of, as a marriage between them! + +Mrs. Alving. Unheard of, do you call it? Tell me honestly, Mr. Manders, +don't you suppose there are plenty of married couples out here in the +country that are just as nearly related as they are? + +Manders. I am sure I don't understand you. + +Mrs. Alving. Indeed you do. + +Manders. I suppose you are thinking of cases where possibly--. It is +only too true, unfortunately, that family life is not always as +stainless as it should be. But as for the sort of thing you hint +at--well, it's impossible to tell, at all events, with any certainty. +Here on the other hand--for you, a mother, to be willing to allow your-- + +Mrs. Alving. But I am not willing to allow it; I would not allow it for +anything in the world; that is just what I was saying. + +Manders. No, because you are a coward, as you put it. But, supposing +you were not a coward--! Great heavens--such a revolting union! + +Mrs. Alving. Well, for the matter of that, we are all descended from a +union of that description, so we are told. And who was it that was +responsible for this state of things, Mr. Manders? + +Manders. I can't discuss such questions with you, Mrs. Alving; you are +by no means in the right frame of mind for that. But for you to dare to +say that it is cowardly of you--! + +Mrs. Alving. I will tell you what I mean by that. I am frightened and +timid, because I am obsessed by the presence of ghosts that I never can +get rid of. + +Manders. The presence of what? + +Mrs. Alving. Ghosts. When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it was +just like seeing ghosts before my eyes. I am half inclined to think we +are all ghosts, Mr. Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from +our fathers and mothers that exists again in us, but all sorts of old +dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs and things of that kind. +They are not actually alive in us; but there they are dormant, all the +same, and we can never be rid of them. Whenever I take up a newspaper +and read it, I fancy I see ghosts creeping between the lines. There +must be ghosts all over the world. They must be as countless as the +grains of the sands, it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of +the light, all of us. + +Manders. Ah!--there we have the outcome of your reading. Fine fruit it +has borne--this abominable, subversive, free-thinking literature! + +Mrs. Alving. You are wrong there, my friend. You are the one who made +me begin to think; and I owe you my best thanks for it. + +Menders. I! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, by forcing me to submit to what you called my duty +and my obligations; by praising as right and lust what my whole soul +revolted against, as it would against something abominable. That was +what led me to examine your teachings critically. I only wanted to +unravel one point in them; but as soon as I had got that unravelled, +the whole fabric came to pieces. And then I realised that it was only +machine-made. + +Manders (softly, and with emotion). Is that all I accomplished by the +hardest struggle of my life? + +Mrs. Alving. Call it rather the most ignominious defeat of your life. + +Manders. It was the greatest victory of my life, Helen; victory over +myself. + +Mrs. Alving. It was a wrong done to both of us. + +Manders. A wrong?--wrong for me to entreat you as a wife to go back to +your lawful husband, when you came to me half distracted and crying: +"Here I am, take me!" Was that a wrong? + +Mrs. Alving. I think it was. + +Menders. We two do not understand one another. + +Mrs. Alving. Not now, at all events. + +Manders. Never--even in my most secret thoughts--have I for a moment +regarded you as anything but the wife of another. + +Mrs. Alving. Do you believe what you say? + +Manders. Helen--! + +Mrs. Alving. One so easily forgets one's own feelings. Manders. Not I. +I am the same as I always was. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes--don't let us talk any more about the old days. +You are buried up to your eyes now in committees and all sorts of +business; and I am here, fighting with ghosts both without and within +me. + +Manders. I can at all events help you to get the better of those +without you. After all that I have been horrified to hear you from +today, I cannot conscientiously allow a young defenceless girl to +remain in your house. + +Mrs. Alving. Don't you think it would be best if we could get her +settled?--by some suitable marriage, I mean. + +Manders. Undoubtedly. I think, in any case, it would have been +desirable for her. Regina is at an age now that--well, I don't know +much about these things, but-- + +Mrs. Alving. Regina developed very early. + +Manders. Yes, didn't she. I fancy I remember thinking she was +remarkably well developed, bodily, at the time I prepared her for +Confirmation. But, for the time being, she must in any case go home. +Under her father's care--no, but of course Engstrand is not. To think +that he, of all men, could so conceal the truth from me! (A knock is +heard at the hall door.) + +Mrs. Alving. Who can that be? Come in! + +(ENGSTRAND, dressed in his Sunday clothes, appears in the doorway.) + +Engstrand. I humbly beg pardon, but-- + +Manders. Aha! Hm! + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, it's you, Engstrand! + +Engstrand. There were none of the maids about, so I took the great +liberty of knocking. + +Mrs. Alving. That's all right. Come in. Do you want to speak to me? + +Engstrand (coming in). No, thank you very much, ma'am. It was Mr. +Menders I wanted to speak to for a moment. + +Manders (walking up and down). Hm!--do you. You want to speak to me, do +you? + +Engstrand. Yes, sir, I wanted so very much to-- + +Manders (stopping in front of him). Well, may I ask what it is you want? + +Engstrand. It's this way, Mr. Manders. We are being paid off now. And +many thanks to you, Mrs. Alving. And now the work is quite finished, I +thought it would be so nice and suitable if all of us, who have worked +so honestly together all this time, were to finish up with a few +prayers this evening. + +Manders. Prayers? Up at the Orphanage? + +Engstrand. Yes, sir, but if it isn't agreeable to you, then-- + +Manders. Oh, certainly--but--hm!-- + +Engstrand. I have made a practice of saying a few prayers there myself +each evening. + +Mrs. Alving. Have you? + +Engstrand. Yes, ma'am, now--and then--just as a little edification, so +to speak. But I am only a poor common man, and haven't rightly the +gift, alas--and so I thought that as Mr. Manders happened to be here, +perhaps-- + +Manders. Look here, Engstrand! First of all I must ask you a question. +Are you in a proper frame of mind for such a thing? Is your conscience +free and untroubled? + +Engstrand. Heaven have mercy on me a sinner! My conscience isn't worth +our speaking about, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. But it is just what we must speak about. What do you say to my +question? + +Engstrand. My conscience? Well--it's uneasy sometimes, of course. + +Manders. Ah, you admit that at all events. Now will you tell me, +without any concealment--what is your relationship to Regina? + +Mrs. Alving (hastily). Mr. Manders! + +Manders (calming her).--Leave it to me! + +Engstrand. With Regina? Good Lord, how you frightened me! (Looks at MRS +ALVING.) There is nothing wrong with Regina, is there? + +Manders. Let us hope not. What I want to know is, what is your +relationship to her? You pass as her father, don't you? + +Engstrand (unsteadily): Well--hm!--you know, sir, what happened between +me and my poor Joanna. + +Manders. No more distortion of the truth! Your late wife made a full +confession to Mrs. Alving, before she left her service... + +Engstrand. What!--do you mean to say--? Did she do that after all? + +Manders. You see it has all come out, Engstrand. + +Engstrand. Do you mean to say that she, who gave me her promise and +solemn oath-- + +Manders. Did she take an oath? + +Engstrand. Well, no--she only gave me her word, but as seriously as a +woman could. + +Manders. And all these years you have been hiding the truth from +me--from me, who have had such complete and absolute faith in you. + +Engstrand. I am sorry to say I have, sir. + +Manders. Did I deserve that from you, Engstrand? Haven't I been always +ready to help you in word and deed as far as lay in my power? Answer +me! Is it not so? + +Engstrand. Indeed there's many a time I should have been very badly off +without you, sir. + +Manders. And this is the way you repay me--by causing me to make false +entries in the church registers, and afterwards keeping back from me +for years the information which you owed it both to me and to your +sense of the truth to divulge. Your conduct has been absolutely +inexcusable, Engstrand, and from today everything is at an end between +us. + +Engstrand (with a sigh). Yes, I can see that's what it means. + +Manders. Yes, because how can you possibly justify what you did? + +Engstrand. Was the poor girl to go and increase her load of shame by +talking about it? Just suppose, sir, for a moment that your reverence +was in the same predicament as my poor Joanna. + +Manders. I! + +Engstrand. Good Lord, sir, I don't mean the same predicament. I mean, +suppose there were something your reverence was ashamed of in the eyes +of the world, so to speak. We men ought not judge a poor woman too +hardly, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming. + +Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small +question? + +Manders. Ask away. + +Engstrand. Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up the +fallen? + +Manders. Of course it is. + +Engstrand. And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honour? + +Manders. Certainly he is; but-- + +Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this +Englishman--or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they call +'em--well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had refused me +once or twice before; she only had eyes for good-looking men in those +days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your reverence will remember how +I had ventured up into a dancing-saloon where seafaring men were +revelling in drunkenness and intoxication, as they say. And when I +tried to exhort them to turn from their evil ways-- + +Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem! + +Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know--the rough brutes threw you +downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The affliction +to your leg is a credit to you. + +Engstrand. I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence. But +what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided in me +with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it went to my +heart to hear her. + +Manders. Did it, indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then? + +Engstrand. Well, then I said to her: "The American is roaming about on +the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna," I said, "you have committed a +sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands Jacob Engstrand," I said, +"on two strong legs"--of course that was only speaking in a kind of +metaphor, as it were, your reverence. + +Manders. I quite understand. Go on. + +Engstrand. Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her my lawful +wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she had carried on with +the stranger. + +Manders. That was all very kindly done. The only thing I cannot justify +was your bringing yourself to accept the money. + +Engstrand. Money? I? Not a farthing. + +Manders (to MRS. ALVING, in a questioning tare). But-- + +Engstrand. Ah, yes!--wait a bit; I remember now. Joanna did have a +trifle of money, you are quite right. But I didn't want to know +anything about that. "Fie," I said, "on the mammon of unrighteousness, +it's the price of your sin; as for this tainted gold"--or notes, or +whatever it was--"we will throw it back in the American's face," I +said. But he had gone away and disappeared on the stormy seas, your +reverence. + +Manders. Was that how it was, my good fellow? + +Engstrand. It was, sir. So then Joanna and I decided that the money +should go towards the child's bringing-up, and that's what became of +it; and I can give a faithful account of every single penny of it. + +Manders. This alters the complexion of the affair very considerably. + +Engstrand. That's how it was, your reverence. And I make bold to say +that I have been a good father to Regina--as far as was in my +power--for I am a poor erring mortal, alas! + +Manders. There, there, my dear Engstrand. + +Engstrand. Yes, I do make bold to say that I brought up the child, and +made my poor Joanna a loving and careful husband, as the Bible says we +ought. But it never occurred to me to go to your reverence and claim +credit for it or boast about it because I had done one good deed in +this world. No; when Jacob Engstrand does a thing like that, he holds +his tongue about it. Unfortunately it doesn't often happen, I know that +only too well. And whenever I do come to see your reverence, I never +seem to have anything but trouble and wickedness to talk about. +Because, as I said just now--and I say it again--conscience can be very +hard on us sometimes. + +Manders. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand, + +Engstrand. Oh, sir, I don't like-- + +Manders. No nonsense, (Grasps his hand.) That's it! + +Engstrand. And may I make bold humbly to beg your reverence's pardon-- + +Manders. You? On the contrary it is for me to beg your pardon-- + +Engstrand. Oh no, sir. + +Manders. Yes, certainly it is, and I do it with my whole heart. Forgive +me for having so much misjudged you. And I assure you that if I can do +anything for you to prove my sincere regret and my goodwill towards +you-- + +Engstrand. Do you mean it, sir? + +Manders. It would give me the greatest pleasure. + +Engstrand. As a matter of fact, sir, you could do it now. I am thinking +of using the honest money I have put away out of my wages up here, in +establishing a sort of Sailors' Home in the town. + +Mrs. Alving. You? + +Engstrand. Yes, to be a sort of Refuge, as it were, There are such +manifold temptations lying in wait for sailor men when they are roaming +about on shore. But my idea is that in this house of mine they should +have a sort of parental care looking after them. + +Menders. What do you say to that, Mrs. Alving! + +Engstrand. I haven't much to begin such a work with, I know; but Heaven +might prosper it, and if I found any helping hand stretched out to me, +then-- + +Manders. Quite so; we will talk over the matter further. Your project +attracts me enormously. But in the meantime go back to the Orphanage +and put everything tidy and light the lights, so that the occasion may +seem a little solemn. And then we will spend a little edifying time +together, my dear Engstrand, for now I am sure you are in a suitable +frame of mind. + +Engstrand. I believe I am, sir, truly. Goodbye, then, Mrs. Alving, and +thank you for all your kindness; and take good care of Regina for me. +(Wipes a tear from his eye.) Poor Joanna's child--it is an +extraordinary thing, but she seems to have grown into my life and to +hold me by the heartstrings. That's how I feel about it, truly. (Bows, +and goes out.) + +Manders. Now then, what do you think of him, Mrs Alving! That was quite +another explanation that he gave us. + +Mrs. Alving. It was, indeed. + +Manders. There, you see how exceedingly careful we ought to be in +condemning our fellow-men. But at the same time it gives one genuine +pleasure to find that one was mistaken. Don't you think so? + +Mrs. Alving. What I think is that you are, and always will remain, a +big baby, Mr. Manders. + +Menders. I? + +Mrs. Alving (laying her hands on his shoulders). And I think that I +should like very much to give you a good hug. + +Manders (drawing beck hastily). No, no, good gracious! What an idea! + +Mrs. Alving (with a smile). Oh, you needn't be afraid of me. + +Manders (standing by the table). You choose such an extravagant way of +expressing yourself sometimes. Now I must get these papers together and +put them in my bag. (Does so.) That's it. And now goodbye, for the +present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I will come back +and see you again presently. + +(He takes his hat and goes out by the hall door. MRS. ALVING sighs, +glances out of the window, puts one or two things tidy in the room and +turns to go into the dining-room. She stops in the doorway with a +stifled cry.) + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald, are you still sitting at table! + +Oswald (from the dining-room). I am only finishing my cigar. + +Mrs. Alving. I thought you had gone out for a little turn. + +Oswald (from within the room). In weather like this? (A glass is heard +clinking. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down with her +knitting on the couch by the window.) Wasn't that Mr. Manders that went +out just now? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, he has gone over to the Orphanage. + +Oswald. Oh. (The clink of a bottle on a glass is heard again.) + +Mrs. Alving (with an uneasy expression.) Oswald, dear, you should be +careful with that liqueur. It is strong. + +Oswald. It's a good protective against the damp. + +Mrs. Alving. Wouldn't you rather come in here? + +Oswald. You know you don't like smoking in there. + +Mrs. Alving. You may smoke a cigar in here, certainly. + +Oswald. All right; I will come in, then. Just one drop more. There! +(Comes in, smoking a cigar, and shuts the door after him. A short +silence.) Where has the parson gone? + +Mrs. Alving. I told you he had gone over to the Orphanage. + +Oswald. Oh, so you did. + +Mrs. Alving. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald, + +Oswald (holding his cigar behind his back). But it's so nice and cosy, +mother dear. (Caresses her with one hand.) Think what it means to +me--to have come home; to sit at my mother's own table, in my mother's +own room, and to enjoy the charming meals she gives me. + +Mrs. Alving. My dear, dear boy! + +Oswald (a little impatiently, as he walks tip and down smoking.) And +what else is there for me to do here? I have no occupation-- + +Mrs. Alving. No occupation? + +Oswald. Not in this ghastly weather, when there isn't a blink of +sunshine all day long. (Walks up and down the floor.) Not to be able to +work, it's--! + +Mrs. Alving. I don't believe you were wise to come home. + +Oswald. Yes, mother; I had to. + +Mrs. Alving. Because I would ten times rather give up the happiness of +having you with me, sooner than that you should-- + +Oswald (standing still by the table). Tell me, mother--is it really +such a great happiness for you to have me at home? + +Mrs. Alving. Can you ask? + +Oswald (crumpling up a newspaper). I should have thought it would have +been pretty much the same to you whether I were here or away. + +Mrs. Alving. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald? + +Oswald. But you have been quite happy living without me so far. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I have lived without you--that is true. + +(A silence. The dusk falls by degrees. OSWALD walks restlessly up and +down. He has laid aside his cigar.) Oswald (stopping beside MRS. +ALVING). Mother, may I sit on the couch beside you? + +Mrs. Alving. Of course, my dear boy. + +Oswald (sitting down). Now I must tell you something mother. + +Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What? + +Oswald (staring in front of him). I can't bear it any longer. + +Mrs. Alving. Bear what? What do you mean? + +Oswald (as before). I couldn't bring myself to write to you about it; +and since I have been at home-- + +Mrs. Alving (catching him by the arm). Oswald, what is it? + +Oswald. Both yesterday and today I have tried to push my thoughts away +from me--to free myself from them. But I can't. + +Mrs. Alving (getting up). You must speak plainly, Oswald! + +Oswald (drawing her down to her seat again). Sit still, and I will try +and tell you. I have made a great deal of the fatigue I felt after my +journey-- + +Mrs. Alving. Well, what of that? + +Oswald. But that isn't what is the matter. It is no ordinary fatigue-- + +Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald! + +Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. +I am not exactly ill--not ill in the usual sense. (Takes his head in +his hands.) Mother, it's my mind that has broken down--gone to +pieces--I shall never be able to work anymore! (Buries his face in his +hands and throws himself at her knees in an outburst of sobs.) + +Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it isn't +true! + +Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be able to +work anymore! Never--never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine +anything so horrible! + +Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing happened? + +Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly +understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must +believe that of me, mother, I have never done that. + +Mrs. Alving. I haven't a doubt of it, Oswald. + +Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible disaster! + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, but it will all come right again, my dear precious +boy. It is nothing but overwork. Believe me, that is so. + +Oswald (dully). I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so. + +Mrs. Alving. Tell me all about it. + +Oswald. Yes, I will. + +Mrs. Alving. When did you first feel anything? + +Oswald. It was just after I had been home last time and had got back to +Paris. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head--mostly at the +back, I think. It was as if a tight band of iron was pressing on me +from my neck upwards. + +Mrs. Alving. And then? + +Oswald. At first I thought it was nothing but the headaches I always +used to be so much troubled with while I was growing. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes. + +Oswald. But it wasn't; I soon saw that. I couldn't work any longer. I +would try and start some big new picture; but it seemed as if all my +faculties had forsaken me, as if all my strengths were paralysed. I +couldn't manage to collect my thoughts; my head seemed to +swim--everything went round and round. It was a horrible feeling! At +last I sent for a doctor--and from him I learned the truth. + +Mrs. Alving. In what way, do you mean? + +Oswald. He was one of the best doctors there. He made me describe what +I felt, and then he began to ask me a whole heap of questions which +seemed to me to have nothing to do with the matter. I couldn't see what +he was driving at-- + +Mrs. Alving. Well? + +Oswald. At last he said: "You have had the canker of disease in you +practically from your birth"--the actual word he used was "vermoulu"... + +Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What did he mean by that? Oswald. I couldn't +understand, either--and I asked him for a clearer explanation, And then +the old cynic said--(clenching his fist). Oh! + +Mrs. Alving. What did he say? + +Oswald. He said: "The sins of the fathers are visited on the children." + +Mrs. Alving (getting up slowly). The sins of the fathers--! + +Oswald. I nearly struck him in the face. + +Mrs. Alving (walking across the room). The sins of the fathers--! + +Oswald (smiling sadly). Yes, just imagine! Naturally I assured him that +what he thought was impossible. But do you think he paid any heed to +me? No, he persisted in his opinion; and it was only when I got out +your letters and translated to him all the passages that referred to my +father-- + +Mrs. Alving. Well, and then? + +Oswald. Well, then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong +track; and then I learned the truth--the incomprehensible truth! I +ought to have had nothing to do with the joyous happy life I had lived +with my comrades. It had been too much for my strength. So it was my +own fault! + +Mrs. Alving. No, no, Oswald! Don't believe that-- + +Oswald. There was no other explanation of it possible, he said. That is +the most horrible part of it. My whole life incurably ruined--just +because of my own imprudence. All that I wanted to do in the world-=not +to dare to think of it any more--not to be able to think of it! Oh! if +only I could live my life over again--if only I could undo what I have +done! (Throws himself on his face on the couch. MRS. ALVING wrings her +hands, and walks up and down silently fighting with herself.) + +Oswald (looks up after a while, raising himself on his elbows). If only +it had been something I had inherited--something I could not help. But, +instead of that, to have disgracefully, stupidly, thoughtlessly thrown +away one's happiness, one's health, everything in the world--one's +future, one's life! + +Mrs. Alving. No, no, my darling boy; that is impossible! (Bending over +him.) Things are not so desperate as you think. + +Oswald. Ah, you don't know--(Springs up.) And to think, mother, that I +should bring all this sorrow upon you! Many a time I have almost wished +and hoped that you really did not care so very much for me. + +Mrs. Alving. I, Oswald? My only son! All that I have in the world! The +only thing I care about! + +Oswald (taking hold of her hands and kissing them). Yes, yes, I know +that is so. When I am at home I know that is true. And that is one of +the hardest parts of it to me. But now you know all about it; and now +we won't talk anymore about it today. I can't stand thinking about it +long at a time. (Walks across the room.) Let me have something to +drink, mother! + +Mrs. Alving. To drink? What do you want? + +Oswald. Oh, anything you like. I suppose you have got some punch in the +house. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but my dear Oswald--! + +Oswald. Don't tell me I mustn't, mother. Do be nice! I must have +something to drown these gnawing thoughts. (Goes into the +conservatory.) And how--how gloomy it is here! (MRS. ALVING rings the +bell.) And this incessant rain. It may go on week after week--a whole +month. Never a ray of sunshine. I don't remember ever having seen the +sunshine once when I have been at home. + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald--you are thinking of going away from me! + +Oswald. Hm!--(sighs deeply). I am not thinking about anything. I can't +think about anything! (In a low voice.) I have to let that alone. + +Regina (coming from the dining-room). Did you ring, ma'am? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us have the lamp in. + +Regina. In a moment, ma'am; it is all ready lit. (Goes out.) + +Mrs. Alving (going up to OSWALD). Oswald, don't keep anything back from +me. + +Oswald. I don't, mother. (Goes to the table.) It seems to me I have +told you a good lot. + +(REGINA brings the lamp and puts it upon the table.) + +Mrs. Alving. Regina, you might bring us a small bottle of champagne. + +Regina. Yes, ma'am. (Goes out.) + +Oswald (taking hold of his mother's face). That's right; I knew my +mother wouldn't let her son go thirsty. + +Mrs. Alving. My poor dear boy, how could I refuse you anything now? + +Oswald (eagerly). Is that true, mother? Do you mean it? + +Mrs. Alving. Mean what? + +Oswald. That you couldn't deny me anything? + +Mrs. Alving. My dear Oswald-- + +Oswald. Hush! + +(REGINA brings in a tray with a small bottle of champagne and two +glasses, which she puts on the table.) + +Regina. Shall I open the bottle? + +Oswald. No, thank you, I will do it. (REGINA goes out.) + +Mrs. Alving (sitting clown at the table). What did you mean, when you +asked if I could refuse you nothing? + +Oswald (busy opening the bottle). Let us have a glass first--or two. + +(He draws the cork, fills one glass and is going to fill the other.) + +Mrs. Alving (holding her hand over the second glass) No, thanks--not +for me. + +Oswald. Oh, well, for me then! (He empties his glass, fills it again +and empties it; then sits down at the table.) + +Mrs. Alving (expectantly). Now, tell me. + +Oswald (without looking at her). Tell me this; I thought you and Mr. +Manders seemed so strange--so quiet--at dinner. + +Mrs. Alving. Did you notice that? + +Oswald. Yes. Ahem! (After a short pause.) Tell me--what do you think of +Regina? + +Mrs. Alving. What do I think of her? + +Oswald. Yes, isn't she splendid! + +Mrs. Alving. Dear Oswald, you don't know her as well as I do-- + +Oswald. What of that? + +Mrs. Alving. Regina was too long at home, unfortunately. I ought to +have taken her under my charge sooner. + +Oswald. Yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, mother? (Fills his +glass,) + +Mrs. Alving. Regina has many serious faults-- + +Oswald. Yes, but what of that? (Drinks.) + +Mrs. Alving. But I am fond of her, all the same; and I have made myself +responsible for her. I wouldn't for the world she should come to any +harm. + +Oswald (jumping up). Mother, Regina is my only hope of salvation! + +Mrs. Alving (getting up). What do you mean? + +Oswald. I can't go on bearing all this agony of mind alone. + +Mrs. Alving, Haven't you your mother to help you to bear it? + +Oswald. Yes, I thought so; that was why I came home to you. But it is +no use; I see that it isn't. I cannot spend my life here. + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! + +Oswald. I must live a different sort of life, mother; so I shall have +to go away from you, I don't want you watching it. + +Mrs. Alving. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, as long as you are ill like +this-- + +Oswald. If it was only a matter of feeling ill, I would stay with you, +mother. You are the best friend I have in the world. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I am that, Oswald, am I not? + +Oswald (walking restlessly about). But all this torment--the regret, +the remorse--and the deadly fear. Oh--this horrible fear! + +Mrs. Alving (following him). Fear? Fear of what? What do you mean? + +Oswald. Oh, don't ask me any more about it. I don't know what it is. I +can't put it into words. (MRS. ALVING crosses the room and rings the +bell.) What do you want? + +Mrs. Alving. I want my boy to be happy, that's what I want. He mustn't +brood over anything. (To REGINA, who has come to the door.) More +champagne--a large bottle. + +Oswald. Mother! + +Mrs. Alving. Do you think we country people don't know how to live? + +Oswald. Isn't she splendid to look at? What a figure! And the picture +of health! + +Mrs. Alving (sitting down at the table). Sit down, Oswald, and let us +have a quiet talk. + +Oswald (sitting down). You don't know, mother, that I owe Regina a +little reparation. + +Mrs. Alving. You! + +Oswald. Oh, it was only a little thoughtlessness--call it what you +like. Something quite innocent, anyway. The last time I was home-- + +Mrs. Alving. Yes? + +Oswald. --she used often to ask me questions about Paris, and I told +her one thing and another about the life there. And I remember saying +one day: "Wouldn't you like to go there yourself?" + +Mrs. Alving. Well? + +Oswald. I saw her blush, and she said: "Yes, I should like to very +much." "All right." I said, "I daresay it might be managed"--or +something of that sort. + +Mrs. Alving. And then? + +Oswald. I naturally had forgotten all about it; but the day before +yesterday I happened to ask her if she was glad I was to be so long at +home-- + +Mrs. Alving. Well? + +Oswald. --and she looked so queerly at me, and asked: "But what is to +become of my trip to Paris?" + +Mrs. Alving. Her trip! + +Oswald. And then I got it out of her that she had taken the thing +seriously, and had been thinking about me all the time, and had set +herself to learn French-- + +Mrs. Alving. So that was why-- + +Oswald. Mother--when I saw this fine, splendid, handsome girl standing +there in front of me--I had never paid any attention to her before +then--but now, when she stood there as if with open arms ready for me +to take her to myself-- + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! + +Oswald. --then I realised that my salvation lay in her, for I saw the +joy of life in her! + +Mrs. Alving (starting back). The joy of life--? Is there salvation in +that? + +Regina (coming in from the dining-room with a bottle of champagne). +Excuse me for being so long; but I had to go to the cellar. (Puts the +bottle down on the table.) + +Oswald. Bring another glass, too. + +Regina (looking at him in astonishment). The mistress's glass is there, +sir. + +Oswald. Yes, but fetch one for yourself, Regina (REGINA starts, and +gives a quick shy glance at MRS. ALVING.) Well? + +Regina (in a low and hesitating voice). Do you wish me to, ma'am? + +Mrs. Alving. Fetch the glass, Regina. (REGINA goes into the +dining-room.) + +Oswald (looking after her). Have you noticed how well she walks?--so +firmly and confidently! + +Mrs. Alving. It cannot be, Oswald. + +Oswald. It is settled. You must see that. It is no use forbidding it. +(REGINA comes in with a glass, which she holds in her hand.) Sit down, +Regina. (REGINA looks questioningly at MRS. ALVING.) + +Mrs. Alving. Sit down. (REGINA sits down on a chair near the +dining-room door, still holding the glass in her hand.) Oswald, what +was it you were saying about the joy of life? + +Oswald. Ah, mother--the joy of life! You don't know very much about +that at home here. I shall never realise it here. + +Mrs. Alving. Not even when you are with me? + +Oswald. Never at home. But you can't understand that. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed I almost think I do understand you now. + +Oswald. That--and the joy of work. They are really the same thing at +bottom. Put you don't know anything about that either. + +Mrs. Alving. Perhaps you are right. Tell me some more about it, Oswald. + +Oswald. Well, all I mean is that here people are brought up to believe +that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is a state +of wretchedness and that the sooner we can get out of it the better. + +Mrs. Alving. A vale of tears, yes. And we quite conscientiously make +it so. + +Oswald. But the people over there will have none of that. There is no +one there who really believes doctrines of that kind any longer. Over +there the mere fact of being alive is thought to be a matter for +exultant happiness. Mother, have you noticed that everything I have +painted has turned upon the joy of life?--always upon the joy of life, +unfailingly. There is light there, and sunshine, and a holiday +feeling--and people's faces beaming with happiness. That is why I am +afraid to stay at home here with you. + +Mrs. Alving. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me? + +Oswald. I am afraid that all these feelings that are so strong in me +would degenerate into something ugly here. + +Mrs. Alving (looking steadily at him). Do you think that is what would +happen? + +Oswald. I am certain it would. Even if one lived the same life at home +here, as over there--it would never really be the same life. + +Mrs. Alving (who has listened anxiously to him, gets up with a +thoughtful expression and says:) Now I see clearly how it all happened. + +Oswald. What do you see? + +Mrs. Alving. I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak. + +Oswald (getting up). Mother, I don't understand you. + +Regina (who has got up also). Perhaps I had better go. + +Mrs. Alving. No, stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my son, you shall +know the whole truth. Oswald! Regina! + +Oswald. Hush!--here is the parson. + +(MANDERS comes in by the hall door.) + +Manders. Well, my friends, we have been spending an edifying time over +there. + +Oswald. So have we. + +Manders. Engstrand must have help with his Sailors Home. Regina must go +home with him and give him her assistance. + +Regina. No, thank you, Mr. Manders. + +Manders (perceiving her for the first time). What--? You in here? --and +with a wineglass in your hand! + +Regina (putting down the glass hastily). I beg your pardon--! + +Oswald. Regina is going away with me, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Going away! With you! + +Oswald. Yes, as my wife--if she insists on that. + +Manders. But, good heavens--! + +Regina. It is not my fault, Mr. Manders. + +Oswald. Or else she stays here if I stay. + +Regina (involuntarily). Here! + +Manders. I am amazed at you, Mrs. Alving. + +Mrs. Alving. Neither of those things will happen, for now I can speak +openly. + +Manders. But you won't do that! No, no, no! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I can and I will. And without destroying anyone's +ideals. + +Oswald. Mother, what is it that is being concealed from me? + +Regina (listening). Mrs. Alving! Listen! They are shouting outside. + +(Goes into the conservatory and looks out.) + +Oswald (going to the window on the left). What can be the matter? Where +does that glare come from? + +Regina (calls out). The Orphanage is on fire! + +Mrs. Alving (going to the window). On fire? + +Manders. On fire? Impossible. I was there just a moment ago. + +Oswald. Where is my hat? Oh, never mind that. Father's Orphanage--! + +(Runs out through the garden door.) + +Mrs. Alving. My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in flames. + +Manders. How terrible! Mrs. Alving, that fire is a judgment on this +house of sin! + +Mrs. Alving. Quite so. Come, Regina. + +(She and REGINA hurry out.) + +Manders (clasping his hands). And no insurance! (Follows them out.) + + + + +ACT III + + +(The same scene. All the doors are standing open. The lamp is still +burning on the table. It is dark outside, except for a faint glimmer of +light seen through the windows at the back. MRS. ALVING, with a shawl +over her head, is standing in the conservatory, looking out. REGINA, +also wrapped in a shawl, is standing a little behind her.) + +Mrs. Alving. Everything bured--down to the ground. + +Regina. It is burning still in the basement. + +Mrs. Alving. I can't think why Oswald doesn't come back. There is no +chance of saving anything. + +Regina. Shall I go and take his hat to him? + +Mrs. Alving. Hasn't he even got his hat? + +Regina (pointing to the hall). No, there it is, hanging up. + +Mrs. Alving. Never mind. He is sure to come back soon. I will go and +see what he is doing. (Goes out by the garden door. MANDERS comes in +from the hall.) + +Manders. Isn't Mrs. Alving here? + +Regina. She has just this moment gone down into the garden. + +Manders. I have never spent such a terrible night in my life. + +Regina. Isn't it a shocking misfortune, sir! + +Manders. Oh, don't speak about it. I scarcely dare to think about it. + +Regina. But how can it have happened? + +Manders. Don't ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should I know? Are you going +to suggest too--? Isn't it enough that your father--? + +Regina. What has he done? + +Manders. He has nearly driven me crazy. + +Engstrand (coming in from the hall). Mr. Manders--! + +Manders (turning round with a start). Have you ever followed me here! + +Engstrand. Yes, God help us all--! Great heavens! What a dreadful +thing, your reverence! + +Manders (walking up and down). Oh dear, oh dear! + +Regina. What do you mean? + +Engstrand. Our little prayer-meeting was the cause of it all, don't you +see? (Aside, to REGINA.) Now we've got the old fool, my girl. (Aloud.) +And to think it is my fault that Mr. Manders should be the cause of +such a thing! + +Manders. I assure you, Engstrand-- + +Engstrand. But there was no one else carrying a light there except you, +sir. + +Manders (standing still). Yes, so you say. But I have no clear +recollection of having had a light in my hand. + +Engstrand. But I saw quite distinctly your reverence take a candle and +snuff it with your fingers and throw away the burning bit of wick among +the shavings. + +Manders. Did you see that? + +Engstrand. Yes, distinctly. + +Manders. I can't understand it at all. It is never my habit to snuff a +candle with my fingers. + +Engstrand. Yes, it wasn't like you to do that, sir. But, who would have +thought it could be such a dangerous thing to do? + +Manders (walking restlessly backwards and forwards) Oh, don't ask me! + +Engstrand (following him about). And you hadn't insured it either, had +you, sir? + +Manders. No, no, no; you heard me say so. + +Engstrand. You hadn't insured it--and then went and set light to the +whole place! Good Lord, what bad luck! + +Manders (wiping the perspiration from his forehead). You may well say +so, Engstrand. + +Engstrand. And that it should happen to a charitable institution that +would have been of service both to the town and the country, so to +speak! The newspapers won't be very kind to your reverence, I expect. + +Manders. No, that is just what I am thinking of. It is almost the worst +part of the whole thing. The spiteful attacks and accusations--it is +horrible to think of! + +Mrs. Alving (coming in from the garden). I can't get him away from the +fire. + +Manders. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Alving. + +Mrs. Alving. You will escape having to make your inaugural address now, +at all events, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Oh, I would so gladly have-- + +Mrs. Alving (in a dull voice). It is just as well it has happened. This +Orphanage would never have come to any good. + +Manders. Don't you think so? + +Mrs. Alving. Do you? + +Manders. But it is none the less an extraordinary piece of ill luck. + +Mrs. Alving. We will discuss it simply as a business matter. Are you +waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand? + +Engstrand (at the hall door). Yes, I am. + +Mrs. Alving. Sit down then, while you are waiting. + +Engstrand. Thank you, I would rather stand. + +Mrs. Alving (to MANDERS). I suppose you are going by the boat? + +Manders. Yes: It goes in about an hour-- + +Mrs. Alving. Please take all the documents back with you. I don't want +to hear another word about the matter. I have something else to think +about now. + +Manders. Mrs. Alving-- + +Mrs. Alving. Later on I will send you a power of attorney to deal with +it exactly as you please. + +Manders. I shall be most happy to undertake that; I am afraid the +original intention of the bequest will have to be entirely altered now. + +Mrs. Alving. Of course. + +Meanders. Provisionally, I should suggest this way of disposing of it: +Make over the Solvik property to the parish. The land is undoubtedly +not without a certain value; it will always be useful for some purpose +or another. And as for the interest on the remaining capital that is on +deposit in the bank, possibly I might make suitable use of that in +support of some undertaking that promises to be of use to the town. + +Mrs. Alving. Do exactly as you please. The whole thing is a matter of +indifference to me now. + +Engstrand. You will think of my Sailors' Home, Mr. Manders? + +Manders. Yes, certainly, that is a suggestion. But we must consider the +matter carefully. + +Engstrand (aside). Consider!--devil take it! Oh Lord. + +Manders (sighing). And unfortunately I can't tell how much longer I may +have anything to do with the matter--whether public opinion may not +force me to retire from it altogether. That depends entirely upon the +result of the inquiry into the cause of the fire. + +Mrs. Alving. What do you say? + +Manders. And one cannot in any way reckon upon the result beforehand. + +Engstrand (going nearer to him). Yes, indeed one can; because here +stand I, Jacob Engstrand. + +Manders. Quite so, but-- + +Engstrand (lowering his voice). And Jacob Engstrand isn't the man to +desert a worthy benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying is. + +Manders. Yes, but, my dear fellow-how--? + +Engstrand. You might say Jacob Engstrand is an angel of salvation, so +to speak, your reverence. + +Manders. No, no, I couldn't possibly accept that. + +Engstrand. That's how it will be, all the same. I know someone who has +taken the blame for someone else on his shoulders before now, I do. + +Manders. Jacob! (Grasps his hand.) You are one in a thousand! You shall +have assistance in the matter of your Sailors' Home, you may rely upon +that. + +(ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but is prevented by emotion.) + +Manders (hanging his wallet over his shoulder). Now we must be off. We +will travel together. + +Engstrand (by the dining-room door, says aside to REGINA). Come with +me, you hussy! You shall be as cosy as the yolk in an egg! + +Regina (tossing her head). Merci! + +(She goes out into the hall and brings back MANDERS' luggage.) + +Manders. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! And may the spirit of order and of what +is lawful speedily enter into this house. + +Mrs. Alving. Goodbye, Mr. Manders. + +(She goes into the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in by the +garden door.) + +Engstrand (as he and REGINA are helping MANDERS on with his coat). +Goodbye, my child. And if anything should happen to you, you know where +Jacob Engstrand is to be found. (Lowering his voice.) Little Harbour +Street, ahem--! (To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD.) And my house for poor +seafaring men shall be called the "Alving Home," it shall. And, if I +can carry out my own ideas about it, I shall make bold to hope that it +may be worthy of bearing the late Mr. Alving's name. + +Manders (at the door). Ahem--ahem! Come along, my dear Engstrand. +Goodbye--goodbye! + +(He and ENGSTRAND go out by the hall door.) + +Oswald (going to the table). What house was he speaking about? + +Mrs. Alving. I believe it is some sort of a Home that he and Mr. +Manders want to start. + +Oswald. It will be burned up just like this one. + +Mrs. Alving. What makes you think that? + +Oswald. Everything will be burned up; nothing will be left that is in +memory of my father. Here am I being burned up, too. + +(REGINA looks at him in alarm.) + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! You should not have stayed so long over there, my +poor boy. + +Oswald (sitting down at the table). I almost believe you are right. + +Mrs. Alving. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are all wet. (Wipes his +face with her handkerchief.) + +Oswald (looking straight before him, with no expression in his eyes). +Thank you, mother. + +Mrs. Alving. And aren't you tired, Oswald? Don't you want to go to +sleep? + +Oswald (uneasily). No, no--not to sleep! I never sleep; I only pretend +to. (Gloomily.) That will come soon enough. + +Mrs. Alving (looking at him anxiously). Anyhow you are really ill, my +darling boy. + +Regina (intently). Is Mr. Alving ill? + +Oswald (impatiently). And do shut all the doors! This deadly fear-- + +Mrs. Alving. Shut the doors, Regina. (REGINA shuts the doors and +remains standing by the hall door. MRS. ALVING takes off her shawl; +REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws up a chair near to OSWALD'S and +sits down beside him.) That's it! Now I will sit beside you-- + +Oswald. Yes, do. And Regina must stay in here too; Regina must always +be near me. You must give me a helping hand, you know, Regina. Won't +you do that? + +Regina. I don't understand-- + +Mrs. Alving. A helping hand? + +Oswald. Yes--when there is need for it. + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald, have you not your mother to give you a helping +hand? + +Oswald. You? (Smiles.) No, mother, you will never give me the kind of +helping hand I mean. (Laughs grimly.) You! Ha, ha! (Looks gravely at +her.) After all, you have the best right. (Impetuously.) Why don't you +call me by my Christian name, Regina? Why don't you say Oswald? + +Regina (in a low voice). I did not think Mrs. Alving would like it. + +Mrs. Alving. It will not be long before you have the right to do it. +Sit down here now beside us, too. (REGINA sits down quietly and +hesitatingly at the other side of the table.) And now, my poor tortured +boy, I am going to take the burden off your mind-- + +Oswald. You, mother? + +Mrs. Alving. --all that you call remorse and regret and self-reproach. + +Oswald. And you think you can do that? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you were +talking about the joy of life, and what you said seemed to shed a new +light upon everything in my whole life. + +Oswald (shaking his head). I don't in the least understand what you +mean. + +Mrs. Alving. You should have known your father in his young days in the +army. He was full of the joy of life, I can tell you. + +Oswald. Yes, I know. + +Mrs. Alving. It gave me a holiday feeling only to look at him, full of +irrepressible energy and exuberant spirits. + +Oswald. What then? + +Mrs. Alving, Well, then this boy, full of the joy of life--for he was +just like a boy, then--had to make his home in a second-rate town which +had none of the joy of life to offer him, but only dissipations. He had +to come out here and live an aimless life; he had only an official +post. He had no work worth devoting his whole mind to; he had nothing +more than official routine to attend to. He had not a single companion +capable of appreciating what the joy of life meant; nothing but idlers +and tipplers... + +Oswald. Mother--! + +Mrs. Alving. And so the inevitable happened! + +Oswald. What was the inevitable? + +Mrs. Alving. You said yourself this evening what would happen in your +case if you stayed at home. + +Oswald. Do you mean by that, that father--? + +Mrs. Alving. Your poor father never found any outlet for the +overmastering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no holiday +spirit into his home, either. + +Oswald. You didn't, either? + +Mrs. Alving. I had been taught about duty, and the sort of thing that I +believed in so long here. Everything seemed to turn upon duty--my duty, +or his duty--and I am afraid I made your poor father's home unbearable +to him, Oswald. + +Oswald. Why didn't you ever say anything about it to me in your letters? + +Mrs. Alving. I never looked at it as a thing I could speak of to you, +who were his son. + +Oswald. What way did you look at it, then? + +Mrs. Alving. I only saw the one fact, that your father was a lost man +before ever you were born. + +Oswald (in a choking voice). Ah--! (He gets up and goes to the window.) + +Mrs. Alving. And then I had the one thought in my mind, day and night, +that Regina in fact had as good a right in this house--as my own boy +had. + +Oswald (turns round suddenly), Regina--? + + +Regina (gets up and asks in choking tones). I--? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, now you both know it. + +Oswald. Regina! + +Regina (to herself). So mother was one of that sort too. + +Mrs. Alving. Your mother had many good qualities, Regina. + +Regina. Yes, but she was one of that sort too, all the same. I have +even thought so myself, sometimes, but--. Then, if you please, Mrs. +Alving, may I have permission to leave at once? + +Mrs. Alving. Do you really wish to, Regina? + +Regina. Yes, indeed, I certainly wish to. + +Mrs. Alving. Of course you shall do as you like, but-- + +Oswald (going up to REGINA). Leave now? This is your home. + +Regina. Merci, Mr. Alving--oh, of course I may say Oswald now, but that +is not the way I thought it would become allowable. + +Mrs. Alving. Regina, I have not been open with you-- + +Regina. No, I can't say you have! If I had known Oswald was ill-- And +now that there can never be anything serious between us--. No, I really +can't stay here in the country and wear myself out looking after +invalids. + +Oswald. Not even for the sake of one who has so near a claim on you? + +Regina. No, indeed I can't. A poor girl must make some use of her +youth, otherwise she may easily land herself out in the cold before she +knows where she is. And I have got the joy of life in me too, Mrs. +Alving! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, unfortunately; but don't throw yourself away, Regina. + +Regina. Oh, what's going to happen will happen. If Oswald takes after +his father, it is just as likely I take after my mother, I expect.--May +I ask, Mrs. Alving, whether Mr. Manders knows this about me? + +Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders knows everything. + +Regina (putting on her shawl). Oh, well then, the best thing I can do +is to get away by the boat as soon as I can. Mr. Manders is such a nice +gentleman to deal with; and it certainly seems to me that I have just +as much right to some of that money as he--as that horrid carpenter. + +Mrs. Alving. You are quite welcome to it, Regina. + +Regina (looking at her fixedly). You might as well have brought me up +like a gentleman's daughter; it would have been more suitable. (Tosses +her head.) Oh, well--never mind! (With a bitter glance at the unopened +bottle.) I daresay someday I shall be drinking champagne with +gentlefolk, after all. + +Mrs. Alving. If ever you need a home, Regina, come to me. + +Regina. No, thank you, Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders takes an interest in +me, I know. And if things should go very badly with me, I know one +house at any rate where I shall feel at home. + +Mrs. Alving. Where is that? + +Regina. In the "Alving Home." + +Mrs. Alving. Regina--I can see quite well--you are going to your ruin! + +Regina. Pooh!--goodbye. + +(She bows to them and goes out through the hall.) + +Oswald (standing by the window and looking out). Has she gone? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes. + +Oswald (muttering to himself). I think it's all wrong. + +Mrs. Alving (going up to him from behind and putting her hands on his +shoulders). Oswald, my dear boy--has it been a great shock to you? + +Oswald (turning his face towards her). All this about father, do you +mean? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have +been too much for you. + +Oswald. What makes you think that? Naturally it has taken me entirely +by surprise; but, after all, I don't know that it matters much to me. + +Mrs. Alving (drawing back her hands). Doesn't matter!--that your +father's life was such a terrible failure! + +Oswald. Of course I can feel sympathy for him, just as I would for +anyone else, but-- + +Mrs. Alving. No more than that! For your own father! + +Oswald (impatiently). Father--father! I never knew anything of my +father. I don't remember anything else about him except that he once +made me sick. + +Mrs. Alving. It is dreadful to think of!--But surely a child should +feel some affection for his father, whatever happens? + +Oswald. When the child has nothing to thank his father for? When he has +never known him? Do you really cling to that antiquated +superstition--you, who are so broad-minded in other things? + +Mrs. Alving. You call it nothing but a superstition! + +Oswald. Yes, and you can see that for yourself quite well, mother. It +is one of those beliefs that are put into circulation in the world, +and-- + +Mrs. Alving. Ghosts of beliefs! + +Oswald (walking across the room). Yes, you might call them ghosts. + +Mrs. Alving (with an outburst of feeling). Oswald! then you don't love +me either! + +Oswald. You I know, at any rate-- + +Mrs. Alving. You know me, yes; but is that all? + +Oswald. And I know how fond you are of me, and I ought to be grateful +to you for that. Besides, you can be so tremendously useful to me, now +that I am ill. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, can't I, Oswald! I could almost bless your illness, +as it has driven you home to me. For I see quite well that you are not +my very own yet; you must be won. + +Oswald (impatiently). Yes, yes, yes; all that is just a way of talking. +You must remember I am a sick man, mother. I can't concern myself much +with anyone else; I have enough to do, thinking about myself. + +Mrs. Alving (gently). I will be very good and patient. + +Oswald. And cheerful too, mother! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. (Goes up to him.) +Now have I taken away all your remorse and self-reproach? + +Oswald. Yes, you have done that. But who will take away the fear? + +Mrs. Alving. The fear? + +Oswald (crossing the room). Regina would have done it for one kind word. + +Mrs. Alving. I don't understand you. What fear do you mean--and what +has Regina to do with it? + +Oswald. Is it very late, mother? + +Mrs. Alving. It is early morning. (Looks out through the conservatory +windows.) The dawn is breaking already on the heights. And the sky is +clear, Oswald. In a little while you will see the sun. + +Oswald. I am glad of that. After all, there may be many things yet for +me to be glad of and to live for-- + +Mrs. Alving. I should hope so! + +Oswald. Even if I am not able to work-- + +Mrs. Alving. You will soon find you are able to work again now, my dear +boy. You have no longer all those painful depressing thoughts to brood +over. + +Oswald. No, it is a good thing that you have been able to rid me of +those fancies; if only, now, I could overcome this one thing-- (Sits +down on the couch.) Let us have a little chat, mother. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us. (Pushes an armchair near to the couch and +sits down beside him.) + +Oswald. The sun is rising--and you know all about it; so I don't feel +the fear any longer. + +Mrs. Alving. I know all about what? + +Oswald (without listening to her). Mother, isn't it the case that you +said this evening there was nothing in the world you would not do for +me if I asked you? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, certainly I said so. + +Oswald. And will you be as good as your word, mother? + +Mrs. Alving. You may rely upon that, my own dear boy. I have nothing +else to live for, but you. + +Oswald. Yes, yes; well, listen to me, mother, You are very +strong-minded, I know. I want you to sit quite quiet when you hear what +I am going to tell you. + +Mrs. Alving. But what is this dreadful thing--? + +Oswald. You mustn't scream. Do you hear? Will you promise me that? We +are going to sit and talk it over quite quietly. Will you promise me +that, mother? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, I promise--only tell me what it is. + +Oswald. Well, then, you must know that this fatigue of mine--and my mot +being able to think about my work--all that is not really the illness +itself-- + +Mrs. Alving. What is the illness itself? + +Oswald. What I am suffering from is hereditary; it--(touches his +forehead, and speaks very quietly)--it lies here. + +Mrs. Alving (almost speechless). Oswald! No--no! + +Oswald. Don't scream; I can't stand it. Yes, I tell you, it lies here, +waiting. And any time, any moment, it may break out. + +Mrs. Alving. How horrible--! + +Oswald. Do keep quiet. That is the state I am in-- + +Mrs. Alving (springing up). It isn't true, Oswald! It is impossible! It +can't be that! + +Oswald. I had one attack while I was abroad. It passed off quickly. But +when I learned the condition I had been in, then this dreadful haunting +fear took possession of me. + +Mrs. Alving. That was the fear, then-- + +Oswald. Yes, it is so indescribably horrible, you know If only it had +been an ordinary mortal disease--. I am not so much afraid of dying; +though, of course, I should like to live as long as I can. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must! + +Oswald. But this is so appallingly horrible. To become like a helpless +child again--to have to be fed, to have to be--. Oh, it's unspeakable! + +Mrs. Alving. My child has his mother to tend him. + +Oswald (jumping up). No, never; that is just what I won't endure! I +dare not think what it would mean to linger on like that for years--to +get old and grey like that. And you might die before I did. (Sits down +in MRS. ALVING'S chair.) Because it doesn't necessarily have a fatal +end quickly, the doctor said; he called it a kind of softening of the +brain--or something of that sort. (Smiles mournfully.) I think that +expression sounds so nice. It always makes me think of cherry-coloured +velvet curtains--something that is soft to stroke. + +Mrs. Alving (with a scream). Oswald! + +Oswald (jumps up and walks about the room). And now you have taken +Regina from me! If I had only had her, she would have given me a +helping hand, I know. + +Mrs. Alving (going up to him). What do you mean, my darling boy? Is +there any help in the world I would not be willing to give you? + +Oswald. When I had recovered from the attack I had abroad, the doctor +told me that when it recurred--and it will recur--there would be no +more hope. + +Mrs. Alving. And he was heartless enough to-- + +Oswald. I insisted on knowing. I told him I had arrangements to make--. +(Smiles cunningly.) And so I had. (Takes a small box from his inner +breast-pocket.) Mother, do you see this? + +Mrs. Alving. What is it? + +Oswald. Morphia powders. + +Mrs. Alving (looking at him in terror). Oswald--my boy! + +Oswald. I have twelve of them saved up-- + +Mrs. Alving (snatching at it). Give me the box, Oswald! + +Oswald. Not yet, mother. (Puts it lack in his pocket.) + +Mrs. Alving. I shall never get over this! + +Oswald, You must. If I had had Regina here now, I would have told her +quietly how things stand with me--and asked her to give me this last +helping hand. She would have helped me, I am certain. + +Mrs. Alving. Never! + +Oswald. If this horrible thing had come upon me and she had seen me +lying helpless, like a baby, past help, past saving, past hope--with no +chance of recovering-- + +Mrs. Alving. Never in the world would Regina have done it. + +Oswald. Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly +light-hearted. And she would very soon have tired of looking after an +invalid like me. + +Mrs. Alving. Then thank heaven Regina is not here! + +Oswald. Well, now you have got to give me that helping hand, mother. + +Mrs. Alving (with a loud scream). I! + +Oswald. Who has a better right than you? + +Mrs. Alving. I! Your mother! + +Oswald. Just for that reason. + +Mrs. Alving. I, who gave you your life! + +Oswald, I never asked you for life. And what kind of a life was it that +you gave me? I don't want it! You shall take it back! + +Mrs. Alving. Help! Help! (Runs into the hall.) + +Oswald (following her). Don't leave me! Where are you going? + +Mrs. Alving (in the hall). To fetch the doctor to you, Oswald! Let me +out! + +Oswald (going into the hall). You shan't go out. And no one shall come +in. (Turns the key in the lock.) + +Mrs. Alving (coming in again). Oswald! Oswald!--my child! + +Oswald (following her). Have you a mother's heart--and can bear to see +me suffering this unspeakable terror? + +Mrs. Alving (controlling herself, after a moment's silence). There is +my hand on it. + +Oswald. Will you--? + +Mrs. Alving. If it becomes necessary. But it shan't become necessary: +No, no--it is impossible it should! + +Oswald. Let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. +Thank you, mother. + +(He sits down in the armchair, which MRS. ALVING had moved beside the +couch. Day is breaking; the lamp is still burning on the table.) + +Mrs. Alving (coming cautiously nearer). Do you feel calmer now? + +Oswald. Yes. + +Mrs. Alving (bending over him). It has only been a dreadful fancy of +yours, Oswald. Nothing but fancy. All this upset has been bad for you. +But now you will get some rest, at home with your own mother, my +darling boy. You shall have everything you want, just as you did when +you were a little child.--There, now. The attack is over. You see how +easily it passed off! I knew it would.--And look, Oswald, what a lovely +day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine. Now you will be able to +see your home properly. (She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. +It is sunrise. The glaciers and peaks in the distance are seen bathed +in bright morning fight.) + +Oswald (who has been sitting motionless in the armchair, with his back +to the scene outside, suddenly says:) Mother, give me the sun. + +Mrs. Alving (standing at the table, and looking at him in amazement). +What do you say? + +Oswald (repeats in a dull, toneless voice). The sun--the sun. + +Mrs. Alving (going up to him). Oswald, what is the matter with you? +(OSWALD seems to shrink up in the chair; all his muscles relax; his +face loses its expression, and his eyes stare stupidly. MRS. ALVING is +trembling with terror.) What is it! (Screams.) Oswald! What is the +matter with you! (Throws herself on her knees beside him and shakes +him.) Oswald! Oswald! Look at me! Don't you know me! + +Oswald (in an expressionless voice, as before). The sun--the sun. + +Mrs. Alving (jumps up despairingly, beats her head with her hands, and +screams). I can't bear it! (Whispers as though paralysed with fear.) I +can't bear it... I Never! (Suddenly.) Where has he got it? (Passes her +hand quickly over his coat.) Here! (Draws back a little spay and +cries:) No, no, no!--Yes!--no, no! (She stands a few steps from him, +her hands thrust into her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror.) + +Oswald (sitting motionless, as before). The sun--the sun. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ghosts, by Henrik Ibsen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GHOSTS *** + +***** This file should be named 2467.txt or 2467.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/2467/ + +Produced by Martin Adamson. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +E-text scanned by Martin Adamson +martin@grassmarket.freeserve.co.uk + + + + + +GHOSTS + +A Domestic Tragedy in Three Acts + +by Henrik Ibsen + +Translated by R. Farquharson Sharp + + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + +Mrs. Alving (a widow). +Oswald Alving (her son, an artist). +Manders (the Pastor of the parish). +Engstrand (a carpenter). +Regina Engstrand (his daughter, in Mrs Alving's service). + +The action takes place at Mrs Alving's house on one of the larger +fjords of Western Norway.) + + + + +GHOSTS + +ACT I + +(SCENE.--A large room looking upon a garden door in the left-hand +wall, and two in the right. In the middle of the room, a round +table with chairs set about it, and books, magazines and +newspapers upon it. In the foreground on the left, a window, by +which is a small sofa with a work-table in front of it. At the +back the room opens into a conservatory rather smaller than the +room. From the right-hand side of this, a door leads to the +garden. Through the large panes of glass that form the outer wall +of the conservatory, a gloomy fjord landscape can be discerned, +half-obscured by steady rain. + +ENGSTRAND is standing close to the garden door. His left leg +is slightly deformed, and he wears a boot with a clump of wood +under the sole. REGINA, with an empty garden-syringe in her hand, +is trying to prevent his coming in.) + +Regina (below her breath). What is it you want? Stay where you +are. The rain is dripping off you, + +Engstrand. God's good rain, my girl. + +Regina. The Devil's own rain, that's what it is! + +Engstrand. Lord, how you talk, Regina. (Takes a few limping steps +forward.) What I wanted to tell you was this-- + +Regina. Don't clump about like that, stupid! The young master is +lying asleep upstairs. + +Engstrand. Asleep still? In the middle of the day? + +Regina. Well, it's no business of yours. + +Engstrand. I was out on a spree last night-- + +Regina. I don't doubt it. + +Engstrand. Yes, we are poor weak mortals, my girl-- + +Regina. We are indeed. + +Engstrand. --and the temptations of the world are manifold, you +know--but, for all that, here I was at my work at half-past five +this morning. + +Regina. Yes, yes, but make yourself scarce now. I am not going to +stand here as if I had a rendezvous with you. + +Engstrand. As if you had a what? + +Regina. I am not going to have anyone find you here; so now you +know, and you can go. + +Engstrand (coming a few steps nearer). Not a bit of it! Not +before we have had a little chat. This afternoon I shall have +finished my job down at the school house, and I shall be off home +to town by tonight's boat. + +Regina (mutters). Pleasant journey to you! + +Engstrand. Thanks, my girl. Tomorrow is the opening of the +Orphanage, and I expect there will be a fine kick-up here and +plenty of good strong drink, don't you know. And no one shall say +of Jacob Engstrand that be can't hold off when temptation comes +in his way. + +Regina. Oho! + +Engstrand. Yes, because there will be a lot of fine folk here +tomorrow. Parson Manders is expected from town, too. + +Regina: What's more, he's coming today. + +Engstrand. There you are! And I'm going to be precious careful he +doesn't have anything to say against me, do you see? + +Regina. Oh, that's your game, is it? + +Engstrand. What do you mean? + +Regina (with a significant look at him). What is it you want to +humbug Mr. Manders out of this time? + +Engstrand. Sh! Sh! Are you crazy? Do you suppose I would want to +humbug Mr. Manders? No, no--Mr. Manders has always been too kind +a friend for me to do that. But what I wanted to talk to you +about, was my going back home tonight. + +Regina. The sooner you go, the better I shall be pleased. + +Engstrand. Yes, only I want to take you with me, Regina. + +Regina (open-mouthed). You want to take me--? What did you say? + +Engstrand. I want to take you home with me, I said. + +Regina (contemptuously). You will never get me home with you. + +Engstrand. Ah, we shall see about that. + +Regina. Yes, you can be quite certain we shall see about that. I, +who have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving?--I, who have +been treated almost as if I were her own child?--do you suppose I +am going home with you?--to such a house as yours? Not likely! + +Engstrand. What the devil do you mean? Are you setting yourself +up against your father, you hussy? + +Regina (mutters, without looking at him). You have often told me +I was none of yours. + +Engstrand. Bah!--why do you want to pay any attention to that? + +Regina. Haven't you many and many a time abused me and called me +a --? For shame? + +Engstrand. I'll swear I never used such an ugly word. + +Regina. Oh, it doesn't matter what word you used. + +Engstrand. Besides, that was only when I was a bit fuddled...hm! +Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina. + +Regina. Ugh! + +Engstrand. And it was when your mother was in a nasty temper. I +had to find some way of getting my knife into her, my girl. She +was always so precious gentile. (Mimicking her.) "Let go, Jacob! +Let me be! Please to remember that I was three years with the +Alvings at Rosenvold, and they were people who went to Court! +(Laughs.) Bless my soul, she never could forget that Captain +Alving got a Court appointment while she was in service here. + +Regina. Poor mother--you worried her into her grave pretty soon. + +Engstrand (shrugging his shoulders). Of course, of course; I have +got to take the blame for everything. + +Regina (beneath her breath, as she turns away). Ugh--that leg, +too! + +Engstrand. What are you saying, my girl? + +Regina. Pied de mouton. + +Engstrand. Is that English? + +Regina. Yes. + +Engstrand. You have had a good education out here, and no +mistake; and it may stand you in good stead now, Regina. + +Regina (after a short silence). And what was it you wanted me to +come to town for? + +Engstrand. Need you ask why a father wants his only child? Ain't +I a poor lonely widower? + +Regina. Oh, don't come to me with that tale. Why do you want me to +go? + +Engstrand. Well, I must tell you I am thinking of taking up a new +line now. + +Regina (whistles). You have tried that so often--but it has +always proved a fool's errand. + +Engstrand. Ah, but this time you will just see, Regina! Strike me +dead if-- + +Regina (stamping her foot). Stop swearing! + +Engstrand. Sh! Sh!--you're quite right, my girl, quite right! +What I wanted to say was only this, that I have put by a tidy +penny out of what I have made by working at this new Orphanage up +here. + +Regina. Have you? All the better for you. + +Engstrand. What is there for a man to spend his money on, out +here in the country? + +Regina. Well, what then? + +Engstrand. Well, you see, I thought of putting the money into +something that would pay. I thought of some kind of an eating- +house for seafaring folk-- + +Regina. Heavens! + +Engstrand. Oh, a high-class eating-house, of course--not a +pigsty for common sailors. Damn it, no; it would be a place +ships' captains and first mates would come to; really good sort +of people, you know. + +Regina. And what should I--? + +Engstrand. You would help there: But only to make show, you know. +You wouldn't find it hard work, I can promise you, my girl. You +should do exactly as you liked. + +Regina. Oh, yes, quite so! + +Engstrand. But we must have some women in the house; that is as +clear as daylight. Because in the evening we must make the place +a little attractive-- some singing and dancing, and that sort of +thing. Remember they are seafolk-- wayfarers on the waters of +life! (Coming nearer to her.) Now don't be a fool and stand in +your own way, Regina. What good are you going to do here? Will +this education, that your mistress has paid for, be of any use? +You are to look after the children in the new Home, I hear. Is +that the sort of work for you? Are you so frightfully anxious to +go and wear out your health and strength for the sake of these +dirty brats? + +Regina. No, if things were to go as I want them to, then--. Well, +it may happen; who knows? It may happen! + +Engstrand. What may happen? + +Regina. Never you mind. Is it much that you have put by, up here? + +Engstrand. Taking it all round, I should say about forty or fifty +pounds. + +Regina. That's not so bad. + +Engstrand. It's enough to make a start with, my girl. + +Regina. Don't you mean to give me any of the money? + +Engstrand. No, I'm hanged if I do. + +Regina. Don't you mean to send me as much as a dress-length of +stuff, just for once? + +Engstrand. Come and live in the town with me and you shall have +plenty of dresses. + +Regina: Pooh!--I can get that much for myself, if I have a mind +to. + +Engstrand. But it's far better to have a father's guiding hand, +Regina. Just now I can get a nice house in Little Harbour Street. +They don't want much money down for it-- and we could make it like +a sort of seamen's home, don't you know. + +Regina. But I have no intention of living with you! I'll have +nothing whatever to do with you: So now, be off! + +Engstrand. You wouldn't be living with me long, my girl. No such +luck-- not if you knew how to play your cards. Such a fine wench +as you have grown this last year or two... + +Regina. Well--? + +Engstrand. It wouldn't be very long before some first mate came +along-- or perhaps a captain. + +Regina. I don't mean to marry a man of that sort. Sailors have no +savoir-vivre. + +Engstrand. What haven't they got? + +Regina. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They aren't the sort +of people to marry. + +Engstrand. Well, don't bother about marrying them. You can make +it pay just as well. (More confidentially.) That fellow--the +Englishman--the one with the yacht--he gave seventy pounds, he +did; and she wasn't a bit prettier than you. + +Regina (advancing towards him). Get out! + +Engstrand (stepping back). Here! here!--you're not going to hit +me, I suppose? + +Regina. Yes! If you talk like that of mother, I will hit you. Get +out, I tell. You! (Pushes him up to the garden door.) And don't +bang the doors. Young Mr. Alving-- + +Engstrand. Is asleep--I know. It's funny how anxious you are +about young Mr. Alving. (In a lower tone.) Oho! is it possible +that it is he that--? + +Regina. Get out, and be quick about it! Your wits are wandering, +my good man. No, don't go that way; Mr. Manders is just coming +along. Be off down the kitchen stairs. + +Engstrand (moving towards the right). Yes, yes--all right. But +have a bit of a chat with him that's coming along. He's the chap +to tell you what a child owes to its father. For I am your +father, anyway, you know, I can prove it by the Register. (He +goes out through the farther door which REGINA has opened. She +shuts it after him, looks hastily at herself in the mirror, fans +herself with her handkerchief and sets her collar straight; then +busies herself with the flowers. MANDERS enters the conservatory +through the garden door. He wears an overcoat, carries an +umbrella, and has a small travelling-bag slung over his shoulder +on a strap.) + +Manders. Good morning, Miss Engstrand. + +Regina (turning round with a look of pleased surprise), Oh, Mr. +Manders, good morning. The boat is in, then? + +Manders. Just in. (Comes into the room.) It is most tiresome, +this rain every day. + +Regina (following him in). It's a splendid rain for the farmers, +Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Yes, you are quite right. We townfolk think so little +about that. (Begins to take off his overcoat.) + +Regina. Oh, let me help you. That's it. Why, how wet it is! I +will hang it up in the hall. Give me your umbrella, too; I will +leave it open, so that it will dry. + +(She goes out with the things by the farther door on the right. +MANDERS lays his bag and his hat down on a chair. REGINA re- +enters.) + +Manders. Ah, it's very pleasant to get indoors. Well, is +everything going on well here? + +Regina. Yes, thanks. + +Manders. Properly busy, though, I expect, getting ready for +tomorrow? + +Regina. Oh, yes, there is plenty to do. + +Manders. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I hope? + +Regina. Yes, she is. She has just gone upstairs to take the young +master his chocolate. + +Manders. Tell me--I heard down at the pier that Oswald had come +back. + +Regina. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect +him until today. + +Manders. Strong and well, I hope? + +Regina. Yes, thank you, well enough. But dreadfully tired after +his journey. He came straight from Paris without a stop--I mean, +he came all the way without breaking his journey. I fancy he is +having a sleep now, so we must talk a little bit more quietly, if +you don't mind. + +Manders. All right, we will be very quiet. + +Regina (while she moves an armchair up to the table), Please sit +down, Mr. Manders, and make yourself at home. (He sits down; she +puts a footstool under his feet.) There! Is that comfortable? + +Manders. Thank you, thank you. That is most comfortable; (Looks +at her.) I'll tell you what, Miss Engstrand, I certainly think +you have grown since I saw you last. + +Regina. Do you think so? Mrs. Alving says, too-- that I have +developed. + +Manders. Developed? Well, perhaps a little--just suitably. (A +short pause.) + +Regina. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here? + +Manders. Thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child. Now tell me, +Regina my dear, how has your father been getting on here? + +Regina. Thank you, Mr. Manders, he is getting on pretty well. + +Manders. He came to see me the last time he was in town. + +Regina. Did he? He is always so glad when he can have a chat with +you. + +Manders. And I suppose you have seen him pretty regularly every +day? + +Regina. I? Oh, yes, I do--whenever I have time, that is to say. + +Manders. Your father has not a very strong character, Miss +Engstrand. He sadly needs a guiding hand. + +Regina. Yes, I can quite believe that. + +Manders. He needs someone with him that he can cling to, someone +whose judgment he can rely on. He acknowledged that freely +himself, the last time he came up to see me. + +Regina. Yes, he has said something of the same sort to me. But I +don't know whether Mrs. Alving could do without me--most of all +just now, when we have the new Orphanage to see about. And I +should be dreadfully unwilling to leave Mrs. Alving, too; she has +always been so good to me. + +Manders. But a daughter's duty, my good child--. Naturally we +should have to get your mistress' consent first. + +Regina. Still I don't know whether it would be quite the thing, +at my age, to keep house for a single man. + +Manders. What! My dear Miss Engstrand, it is your own father we +are speaking of! + +Regina. Yes, I dare say, but still--. Now, if it were in a good +house and with a real gentleman-- + +Manders. But, my dear Regina! + +Regina. --one whom I could feel an affection for, and really feel +in the position of a daughter to... + +Manders. Come, come--my dear good child-- + +Regina. I should like very much to live in town. Out here it is +terribly lonely; and you know yourself, Mr. Manders, what it is +to be alone in the world. And, though I say it, I really am both +capable and willing. Don't you know any place that would be +suitable for me, Mr. Manders? + +Manders. I? No, indeed I don't. + +Regina. But, dear Mr. Manders--at any rate don't forget me, in +case-- + +Manders (getting up). No, I won't forget you, Miss Engstrand. + +Regina. Because, if I-- + +Manders. Perhaps you will be so kind as to let Mrs, Alving know I +am here? + +Regina. I will fetch her at once, Mr. Manders. (Goes out to the +left. MANDERS walks up and down the room once or twice, stands +for a moment at the farther end of the room with his hands behind +his back and looks out into the garden. Then he comes back to the +table, takes up a book and looks at the title page, gives a +start, and looks at some of the others.) + +Manders. Hm!--Really! + +(MRS. ALVING comes in by the door on the left. She is followed by +REGINA, who goes out again at once through the nearer door on the +right.) + +Mrs. Alving (holding out her hand). I am very glad to see you, +Mr. Manders. + +Manders. How do you do, Mrs. Alving. Here I am, as I promised. + +Mrs. Alving. Always punctual! + +Manders. Indeed, I was hard put to it to get away. What with +vestry meetings and committees. + +Mrs. Alving. It was all the kinder of you to come in such good +time; we can settle our business before dinner. But where is your +luggage? + +Manders (quickly). My things are down at the village shop. I am +going to sleep there tonight. + +Mrs. Alving (repressing a smile). Can't I really persuade you to +stay the night here this time? + +Manders. No, no; many thanks all the same; I will put up there, +as usual. It is so handy for getting on board the boat again. + +Mrs. Alving. Of course, you shall do as you please. But it seems +to me quite another thing, now we are two old people-- + +Manders. Ha! ha! You will have your joke! And it's natural you +should be in high spirits today--first of all there is the great +event tomorrow, and also you have got Oswald home. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, am I not a lucky woman! It is more than two +years since he was home last, and he has promised to stay the +whole winter with me. + +Manders, Has he, really? That is very nice and filial of him; +because there must be many more attractions in his life in Rome +or in Paris, I should think. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but he has his mother here, you see. Bless the +dear boy, he has got a corner in his heart for his mother still. + +Manders. Oh, it would be very sad if absence and preoccupation +with such a thing as Art were to dull the natural affections. + +Mrs. Alving. It would, indeed. But there is no fear of that with +him, I am glad to say. I am quite curious to see if you recognise +him again. He will be down directly; he is just lying down for a +little on the sofa upstairs. But do sit down, my dear friend. + +Manders. Thank you. You are sure I am not disturbing you? + +Mrs. Alving. Of course not. (She sits down at the table.) + +Manders. Good. Then I will show you--. (He goes to the chair +where his bag is lying and takes a packet of papers from it; then +sits down at the opposite side of the table and looks for a clear +space to put the papers down.) Now first of all, here is--(breaks +off). Tell me, Mrs. Alving, what are these books doing here? + +Mrs. Alving. These books? I am reading them, + +Manders. Do you read this sort of thing? + +Mrs, Alving. Certainly I do. + +Manders. Do you feel any the better or the happier for reading +books of this kind? + +Mrs. Alving. I think it makes me, as it were, more self-reliant. + +Manders. That is remarkable. But why? + +Mrs. Alving. Well, they give me an explanation or a confirmation +of lots of different ideas that have come into my own mind. But +what surprises me, Mr. Manders, is that, properly speaking, there +is nothing at all new in these books. There is nothing more in +them than what most people think and believe. The only thing is, +that most people either take no account of it or won't admit it +to themselves. + +Manders. But, good heavens, do you seriously think that most +people--? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed, I do. + +Manders. But not here in the country at any rate? Not here +amongst people like ourselves? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, amongst people like ourselves too. + +Manders. Well, really, I must say--! + +Mrs. Alving. But what is the particular objection that you have +to these books? + +Manders. What objection? You surely don't suppose that I take any +particular interest in such productions? + +Mrs. Alving. In fact, you don't know anything about what you are +denouncing? + +Manders. I have read quite enough about these books to disapprove +of them: + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but your own opinion-- + +Manders. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life +when one has to rely on the opinion of others. That is the way in +this world, and it is quite right that it should be so. What +would become of society, otherwise? + +Mrs. Alving. Well, you may be right. + +Manders. Apart from that, naturally I don't deny that literature +of this kind may have a considerable attraction. And I cannot +blame you, either, for wishing to make yourself acquainted with +the intellectual tendencies which I am told are at work in the +wider world in which you have allowed your son to wander for so +long but-- + +Mrs. Alving. But--? + +Manders (lowering his voice). But one doesn't talk about it, Mrs. +Alving. One certainly is not called upon to account to everyone +for what one reads or thinks in the privacy of one's own room. + +Mrs. Alving. Certainly not. I quite agree with you. + +Manders. Just think of the consideration you owe to this +Orphanage, which you decided to build at a time when your +thoughts on such subjects were very different from what they are +now--as far as I am able to judge. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I freely admit that. But it was about the +Orphanage... + +Manders. It was about the Orphanage we were going to talk; quite +so. Well--walk warily, dear Mrs. Alving! And now let us turn to +the business in hand. (Opens an envelope and takes out some +papers.) You see these? + +Mrs. Alving. The deeds? + +Manders. Yes, the whole lot--and everything in order; I can tell +you it has been no easy matter to get them in time. I had +positively to put pressure on the authorities; they are almost +painfully conscientious when it is a question of settling +property. But here they are at last. (Turns over the papers.) +Here is the deed of conveyance of that part of the Rosenvold +estate known as the Solvik property, together with the buildings +newly erected thereon-- the school, the masters' houses and the +chapel. And here is the legal sanction for the statutes of the +institution. Here, you see--(reads) "Statutes for the Captain +Alving Orphanage." + +Mrs. Alving (after a long look at the papers). That seems all in +order. + +Manders. I thought "Captain" was the better title to use, rather +than your husband's Court title of "Chamberlain." "Captain" +seems less ostentatious. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes; just as you think best. + +Manders. And here is the certificate for the investment of the +capital in the bank, the interest being earmarked for the current +expenses of the Orphanage. + +Mrs. Alving. Many thanks; but I think it will be most convenient +if you will kindly take charge of them. + +Manders. With pleasure. I think it will be best to leave the +money in the bank for the present. The interest is not very high, +it is true; four per cent at six months' call; later on, if we +can find some good mortgage--of course it must be a first mortgage +and on unexceptionable security--we can consider the matter +further. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Manders, you know best about +all that. + +Manders. I will keep my eye on it, anyway. But there is one thing +in connection with it that I have often meant to ask you about. + +Mrs. Alving. What is that? + +Manders. Shall we insure the buildings, or not? + +Mrs. Alving. Of course we must insure them. + +Manders. Ah, but wait a moment, dear lady. Let us look into the +matter a little more closely. + +Mrs. Alving. Everything of mine is insured--the house and its +contents, my livestock--everything. + +Manders. Naturally. They are your own property. I do exactly the +same, of course. But this, you see, is quite a different case. +The Orphanage is, so to speak, dedicated to higher uses. + +Mrs. Alving. Certainly, but-- + +Manders. As far as I am personally concerned, I can +conscientiously say that I don't see the smallest objection to +our insuring ourselves against all risks. + +Mrs. Alving. That is exactly what I think. + +Manders. But what about the opinion of the people hereabouts? + +Mrs. Alving. Their opinion--? + +Manders. Is there any considerable body of opinion here--opinion +of some account, I mean--that might take exception to it? + +Mrs. Alving. What, exactly, do you mean by opinion of some +account? + +Manders. Well, I was thinking particularly of persons of such +independent and influential position that one could hardly refuse +to attach weight to their opinion. + +Mrs. Alving. There are a certain number of such people here, who +might perhaps take exception to it if we-- + +Manders. That's just it, you see. In town there are lots of them. +All my fellow-clergymen's congregations, for instance! It would +be so extremely easy for them to interpret it as meaning that +neither you nor I had a proper reliance on Divine protection. + +Mrs. Alving. But as far as you are concerned, my dear friend, you +have at all events the consciousness that-- + +Manders. Yes I know I know; my own mind is quite easy about it, +it is true. But we should not be able to prevent a wrong and +injurious interpretation of our action. And that sort of thing, +moreover, might very easily end in exercising a hampering +influence on the work of the Orphanage. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, well, if that is likely to be the effect of it-- + +Manders. Nor can I entirely overlook the difficult--indeed, I may +say, painful--position I might possibly be placed in. In the best +circles in town the matter of this Orphanage is attracting a +great deal of attention. Indeed the Orphanage is to some extent +built for the benefit of the town too, and it is to be hoped that +it may result in the lowering of our poor-rate by a considerable +amount. But as I have been your adviser in the matter and have +taken charge of the business side of it, I should be afraid that +it would be I that spiteful persons would attack first of all. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, you ought not to expose yourself to that. + +Manders. Not to mention the attacks that would undoubtedly be +made upon me in certain newspapers and reviews. + +Mrs. Alving. Say no more about it, dear Mr. Manders; that quite +decides it. + +Manders. Then you don't wish it to be insured? + +Mrs. Alving. No, we will give up the idea. + +Manders (leaning back in his chair). But suppose, now, that some +accident happened?--one can never tell--would you be prepared to +make good the damage? + +Mrs. Alving. No; I tell you quite plainly I would not do so under +any circumstances. + +Manders. Still, you know, Mrs. Alving--after all, it is a serious +responsibility that we are taking upon ourselves. + +Mrs. Alving. But do you think we can do otherwise? + +Manders. No, that's just it. We really can't do otherwise. We +ought not to expose ourselves to a mistaken judgment; and we have +no right to do anything that will scandalise the community. + +Mrs. Alving. You ought not to, as a clergyman, at any rate. + +Manders. And, what is more, I certainly think that we may count +upon our enterprise being attended by good fortune--indeed, that +it will be under a special protection. + +Mrs. Alving. Let us hope so, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Then we will leave it alone? + +Mrs. Alving. Certainly. + +Manders. Very good. As you wish. (Makes a note.) No insurance, +then. + +Mrs. Alving. It's a funny thing that you should just have +happened to speak about that today-- + +Manders. I have often meant to ask you about it. + +Mrs. Alving. --because yesterday we very nearly had a fire up +there. + +Manders. Do you mean it! + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, as a matter of fact it was nothing of any +consequence. Some shavings in the carpenter's shop caught fire. + +Manders. Where Engstrand works? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes. They say he is often so careless with matches. + +Manders. He has so many things on his mind, poor fellow--so many +anxieties. Heaven be thanked, I am told he is really making an +effort to live a blameless life, + +Mrs. Alving. Really? Who told you so? + +Manders. He assured me himself that it is so. He's good workman, +too. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes, when he is sober. + +Manders. Ah, that sad weakness of his! But the pain in his poor +leg often drives him to it, he tells me. The last time he was in +town, I was really quite touched by him. He came to my house and +thanked me so gratefully for getting him work here, where he +could have the chance of being with Regina. + +Mrs. Alving. He doesn't see very much of her. + +Manders. But he assured me that he saw her every day. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh well, perhaps he does. + +Manders. He feels so strongly that he needs someone who can keep +a hold on him when temptations assail him. That is the most +winning thing about Jacob Engstrand; he comes to one like a +helpless child and accuses himself and confesses his frailty. The +last time he came and had a talk with me... Suppose now, Mrs. +Alving, that it were really a necessity of his existence to have +Regina at home with him again-- + +Mrs. Alving (standing up suddenly). Regina! + +Manders. --you ought not to set yourself against him. + +Mrs. Alving. Indeed, I set myself very definitely against that. +And, besides, you know Regina is to have a post in the Orphanage. + +Manders. But consider, after all he is her father-- + +Mrs. Alving. I know best what sort of a father he has been to +her. No, she shall never go to him with my consent. + +Manders (getting up). My dear lady, don't judge so hastily. It is +very sad how you misjudge poor Engstrand. One would really think +you were afraid... + +Mrs. Alving (more calmly). That is not the question. I have taken +Regina into my charge, and in my charge she remains. (Listens.) +Hush, dear Mr. Manders, don't say any more about it. (Her face +brightens with pleasure.) Listen! Oswald is coming downstairs. We +will only think about him now. + +(OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand and smoking a +big meerschaum pipe, comes in by the door on the left.) + +Oswald (standing in the doorway). Oh, I beg your pardon, I +thought you were in the office. (Comes in.) Good morning, Mr. +Manders. + +Manders (staring at him). Well! It's most extraordinary. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders? + +Manders. I-I-no, can it possibly be--? + +Oswald. Yes, it really is the prodigal son, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Oh, my dear young friend-- + +Oswald. Well, the son came home, then. + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so +opposed to the idea of his being a painter. + +Manders. We are only fallible, and many steps seem to us +hazardous at first, that afterwards--(grasps his hand). Welcome, +welcome! Really, my dear Oswald--may I still call you Oswald? + +Oswald. What else would you think of calling me? + +Manders. Thank you. What I mean, my dear Oswald, is that you must +not imagine that I have any unqualified disapproval of the +artist's life. I admit that there are many who, even in that +career, can keep the inner man free from harm. + +Oswald. Let us hope so. + +Mrs. Alving (beaming with pleasure). I know one who has kept both +the inner and the outer man free from harm. Just take a look at +him, Mr. Manders. + +Oswald (walks across the room). Yes, yes, mother dear, of course. + +Manders. Undoubtedly--no one can deny it. And I hear you have +begun to make a name for yourself. I have often seen mention of +you in the papers--and extremely favourable mention, too. +Although, I must admit, lately I have not seen your name so +often. + +Oswald (going towards the conservatory). I haven't done so much +painting just lately. + +Mrs. Alving. An artist must take a rest sometimes, like other +people. + +Manders. Of course, of course. At those times the artist is +preparing and strengthening himself for a greater effort. + +Oswald. Yes. Mother, will dinner soon be ready? + +Mrs. Alving. In half an hour. He has a fine appetite, thank +goodness. + +Manders. And a liking for tobacco too. + +Oswald. I found father's pipe in the room upstairs, and-- + +Manders. Ah, that is what it was! + +Mrs. Alving. What? + +Manders. When Oswald came in at that door with the pipe in his +mouth, I thought for the moment it was his father in the flesh. + +Oswald. Really? + +Mrs. Alving. How can you say so! Oswald takes after me. + +Manders. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of his +mouth--something about the lips--that reminds me so exactly of +Mr. Alving--especially when he smokes. + +Mrs. Alving. I don't think so at all. To my mind, Oswald has much +more of a clergyman's mouth. + +Menders. Well, yes--a good many of my colleagues in the church +have a similar expression. + +Mrs. Alving. But put your pipe down, my dear boy. I don't allow +any smoking in here. + +Oswald (puts down his pipe). All right, I only wanted to try it, +because I smoked it once when I was a child. + +Mrs. Alving. You? + +Oswald. Yes; it was when I was quite a little chap. And I can +remember going upstairs to father's room one evening when he was +in very good spirits. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, you can't remember anything about those days. + +Oswald. Yes, I remember plainly that he took me on his knee and +let me smoke his pipe. "Smoke, my boy," he said, "have a good +smoke, boy!" And I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was +turning quite pale and the perspiration was standing in great +drops on my forehead. Then he laughed--such a hearty laugh. + +Manders. It was an extremely odd thing to do. + +Mrs. Alving. Dear Mr. Manders, Oswald only dreamt it. + +Oswald. No indeed, mother, it was no dream. Because--don't you +remember--you came into the room and carried me off to the +nursery, where I was sick, and I saw that you were crying. Did +father often play such tricks? + +Manders. In his young days he was full of fun-- + +Oswald. And, for all that, he did so much with his life--so much +that was good and useful, I mean--short as his life was. + +Manders. Yes, my dear Oswald Alving, you have inherited the name +of a man who undoubtedly was both energetic and worthy. Let us +hope it will be a spur to your energies. + +Oswald. It ought to be, certainly. + +Manders. In any case it was nice of you to come home for the day +that is to honour his memory. + +Oswald. I could do no less for my father. + +Mrs. Alving. And to let me keep him so long here--that's the +nicest part of what he has done. + +Manders. Yes, I hear you are going to spend the winter at home. + +Oswald. I am here for an indefinite time, Mr. Manders.--Oh, it's +good to be at home again! + +Mrs. Alving (beaming). Yes, isn't it? + +Manders (looking sympathetically at him). You went out into the +world very young, my dear Oswald. + +Oswald. I did. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't too young. + +Mrs. Alving. Not a bit of it. It is the best thing for an active +boy, and especially for an only child. It's a pity when they are +kept at home with their parents and get spoiled. + +Manders. That is a very debatable question, Mrs, Alving. A +child's own home is, and always must be, his proper place. + +Oswald. There I agree entirely with Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Take the case of your own son. Oh yes, we can talk about +it before him. What has the result been in his case? He is six or +seven and twenty, and has never yet had the opportunity of +learning what a well-regulated home means. + +Oswald. Excuse me, Mr. Manders, you are quite wrong there. + +Manders. Indeed? I imagined that your life abroad had practically +been spent entirely in artistic circles. + +Oswald. So it has. + +Manders. And chiefly amongst the younger artists. + +Oswald. Certainly. + +Manders. But I imagined that those gentry, as a rule, had not the +means necessary for family life and the support of a home. + +Oswald. There are a considerable number of them who have not the +means to marry, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. That is exactly my point. + +Oswald. But they can have a home of their own, all the same; a +good many of them have. And they are very well-regulated and very +comfortable homes, too. + +(MRS. ALVING, who has listened to him attentively, nods assent, +but says nothing.) + +Manders. Oh, but I am not talking of bachelor establishments. By +a home I mean family life--the life a man lives with his wife and +children. + +Oswald. Exactly, or with his children and his children's mother. + +Manders (starts and clasps his hands). Good heavens! + +Oswald. What is the matter? + +Manders. Lives with-with-his children's mother. + +Oswald. Well, would you rather he should repudiate his children's +mother? + +Manders. Then what you are speaking of are those unprincipled +conditions known as irregular unions! + +Oswald. I have never noticed anything particularly unprincipled +about these people's lives. + +Manders. But do you mean to say that it is possible for a man of +any sort of bringing up, and a young woman, to reconcile +themselves to such a way of living--and to make no secret of it, +either! + +Oswald. What else are they to do? A poor artist, and a poor girl-- +it costs a good deal to get married. What else are they to do? + +Manders. What are they to do? Well, Mr. Alving, I will tell you +what they ought to do. They ought to keep away from each other +from the very beginning--that is what they ought to do! + +Oswald. That advice wouldn't have much effect upon hot-blooded +young folk who are in love. + +Mrs. Alving. No, indeed it wouldn't. + +Manders (persistently). And to think that the authorities +tolerate such things! That they are allowed to go on, openly! +(Turns to MRS. ALVING.) Had I so little reason, then, to be sadly +concerned about your son? In circles where open immorality is +rampant--where, one may say, it is honoured-- + +Oswald. Let me tell you this, Mr. Manders. I have been a constant +Sunday guest at one or two of these "irregular" households. + +Manders. On Sunday, too! + +Oswald. Yes, that is the day of leisure. But never have I heard +one objectionable word there, still less have I ever seen +anything that could be called immoral. No; but do you know when +and where I have met with immorality in artists' circles? + +Manders. No, thank heaven, I don't! + +Oswald. Well, then, I shall have the pleasure of telling you. I +have met with it when someone or other of your model husbands +and fathers have come out there to have a bit of a look round on +their own account, and have done the artists the honour of +looking them up in their humble quarters. Then we had a chance of +learning something, I can tell you. These gentlemen were able to +instruct us about places and things that we had never so much as +dreamt of. + +Manders. What? Do you want me to believe that honourable men when +they get away from home will-- + +Oswald. Have you never, when these same honourable men come home +again, heard them deliver themselves on the subject of the +prevalence of immorality abroad? + +Manders. Yes, of course, but-- + +Mrs. Alving. I have heard them, too. + +Oswald. Well, you can take their word for it, unhesitatingly. +Some of them are experts in the matter. (Putting his hands to his +head.) To think that the glorious freedom of the beautiful life +over there should be so besmirched! + +Mrs. Alving. You mustn't get too heated, Oswald; you gain nothing +by that. + +Oswald. No, you are quite right, mother. Besides, it isn't good +for me. It's because I am so infernally tired, you know. I will +go out and take a turn before dinner. I beg your pardon, Mr. +Manders. It is impossible for you to realise the feeling; but it +takes me that way (Goes out by the farther door on the right.) + +Mrs. Alving. My poor boy! + +Manders. You may well say so. This is what it has brought him to! +(MRS. ALVING looks at him, but does not speak.) He called himself +the prodigal son. It's only too true, alas--only too true! (MRS. +ALVING looks steadily at him.) And what do you say to all this? + +Mrs. Alving. I say that Oswald was right in every single word he +said. + +Manders. Right? Right? To hold such principles as that? + +Mrs. Alving. In my loneliness here I have come to just the same +opinions as he, Mr. Manders. But I have never presumed to venture +upon such topics in conversation. Now there is no need; my boy +shall speak for me. + +Manders. You deserve the deepest pity, Mrs. Alving. It is my duty +to say an earnest word to you. It is no longer your businessman +and adviser, no longer your old friend and your dead husband's +old friend, that stands before you now. It is your priest that +stands before you, just as he did once at the most critical +moment of your life. + +Mrs. Alving. And what is it that my priest has to say to me? + +Manders. First of all I must stir your memory. The moment is well +chosen. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of your husband's +death; tomorrow the memorial to the departed will be unveiled; +tomorrow I shall speak to the whole assembly that will be met +together, But today I want to speak to you alone. + +Mrs. Alving, Very well, Mr. Manders, speak! + +Manders. Have you forgotten that after barely a year of married +life you were standing at the very edge of a precipice?--that you +forsook your house and home? that you ran away from your husband-- +yes, Mrs. Alving, ran away, ran away-=and refused to return to +him in spite of his requests and entreaties? + +Mrs. Alving. Have you forgotten how unspeakably unhappy I was +during that first year? + +Manders. To crave for happiness in this world is simply to be +possessed by a spirit of revolt. What right have we to happiness? +No! we must do our duty, Mrs. Alving. And your duty was to cleave +to the man you had chosen and to whom you were bound by a sacred +bond. + +Mrs. Alving. You know quite well what sort of a life my husband +was living at that time--what excesses he was guilty of. + +Menders. I know only too well what rumour used to say of him; and +I should be the last person to approve of his conduct as a young +man, supposing that rumour spoke the truth. But it is not a +wife's part to be her husband's judge. You should have considered +it your bounden duty humbly to have borne the cross that a higher +will had laid upon you. But, instead of that, you rebelliously +cast off your cross, you deserted the man whose stumbling +footsteps you should have supported, you did what was bound to +imperil your good name and reputation, and came very near to +imperilling the reputation of others into the bargain. + +Mrs. Alving. Of others? Of one other, you mean. + +Manders. It was the height of imprudence, your seeking refuge +with me. + +Mrs. Alving. With our priest? With our intimate friend? + +Manders. All the more on that account; you should thank God that +I possessed the necessary strength of mind--that I was able to +turn you from your outrageous intention, and that it was +vouchsafed to me to succeed in leading you back into the path of +duty, and back to your lawful husband. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, Mr. Manders, that certainly was your doing. + +Manders. I was but the humble instrument of a higher power. And +is it not true that my having been able to bring you again under +the yoke of duty and obedience sowed the seeds of a rich blessing +on all the rest of your life? Did things not turn out as I +foretold to you? Did not your husband turn from straying in the +wrong path, as a man should? Did he not, after that, live a life +of love and good report with you all his days? Did he not become +a benefactor to the neighbourhood? Did he not so raise you up to +his level, so that by degree you became his fellow-worker in all +his undertakings--and a noble fellow-worker, too. I know, Mrs. +Alving; that praise I will give you. But now I come to the second +serious false step in your life. + +Mrs. Alving. What do you mean? + +Manders, Just as once you forsook your duty as a wife, so, since +then, you have forsaken your duty as a mother. + +Mrs. Alving. Oh--! + +Manders. You have been overmastered all your life by a disastrous +spirit of willfulness. All your impulses have led you towards what +is undisciplined and lawless. You have never been willing to +submit to any restraint. Anything in life that has seemed irksome +to you, you have thrown aside recklessly and unscrupulously, as +if it were a burden that you were free to rid yourself of if you +would. It did not please you to be a wife any longer, and so you +left your husband. Your duties as a mother were irksome to you, +so you sent your child away among strangers. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true; I did that. + +Menders. And that is why you have become a stranger to him. + +Mrs. Alving. No, no, I am not that! + +Manders. You are; you must be. And what sort of a son is it that +you have got back? Think over it seriously, Mrs. Alving. You +erred grievously in your husband's case--you acknowledge as much, +by erecting this memorial to him. Now you are bound to +acknowledge how much you have erred in your son's case; possibly +there may still be time to reclaim him from the path of +wickedness. Turn over a new leaf, and set yourself to reform what +there may still be that is capable of reformation in him. Because +(with uplifted forefinger) in very truth, Mrs. Alving, you are a +guilty mother!--That is what I have thought it my duty to say to +you. + +(A short silence.) + +Mrs. Alving (speaking slowly and with self-control). You have had +your say, Mr. Manders, and tomorrow you will be making a public +speech in memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But +now I wish to speak to you for a little, just as you have been +speaking to me. + +Manders. By all means; no doubt you wish to bring forward some +excuses for your behaviour. + +Mrs. Alving. No. I only want to tell you something-- + +Manders. Well? + +Mrs. Alving. In all that you said just now about me and my +husband, and about our life together after you had, as you put +it, led me back into the path of duty--there was nothing that you +knew at first hand. From that moment you never again set foot in +our house--you, who had been our daily companion before that. + +Manders. Remember that you and your husband moved out of town +immediately afterwards. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, and you never once came out here to see us in +my husband's lifetime. It was only the business in connection +with the Orphanage that obliged you to come and see me. + +Manders (in a low and uncertain voice). Helen--if that is a +reproach, I can only beg you to consider-- + +Mrs. Alving. --the respect you owed by your calling?--yes. All +the more as I was a wife who had tried to run away from her +husband. One can never be too careful to have nothing to do with +such reckless women. + +Manders. My dear--Mrs. Alving, you are exaggerating dreadfully. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,--very well. What I mean is this, that when +you condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon +than ordinary public opinion. + +Manders. I admit it. What then? + +Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you +the truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day-- +you, and you only! + +Manders. And what may the truth be? + +Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as +great a profligate as he had been all his life. + +Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying? + +Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as +profligate--in his desires at all events--as he was before you +married us. + +Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions--his +irregularities--his excesses, if you like--as a profligate life! + +Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it. + +Manders. I don't understand what you mean. + +Mrs. Alving. It is not necessary that you should. + +Manders. It makes my brain reel. To think that your marriage--all +the years of wedded life you spent with your husband--were +nothing but a hidden abyss of misery. + +Mrs. Alving. That and nothing else. Now you know. + +Manders. This--this bewilders me. I can't understand it! I can't +grasp it! How in the world was it possible? How could such a +state of things remain concealed? + +Mrs. Alving. That was just what I had to fight for incessantly, +day after day. When Oswald was born, I thought I saw a slight +improvement. But it didn't last long. And after that I had to +fight doubly hard--fight a desperate fight so that no one should +know what sort of a man my child's father was. You know quite +well what an attractive manner he had; it seemed as if people +could believe nothing but good of him. He was one of those men +whose mode of life seems to have no effect upon their +reputations. But at last, Mr. Manders--you must hear this too--at +last something happened more abominable than everything else. + +Manders. More abominable than what you have told me! + +Mrs. Alving. I had borne with it all, though I knew only too well +what he indulged in in secret, when he was out of the house. But +when it came to the point of the scandal coming within our four +walls-- + +Manders. Can you mean it! Here? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, here, in our own home. It was in there +(pointing to the nearer door on the right) in the dining-room +that I got the first hint of it. I had something to do in there +and the door was standing ajar. I heard our maid come up from the +garden with water for the flowers in the conservatory. + +Manders. Well--? + +Mrs. Alving. Shortly afterwards I heard my husband come in too. I +heard him say something to her in a low voice. And then I heard-- +(with a short laugh)--oh, it rings in my ears still, with its +mixture of what was heartbreaking and what was so ridiculous--I +heard my own servant whisper: "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!" + +Manders. What unseemly levity on his part! But surely nothing +more than levity, Mrs. Alving, believe me. + +Mrs. Alving. I soon knew what to believe. My husband had his will +of the girl--and that intimacy had consequences, Mr. Manders. + +Manders (as if turned to stone). And all that in this house! In +this house! + +Mrs. Alving. I have suffered a good deal in this house. To keep +him at home in the evening--and at night--I have had to play the +part of boon companion in his secret drinking-bouts in his room +up there. I have had to sit there alone with him, have had to +hobnob and drink with him, have had to listen to his ribald +senseless talk, have had to fight with brute force to get him to +bed-- + +Manders (trembling). And you were able to endure all this! + +Mrs. Alving. I had my little boy, and endured it for his sake. +But when the crowning insult came--when my own servant--then I +made up my mind that there should be an end of it. I took the +upper hand in the house, absolutely--both with him and all the +others. I had a weapon to use against him, you see; he didn't +dare to speak. It was then that Oswald was sent away. He was +about seven then, and was beginning to notice things and ask +questions as children will. I could endure all that, my friend. +It seemed to me that the child would be poisoned if he breathed +the air of this polluted house. That was why I sent him away. And +now you understand, too, why he never set foot here as long as +his father was alive. No one knows what it meant to me. + +Manders. You have indeed had a pitiable experience. + +Mrs. Alving. I could never have gone through with it, if I had +not had my work. Indeed, I can boast that I have worked. All the +increase in the value of the property, all the improvements, all +the useful arrangements that my husband got the honour and glory +of--do you suppose that he troubled himself about any of them? +He, who used to lie the whole day on the sofa reading old +official lists! No, you may as well know that too. It was I that +kept him up to the mark when he had his lucid intervals; it was I +that had to bear the whole burden of it when he began his +excesses again or took to whining about his miserable condition. + +Manders. And this is the man you are building a memorial to! + +Mrs. Alving. There you see the power of an uneasy conscience. + +Manders. An uneasy conscience? What do you mean? + +Mrs. Alving. I had always before me the fear that it was +impossible that the truth should not come out and be believed. +That is why the Orphanage is to exist, to silence all rumours and +clear away all doubt. + +Manders. You certainly have not fallen short of the mark in that, +Mrs. Alving. + +Mrs. Alving. I had another very good reason. I did not wish +Oswald, my own son, to inherit a penny that belonged to his +father. + +Manders. Then it is with Mr. Alving's property. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes. The sums of money that, year after year, I have +given towards this Orphanage, make up the amount of property--I +have reckoned it carefully--which in the old days made Lieutenant +Alving a catch. + +Manders. I understand. + +Mrs. Alving. That was my purchase money. I don't wish it to pass +into Oswald's hands. My son shall have everything from me, I am +determined. + +(OSWALD comes in by the farther door on the right. He has left +his hat and coat outside.) + +Mrs. Alving. Back again, my own dear boy? + +Oswald. Yes, what can one do outside in this everlasting rain? I +hear dinner is nearly ready. That's good! + +(REGINA comes in front the dining-room, carrying a parcel.) + +Regina. This parcel has come for you, ma'am. (Gives it to her.) + +Mrs. Alving (glancing at MANDERS). The ode to be sung tomorrow, I +expect. + +Manders. Hm--! + +Regina. And dinner is ready. + +Mrs. Alving. Good. We will come in a moment. I will just--(begins +to open the parcel). + +Regina (to OSWALD). Will you drink white or red wine, sir? + +Oswald. Both, Miss Engstrand. + +Regina. Bien--very good, Mr. Alving. (Goes into the dining-room.) + +Oswald. I may as well help you to uncork it--. (Follows her into +the dining-room, leaving the door ajar after him.) + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I thought so. Here is the ode, Mr Manders. + +Manders (clasping his hands). How shall I ever have the courage +tomorrow to speak the address that-- + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, you will get through it. + +Manders (in a low voice, fearing to be heard in the dining room). +Yes, we must raise no suspicions. + +Mrs. Alving (quietly but firmly). No; and then this long dreadful +comedy will be at an end. After tomorrow, I shall feel as if my +dead husband had never lived in this house. There will be no one +else here then but my boy and his mother. + +(From the dining-room is heard the noise of a chair falling; +then REGINA'S voice is heard in a loud whisper: Oswald! Are you +mad? Let me go!) + +Mrs. Alving (starting in horror). Oh--! + +(She stares wildly at the half-open door. OSWALD is heard +coughing and humming, then the sound of a bottle being uncorked.) + +Manders (in an agitated manner). What's the matter? What is it, +Mrs. Alving? + +Mrs. Alving (hoarsely). Ghosts. The couple in the conservatory-- +over again. + +Manders. What are you saying! Regina--? Is SHE--! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, Come. Not a word--! + +(Grips MANDERS by the arm and walks unsteadily with him into the +dining-room.) + +ACT II + +(The same scene. The landscape is still obscured by Mist. MANDERS +and MRS. ALVING come in from the dining-room.) + +Mrs. Alving (calls into the dining-room from the doorway). Aren't +you coming in here, Oswald? + +Oswald. No, thanks; I think I will go out for a bit. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, do; the weather is clearing a little. (She +shuts the dining-room door, then goes to the hall door and +calls.) Regina! + +Regina (from without). Yes, ma'am? + +Mrs. Alving. Go down into the laundry and help with the garlands. + +Regina. Yes, ma'am. + +(MRS. ALVING satisfies herself that she has gone, then shuts the +door.) + +Manders. I suppose he can't hear us? + +Mrs. Alving. Not when the door is shut. Besides, he is going out. + +Manders. I am still quite bewildered. I don't know how I managed +to swallow a mouthful of your excellent dinner. + +Mrs. Alving (walking up and down, and trying to control her +agitation). Nor I. But, what are we to do? + +Manders. Yes, what are we to do? Upon my word I don't know; I am +so completely unaccustomed to things of this kind. + +Mrs. Alving. I am convinced that nothing serious has happened +yet. + +Manders. Heaven forbid! But it is most unseemly behaviour, for +all that. + +Mrs. Alving. It is nothing more than a foolish jest of Oswald's, +you may be sure. + +Manders. Well, of course, as I said, I am quite inexperienced in +such matters; but it certainly seems to me-- + +Mrs. Alving. Out of the house she shall go--and at once. That +part of it is as clear as daylight-- + +Manders. Yes, that is quite clear. + +Mrs. Alving. But where is she to go? We should not be justified +in-- + +Manders. Where to? Home to her father, of course. + +Mrs. Alving. To whom, did you say? + +Manders. To her--. No, of course Engstrand isn't--. But, great +heavens, Mrs. Alving, how is such a thing possible? You surely +may have been mistaken, in spite of everything. + +Mrs. Alving. There was no chance of mistake, more's the pity. +Joanna was obliged to confess it to me--and my husband couldn't +deny it. So there was nothing else to do but to hush it up. + +Manders. No, that was the only thing to do. + +Mrs. Alving. The girl was sent away at once, and was given a +tolerably liberal sum to hold her tongue. She looked after the +rest herself when she got to town. She renewed an old +acquaintance with the carpenter Engstrand; gave him a hint, I +suppose, of how much money she had got, and told him some fairy +tale about a foreigner who had been here in his yacht in the +summer. So she and Engstrand were married in a great hurry. Why, +you married them yourself! + +Manders. I can't understand it--, I remember clearly Engstrand's +coming to arrange about the marriage. He was full of contrition, +and accused himself bitterly for the light conduct he and his +fiancee had been guilty of. + +Mrs. Alving. Of course he had to take the blame on himself. + +Manders. But the deceitfulness of it! And with me, too! I +positively would not have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall +most certainly give him a serious talking to. And the immorality +of such a marriage! Simply for the sake of the money--! What sum +was it that the girl had? + +Mrs. Alving. It was seventy pounds. + +Manders. Just think of it--for a paltry seventy pounds to let +yourself be bound in marriage to a fallen woman! + +Mrs. Alving. What about myself, then?--I let myself be bound in +marriage to a fallen man. + +Manders. Heaven forgive you! What are you saying? A fallen man? + +Mrs. Alving. Do you suppose my husband was any purer, when I went +with him to the altar, than Joanna was when Engstrand agreed to +marry her? + +Manders. The two cases are as different as day from night. + +Mrs. Alving. Not so very different, after all. It is true there +was a great difference in the price paid, between a paltry +seventy pounds and a whole fortune. + +Manders. How can you compare such totally different things! I +presume you consulted your own heart--and your relations. + +Mrs. Alving (looking away from him). I thought you understood +where what you call my heart had strayed to at that time. + +Manders (in a constrained voice). If I had understood anything of +the kind, I would not have been a daily guest in your husband's +house. + +Mrs. Alving. Well, at any rate this much is certain-- I +didn't consult myself in the matter at all. + +Manders. Still you consulted those nearest to you, as was only +right--your mother, your two aunts. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true. The three of them settled the +whole matter for me. It seems incredible to me now, how clearly +they made out that it would be sheer folly to reject such an +offer. If my mother could only see what all that fine prospect +has led to! + +Manders. No one can be responsible for the result of it. Anyway +there is this to be said, that the match was made in complete +conformity with law and order. + +Mrs. Alving (going to the window). Oh, law and order! I often +think it is that that is at the bottom of all the misery in the +world, + +Manders. Mrs. Alving, it is very wicked of you to say that. + +Mrs. Alving. That may be so; but I don't attach importance to +those obligations and considerations any longer. I cannot! I must +struggle for my freedom. + +Manders. What do you mean? + +Mrs. Alving (taping on the window panes). I ought never to have +concealed what sort of a life my husband led. But I had not the +courage to do otherwise then--for my own sake, either. I was too +much of a coward. + +Manders. A coward? + +Mrs. Alving. If others had known anything of what happened, they +would have said: "Poor man, it is natural enough that he should +go astray, when he has a wife that has run away from him." + +Manders. They would have had a certain amount of justification +for saying so. + +Mrs. Alving (looking fixedly at him). If I had been the woman I +ought, I would have taken Oswald into my confidence and said to +him: "Listen, my son, your father was a dissolute man"-- + +Manders. Miserable woman. + +Mrs. Alving. --and I would have told him all I have told you, +from beginning to end. + +Manders. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs. Alving. + +Mrs. Alving. I know. I know quite well! I am shocked at myself +when I think of it. (Comes away from the window.) I am coward +enough for that. + +Manders. Can you call it cowardice that you simply did your duty? +Have you forgotten that a child should love and honour his father +and mother? + +Mrs. Alving. Don't let us talk in such general terms. Suppose we +say: "Ought Oswald to love and honour Mr. Alving?" + +Manders. You are a mother--isn't there a voice in your heart that +forbids you to shatter your son's ideals? + +Mrs. Alving. And what about the truth? + +Manders. What about his ideals? + +Mrs: Alving. Oh--ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward +as I am! + +Manders. Do not spurn ideals, Mrs. Alving--they have a way of +avenging themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's own case, now. He +hasn't many ideals, more's the pity. But this much I have seen, +that his father is something of an ideal to him. + +Mrs. Alving. You are right there. + +Manders. And his conception of his father is what you inspired +and encouraged by your letters. + +Mrs: Alving. Yes, I was swayed by duty and consideration for +others; that was why I lied to my son, year in and year out. Oh, +what a coward--what a coward I have been! + +Manders. You have built up a happy illusion in your son's mind, +Mrs. Alving--and that is a thing you certainly ought not to +undervalue. + +Mrs. Alving. Ah, who knows if that is such a desirable thing +after all!--But anyway I don't intend to put up with any goings +on with Regina. I am not going to let him get the poor girl into +trouble. + +Manders. Good heavens, no--that would be a frightful thing! + +Mrs. Alving. If only I knew whether he meant it seriously, and +whether it would mean happiness for him. + +Manders. In what way? I don't understand. + +Mrs. Alving. But that is impossible; Regina is not equal to it, +unfortunately. + +Manders, I don't understand: What do you mean? + +Mrs. Alving. If I were not such a miserable coward, I would say +to him: "Marry her, or make any arrangement you like with her-- +only let there be no deceit in the matter." + +Manders. Heaven forgive you! Are you actually suggesting anything +so abominable, so unheard of, as a marriage between them! + +Mrs. Alving. Unheard of, do you call it? Tell me honestly, Mr. +Manders, don't you suppose there are plenty of married couples +out here in the country that are just as nearly related as they +are? + +Manders. I am sure I don't understand you. + +Mrs. Alving. Indeed you do. + +Manders. I suppose you are thinking of cases where possibly--. It +is only too true, unfortunately, that family life is not always +as stainless as it should be. But as for the sort of thing you +hint at--well, it's impossible to tell, at all events, with any +certainty. Here on the other hand--for you, a mother, to be +willing to allow your-- + +Mrs. Alving. But I am not willing to allow it; I would not allow +it for anything in the world; that is just what I was saying. + +Manders. No, because you are a coward, as you put it. But, +supposing you were not a coward--! Great heavens--such a +revolting union! + +Mrs. Alving. Well, for the matter of that, we are all descended +from a union of that description, so we are told. And who was it +that was responsible for this state of things, Mr. Manders? + +Manders. I can't discuss such questions with you, Mrs. Alving; +you are by no means in the right frame of mind for that. But for +you to dare to say that it is cowardly of you--! + +Mrs. Alving. I will tell you what I mean by that. I am frightened +and timid, because I am obsessed by the presence of ghosts that I +never can get rid of, + +Manders. The presence of what? + +Mrs. Alving. Ghosts. When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it +was just like seeing ghosts before my eyes. I am half inclined to +think we are all ghosts, Mr. Manders. It is not only what we have +inherited from our fathers and mothers that exists again in us, +but all sorts of old dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs +and things of that kind. They are not actually alive in us; but +there they are dormant, all the same, and we can never be rid of +them. Whenever I take up a newspaper and read it, I fancy I see +ghosts creeping between the lines. There must be ghosts all over +the world. They must be as countless as the grains of the sands, +it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of the light, all +of us. + +Manders. Ah!--there we have the outcome of your reading. Fine +fruit it has borne--this abominable, subversive, free-thinking +literature! + +Mrs. Alving. You are wrong there, my friend. You are the one who +made me begin to think; and I owe you my best thanks for it. + +Menders. I! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, by forcing me to submit to what you called my +duty and my obligations; by praising as right and lust what my +whole soul revolted against, as it would against something +abominable. That was what led me to examine your teachings +critically. I only wanted to unravel one point in them; but as +soon as I had got that unravelled, the whole fabric came to +pieces. And then I realised that it was only machine-made. + +Manders (softly, and with emotion). Is that all I accomplished by +the hardest struggle of my life? + +Mrs. Alving. Call it rather the most ignominious defeat of your +life. + +Manders. It was the greatest victory of my life, Helen; victory +over myself. + +Mrs. Alving. It was a wrong done to both of us. + +Manders. A wrong?--wrong for me to entreat you as a wife to go +back to your lawful husband, when you came to me half distracted +and crying: "Here I am, take me!" Was that a wrong? + +Mrs. Alving. I think it was. + +Menders. We two do not understand one another. + +Mrs. Alving. Not now, at all events. + +Manders. Never--even in my most secret thoughts--have I for a +moment regarded you as anything but the wife of another. + +Mrs. Alving. Do you believe what you say? + +Manders. Helen--! + +Mrs. Alving. One so easily forgets one's own feelings. Manders. +Not I. I am the same as I always was. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes--don't let us talk any more about the old +days. You are buried up to your eyes now in committees and all +sorts of business; and I am here, fighting with ghosts both +without and within me. + +Manders. I can at all events help you to get the better of those +without you. After all that I have been horrified to hear you +from today, I cannot conscientiously allow a young defenceless +girl to remain in your house. + +Mrs. Alving. Don't you think it would be best if we could get her +settled?--by some suitable marriage, I mean. + +Manders. Undoubtedly. I think, in any case, it would have been +desirable for her. Regina is at an age now that--well, I don't +know much about these things, but-- + +Mrs. Alving. Regina developed very early. + +Manders. Yes, didn't she. I fancy I remember thinking she was +remarkably well developed, bodily, at the time I prepared her for +Confirmation. But, for the time being, she must in any case go +home. Under her father's care--no, but of course Engstrand is +not. To think that he, of all men, could so conceal the truth +from me! (A knock is heard at the hall door.) + +Mrs. Alving. Who can that be? Come in! + +(ENGSTRAND, dressed in his Sunday clothes, appears in the +doorway.) + +Engstrand. I humbly beg pardon, but-- + +Manders. Aha! Hm! + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, it's you, Engstrand! + +Engstrand. There were none of the maids about, so I took the +great liberty of knocking. + +Mrs. Alving. That's all right. Come in. Do you want to speak to +me? + +Engstrand (coming in). No, thank you very much, ma'am. It was Mr. +Menders I wanted to speak to for a moment. + +Manders (walking up and down). Hm!--do you. You want to speak to +me, do you? + +Engstrand. Yes, sir, I wanted so very much to-- + +Manders (stopping in front of him). Well, may I ask what it is +you want? + +Engstrand. It's this way, Mr. Manders. We are being paid off now. +And many thanks to you, Mrs. Alving. And now the work is quite +finished, I thought it would be so nice and suitable if all of +us, who have worked so honestly together all this time, were to +finish up with a few prayers this evening. + +Manders. Prayers? Up at the Orphanage? + +Engstrand. Yes, sir, but if it isn't agreeable to you, then-- + +Manders. Oh, certainly--but--hm!-- + +Engstrand. I have made a practice of saying a few prayers there +myself each evening. + +Mrs: Alving. Have you? + +Engstrand. Yes, ma'am, now-- and then--just as a little +edification, so to speak. But I am only a poor common man, and +haven't rightly the gift, alas--and so I thought that as Mr, +Manders happened to be here, perhaps-- + +Manders. Look here, Engstrand! First of all I must ask you a +question. Are you in a proper frame of mind for such a thing? Is +your conscience free and untroubled? + +Engstrand. Heaven have mercy on me a sinner! My conscience isn't +worth our speaking about, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. But it is just what we must speak about. What do you say +to my question? + +Engstrand. My conscience? Well--it's uneasy sometimes, of course. + +Manders. Ah, you admit that at all events. Now will you tell me, +without any concealment-- what is your relationship to Regina? + +Mrs. Alving (hastily). Mr. Manders! + +Manders (calming her).--Leave it to me! + +Engstrand. With Regina? Good Lord, how you frightened me! (Looks +at MRS ALVING.) There is nothing wrong with Regina, is there? + +Manders. Let us hope not. What I want to know is, what is your +relationship to her? You pass as her father, don't you? + +Engstrand (unsteadily): Well--hm!--you know, sir, what happened +between me and my poor Joanna. + +Manders. No more distortion of the truth! Your late wife made a +full confession to Mrs. Alving, before she left her service... + +Engstrand. What!--do you mean to say--? Did she do that after +all? + +Manders. You see it has all come out, Engstrand. + +Engstrand. Do you mean to say that she, who gave me her promise +and solemn oath-- + +Manders. Did she take an oath? + +Engstrand. Well, no--she only gave me her word, but as seriously +as a woman could. + +Manders. And all these years you have been hiding the truth from +me--from me, who have had such complete and absolute faith in you. + +Engstrand. I am sorry to say I have, sir. + +Manders. Did I deserve that from you, Engstrand? Haven't I been +always ready to help you in word and deed as far as lay in my +power? Answer me! Is it not so? + +Engstrand. Indeed there's many a time I should have been very +badly off without you, sir. + +Manders. And this is the way you repay me--by causing me to make +false entries in the church registers, and afterwards keeping +back from me for years the information which you owed it both to +me and to your sense of the truth to divulge. Your conduct has +been absolutely inexcusable, Engstrand, and from today everything +is at an end between us. + +Engstrand (with a sigh). Yes, I can see that's what it means. + +Manders. Yes, because how can you possibly justify what you did? + +Engstrand. Was the poor girl to go and increase her load of shame +by talking about it? Just suppose, sir, for a moment that your +reverence was in the same predicament as my poor Joanna. + +Manders. I! + +Engstrand. Good Lord, sir, I don't mean the same predicament. I +mean, suppose there were something your reverence was ashamed of +in the eyes of the world, so to speak. We men ought not judge a +poor woman too hardly, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming. + +Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small +question? + +Manders. Ask away. + +Engstrand. Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up +the fallen? + +Manders. Of course it is. + +Engstrand. And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honour? + +Manders. Certainly he is; but-- + +Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this +Englishman--or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they +call 'em--well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had +refused me once or twice before; she only had eyes for good- +looking men in those days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your +reverence will remember how I had ventured up into a dancing- +saloon where seafaring men were revelling in drunkenness and +intoxication, as they say. And when I tried to exhort them to +turn from their evil ways-- + +Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem! + +Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know--the rough brutes threw you +downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The +affliction to your leg is a credit to you. + +Engstrand. I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence. +But what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided +in me with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it +went to my heart to hear her. + +Manders. Did it, indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then? + +Engstrand. Well, then I said to her: "The American is roaming +about on the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna," I said, "you +have committed a sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands +Jacob Engstrand," I said, "on two strong legs"--of course that +was only speaking in a kind of metaphor, as it were, your +reverence. + +Manders. I quite understand. Go on. + +Engstrand. Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her my +lawful wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she had +carried on with the stranger. + +Manders. That was all very kindly done. The only thing I cannot +justify was your bringing yourself to accept the money. + +Engstrand. Money? I? Not a farthing. + +Manders (to MRS. ALVING, in a questioning tare). But-- + +Engstrand. Ah, yes!--wait a bit; I remember now. Joanna did have +a trifle of money, you are quite right. But I didn't want to know +anything about that. "Fie," I said, "on the mammon of +unrighteousness, it's the price of your sin; as for this tainted +gold"--or notes, or whatever it was--"we will throw it back in +the American's face," I said. But he had gone away and +disappeared on the stormy seas, your reverence. + +Manders. Was that how it was, my good fellow? + +Engstrand. It was, sir. So then Joanna and I decided that the +money should go towards the child's bringing-up, and that's what +became of it; and I can give a faithful account of every single +penny of it. + +Manders. This alters the complexion of the affair very +considerably. + +Engstrand. That's how it was, your reverence. And I make bold to +say that I have been a good father to Regina--as far as was in my +power--for I am a poor erring mortal, alas! + +Manders. There, there, my dear Engstrand. + +Engstrand. Yes, I do make bold to say that I brought up the +child, and made my poor Joanna a loving and careful husband, as +the Bible says we ought. But it never occurred to me to go to +your reverence and claim credit for it or boast about it because +I had done one good deed in this world. No; when Jacob Engstrand +does a thing like that, he holds his tongue about it. +Unfortunately it doesn't often happen, I know that only too well. +And whenever I do come to see your reverence, I never seem to +have anything but trouble and wickedness to talk about. Because, +as I said just now--and I say it again--conscience can be very +hard on us sometimes. + +Manders. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand, + +Engstrand. Oh, sir, I don't like-- + +Manders. No nonsense, (Grasps his hand.) That's it! + +Engstrand. And may I make bold humbly to beg your reverence's +pardon-- + +Manders. You? On the contrary it is for me to beg your pardon-- + +Engstrand. Oh no, sir. + +Manders. Yes, certainly it is, and I do it with my whole heart. +Forgive me for having so much misjudged you. And I assure you +that if I can do anything for you to prove my sincere regret and +my goodwill towards you-- + +Engstrand. Do you mean it, sir? + +Manders. It would give me the greatest pleasure. + +Engstrand. As a matter of fact, sir, you could do it now. I am +thinking of using the honest money I have put away out of my +wages up here, in establishing a sort of Sailors' Home in the +town. + +Mrs. Alving. You? + +Engstrand. Yes, to be a sort of Refuge, as it were, There are +such manifold temptations lying in wait for sailor men when they +are roaming about on shore. But my idea is that in this house of +mine they should have a sort of parental care looking after them. + +Menders. What do you say to that, Mrs. Alving! + +Engstrand. I haven't much to begin such a work with, I know; but +Heaven might prosper it, and if I found any helping hand +stretched out to me, then-- + +Manders. Quite so; we will talk over the matter further. Your +project attracts me enormously. But in the meantime go back to +the Orphanage and put everything tidy and light the lights, so +that the occasion may seem a little solemn. And then we will +spend a little edifying time together, my dear Engstrand, for now +I am sure you are in a suitable frame of mind. + +Engstrand. I believe I am, sir, truly. Goodbye, then, Mrs. +Alving, and thank you for all your kindness; and take good care +of Regina for me. (Wipes a tear from his eye.) Poor Joanna's +child-- it is an extraordinary thing, but she seems to have grown +into my life and to hold me by the heartstrings. That's how I +feel about it, truly. (Bows, and goes out.) + +Manders. Now then, what do you think of him, Mrs Alving! That was +quite another explanation that he gave us. + +Mrs. Alving. It was, indeed. + +Manders. There, you see how exceedingly careful we ought to be in +condemning our fellow-men. But at the same time it gives one +genuine pleasure to find that one was mistaken. Don't you think +so? + +Mrs. Alving. What I think is that you are, and always will +remain, a big baby, Mr. Manders. + +Menders. I? + +Mrs. Alving (laying her hands on his shoulders). And I think that +I should like very much to give you a good hug. + +Manders (drawing beck hastily). No, no, good gracious! What an +idea! + +Mrs. Alving (with a smile). Oh, you needn't be afraid of me. + +Manders (standing by the table). You choose such an extravagant +way of expressing yourself sometimes. Now I must get these papers +together and put them in my bag. (Does so.) That's it. And now +goodbye, for the present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes +back. I will come back and see you again presently. + +(He takes his hat and goes out by the hall door. MRS. ALVING +sighs, glances out of the window, puts one or two things tidy in +the room and turns to go into the dining-room. She stops in the +doorway with a stifled cry.) + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald, are you still sitting at table! + +Oswald (from the dining-room). I am only finishing my cigar. + +Mrs. Alving. I thought you had gone out for a little turn. + +Oswald (from within the room). In weather like this? (A glass is +heard clinking. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down +with her knitting on the couch by the window.) Wasn't that Mr. +Manders that went out just now? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, he has gone over to the Orphanage. + +Oswald. Oh. (The clink of a bottle on a glass is heard again.) + +Mrs. Alving (with an uneasy expression.) Oswald, dear, you should +be careful with that liqueur. It is strong. + +Oswald. It's a good protective against the damp. + +Mrs. Alving. Wouldn't you rather come in here? + +Oswald. You know you don't like smoking in there. + +Mrs. Alving. You may smoke a cigar in here, certainly. + +Oswald. All right; I will come in, then. Just one drop more. +There! (Comes in, smoking a cigar, and shuts the door after him. +A short silence.) Where has the parson gone? + +Mrs. Alving. I told you he had gone over to the Orphanage. + +Oswald. Oh, so you did. + +Mrs. Alving. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald, + +Oswald (holding his cigar behind his back). But it's so nice and +cosy, mother dear. (Caresses her with one hand.) Think what it +means to me--to have come home; to sit at my mother's own table, +in my mother's own room, and to enjoy the charming meals she +gives me. + +Mrs. Alving. My dear, dear boy! + +Oswald (a little impatiently, as he walks tip and down smoking.) +And what else is there for me to do here? I have no occupation-- + +Mrs. Alving. No occupation? + +Oswald. Not in this ghastly weather, when there isn't a blink of +sunshine all day long. (Walks up and down the floor.) Not to be +able to work, it's--! + +Mrs. Alving. I don't believe you were wise to come home. + +Oswald. Yes, mother; I had to. + +Mrs. Alving. Because I would ten times rather give up the +happiness of having you with me, sooner than that you should-- + +Oswald (standing still by the table). Tell me, mother--is it +really such a great happiness for you to have me at home? + +Mrs. Alving. Can you ask? + +Oswald (crumpling up a newspaper). I should have thought it would +have been pretty much the same to you whether I were here or +away. + +Mrs. Alving. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, +Oswald? + +Oswald. But you have been quite happy living without me so far. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I have lived without you--that is true. + +(A silence. The dusk falls by degrees. OSWALD walks restlessly up +and down. He has laid aside his cigar.) Oswald (stopping beside +MRS. ALVING). Mother, may I sit on the couch beside you? + +Mrs. Alving. Of course, my dear boy. + +Oswald (sitting down). Now I must tell you something mother. + +Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What? + +Oswald (staring in front of him). I can't bear it any longer. + +Mrs. Alving. Bear what? What do you mean? + +Oswald (as before). I couldn't bring myself to write to you about +it; and since I have been at home-- + +Mrs. Alving (catching him by the arm). Oswald, what is it? + +Oswald. Both yesterday and today I have tried to push my +thoughts away from me--to free myself from them. But I can't. + +Mrs. Alving (getting up). You must speak plainly, Oswald! + +Oswald (drawing her down to her seat again). Sit still, and I +will try and tell you. I have made a great deal of the fatigue I +felt after my journey-- + +Mrs. Alving. Well, what of that? + +Oswald. But that isn't what is the matter. It is no ordinary +fatigue-- + +Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald! + +Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it +quietly. I am not exactly ill--not ill in the usual sense. (Takes +his head in his hands.) Mother, it's my mind that has broken +down--gone to pieces--I shall never be able to work anymore! +(Buries his face in his hands and throws himself at her knees in +an outburst of sobs.) + +Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it +isn't true! + +Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be +able to work anymore! Never--never! A living death! Mother, can +you imagine anything so horrible! + +Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing +happened? + +Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly +understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must +believe that of me, mother, I have never done that. + +Mrs. Alving. I haven't a doubt of it, Oswald. + +Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible +disaster! + +Mrs. Alving. Oh, but it will all come right again, my dear +precious boy. It is nothing but overwork. Believe me, that is so. + +Oswald (dully). I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so. + +Mrs. Alving. Tell me all about it. + +Oswald. Yes, I will. + +Mrs. Alving. When did you first feel anything? + +Oswald. It was just after I had been home last time and had got +back to Paris. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head- +-mostly at the back, I think. It was as if a tight band of iron +was pressing on me from my neck upwards. + +Mrs. Alving. And then? + +Oswald. At first I thought it was nothing but the headaches I +always used to be so much troubled with while I was growing. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes. + +Oswald. But it wasn't; I soon saw that. I couldn't work any +longer. I would try and start some big new picture; but it seemed +as if all my faculties had forsaken me, as if all my strengths +were paralysed. I couldn't manage to collect my thoughts; my head +seemed to swim--everything went round and round. It was a +horrible feeling! At last I sent for a doctor--and from him I +learned the truth. + +Mrs. Alving. In what way, do you mean? + +Oswald. He was one of the best doctors there. He made me describe +what I felt, and then he began to ask me a whole heap of +questions which seemed to me to have nothing to do with the +matter. I couldn't see what he was driving at-- + +Mrs. Alving. Well? + +Oswald. At last he said: "You have had the canker of disease in +you practically from your birth"--the actual word he used was "vermoulu"... + +Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What did he mean by that? Oswald. I +couldn't understand, either--and I asked him for a clearer +explanation, And then the old cynic said--(clenching his fist). +Oh! + +Mrs. Alving. What did he say? + +Oswald. He said: "The sins of the fathers are visited on the +children." + +Mrs. Alving (getting up slowly). The sins of the fathers--! + +Oswald. I nearly struck him in the face. + +Mrs. Alving (walking across the room). The sins of the fathers--! + +Oswald (smiling sadly). Yes, just imagine! Naturally I assured +him that what he thought was impossible. But do you think he paid +any heed to me? No, he persisted in his opinion; and it was only +when I got out your letters and translated to him all the +passages that referred to my father-- + +Mrs. Alving. Well, and then? + +Oswald. Well, then of course he had to admit that he was on the +wrong track; and then I learned the truth-- the incomprehensible +truth! I ought to have had nothing to do with the joyous happy +life I had lived with my comrades. It had been too much for my +strength. So it was my own fault! + +Mrs. Alving. No, no, Oswald! Don't believe that-- + +Oswald. There was no other explanation of it possible, he said. +That is the most horrible part of it. My whole life incurably +ruined--just because of my own imprudence. All that I wanted to do +in the world-=not to dare to think of it any more--not to be able +to think of it! Oh! if only I could live my life over again--if +only I could undo what I have done! (Throws himself on his face +on the couch. MRS. ALVING wrings her hands, and walks up and down +silently fighting with herself.) + +Oswald (looks up after a while, raising himself on his elbows). +If only it had been something I had inherited--something I could +not help. But, instead of that, to have disgracefully, stupidly, +thoughtlessly thrown away one's happiness, one's health, +everything in the world--one's future, one's life! + +Mrs. Alving. No, no, my darling boy; that is impossible! (Bending +over him.) Things are not so desperate as you think. + +Oswald. Ah, you don't know--(Springs up.) And to think, mother, +that I should bring all this sorrow upon you! Many a time I have +almost wished and hoped that you really did not care so very much +for me. + +Mrs. Alving. I, Oswald? My only son! All that I have in the +world! The only thing I care about! + +Oswald (taking hold of her hands and kissing them). Yes, yes, I +know that is so. When I am at home I know that is true. And that +is one of the hardest parts of it to me. But now you know all +about it; and now we won't talk anymore about it today. I can't +stand thinking about it long at a time. (Walks across the room.) +Let me have something to drink, mother! + +Mrs. Alving. To drink? What do you want? + +Oswald. Oh, anything you like. I suppose you have got some punch +in the house. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, but my dear Oswald--! + +Oswald. Don't tell me I mustn't, mother. Do be nice! I must have +something to drown these gnawing thoughts. (Goes into the +conservatory.) And how--how gloomy it is here! (MRS. ALVING rings +the bell.) And this incessant rain. It may go on week after week- +-a whole month. Never a ray of sunshine. I don't remember ever +having seen the sunshine once when I have been at home. + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald--you are thinking of going away from me! + +Oswald. Hm!--(sighs deeply). I am not thinking about anything. I +can't think about anything! (In a low voice.) I have to let that +alone. + +Regina (coming from the dining-room). Did you ring, ma'am? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us have the lamp in. + +Regina. In a moment, ma'am; it is all ready lit. (Goes out.) + +Mrs. Alving (going up to OSWALD). Oswald, don't keep anything +back from me. + +Oswald. I don't, mother. (Goes to the table.) It seems to me I +have told you a good lot. + +(REGINA brings the lamp and puts it upon the table.) + +Mrs. Alving. Regina, you might bring us a small bottle of +champagne. + +Regina. Yes, ma'am. (Goes out.) + +Oswald (taking hold of his mother's face). That's right; I knew +my mother wouldn't let her son go thirsty. + +Mrs, Alving. My poor dear boy, how could I refuse you anything +now? + +Oswald (eagerly). Is that true, mother? Do you mean it? + +Mrs. Alving. Mean what? + +Oswald. That you couldn't deny me anything? + +Mrs. Alving. My dear Oswald-- + +Oswald. Hush! + +(REGINA brings in a tray with a small bottle of champagne and two +glasses, which she puts on the table.) + +Regina. Shall I open the bottle? + +Oswald. No, thank you, I will do it. (REGINA goes out.) + +Mrs, Alving (sitting clown at the table). What did you mean, when +you asked if I could refuse you nothing? + +Oswald (busy opening the bottle). Let us have a glass first--or +two. + +(He draws the cork, fills one glass and is going to fill the +other.) + +Mrs. Alving (holding her hand over the second glass) No, thanks-- +not for me. + +Oswald. Oh, well, for me then! (He empties his glass, fills it +again and empties it; then sits down at the table.) + +Mrs. Alving (expectantly). Now, tell me. + +Oswald (without looking at her). Tell me this; I thought you and +Mr. Manders seemed so strange--so quiet--at dinner. + +Mrs. Alving. Did you notice that? + +Oswald. Yes. Ahem! (After a short pause.) Tell me--what do you +think of Regina? + +Mrs. Alving. What do I think of her? + +Oswald. Yes, isn't she splendid! + +Mrs. Alving. Dear Oswald, you don't know her as well as I do-- + +Oswald. What of that? + +Mrs. Alving. Regina was too long at home, unfortunately. I ought +to have taken her under my charge sooner. + +Oswald. Yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, mother? (Fills +his glass,) + +Mrs. Alving. Regina has many serious faults-- + +Oswald. Yes, but what of that? (Drinks.) + +Mrs. Alving. But I am fond of her, all the same; and I have made +myself responsible for her. I wouldn't for the world she should +come to any harm. + +Oswald (jumping up). Mother, Regina is my only hope of salvation! + +Mrs. Alving (getting up). What do you mean? + +Oswald. I can't go on bearing all this agony of mind alone. + +Mrs. Alving, Haven't you your mother to help you to bear it? + +Oswald. Yes, I thought so; that was why I came home to you. But +it is no use; I see that it isn't. I cannot spend my life here. + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! + +Oswald. I must live a different sort of life, mother; so I shall +have to go away from you, I don't want you watching it. + +Mrs. Alving. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, as long as you are ill +like this-- + +Oswald. If it was only a matter of feeling ill, I would stay with +you, mother. You are the best friend I have in the world. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I am that, Oswald, am I not? + +Oswald (walking restlessly about). But all this torment--the +regret, the remorse--and the deadly fear. Oh--this horrible fear! + +Mrs. Alving (following him). Fear? Fear of what? What do you +mean? + +Oswald. Oh, don't ask me any more about it. I don't know what it +is. I can't put it into words. (MRS. ALVING crosses the room and +rings the bell.) What do you want? + +Mrs. Alving. I want my boy to be happy, that's what I want. He +mustn't brood over anything. (To REGINA, who has come to the +door.) More champagne-- a large bottle. + +Oswald. Mother! + +Mrs. Alving. Do you think we country people don't know how to +live? + +Oswald. Isn't she splendid to look at? What a figure! And the +picture of health! + +Mrs. Alving (sitting down at the table). Sit down, Oswald, and +let us have a quiet talk. + +Oswald (sitting down). You don't know, mother, that I owe Regina +a little reparation. + +Mrs. Alving. You! + +Oswald. Oh, it was only a little thoughtlessness--call it what +you like. Something quite innocent, anyway. The last time I was +home-- + +Mrs. Alving. Yes? + +Oswald. --she used often to ask me questions about Paris, and I +told her one thing and another about the life there. And I +remember saying one day: "Wouldn't you like to go there yourself?" + +Mrs. Alving. Well? + +Oswald. I saw her blush, and she said: "Yes, I should like to +very much." "All right." I said, "I daresay it might be managed"- +-or something of that sort. + +Mrs. Alving. And then? + +Oswald. I naturally had forgotten all about it; but the day +before yesterday I happened to ask her if she was glad I was to +be so long at home-- + +Mrs. Alving. Well? + +Oswald. --and she looked so queerly at me, and asked: "But what +is to become of my trip to Paris? " + +Mrs. Alving. Her trip! + +Oswald. And then I got it out of her that she had taken the thing +seriously, and had been thinking about me all the time, and had +set herself to learn French-- + +Mrs. Alving. So that was why-- + +Oswald. Mother--when I saw this fine, splendid, handsome girl +standing there in front of me--I had never paid any attention to +her before then--but now, when she stood there as if with open +arms ready for me to take her to myself-- + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! + +Oswald. --then I realised that my salvation lay in her, for I saw +the joy of life in her! + +Mrs. Alving (starting back). The joy of life--? Is there +salvation in that? + +Regina (coming in from the dining-room with a bottle of +champagne). Excuse me for being so long; but I had to go to the +cellar. (Puts the bottle down on the table.) + +Oswald. Bring another glass, too. + +Regina (looking at him in astonishment). The mistress's glass is +there, sir. + +Oswald. Yes, but fetch one for yourself, Regina (REGINA starts, +and gives a quick shy glance at MRS. ALVING.) Well? + +Regina (in a low and hesitating voice). Do you wish me to, ma'am? + +Mrs. Alving. Fetch the glass, Regina. (REGINA goes into the +dining-room.) + +Oswald (looking after her). Have you noticed how well she walks?- +-so firmly and confidently! + +Mrs. Alving. It cannot be, Oswald. + +Oswald. It is settled. You must see that. It is no use forbidding +it. (REGINA comes in with a gloss, which she holds in her hand.) +Sit down, Regina. (REGINA looks questioningly at MRS. ALVING.) + +Mrs. Alving. Sit down. (REGINA sits down on a chair near the +dining-room door, still holding the glass in her hand.) Oswald, +what was it you were saying about the joy of life? + +Oswald. Ah, mother--the joy of life! You don't know very much +about that at home here. I shall never realise it here. + +Mrs. Alving. Not even when you are with me? + +Oswald. Never at home. But you can't understand that. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed I almost think I do understand you now. + +Oswald. That--and the joy of work. They are really the same thing +at bottom. Put you don't know anything about that either. + +Mrs. Alving. Perhaps you are right. Tell me some more about it, +Oswald. + +Oswald. Well, all I mean is that here people are brought up to +believe that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that +life is a state of wretchedness and that the sooner we can get +out of it the better. + +Mrs. Alving. A vale of tears, yes. And we quite conscientiously +make it so. + +Oswald. But the people over there will have none of that. There +is no one there who really believes doctrines of that kind any +longer. Over there the mere fact of being alive is thought to be +a matter for exultant happiness. Mother, have you noticed that +everything I have painted has turned upon the joy of life?-- +always upon the joy of life, unfailingly. There is light there, +and sunshine, and a holiday feeling--and people's faces beaming +with happiness. That is why I am afraid to stay at home here with +you. + +Mrs. Alving. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me? + +Oswald. I am afraid that all these feelings that are so strong in +me would degenerate into something ugly here. + +Mrs. Alving (looking steadily at him). Do you think that is what +would happen? + +Oswald. I am certain it would. Even if one lived the same life at +home here, as over there--it would never really be the same life. + +Mrs. Alving (who has listened anxiously to him, gets up with a +thoughtful expression and says:) Now I see clearly how it all +happened. + +Oswald. What do you see? + +Mrs. Alving. I see it now for the first time. And now I can +speak. + +Oswald (getting up). Mother, I don't understand you. + +Regina (who has got up also). Perhaps I had better go. + +Mrs. Alving. No, stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my son, you +shall know the whole truth. Oswald! Regina! + +Oswald. Hush!--here is the parson. + +(MANDERS comes in by the hall door.) + +Manders. Well, my friends, we have been spending an edifying time +over there. + +Oswald. So have we. + +Manders. Engstrand must have help with his Sailors Home. Regina +must go home with him and give him her assistance. + +Regina. No, thank you, Mr. Manders. + +Manders (perceiving her for the first time). What--?You in here?-- +and with a wineglass in your hand! + +Regina (putting down the glass hastily). I beg your pardon--! + +Oswald. Regina is going away with me, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Going away! With you! + +Oswald. Yes, as my wife--if she insists on that. + +Manders. But, good heavens--! + +Regina. It is not my fault, Mr. Manders. + +Oswald. Or else she stays here if I stay. + +Regina (involuntarily). Here! + +Manders. I am amazed at you, Mrs. Alving. + +Mrs. Alving. Neither of those things will happen, for now I can +speak openly. + +Manders. But you won't do that! No, no, no! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, I can and I will. And without destroying anyone's ideals. + +Oswald. Mother, what is it that is being concealed from me? + +Regina (listening). Mrs. Alving! Listen! They are shouting +outside. + +(Goes into the conservatory and looks out.) + +Oswald (going to the window on the left). What can be the matter? +Where does that glare come from? + +Regina (calls out). The Orphanage is on fire! + +Mrs. Alving (going to the window). On fire? + +Manders. On fire? Impossible. I was there just a moment ago. + +Oswald. Where is my hat? Oh, never mind that. Father's Orphanage--! + +(Runs out through the garden door.) + +Mrs. Alving. My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in flames. + +Manders. How terrible! Mrs. Alving, that fire is a judgment on +this house of sin! + +Mrs. Alving. Quite so. Come, Regina. + +(She and REGINA hurry out.) + +Manders (clasping his hands). And no insurance! (Follows them +out.) + + +ACT III + +(The same scene. All the doors are standing open. The lamp is +still burning on the table. It is dark outside, except for a +faint glimmer of light seen through the windows at the back. +MRS. ALVING, with a shawl over her head, is standing in the +conservatory, looking out. REGINA, also wrapped in a shawl, is +standing a little behind her.) + +Mrs. Alving. Everything bured--down to the ground. + +Regina. It is burning still in the basement. + +Mrs. Alving. I can't think why Oswald doesn't come back. There is +no chance of saving anything. + +Regina. Shall I go and take his hat to him? + +Mrs. Alving. Hasn't he even got his hat? + +Regina (pointing to the hall). No, there it is, hanging up. + +Mrs. Alving. Never mind. He is sure to come back soon. I will go +and see what he is doing. (Goes out by the garden door. MANDERS +comes in from the hall.) + +Manders. Isn't Mrs. Alving here? + +Regina. She has just this moment gone down into the garden. + +Manders. I have never spent such a terrible night in my life. + +Regina. Isn't it a shocking misfortune, sir! + +Manders. Oh, don't speak about it. I scarcely dare to think about +it. + +Regina. But how can it have happened? + +Manders. Don't ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should I know? Are you +going to suggest too--? Isn't it enough that your father--? + +Regina. What has he done? + +Manders. He has nearly driven me crazy. + +Engstrand (coming in from the hall). Mr. Manders--! + +Manders (turning round with a start). Have you ever followed me +here! + +Engstrand. Yes, God help us all--! Great heavens! What a dreadful +thing, your reverence! + +Manders (walking up and down). Oh dear, oh dear! + +Regina. What do you mean? + +Engstrand. Our little prayer-meeting was the cause of it all, +don't you see? (Aside, to REGINA.) Now we've got the old fool, my +girl. (Aloud.) And to think it is my fault that Mr. Manders +should be the cause of such a thing! + +Manders. I assure you, Engstrand-- + +Engstrand. But there was no one else carrying a light there +except you, sir. + +Manders (standing still). Yes, so you say. But I have no clear +recollection of having had a light in my hand. + +Engstrand. But I saw quite distinctly your reverence take a +candle and snuff it with your fingers and throw away the burning +bit of wick among the shavings. + +Manders. Did you see that? + +Engstrand. Yes, distinctly. + +Manders. I can't understand it at all. It is never my habit to +snuff a candle with my fingers. + +Engstrand. Yes, it wasn't like you to do that, sir. But, who +would have thought it could be such a dangerous thing to do? + +Manders (walking restlessly backwards and forwards) Oh, don't ask +me! + +Engstrand (following him about). And you hadn't insured it +either, had you, sir? + +Manders. No, no, no; you heard me say so. + +Engstrand. You hadn't insured it--and then went and set light to +the whole place! Good Lord, what bad luck! + +Manders (wiping the perspiration from his forehead). You may well +say so, Engstrand. + +Engstrand. And that it should happen to a charitable institution +that would have been of service both to the town and the country, +so to speak! The newspapers won't be very kind to your reverence, +I expect. + +Manders. No, that is just what I am thinking of. It is almost the +worst part of the whole thing. The spiteful attacks and +accusations--it is horrible to think of! + +Mrs. Alving (coming in from the garden). I can't get him away +from the fire. + +Manders. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Alving. + +Mrs. Alving. You will escape having to make your inaugural +address now, at all events, Mr. Manders. + +Manders. Oh, I would so gladly have-- + +Mrs. Alving (in a dull voice). It is just as well it has +happened. This Orphanage would never have come to any good. + +Manders. Don't you think so? + +Mrs. Alving. Do you? + +Manders. But it is none the less an extraordinary piece of ill +luck. + +Mrs: Alving. We will discuss it simply as a business matter. Are +you waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand? + +Engstrand (at the hall door). Yes, I am. + +Mrs. Alving. Sit down then, while you are waiting. + +Engstrand. Thank you, I would rather stand. + +Mrs. Alving (to MANDERS). I suppose you are going by the boat? + +Manders. Yes: It goes in about an hour-- + +Mrs. Alving. Please take all the documents back with you. I don't +want to hear another word about the matter. I have something else +to think about now. + +Manders. Mrs. Alving-- + +Mrs. Alving. Later on I will send you a power of attorney to deal +with it exactly as you please. + +Manders. I shall be most happy to undertake that; I am afraid the +original intention of the bequest will have to be entirely +altered now. + +Mrs. Alving. Of course. + +Meanders. Provisionally, I should suggest this way of disposing +of it: Make over the Solvik property to the parish. The land is +undoubtedly not without a certain value; it will always be useful +for some purpose or another. And as for the interest on the +remaining capital that is on deposit in the bank, possibly I +might make suitable use of that in support of some undertaking +that promises to be of use to the town. + +Mrs. Alving. Do exactly as you please. The whole thing is a +matter of indifference to me now. + +Engstrand. You will think of my Sailors' Home, Mr, Manders? + +Manders. Yes, certainly, that is a suggestion. But we must +consider the matter carefully. + +Engstrand (aside). Consider!--devil take it! Oh Lord. + +Manders (sighing). And unfortunately I can't tell how much longer +I may have anything to do with the matter--whether public opinion +may not force me to retire from it altogether. That depends +entirely upon the result of the inquiry into the cause of the +fire. + +Mrs. Alving. What do you say? + +Manders. And one cannot in any way reckon upon the result +beforehand. + +Engstrand (going nearer to him). Yes, indeed one can; because +here stand I, Jacob Engstrand. + +Manders. Quite so, but-- + +Engstrand (lowering his voice). And Jacob Engstrand isn't the man +to desert a worthy benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying +is. + +Manders. Yes, but, my dear fellow-how--? + +Engstrand. You might say Jacob Engstrand is an angel of +salvation, so to speak, your reverence. + +Manders. No, no, I couldn't possibly accept that. + +Engstrand. That's how it will be, all the same. I know someone +who has taken the blame for someone else on his shoulders before +now, I do. + +Manders. Jacob! (Grasps his hand.) You are one in a thousand! You +shall have assistance in the matter of your Sailors' Home, you +may rely upon that. + +(ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but is prevented by emotion.) + +Manders (hanging his wallet over his shoulder). Now we must be +off. We will travel together. + +Engstrand (by the dining-room door, says aside to REGINA). Come +with me, you hussy! You shall be as cosy as the yolk in an egg! + +Regina (tossing her head). Merci! + +(She goes out into the hall and brings back MANDERS' luggage.) + +Manders. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! And may the spirit of order and +of what is lawful speedily enter into this house. + +Mrs. Alving. Goodbye, Mr. Manders. + +(She goes into the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in by +the garden door.) + +Engstrand (as he and REGINA are helping MANDERS on with his +coat). Goodbye, my child. And if anything should happen to you, +you know where Jacob Engstrand is to be found. (Lowering his +voice.) Little Harbour Street, ahem--! (To MRS. ALVING and +OSWALD.) And my house for poor seafaring men shall be called the +"Alving Home," it shall. And, if I can carry out my own ideas +about it, I shall make bold to hope that it may be worthy of +bearing the late Mr. Alving's name. + +Manders (at the door). Ahem--ahem! Come along, my dear Engstrand. +Goodbye--goodbye! + +(He and ENGSTRAND go out by the hall door.) + +Oswald (going to the table). What house was he speaking about? + +Mrs. Alving. I believe it is some sort of a Home that he and Mr. +Manders want to start. + +Oswald. It will be burned up just like this one. + +Mrs. Alving. What makes you think that? + +Oswald. Everything will be burned up; nothing will be left that is +in memory of my father. Here am I being burned up, too. + +(REGINA looks at him in alarm.) + +Mrs. Alving. Oswald! You should not have stayed so long over +there, my poor boy. + +Oswald (sitting down at the table). I almost believe you are +right. + +Mrs: Alving. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are all wet. +(Wipes his face with her handkerchief.) + +Oswald (looking straight before him, with no expression in his +eyes). Thank you, mother. + +Mrs. Alving. And aren't you tired, Oswald? Don't you want to go +to sleep? + +Oswald (uneasily). No, no--not to sleep! I never sleep; I only +pretend to. (Gloomily.) That will come soon enough. + +Mrs. Alving (looking at him anxiously). Anyhow you are really +ill, my darling boy. + +Regina (intently). Is Mr. Alving ill? + +Oswald (impatiently). And do shut all the doors! This deadly +fear-- + +Mrs. Alving. Shut the doors, Regina. (REGINA shuts the doors and +remains standing by the hall door. MRS, ALVING takes off her +shawl; REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws up a chair near to +OSWALD'S and sits down beside him.) That's it! Now I will sit +beside you-- + +Oswald. Yes, do. And Regina must stay in here too; Regina must +always be near me. You must give me a helping hand, you know, +Regina. Won't you do that? + +Regina. I don't understand-- + +Mrs. Alving. A helping hand? + +Oswald. Yes--when there is need for it. + +Mrs: Alving. Oswald, have you not your mother to give you a +helping hand? + +Oswald. You? (Smiles.) No, mother, you will never give me the +kind of helping hand I mean. (Laughs grimly.) You! Ha, ha! (Looks +gravely at her.) After all, you have the best right. +(Impetuously.) Why don't you call me by my Christian name, +Regina? Why don't you say Oswald? + +Regina (in a low voice). I did not think Mrs. Alving would like +it. + +Mrs. Alving. It will not be long before you have the right to do +it. Sit down here now beside us, too. (REGINA sits down quietly +and hesitatingly at the other side of the table.) And now, my +poor tortured boy, I am going to take the burden off your mind-- + +Oswald. You, mother? + +Mrs. Alving. --all that you call remorse and regret and self- +reproach. + +Oswald. And you think you can do that? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you were +talking about the joy of life, and what you said seemed to shed a +new light upon everything in my whole life. + +Oswald (shaking his head). I don't in the least understand what +you mean. + +Mrs. Alving. You should have known your father in his young days +in the army. He was full of the joy of life, I can tell you. + +Oswald. Yes, I know. + +Mrs. Alving. It gave me a holiday feeling only to look at him, +full of irrepressible energy and exuberant spirits. + +Oswald. What then? + +Mrs. Alving, Well, then this boy, full of the joy of life--for he +was just like a boy, then--had to make his home in a second-rate +town which had none of the joy of life to offer him, but only +dissipations. He had to come out here and live an aimless life; +he had only an official post. He had no work worth devoting his +whole mind to; he had nothing more than official routine to +attend to. He had not a single companion capable of appreciating +what the joy of life meant; nothing but idlers and tipplers... + +Oswald. Mother--! + +Mrs. Alving. And so the inevitable happened! + +Oswald. What was the inevitable? + +Mrs. Alving. You said yourself this evening what would happen in +your case if you stayed at home. + +Oswald. Do you mean by that, that father--? + +Mrs. Alving. Your poor father never found any outlet for the +overmastering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no +holiday spirit into his home, either. + +Oswald. You didn't, either? + +Mrs. Alving. I had been taught about duty, and the sort of thing +that I believed in so long here. Everything seemed to turn upon +duty--my duty, or his duty--and I am afraid I made your poor +father's home unbearable to him, Oswald. + +Oswald. Why didn't you ever say anything about it to me in your +letters? + +Mrs. Alving. I never looked at it as a thing I could speak of to +you, who were his son. + +Oswald. What way did you look at it, then? + +Mrs. Alving. I only saw the one fact, that your father was a lost +man before ever you were born. + +Oswald (in a choking voice). Ah--! (He gets up and goes to the +window.) + +Mrs. Alving. And then I had the one thought in my mind, day and +night, that Regina in fact had as good a right in this house--as +my own boy had. + +Oswald (turns round suddenly), Regina--? + + +Regina (gets up and asks in choking tones). I--? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, now you both know it. + +Oswald. Regina! + +Regina (to herself). So mother was one of that sort too. + +Mrs. Alving. Your mother had many good qualities, Regina. + +Regina. Yes, but she was one of that sort too, all the same. I +have even thought so myself, sometimes, but--. Then, if you +please, Mrs. Alving, may I have permission to leave at once? + +Mrs. Alving. Do you really wish to, Regina? + +Regina. Yes, indeed, I certainly wish to. + +Mrs. Alving. Of course you shall do as you like, but-- + +Oswald (going up to REGINA). Leave now? This is your home. + +Regina. Merci, Mr. Alving--oh, of course I may say Oswald now, +but that is not the way I thought it would become allowable. + +Mrs. Alving. Regina, I have not been open with you-- + +Regina. No, I can't say you have! If I had known Oswald was ill-- + And now that there can never be anything serious between us--. +No, I really can't stay here in the country and wear myself out +looking after invalids. + +Oswald. Not even for the sake of one who has so near a claim on +you? + +Regina. No, indeed I can't. A poor girl must make some use of her +youth, otherwise she may easily land herself out in the cold +before she knows where she is. And I have got the joy of life in +me too, Mrs. Alving! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, unfortunately; but don't throw yourself away, +Regina. + +Regina. Oh, what's going to happen will happen. If Oswald takes +after his father, it is just as likely I take after my mother, I +expect.--May I ask, Mrs. Alving, whether Mr. Manders knows this +about me? + +Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders knows everything. + +Regina (putting on her shawl). Oh, well then, the best thing I +can do is to get away by the boat as soon as I can. Mr. Manders +is such a nice gentleman to deal with; and it certainly seems to +me that I have just as much right to some of that money as he--as +that horrid carpenter. + +Mrs. Alving. You are quite welcome to it, Regina. + +Regina (looking at her fixedly). You might as well have brought +me up like a gentleman's daughter; it would have been more +suitable. (Tosses her head.) Oh, well--never mind! (With a bitter +glance at the unopened bottle.) I daresay someday I shall be +drinking champagne with gentlefolk, after all. + +Mrs. Alving. If ever you need a home, Regina, come to me. + +Regina. No, thank you, Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders takes an interest +in me, I know. And if things should go very badly with me, I know +one house at any rate where I shall feel at home. + +Mrs. Alving. Where is that? + +Regina. In the "Alving Home." + +Mrs. Alving. Regina--I can see quite well--you are going to your +ruin! + +Regina. Pooh!--goodbye. + +(She bows to them and goes out through the hall.) + +Oswald (standing by the window and looking out). Has she gone? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes. + +Oswald (muttering to himself). I think it's all wrong. + +Mrs. Alving (going up to him from behind and putting her hands +on his shoulders). Oswald, my dear boy--has it been a great shock +to you? + +Oswald (turning his face towards her). All this about father, do +you mean? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it +may have been too much for you. + +Oswald. What makes you think that? Naturally it has taken me +entirely by surprise; but, after all, I don't know that it +matters much to me. + +Mrs. Alving (drawing back her hands). Doesn't matter!--that your +father's life was such a terrible failure! + +Oswald. Of course I can feel sympathy for him, just as I would +for anyone else, but-- + +Mrs. Alving. No more than that! For your own father! + +Oswald (impatiently). Father--father! I never knew anything of my +father. I don't remember anything else about him except that he +once made me sick. + +Mrs. Alving. It is dreadful to think of!--But surely a child +should feel some affection for his father, whatever happens? + +Oswald. When the child has nothing to thank his father for? When +he has never known him? Do you really cling to that antiquated +superstition--you, who are so broad-minded in other things? + +Mrs. Alving. You call it nothing but a superstition! + +Oswald. Yes, and you can see that for yourself quite well, +mother. It is one of those beliefs that are put into circulation +in the world, and-- + +Mrs. Alving. Ghosts of beliefs! + +Oswald (walking across the room). Yes, you might call them +ghosts. + +Mrs. Alving (with an outburst of feeling). Oswald! then you don't +love me either! + +Oswald. You I know, at any rate-- + +Mrs. Alving. You know me, yes; but is that all? + +Oswald. And I know how fond you are of me, and I ought to be +grateful to you for that. Besides, you can be so tremendously +useful to me, now that I am ill. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, can't I, Oswald! I could almost bless your +illness, as it has driven you home to me. For I see quite well +that you are not my very own yet; you must be won. + +Oswald (impatiently). Yes, yes, yes; all that is just a way of +talking. You must remember I am a sick man, mother. I can't +concern myself much with anyone else; I have enough to do, +thinking about myself. + +Mrs. Alving (gently). I will be very good and patient. + +Oswald. And cheerful too, mother! + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. (Goes up to +him.) Now have I taken away all your remorse and self-reproach? + +Oswald. Yes, you have done that. But who will take away the fear? + +Mrs. Alving. The fear? + +Oswald (crossing the room). Regina would have done it for one +kind word. + +Mrs. Alving. I don't understand you. What fear do you mean--and +what has Regina to do with it? + +Oswald. Is it very late, mother? + +Mrs. Alving. It is early morning. (Looks out through the +conservatory windows.) The dawn is breaking already on the +heights. And the sky is clear, Oswald. In a little while you will +see the sun. + +Oswald. I am glad of that. After all, there may be many things +yet for me to be glad of and to live for-- + +Mrs. Alving. I should hope so! + +Oswald. Even if I am not able to work-- + +Mrs. Alving. You will soon find you are able to work again now, +my dear boy. You have no longer all those painful depressing +thoughts to brood over. + +Oswald. No, it is a good thing that you have been able to rid me +of those fancies; if only, now, I could overcome this one thing-- + (Sits down on the couch.) Let us have a little chat, mother. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us. (Pushes an armchair near to the couch +and sits down beside him.) + +Oswald. The sun is rising--and you know all about it; so I don't +feel the fear any longer. + +Mrs. Alving. I know all about what? + +Oswald (without listening to her). Mother, isn't it the case that +you said this evening there was nothing in the world you would +not do for me if I asked you? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, certainly I said so. + +Oswald. And will you be as good as your word, mother? + +Mrs. Alving. You may rely upon that, my own dear boy. I have +nothing else to live for, but you. + +Oswald. Yes, yes; well, listen to me, mother, You are very +strong-minded, I know. I want you to sit quite quiet when you +hear what I am going to tell you, + +Mrs. Alving. But what is this dreadful thing--? + +Oswald. You mustn't scream. Do you hear? Will you promise me +that? We are going to sit and talk it over quite quietly. Will +you promise me that, mother? + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, I promise--only tell me what it is. + +Oswald. Well, then, you must know that this fatigue of mine--and +my mot being able to think about my work--all that is not really +the illness itself-- + +Mrs. Alving. What is the illness itself? + +Oswald. What I am suffering from is hereditary; it--(touches his +forehead, and speaks very quietly)--it lies here. + +Mrs. Alving (almost speechless). Oswald! No--no! + +Oswald. Don't scream; I can't stand it. Yes, I tell you, it lies +here, waiting. And any time, any moment, it may break out. + +Mrs. Alving. How horrible--! + +Oswald. Do keep quiet. That is the state I am in-- + +Mrs. Alving (springing up). It isn't true, Oswald! It is +impossible! It can't be that! + +Oswald. I had one attack while I was abroad. It passed off +quickly. But when I learned the condition I had been in, then this +dreadful haunting fear took possession of me. + +Mrs. Alving. That was the fear, then-- + +Oswald. Yes, it is so indescribably horrible, you know If only it +had been an ordinary mortal disease--. I am not so much afraid of +dying; though, of course, I should like to live as long as I can. + +Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must! + +Oswald. But this is so appallingly horrible. To become like a +helpless child again--to have to be fed, to have to be--. Oh, +it's unspeakable! + +Mrs. Alving. My child has his mother to tend him. + +Oswald (jumping up). No, never; that is just what I won't endure! +I dare not think what it would mean to linger on like that for +years--to get old and grey like that. And you might die before I +did. (Sits down in MRS. ALVING'S chair.) Because it doesn't +necessarily have a fatal end quickly, the doctor said; he called +it a kind of softening of the brain--or something of that sort. +(Smiles mournfully.) I think that expression sounds so nice. It +always makes me think of cherry-coloured velvet curtains-- +something that is soft to stroke. + +Mrs. Alving (with a scream). Oswald! + +Oswald (jumps up and walks about the room). And now you have +taken Regina from me! If I had only had her, she would have given +me a helping hand, I know. + +Mrs. Alving (going up to him). What do you mean, my darling boy? +Is there any help in the world I would not be willing to give +you? + +Oswald. When I had recovered from the attack I had abroad, the +doctor told me that when it recurred--and it will recur--there +would be no more hope. + +Mrs. Alving. And he was heartless enough to-- + +Oswald. I insisted on knowing. I told him I had arrangements to +make--. (Smiles cunningly.) And so I had. (Takes a small box from +his inner breast-pocket.) Mother, do you see this? + +Mrs. Alving. What is it? + +Oswald. Morphia powders. + +Mrs. Alving (looking at him in terror). Oswald--my boy! + +Oswald. I have twelve of them saved up-- + +Mrs. Alving (snatching at it). Give me the box, Oswald! + +Oswald. Not yet, mother. (Puts it lack in his pocket.) + +Mrs. Alving. I shall never get over this! + +Oswald, You must. If I had had Regina here now, I would have told +her quietly how things stand with me--and asked her to give me +this last helping hand. She would have helped me, I am certain. + +Mrs. Alving. Never! + +Oswald. If this horrible thing had come upon me and she had seen +me lying helpless, like a baby, past help, past saving, past +hope--with no chance of recovering-- + +Mrs. Alving. Never in the world would Regina have done it. + +Oswald. Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly +light-hearted. And she would very soon have tired of looking +after an invalid like me. + +Mrs. Alving. Then thank heaven Regina is not here! + +Oswald. Well, now you have got to give me that helping hand, +mother. + +Mrs. Alving (with a loud scream). I! + +Oswald. Who has a better right than you? + +Mrs. Alving. I! Your mother! + +Oswald. Just for that reason. + +Mrs. Alving. I, who gave you your life! + +Oswald, I never asked you for life. And what kind of a life was +it that you gave me? I don't want it! You shall take it back! + +Mrs. Alving. Help! Help! (Runs into the hall.) + +Oswald (following her). Don't leave me! Where are you going? + +Mrs. Alving (in the hall). To fetch the doctor to you, Oswald! +Let me out! + +Oswald (going into the hall). You shan't go out. And no one shall +come in. (Turns the key in the lock.) + +Mrs. Alving (coming in again). Oswald! Oswald!--my child! + +Oswald (following her). Have you a mother's heart--and can bear +to see me suffering this unspeakable terror? + +Mrs. Alving (controlling herself, after a moment's silence). +There is my hand on it. + +Oswald. Will you--? + +Mrs. Alving. If it becomes necessary. But it shan't become +necessary: No, no--it is impossible it should! + +Oswald. Let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we +can. Thank you, mother. + +(He sits down in the armchair, which MRS. ALVING had moved beside +the couch. Day is breaking; the lamp is still burning on the +table.) + +Mrs. Alving (coming cautiously nearer). Do you feel calmer now? + +Oswald. Yes. + +Mrs. Alving (bending over him). It has only been a dreadful fancy +of yours, Oswald. Nothing but fancy. All this upset has been bad for +you. But now you will get some rest, at home with your own mother, my +darling boy. You shall have everything you want, just as you did +when you were a little child.--There, now. The attack is over. +You see how easily it passed off! I knew it would.--And look, +Oswald, what a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant +sunshine. Now you will be able to see your home properly. (She +goes to the table and puts out the lamp. It is sunrise. The +glaciers and peaks in the distance are seen bathed in bright +morning fight.) + +Oswald (who has been sitting motionless in the armchair, with his +back to the scene outside, suddenly says:) Mother, give me the +sun. + +Mrs. Alving (standing at the table, and looking at him in +amazement). What do you say? + +Oswald (repeats in a dull, toneless voice). The sun--the sun. + +Mrs. Alving (going up to him). Oswald, what is the matter with +you? (OSWALD seems to shrink up in the chair; all his muscles +relax; his face loses its expression, and his eyes stare +stupidly. MRS. ALVING is trembling with terror.) What is it! +(Screams.) Oswald! What is the matter with you! (Throws herself +on her knees beside him and shakes him.) Oswald! Oswald! Look at +me! Don't you know me! + +Oswald (in an expressionless voice, as before). The sun--the sun. + +Mrs. Alving (jumps up despairingly, beats her head with her +hands, and screams). I can't bear it! (Whispers as though +paralysed with fear.) I can't bear it... I Never! (Suddenly.) Where +has he got it? (Passes her hand quickly over his coat.) Here! +(Draws back a little spay and cries :) No, no, no!--Yes!--no, no! +(She stands a few steps from him, her hands thrust into her hair, +and stares at him in speechless terror.) + +Oswald (sitting motionless, as before). The sun--the sun. + diff --git a/old/ghsts10.zip b/old/ghsts10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a27ab0b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/ghsts10.zip |