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+*The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ghosts, A Play by Henrik Ibsen*
+#4 in our series by Henrik Ibsen
+
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+
+Ghosts
+
+A Domestic Tragedy in Three Acts
+
+by Henrik Ibsen
+
+Translated by R. Farquharson Sharp
+
+January, 2001  [Etext #2467]
+[Date last updated: November 24, 2003]
+
+
+*The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ghosts, A Play by Henrik Ibsen*
+*****This file should be named ghsts10.txt or ghsts10.zip******
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+E-text scanned by Martin Adamson
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+
+
+
+
+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.
+
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