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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ghosts + +Author: Henrik Ibsen + +Translator: William Archer + +Release Date: August 6, 2009 [EBook #8121] +Last Updated: October 2, 2017 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GHOSTS *** + + + + +Produced by Nicole Apostola, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + GHOSTS + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Henrik Ibsen + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + Translated, with an Introduction, by William Archer + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION. </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>GHOSTS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ACT FIRST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT SECOND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ACT THIRD. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION. + </h2> + <p> + The winter of 1879-80 Ibsen spent in Munich, and the greater part of the + summer of 1880 at Berchtesgaden. November 1880 saw him back in Rome, and + he passed the summer of 1881 at Sorrento. There, fourteen years earlier, + he had written the last acts of <i>Peer Gynt</i>; there he now wrote, or + at any rate completed, <i>Gengangere</i>. It was published in December + 1881, after he had returned to Rome. On December 22 he wrote to Ludwig + Passarge, one of his German translators, "My new play has now appeared, + and has occasioned a terrible uproar in the Scandinavian press; every day + I receive letters and newspaper articles decrying or praising it.... I + consider it utterly impossible that any German theatre will accept the + play at present. I hardly believe that they will dare to play it in the + Scandinavian countries for some time to come." How rightly he judged we + shall see anon. + </p> + <p> + In the newspapers there was far more obloquy than praise. Two men, + however, stood by him from the first: Björnson, from whom he had been + practically estranged ever since <i>The League of Youth</i>, and Georg + Brandes. The latter published an article in which he declared (I quote + from memory) that the play might or might not be Ibsen's greatest work, + but that it was certainly his noblest deed. It was, doubtless, in + acknowledgment of this article that Ibsen wrote to Brandes on January 3, + 1882: "Yesterday I had the great pleasure of receiving your brilliantly + clear and so warmly appreciative review of <i>Ghosts</i>.... All who read + your article must, it seems to me, have their eyes opened to what I meant + by my new book—assuming, that is, that they have any <i>wish</i> to + see. For I cannot get rid of the impression that a very large number of + the false interpretations which have appeared in the newspapers are the + work of people who know better. In Norway, however, I am willing to + believe that the stultification has in most cases been unintentional; and + the reason is not far to seek. In that country a great many of the critics + are theologians, more or less disguised; and these gentlemen are, as a + rule, quite unable to write rationally about creative literature. That + enfeeblement of judgment which, at least in the case of the average man, + is an inevitable consequence of prolonged occupation with theological + studies, betrays itself more especially in the judging of human character, + human actions, and human motives. Practical business judgment, on the + other hand, does not suffer so much from studies of this order. Therefore + the reverend gentlemen are very often excellent members of local boards; + but they are unquestionably our worst critics." This passage is + interesting as showing clearly the point of view from which Ibsen + conceived the character of Manders. In the next paragraph of the same + letter he discusses the attitude of "the so-called Liberal press"; but as + the paragraph contains the germ of <i>An Enemy of the People</i>, it may + most fittingly be quoted in the introduction to that play. + </p> + <p> + Three days later (January 6) Ibsen wrote to Schandorph, the Danish + novelist: "I was quite prepared for the hubbub. If certain of our + Scandinavian reviewers have no talent for anything else, they have an + unquestionable talent for thoroughly misunderstanding and misinterpreting + those authors whose books they undertake to judge.... They endeavour to + make me responsible for the opinions which certain of the personages of my + drama express. And yet there is not in the whole book a single opinion, a + single utterance, which can be laid to the account of the author. I took + good care to avoid this. The very method, the order of technique which + imposes its form upon the play, forbids the author to appear in the + speeches of his characters. My object was to make the reader feel that he + was going through a piece of real experience; and nothing could more + effectually prevent such an impression than the intrusion of the author's + private opinions into the dialogue. Do they imagine at home that I am so + inexpert in the theory of drama as not to know this? Of course I know it, + and act accordingly. In no other play that I have written is the author so + external to the action, so entirely absent from it, as in this last one." + </p> + <p> + "They say," he continued, "that the book preaches Nihilism. Not at all. It + is not concerned to preach anything whatsoever. It merely points to the + ferment of Nihilism going on under the surface, at home as elsewhere. A + Pastor Manders will always goad one or other Mrs. Alving to revolt. And + just because she is a woman, she will, when once she has begun, go to the + utmost extremes." + </p> + <p> + Towards the end of January Ibsen wrote from Rome to Olaf Skavlan: "These + last weeks have brought me a wealth of experiences, lessons, and + discoveries. I, of course, foresaw that my new play would call forth a + howl from the camp of the stagnationists; and for this I care no more + than for the barking of a pack of chained dogs. But the pusillanimity + which I have observed among the so-called Liberals has given me cause for + reflection. The very day after my play was published the <i>Dagblad</i> + rushed out a hurriedly-written article, evidently designed to purge itself + of all suspicion of complicity in my work. This was entirely unnecessary. + I myself am responsible for what I write, I and no one else. I cannot + possibly embarrass any party, for to no party do I belong. I stand like a + solitary franc-tireur at the outposts, and fight for my own hand. The only + man in Norway who has stood up freely, frankly, and courageously for me is + Björnson. It is just like him. He has in truth a great, kingly soul, and I + shall never forget his action in this matter." + </p> + <p> + One more quotation completes the history of these stirring January days, + as written by Ibsen himself. It occurs in a letter to a Danish journalist, + Otto Borchsenius. "It may well be," the poet writes, "that the play is in + several respects rather daring. But it seemed to me that the time had come + for moving some boundary-posts. And this was an undertaking for which a + man of the older generation, like myself, was better fitted than the many + younger authors who might desire to do something of the kind. I was + prepared for a storm; but such storms one must not shrink from + encountering. That would be cowardice." + </p> + <p> + It happened that, just in these days, the present writer had frequent + opportunities of conversing with Ibsen, and of hearing from his own lips + almost all the views expressed in the above extracts. He was especially + emphatic, I remember, in protesting against the notion that the opinions + expressed by Mrs. Alving or Oswald were to be attributed to himself. He + insisted, on the contrary, that Mrs. Alving's views were merely typical of + the moral chaos inevitably produced by re-action from the narrow + conventionalism represented by Manders. + </p> + <p> + With one consent, the leading theatres of the three Scandinavian capitals + declined to have anything to do with the play. It was more than eighteen + months old before it found its way to the stage at all. In August 1883 it + was acted for the first time at Helsingborg, Sweden, by a travelling + company under the direction of an eminent Swedish actor, August Lindberg, + who himself played Oswald. He took it on tour round the principal cities + of Scandinavia, playing it, among the rest, at a minor theatre in + Christiania. It happened that the boards of the Christiania Theatre were + at the same time occupied by a French farce; and public demonstrations of + protest were made against the managerial policy which gave <i>Tête de + Linotte</i> the preference over <i>Gengangere</i>. Gradually the prejudice + against the play broke down. Already in the autumn of 1883 it was produced + at the Royal (Dramatiska) Theatre in Stockholm. When the new National + Theatre was opened in Christiania in 1899, <i>Gengangere</i> found an + early place in its repertory; and even the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen has + since opened its doors to the tragedy. + </p> + <p> + Not until April 1886 was <i>Gespenster</i> acted in Germany, and then only + at a private performance, at the Stadttheater, Augsburg, the poet himself + being present. In the following winter it was acted at the famous Court + Theatre at Meiningen, again in the presence of the poet. The first + (private) performance in Berlin took place on January 9, 1887, at the + Residenz Theater; and when the Freie Bühne, founded on the model of the + Paris Theatre Libre, began its operations two years later (September 29, + 1889), <i>Gespenster</i> was the first play that it produced. The Freie + Bühne gave the initial impulse to the whole modern movement which has + given Germany a new dramatic literature; and the leaders of the movement, + whether authors or critics, were one and all ardent disciples of Ibsen, + who regarded <i>Gespenster</i> as his typical masterpiece. In Germany, + then, the play certainly did, in Ibsen's own words, "move some + boundary-posts." The Prussian censorship presently withdrew its veto, and + on November 27, 1894, the two leading literary theatres of Berlin, the + Deutsches Theater and the Lessing Theater, gave simultaneous performances + of the tragedy. Everywhere in Germany and Austria it is now freely + performed; but it is naturally one of the least popular of Ibsen's plays. + </p> + <p> + It was with <i>Les Revenants</i> that Ibsen made his first appearance on + the French stage. The play was produced by the Théâtre Libre (at the + Théâtre des Menus-Plaisirs) on May 29, 1890. Here, again, it became the + watchword of the new school of authors and critics, and aroused a good + deal of opposition among the old school. But the most hostile French + criticisms were moderation itself compared with the torrents of abuse + which were poured upon <i>Ghosts</i> by the journalists of London when, on + March 13, 1891, the Independent Theatre, under the direction of Mr. J. T. + Grein, gave a private performance of the play at the Royalty Theatre, + Soho. I have elsewhere [Note: See "The Mausoleum of Ibsen," <i>Fortnightly + Review</i>, August 1893. See also Mr. Bernard Shaw's <i>Quintessence of + Ibsenism</i>, p. 89, and my introduction to Ghosts in the single-volume + edition.] placed upon record some of the amazing feats of vituperation + achieved of the critics, and will not here recall them. It is sufficient + to say that if the play had been a tenth part as nauseous as the epithets + hurled at it and its author, the Censor's veto would have been amply + justified. That veto is still (1906) in force. England enjoys the proud + distinction of being the one country in the world where <i>Ghosts</i> may + not be publicly acted. In the United States, the first performance of the + play in English took place at the Berkeley Lyceum, New York City, on + January 5, 1894. The production was described by Mr. W. D. Howells as "a + great theatrical event—the very greatest I have ever known." Other + leading men of letters were equally impressed by it. Five years later, a + second production took place at the Carnegie Lyceum; and an adventurous + manager has even taken the play on tour in the United States. The Italian + version of the tragedy, <i>Gli Spettri</i>, has ever since 1892 taken a + prominent place in the repertory of the great actors Zaccone and Novelli, + who have acted it, not only throughout Italy, but in Austria, Germany, + Russia, Spain, and South America. + </p> + <p> + In an interview, published immediately after Ibsen's death, Björnstjerne + Björnson, questioned as to what he held to be his brother-poet's greatest + work, replied, without a moment's hesitation, <i>Gengangere</i>. This + dictum can scarcely, I think, be accepted without some qualification. Even + confining our attention to the modern plays, and leaving out of comparison + <i>The Pretenders</i>, <i>Brand</i>, and <i>Peer Gynt</i>, we can scarcely + call <i>Ghosts</i> Ibsen's richest or most human play, and certainly not + his profoundest or most poetical. If some omnipotent Censorship decreed + the annihilation of all his works save one, few people, I imagine, would + vote that that one should be <i>Ghosts</i>. Even if half a dozen works + were to be saved from the wreck, I doubt whether I, for my part, would + include <i>Ghosts</i> in the list. It is, in my judgment, a little bare, + hard, austere. It is the first work in which Ibsen applies his new + technical method—evolved, as I have suggested, during the + composition of <i>A Doll's House</i>—and he applies it with + something of fanaticism. He is under the sway of a prosaic ideal—confessed + in the phrase, "My object was to make the reader feel that he was going + through a piece of real experience"—and he is putting some + constraint upon the poet within him. The action moves a little stiffly, + and all in one rhythm. It lacks variety and suppleness. Moreover, the play + affords some slight excuse for the criticism which persists in regarding + Ibsen as a preacher rather than as a creator—an author who cares + more for ideas and doctrines than for human beings. Though Mrs. Alving, + Engstrand and Regina are rounded and breathing characters, it cannot be + denied that Manders strikes one as a clerical type rather than an + individual, while even Oswald might not quite unfairly be described as + simply and solely his father's son, an object-lesson in heredity. We + cannot be said to know him, individually and intimately, as we know Helmer + or Stockmann, Hialmar Ekdal or Gregors Werle. Then, again, there are one + or two curious flaws in the play. The question whether Oswald's "case" is + one which actually presents itself in the medical books seems to me of + very trifling moment. It is typically true, even if it be not true in + detail. The suddenness of the catastrophe may possibly be exaggerated, its + premonitions and even its essential nature may be misdescribed. On the + other hand, I conceive it probable that the poet had documents to found + upon, which may be unknown to his critics. I have never taken any pains to + satisfy myself upon the point, which seems to me quite immaterial. There + is not the slightest doubt that the life-history of a Captain Alving may, + and often does, entail upon posterity consequences quite as tragic as + those which ensue in Oswald's case, and far more wide-spreading. That + being so, the artistic justification of the poet's presentment of the case + is certainly not dependent on its absolute scientific accuracy. The flaws + above alluded to are of another nature. One of them is the prominence + given to the fact that the Asylum is uninsured. No doubt there is some + symbolical purport in the circumstance; but I cannot think that it is + either sufficiently clear or sufficiently important to justify the + emphasis thrown upon it at the end of the second act. Another dubious + point is Oswald's argument in the first act as to the expensiveness of + marriage as compared with free union. Since the parties to free union, as + he describes it, accept all the responsibilities of marriage, and only + pretermit the ceremony, the difference of expense, one would suppose, must + be neither more nor less than the actual marriage fee. I have never seen + this remark of Oswald's adequately explained, either as a matter of + economic fact, or as a trait of character. Another blemish, of somewhat + greater moment, is the inconceivable facility with which, in the third + act, Manders suffers himself to be victimised by Engstrand. All these + little things, taken together, detract, as it seems to me, from the + artistic completeness of the play, and impair its claim to rank as the + poet's masterpiece. Even in prose drama, his greatest and most consummate + achievements were yet to come. + </p> + <p> + Must we, then, wholly dissent from Björnson's judgment? I think not. In a + historical, if not in an aesthetic, sense, <i>Ghosts</i> may well rank as + Ibsen's greatest work. It was the play which first gave the full measure + of his technical and spiritual originality and daring. It has done far + more than any other of his plays to "move boundary-posts." It has advanced + the frontiers of dramatic art and implanted new ideals, both technical and + intellectual, in the minds of a whole generation of playwrights. It ranks + with <i>Hernani</i> and <i>La Dame aux Camélias</i> among the epoch-making + plays of the nineteenth century, while in point of essential originality + it towers above them. We cannot, I think, get nearer to the truth than + Georg Brandes did in the above-quoted phrase from his first notice of the + play, describing it as not, perhaps, the poet's greatest work, but + certainly his noblest deed. In another essay, Brandes has pointed to it, + with equal justice, as marking Ibsen's final breach with his early—one + might almost say his hereditary romanticism. He here becomes, at last, + "the most modern of the moderns." "This, I am convinced," says the Danish + critic, "is his imperishable glory, and will give lasting life to his + works." + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div class="play"> + <h2> + GHOSTS + </h2> + <h3> + A FAMILY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. + </h3> + (1881) CHARACTERS. +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MRS. HELEN ALVING, widow of Captain Alving, late Chamberlain to + the King. [Note: Chamberlain (Kammerherre) is the only title of + honour now existing in Norway. It is a distinction conferred by the + King on men of wealth and position, and is not hereditary.] + OSWALD ALVING, her son, a painter. + PASTOR MANDERS. + JACOB ENGSTRAND, a carpenter. + REGINA ENGSTRAND, Mrs. Alving's maid. +</pre> + <p> + The action takes place at Mrs. Alving's country house, beside one of the + large fjords in Western Norway. + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT FIRST. + </h2> + <p> + [A spacious garden-room, with one door to the left, and two doors to the + right. In the middle of the room a round table, with chairs about it. On + the table lie books, periodicals, and newspapers. In the foreground to + the left a window, and by it a small sofa, with a worktable in front of + it. In the background, the room is continued into a somewhat narrower + conservatory, the walls of which are formed by large panes of glass. In + the right-hand wall of the conservatory is a door leading down into the + garden. Through the glass wall a gloomy fjord landscape is faintly + visible, veiled by steady rain.] + </p> + <p> + [ENGSTRAND, the carpenter, stands by the garden door. His left leg is + somewhat bent; he has a clump of wood under the sole of his boot. + REGINA, with an empty garden syringe in her hand, hinders him from + advancing.] + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [In a low voice.] What do you want? Stop where you are. You're + positively dripping. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. It's the Lord's own rain, my girl. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. It's the devil's rain, <i>I</i> say. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Lord, how you talk, Regina. [Limps a step or two forward into + the room.] It's just this as I wanted to say— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Don't clatter so with that foot of yours, I tell you! The young + master's asleep upstairs. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Asleep? In the middle of the day? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. It's no business of yours. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. I was out on the loose last night— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. I can quite believe that. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes, we're weak vessels, we poor mortals, my girl— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. So it seems. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND.—and temptations are manifold in this world, you see. + But all the same, I was hard at work, God knows, at half-past five this + morning. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Very well; only be off now. I won't stop here and have <i>rendezvous's</i> + [Note: This and other French words by Regina are in that language in the + original] with you. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. What do you say you won't have? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. I won't have any one find you here; so just you go about your + business. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Advances a step or two.] Blest if I go before I've had a + talk with you. This afternoon I shall have finished my work at the + school house, and then I shall take to-night's boat and be off home to + the town. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Mutters.] Pleasant journey to you! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Thank you, my child. To-morrow the Orphanage is to be opened, + and then there'll be fine doings, no doubt, and plenty of intoxicating + drink going, you know. And nobody shall say of Jacob Engstrand that he + can't keep out of temptation's way. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. You see, there's to be heaps of grand folks here to-morrow. + Pastor Manders is expected from town, too. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. He's coming to-day. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. There, you see! And I should be cursedly sorry if he found + out anything against me, don't you understand? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oho! is that your game? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Is what my game? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Looking hard at him.] What are you going to fool Pastor Manders + into doing, this time? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Sh! sh! Are you crazy? Do <i>I</i> want to fool Pastor + Manders? Oh no! Pastor Manders has been far too good a friend to me for + that. But I just wanted to say, you know—that I mean to be off + home again to-night. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. The sooner the better, say I. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes, but I want you with me, Regina. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Open-mouthed.] You want me—? What are you talking about? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. I want you to come home with me, I say. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Scornfully.] Never in this world shall you get me home with + you. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Oh, we'll see about that. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, you may be sure we'll see about it! Me, that have been + brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving! Me, that am treated almost as a + daughter here! Is it me you want to go home with you?—to a house + like yours? For shame! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. What the devil do you mean? Do you set yourself up against + your father, you hussy? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Mutters without looking at him.] You've said often enough I was + no concern of yours. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Pooh! Why should you bother about that— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Haven't you many a time sworn at me and called me a—? <i>Fi + donc</i>! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Curse me, now, if ever I used such an ugly word. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh, I remember very well what word you used. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Well, but that was only when I was a bit on, don't you know? + Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Ugh! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. And besides, it was when your mother was that aggravating—I + had to find something to twit her with, my child. She was always setting + up for a fine lady. [Mimics.] "Let me go, Engstrand; let me be. Remember + I was three years in Chamberlain Alving's family at Rosenvold." + [Laughs.] Mercy on us! She could never forget that the Captain was made + a Chamberlain while she was in service here. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Poor mother! you very soon tormented her into her grave. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [With a twist of his shoulders.] Oh, of course! I'm to have + the blame for everything. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Turns away; half aloud.] Ugh—! And that leg too! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. What do you say, my child? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. <i>Pied de mouton</i>. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Is that English, eh? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Ay, ay; you've picked up some learning out here; and that may + come in useful now, Regina. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [After a short silence.] What do you want with me in town? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Can you ask what a father wants with his only child? A'n't I + a lonely, forlorn widower? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh, don't try on any nonsense like that with me! Why do you want + me? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Well, let me tell you, I've been thinking of setting up in a + new line of business. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Contemptuously.] You've tried that often enough, and much good + you've done with it. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes, but this time you shall see, Regina! Devil take me— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Stamps.] Stop your swearing! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Hush, hush; you're right enough there, my girl. What I wanted + to say was just this—I've laid by a very tidy pile from this + Orphanage job. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Have you? That's a good thing for you. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. What can a man spend his ha'pence on here in this country + hole? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Well, what then? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Why, you see, I thought of putting the money into some paying + speculation. I thought of a sort of a sailor's tavern— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Pah! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. A regular high-class affair, of course; not any sort of + pig-sty for common sailors. No! damn it! it would be for captains and + mates, and—and—regular swells, you know. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. And I was to—? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. You were to help, to be sure. Only for the look of the thing, + you understand. Devil a bit of hard work shall you have, my girl. You + shall do exactly what you like. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh, indeed! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. But there must be a petticoat in the house; that's as clear + as daylight. For I want to have it a bit lively like in the evenings, + with singing and dancing, and so on. You must remember they're weary + wanderers on the ocean of life. [Nearer.] Now don't be a fool and stand + in your own light, Regina. What's to become of you out here? Your + mistress has given you a lot of learning; but what good is that to you? + You're to look after the children at the new Orphanage, I hear. Is that + the sort of thing for you, eh? Are you so dead set on wearing your life + out for a pack of dirty brats? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. No; if things go as I want them to—Well there's no saying—there's + no saying. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. What do you mean by "there's no saying"? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Never you mind.—How much money have you saved? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. What with one thing and another, a matter of seven or eight + hundred crowns. [A "krone" is equal to one shilling and + three-halfpence.] + </p> + <p> + REGINA. That's not so bad. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. It's enough to make a start with, my girl. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Aren't you thinking of giving me any? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. No, I'm blest if I am! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Not even of sending me a scrap of stuff for a new dress? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Come to town with me, my lass, and you'll soon get dresses + enough. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Pooh! I can do that on my own account, if I want to. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. No, a father's guiding hand is what you want, Regina. Now, + I've got my eye on a capital house in Little Harbour Street. They don't + want much ready-money; and it could be a sort of a Sailors' Home, you + know. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. But I will not live with you! I have nothing whatever to do with + you. Be off! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. You wouldn't stop long with me, my girl. No such luck! If you + knew how to play your cards, such a fine figure of a girl as you've + grown in the last year or two— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Well? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. You'd soon get hold of some mate—or maybe even a + captain— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. I won't marry any one of that sort. Sailors have no <i>savoir + vivre</i>. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. What's that they haven't got? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They're not the sort of + people to marry. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Then never mind about marrying them. You can make it pay all + the same. [More confidentially.] He—the Englishman—the man + with the yacht—he came down with three hundred dollars, he did; + and she wasn't a bit handsomer than you. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Making for him.] Out you go! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Falling back.] Come, come! You're not going to hit me, I + hope. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, if you begin talking about mother I shall hit you. Get away + with you, I say! [Drives him back towards the garden door.] And don't + slam the doors. Young Mr. Alving— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. He's asleep; I know. You're mightily taken up about young Mr. + Alving—[More softly.] Oho! you don't mean to say it's him as—? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Be off this minute! You're crazy, I tell you! No, not that way. + There comes Pastor Manders. Down the kitchen stairs with you. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Towards the right.] Yes, yes, I'm going. But just you talk + to him as is coming there. He's the man to tell you what a child owes + its father. For I am your father all the same, you know. I can prove it + from the church register. + </p> + <p> + [He goes out through the second door to the right, which REGINA has + opened, and closes again after him. REGINA glances hastily at herself in + the mirror, dusts herself with her pocket handkerchief; and settles her + necktie; then she busies herself with the flowers.] + </p> + <p> + [PASTOR MANDERS, wearing an overcoat, carrying an umbrella, and with a + small travelling-bag on a strap over his shoulder, comes through the + garden door into the conservatory.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Good-morning, Miss Engstrand. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Turning round, surprised and pleased.] No, really! Good + morning, Pastor Manders. Is the steamer in already? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It is just in. [Enters the sitting-room.] Terrible weather we + have been having lately. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Follows him.] It's such blessed weather for the country, sir. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No doubt; you are quite right. We townspeople give too little + thought to that. [He begins to take off his overcoat.] + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh, mayn't I help you?—There! Why, how wet it is? I'll + just hang it up in the hall. And your umbrella, too—I'll open it + and let it dry. + </p> + <p> + [She goes out with the things through the second door on the right. + PASTOR MANDERS takes off his travelling bag and lays it and his hat on a + chair. Meanwhile REGINA comes in again.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Ah, it's a comfort to get safe under cover. I hope everything + is going on well here? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You have your hands full, I suppose, in preparation for + to-morrow? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, there's plenty to do, of course. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I trust? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh dear, yes. She's just upstairs, looking after the young + master's chocolate. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, by-the-bye—I heard down at the pier that Oswald had + arrived. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect him + before to-day. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Quite strong and well, I hope? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, thank you, quite; but dreadfully tired with the journey. He + has made one rush right through from Paris—the whole way in one + train, I believe. He's sleeping a little now, I think; so perhaps we'd + better talk a little quietly. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Sh!—as quietly as you please. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Arranging an arm-chair beside the table.] Now, do sit down, + Pastor Manders, and make yourself comfortable. [He sits down; she places + a footstool under his feet.] There! Are you comfortable now, sir? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Thanks, thanks, extremely so. [Looks at her.] Do you know, Miss + Engstrand, I positively believe you have grown since I last saw you. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Do you think so, Sir? Mrs. Alving says I've filled out too. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Filled out? Well, perhaps a little; just enough. + </p> + <p> + [Short pause.] + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Thanks, thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child.—By-the-bye, + Regina, my good girl, tell me: how is your father getting on out here? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh, thank you, sir, he's getting on well enough. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. He called upon me last time he was in town. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Did he, indeed? He's always so glad of a chance of talking to + you, sir. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And you often look in upon him at his work, I daresay? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. I? Oh, of course, when I have time, I— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Your father is not a man of strong character, Miss Engstrand. + He stands terribly in need of a guiding hand. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh, yes; I daresay he does. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. He requires some one near him whom he cares for, and whose + judgment he respects. He frankly admitted as much when he last came to + see me. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, he mentioned something of the sort to me. But I don't know + whether Mrs. Alving can spare me; especially now that we've got the new + Orphanage to attend to. And then I should be so sorry to leave Mrs. + Alving; she has always been so kind to me. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But a daughter's duty, my good girl—Of course, we should + first have to get your mistress's consent. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. But I don't know whether it would be quite proper for me, at my + age, to keep house for a single man. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What! My dear Miss Engstrand! When the man is your own father! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, that may be; but all the same—Now, if it were in a + thoroughly nice house, and with a real gentleman— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Why, my dear Regina— + </p> + <p> + REGINA.—one I could love and respect, and be a daughter to— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, but my dear, good child— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Then I should be glad to go to town. It's very lonely out here; + you know yourself, sir, what it is to be alone in the world. And I can + assure you I'm both quick and willing. Don't you know of any such place + for me, sir? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I? No, certainly not. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. But, dear, dear Sir, do remember me if— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Rising.] Yes, yes, certainly, Miss Engstrand. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. For if I— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Will you be so good as to tell your mistress I am here? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. I will, at once, sir. [She goes out to the left.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Paces the room two or three times, stands a moment in the + background with his hands behind his back, and looks out over the + garden. Then he returns to the table, takes up a book, and looks at the + title-page; starts, and looks at several books.] Ha—indeed! + </p> + <p> + [MRS. ALVING enters by the door on the left; she is followed by REGINA, + who immediately goes out by the first door on the right.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Holds out her hand.] Welcome, my dear Pastor. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. How do you do, Mrs. Alving? Here I am as I promised. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Always punctual to the minute. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You may believe it was not so easy for me to get away. With all + the Boards and Committees I belong to— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. That makes it all the kinder of you to come so early. Now + we can get through our business before dinner. But where is your + portmanteau? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Quickly.] I left it down at the inn. I shall sleep there + to-night. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Suppressing a smile.] Are you really not to be persuaded, + even now, to pass the night under my roof? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No, no, Mrs. Alving; many thanks. I shall stay at the inn, as + usual. It is so conveniently near the landing-stage. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well, you must have your own way. But I really should have + thought we two old people— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Now you are making fun of me. Ah, you're naturally in great + spirits to-day—what with to-morrow's festival and Oswald's return. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; you can think what a delight it is to me! It's more + than two years since he was home last. And now he has promised to stay + with me all the winter. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Has he really? That is very nice and dutiful of him. For I can + well believe that life in Rome and Paris has very different attractions + from any we can offer here. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Ah, but here he has his mother, you see. My own darling boy—he + hasn't forgotten his old mother! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It would be grievous indeed, if absence and absorption in art + and that sort of thing were to blunt his natural feelings. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, you may well say so. But there's nothing of that sort + to fear with him. I'm quite curious to see whether you know him again. + He'll be down presently; he's upstairs just now, resting a little on the + sofa. But do sit down, my dear Pastor. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Thank you. Are you quite at liberty—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Certainly. [She sits by the table.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Very well. Then let me show you—[He goes to the chair + where his travelling-bag lies, takes out a packet of papers, sits down + on the opposite side of the table, and tries to find a clear space for + the papers.] Now, to begin with, here is—[Breaking off.] Tell me, + Mrs. Alving, how do these books come to be here? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. These books? They are books I am reading. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Do you read this sort of literature? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Certainly I do. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Do you feel better or happier for such reading? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I feel, so to speak, more secure. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. That is strange. How do you mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well, I seem to find explanation and confirmation of all + sorts of things I myself have been thinking. For that is the wonderful + part of it, Pastor Manders—there is really nothing new in these + books, nothing but what most people think and believe. Only most people + either don't formulate it to themselves, or else keep quiet about it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Great heavens! Do you really believe that most people—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I do, indeed. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But surely not in this country? Not here among us? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, certainly; here as elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, I really must say—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. For the rest, what do you object to in these books? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Object to in them? You surely do not suppose that I have + nothing better to do than to study such publications as these? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. That is to say, you know nothing of what you are + condemning? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I have read enough about these writings to disapprove of them. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; but your own judgment— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one + must rely upon others. Things are so ordered in this world; and it is + well that they are. Otherwise, what would become of society? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well, well, I daresay you're right there. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Besides, I of course do not deny that there may be much that is + attractive in such books. Nor can I blame you for wishing to keep up + with the intellectual movements that are said to be going on in the + great world-where you have let your son pass so much of his life. But— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Lowering his voice.] But one should not talk about it, Mrs. + Alving. One is certainly not bound to account to everybody for what one + reads and thinks within one's own four walls. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Of course not; I quite agree with you. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Only think, now, how you are bound to consider the interests of + this Orphanage, which you decided on founding at a time when—if I + understand you rightly—you thought very differently on spiritual + matters. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; I quite admit that. But it was about the Orphanage— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It was about the Orphanage we were to speak; yes. All I say is: + prudence, my dear lady! And now let us get to business. [Opens the + packet, and takes out a number of papers.] Do you see these? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. The documents? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. All—and in perfect order. I can tell you it was hard work + to get them in time. I had to put on strong pressure. The authorities + are almost morbidly scrupulous when there is any decisive step to be + taken. But here they are at last. [Looks through the bundle.] See! here + is the formal deed of gift of the parcel of ground known as Solvik in + the Manor of Rosenvold, with all the newly constructed buildings, + schoolrooms, master's house, and chapel. And here is the legal fiat for + the endowment and for the Bye-laws of the Institution. Will you look at + them? [Reads.] "Bye-laws for the Children's Home to be known as 'Captain + Alving's Foundation.'" + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. (Looks long at the paper.) So there it is. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I have chosen the designation "Captain" rather than + "Chamberlain." "Captain" looks less pretentious. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; just as you think best. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And here you have the Bank Account of the capital lying at + interest to cover the current expenses of the Orphanage. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Thank you; but please keep it—it will be more + convenient. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. With pleasure. I think we will leave the money in the Bank for + the present. The interest is certainly not what we could wish—four + per cent. and six months' notice of withdrawal. If a good mortgage could + be found later on—of course it must be a first mortgage and an + unimpeachable security—then we could consider the matter. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Certainly, my dear Pastor Manders. You are the best judge + in these things. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I will keep my eyes open at any rate.—But now there is + one thing more which I have several times been intending to ask you. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. And what is that? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Shall the Orphanage buildings be insured or not? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Of course they must be insured. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, wait a moment, Mrs. Alving. Let us look into the matter a + little more closely. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I have everything insured; buildings and movables and stock + and crops. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Of course you have—on your own estate. And so have I—of + course. But here, you see, it is quite another matter. The Orphanage is + to be consecrated, as it were, to a higher purpose. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, but that's no reason— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. For my own part, I should certainly not see the smallest + impropriety in guarding against all contingencies— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. No, I should think not. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But what is the general feeling in the neighbourhood? You, of + course, know better than I. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well—the general feeling— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Is there any considerable number of people—really + responsible people—who might be scandalised? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What do you mean by "really responsible people"? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, I mean people in such independent and influential + positions that one cannot help attaching some weight to their opinions. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. There are several people of that sort here, who would very + likely be shocked if— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. There, you see! In town we have many such people. Think of all + my colleague's adherents! People would be only too ready to interpret + our action as a sign that neither you nor I had the right faith in a + Higher Providence. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But for your own part, my dear Pastor, you can at least + tell yourself that— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, I know—I know; my conscience would be quite easy, + that is true enough. But nevertheless we should not escape grave + misinterpretation; and that might very likely react unfavourably upon + the Orphanage. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well, in that case— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Nor can I entirely lose sight of the difficult—I may even + say painful—position in which <i>I</i> might perhaps be placed. In + the leading circles of the town, people take a lively interest in this + Orphanage. It is, of course, founded partly for the benefit of the town, + as well; and it is to be hoped it will, to a considerable extent, result + in lightening our Poor Rates. Now, as I have been your adviser, and have + had the business arrangements in my hands, I cannot but fear that I may + have to bear the brunt of fanaticism— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, you mustn't run the risk of that. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. To say nothing of the attacks that would assuredly be made upon + me in certain papers and periodicals, which— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Enough, my dear Pastor Manders. That consideration is quite + decisive. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Then you do not wish the Orphanage to be insured? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. No. We will let it alone. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Leaning back in his chair.] But if, now, a disaster were to + happen? One can never tell—Should you be able to make good the + damage? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. No; I tell you plainly I should do nothing of the kind. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Then I must tell you, Mrs. Alving—we are taking no small + responsibility upon ourselves. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Do you think we can do otherwise? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No, that is just the point; we really cannot do otherwise. We + ought not to expose ourselves to misinterpretation; and we have no right + whatever to give offence to the weaker brethren. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You, as a clergyman, certainly should not. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I really think, too, we may trust that such an institution has + fortune on its side; in fact, that it stands under a special providence. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Let us hope so, Pastor Manders. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Then we will let it take its chance? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, certainly. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Very well. So be it. [Makes a note.] Then—no insurance. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. It's odd that you should just happen to mention the matter + to-day— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I have often thought of asking you about it— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING.—for we very nearly had a fire down there yesterday. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You don't say so! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, it was a trifling matter. A heap of shavings had caught + fire in the carpenter's workshop. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Where Engstrand works? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes. They say he's often very careless with matches. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. He has so much on his mind, that man—so many things to + fight against. Thank God, he is now striving to lead a decent life, I + hear. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Indeed! Who says so? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. He himself assures me of it. And he is certainly a capital + workman. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; so long as he's sober— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Ah, that melancholy weakness! But, he is often driven to it by + his injured leg, he says. Last time he was in town I was really + touched by him. He came and thanked me so warmly for having got him work + here, so that he might be near Regina. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. He doesn't see much of her. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Oh, yes; he has a talk with her every day. He told me so + himself. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well, it may be so. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. He feels so acutely that he needs some one to keep a firm hold + on him when temptation comes. That is what I cannot help liking about + Jacob Engstrand: he comes to you so helplessly, accusing himself and + confessing his own weakness. The last time he was talking to me—Believe + me, Mrs. Alving, supposing it were a real necessity for him to have + Regina home again— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Rising hastily.] Regina! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS.—you must not set yourself against it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Indeed I shall set myself against it. And besides—Regina + is to have a position in the Orphanage. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But, after all, remember he is her father— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, I know very well what sort of a father he has been to + her. No! She shall never go to him with my goodwill. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Rising.] My dear lady, don't take the matter so warmly. You + sadly misjudge poor Engstrand. You seem to be quite terrified— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [More quietly.] It makes no difference. I have taken Regina + into my house, and there she shall stay. [Listens.] Hush, my dear Mr. + Manders; say no more about it. [Her face lights up with gladness.] + Listen! there is Oswald coming downstairs. Now we'll think of no one but + him. + </p> + <p> + [OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand, and smoking a large + meerschaum, enters by the door on the left; he stops in the doorway.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought you were in the study. [Comes + forward.] Good-morning, Pastor Manders. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Staring.] Ah—! How strange—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well now, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I—I—can it really be—? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, it's really the Prodigal Son, sir. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Protesting.] My dear young friend— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well, then, the Lost Sheep Found. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so much + opposed to his becoming a painter. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. To our human eyes many a step seems dubious, which afterwards + proves—[Wrings his hand.] But first of all, welcome, welcome home! + Do not think, my dear Oswald—I suppose I may call you by your + Christian name? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. What else should you call me? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Very good. What I wanted to say was this, my dear Oswald--you + must not think that I utterly condemn the artist's calling. I have no + doubt there are many who can keep their inner self unharmed in that + profession, as in any other. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Let us hope so. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Beaming with delight.] I know one who has kept both his + inner and his outer self unharmed. Just look at him, Mr. Manders. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Moves restlessly about the room.] Yes, yes, my dear mother; + let's say no more about it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Why, certainly—that is undeniable. And you have begun to + make a name for yourself already. The newspapers have often spoken of + you, most favourably. Just lately, by-the-bye, I fancy I haven't seen + your name quite so often. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Up in the conservatory.] I haven't been able to paint so much + lately. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Even a painter needs a little rest now and then. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No doubt, no doubt. And meanwhile he can be preparing himself + and mustering his forces for some great work. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes.—Mother, will dinner soon be ready? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. In less than half an hour. He has a capital appetite, thank + God. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And a taste for tobacco, too. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I found my father's pipe in my room— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Aha—then that accounts for it! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. For what? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. When Oswald appeared there, in the doorway, with the pipe in + his mouth, I could have sworn I saw his father, large as life. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. No, really? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, how can you say so? Oswald takes after me. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of the mouth—something + about the lips—that reminds one exactly of Alving: at any rate, + now that he is smoking. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Not in the least. Oswald has rather a clerical curve about + his mouth, I think. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, yes; some of my colleagues have much the same expression. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But put your pipe away, my dear boy; I won't have smoking + in here. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Does so.] By all means. I only wanted to try it; for I once + smoked it when I was a child. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes. I was quite small at the time. I recollect I came up to + father's room one evening when he was in great spirits. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, you can't recollect anything of those times. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, I recollect it distinctly. He took me on his knee, and gave + me the pipe. "Smoke, boy," he said; "smoke away, boy!" And I smoked as + hard as I could, until I felt I was growing quite pale, and the + perspiration stood in great drops on my forehead. Then he burst out + laughing heartily— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. That was most extraordinary. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My dear friend, it's only something Oswald has dreamt. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. No, mother, I assure you I didn't dream it. For—don't you + remember this?—you came and carried me out into the nursery. Then + I was sick, and I saw that you were crying.—Did father often play + such practical jokes? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. In his youth he overflowed with the joy of life— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And yet he managed to do so much in the world; so much that was + good and useful; although he died so early. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, you have inherited the name of an energetic and admirable + man, my dear Oswald Alving. No doubt it will be an incentive to you— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. It ought to, indeed. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It was good of you to come home for the ceremony in his honour. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I could do no less for my father. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. And I am to keep him so long! That is the best of all. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You are going to pass the winter at home, I hear. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. My stay is indefinite, sir. But, ah! it is good to be at home! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Beaming.] Yes, isn't it, dear? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Looking sympathetically at him.] You went out into the world + early, my dear Oswald. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I did. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn't too early. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, not at all. A healthy lad is all the better for it; + especially when he's an only child. He oughtn't to hang on at home with + his mother and father, and get spoilt. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. That is a very disputable point, Mrs. Alving. A child's proper + place is, and must be, the home of his fathers. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. There I quite agree with you, Pastor Manders. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Only look at your own son—there is no reason why we + should not say it in his presence—what has the consequence been + for him? He is six or seven and twenty, and has never had the + opportunity of learning what a well-ordered home really is. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I beg your pardon, Pastor; there you're quite mistaken. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Indeed? I thought you had lived almost exclusively in artistic + circles. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. So I have. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And chiefly among the younger artists? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, certainly. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But I thought few of those young fellows could afford to set up + house and support a family. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. There are many who cannot afford to marry, sir. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, that is just what I say. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. But they may have a home for all that. And several of them have, + as a matter of fact; and very pleasant, well-ordered homes they are, + too. + </p> + <p> + [MRS. ALVING follows with breathless interest; nods, but says nothing.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But I'm not talking of bachelors' quarters. By a "home" I + understand the home of a family, where a man lives with his wife and + children. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes; or with his children and his children's mother. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Starts; clasps his hands.] But, good heavens— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Lives with—his children's mother! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes. Would you have him turn his children's mother out of doors? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Then it is illicit relations you are talking of! Irregular + marriages, as people call them! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I have never noticed anything particularly irregular about the + life these people lead. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But how is it possible that a—a young man or young woman + with any decency of feeling can endure to live in that way?—in the + eyes of all the world! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. What are they to do? A poor young artist—a poor girl—marriage + costs a great deal. What are they to do? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What are they to do? Let me tell you, Mr. Alving, what they + ought to do. They ought to exercise self-restraint from the first; that + is what they ought to do. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. That doctrine will scarcely go down with warm-blooded young + people who love each other. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. No, scarcely! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Continuing.] How can the authorities tolerate such things! + Allow them to go on in the light of day! [Confronting MRS. ALVING.] Had + I not cause to be deeply concerned about your son? In circles where open + immorality prevails, and has even a sort of recognised position—! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Let me tell you, sir, that I have been in the habit of spending + nearly all my Sundays in one or two such irregular homes— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Sunday of all days! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Isn't that the day to enjoy one's self? Well, never have I heard + an offensive word, and still less have I witnessed anything that could + be called immoral. No; do you know when and where I have come across + immorality in artistic circles? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No, thank heaven, I don't! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well, then, allow me to inform you. I have met with it when one + or other of our pattern husbands and fathers has come to Paris to have a + look round on his own account, and has done the artists the honour of + visiting their humble haunts. They knew what was what. These gentlemen + could tell us all about places and things we had never dreamt of. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What! Do you mean to say that respectable men from home here + would—? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Have you never heard these respectable men, when they got home + again, talking about the way in which immorality runs rampant abroad? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, no doubt— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I have too. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well, you may take their word for it. They know what they are + talking about! [Presses his hands to his head.] Oh! that that great, + free, glorious life out there should be defiled in such a way! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You mustn't get excited, Oswald. It's not good for you. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes; you're quite right, mother. It's bad for me, I know. You + see, I'm wretchedly worn out. I shall go for a little turn before + dinner. Excuse me, Pastor: I know you can't take my point of view; but I + couldn't help speaking out. [He goes out by the second door to the + right.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You may well say so. Then this is what he has come to! + </p> + <p> + [MRS. ALVING looks at him silently.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Walking up and down.] He called himself the Prodigal Son. + Alas! alas! + </p> + <p> + [MRS. ALVING continues looking at him.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And what do you say to all this? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I say that Oswald was right in every word. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Stands still.] Right? Right! In such principles? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Here, in my loneliness, I have come to the same way of + thinking, Pastor Manders. But I have never dared to say anything. Well! + now my boy shall speak for me. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You are greatly to be pitied, Mrs. Alving. But now I must speak + seriously to you. And now it is no longer your business manager and + adviser, your own and your husband's early friend, who stands before + you. It is the priest—the priest who stood before you in the + moment of your life when you had gone farthest astray. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. And what has the priest to say to me? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I will first stir up your memory a little. The moment is well + chosen. To-morrow will be the tenth anniversary of your husband's death. + To-morrow the memorial in his honour will be unveiled. To-morrow I shall + have to speak to the whole assembled multitude. But to-day I will speak + to you alone. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Very well, Pastor Manders. Speak. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Do you remember that after less than a year of married life you + stood on the verge of an abyss? That you forsook your house and home? + That you fled from your husband? Yes, Mrs. Alving—fled, fled, and + refused to return to him, however much he begged and prayed you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Have you forgotten how infinitely miserable I was in that + first year? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It is the very mark of the spirit of rebellion to crave for + happiness in this life. What right have we human beings to happiness? We + have simply to do our duty, Mrs. Alving! And your duty was to hold + firmly to the man you had once chosen, and to whom you were bound by the + holiest ties. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You know very well what sort of life Alving was leading—what + excesses he was guilty of. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I know very well what rumours there were about him; and I am + the last to approve the life he led in his young days, if report did not + wrong him. But a wife is not appointed to be her husband's judge. It was + your duty to bear with humility the cross which a Higher Power had, in + its wisdom, laid upon you. But instead of that you rebelliously throw + away the cross, desert the backslider whom you should have supported, go + and risk your good name and reputation, and—nearly succeed in + ruining other people's reputation into the bargain. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Other people's? One other person's, you mean. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It was incredibly reckless of you to seek refuge with me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. With our clergyman? With our intimate friend? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Just on that account. Yes, you may thank God that I possessed + the necessary firmness; that I succeeded in dissuading you from your + wild designs; and that it was vouchsafed me to lead you back to the path + of duty, and home to your lawful husband. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, Pastor Manders, that was certainly your work. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I was but a poor instrument in a Higher Hand. And what a + blessing has it not proved to you, all the days of your life, that I + induced you to resume the yoke of duty and obedience! Did not everything + happen as I foretold? Did not Alving turn his back on his errors, as a + man should? Did he not live with you from that time, lovingly and + blamelessly, all his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the whole + district? And did he not help you to rise to his own level, so that you, + little by little, became his assistant in all his undertakings? And a + capital assistant, too—oh, I know, Mrs. Alving, that praise is due + to you.—But now I come to the next great error in your life. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Just as you once disowned a wife's duty, so you have since + disowned a mother's. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Ah—! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You have been all your life under the dominion of a pestilent + spirit of self-will. The whole bias of your mind has been towards + insubordination and lawlessness. You have never known how to endure any + bond. Everything that has weighed upon you in life you have cast away + without care or conscience, like a burden you were free to throw off at + will. It did not please you to be a wife any longer, and you left your + husband. You found it troublesome to be a mother, and you sent your + child forth among strangers. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true. I did so. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And thus you have become a stranger to him. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. No! no! I am not. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, you are; you must be. And in what state of mind has he + returned to you? Bethink yourself well, Mrs. Alving. You sinned greatly + against your husband;—that you recognise by raising yonder + memorial to him. Recognise now, also, how you have sinned against your + son—there may yet be time to lead him back from the paths of + error. Turn back yourself, and save what may yet be saved in him. For + [With uplifted forefinger] verily, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilt-laden + mother! This I have thought it my duty to say to you. + </p> + <p> + [Silence.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Slowly and with self-control.] You have now spoken out, + Pastor Manders; and to-morrow you are to speak publicly in memory of my + husband. I shall not speak to-morrow. But now I will speak frankly to + you, as you have spoken to me. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. To be sure; you will plead excuses for your conduct— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. No. I will only tell you a story. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. All that you have just said about my husband and me, and + our life after you had brought me back to the path of duty—as you + called it—about all that you know nothing from personal + observation. From that moment you, who had been our intimate friend, + never set foot in our house gain. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You and your husband left the town immediately after. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; and in my husband's lifetime you never came to see us. + It was business that forced you to visit me when you undertook the + affairs of the Orphanage. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Softly and hesitatingly.] Helen—if that is meant as a + reproach, I would beg you to bear in mind— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING.—the regard you owed to your position, yes; and that I + was a runaway wife. One can never be too cautious with such unprincipled + creatures. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. My dear—Mrs. Alving, you know that is an absurd + exaggeration— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well well, suppose it is. My point is that your judgment as + to my married life is founded upon nothing but common knowledge and + report. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I admit that. What then? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well, then, Pastor Manders—I will tell you the truth. + I have sworn to myself that one day you should know it—you alone! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What is the truth, then? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. The truth is that my husband died just as dissolute as he + had lived all his days. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Feeling after a chair.] What do you say? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. After nineteen years of marriage, as dissolute—in his + desires at any rate—as he was before you married us. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And those-those wild oats—those irregularities—those + excesses, if you like—you call "a dissolute life"? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Our doctor used the expression. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I do not understand you. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You need not. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It almost makes me dizzy. Your whole married life, the seeming + union of all these years, was nothing more than a hidden abyss! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Neither more nor less. Now you know it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. This is—this is inconceivable to me. I cannot grasp it! I + cannot realise it! But how was it possible to—? How could such a + state of things be kept secret? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. That has been my ceaseless struggle, day after day. After + Oswald's birth, I thought Alving seemed to be a little better. But it + did not last long. And then I had to struggle twice as hard, fighting as + though for life or death, so that nobody should know what sort of man my + child's father was. And you know what power Alving had of winning + people's hearts. Nobody seemed able to believe anything but good of him. + He was one of those people whose life does not bite upon their + reputation. But at last, Mr. Manders—for you must know the whole + story—the most repulsive thing of all happened. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. More repulsive than what you have told me? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I had gone on bearing with him, although I knew very well + the secrets of his life out of doors. But when he brought the scandal + within our own walls— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Impossible! Here! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; here in our own home. It was there [Pointing towards + the first door on the right], in the dining-room, that I first came to + know of it. I was busy with something in there, and the door was + standing ajar. I heard our housemaid come up from the garden, with water + for those flowers. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Soon after, I heard Alving come in too. I heard him say + something softly to her. And then I heard—[With a short laugh]—oh! + it still sounds in my ears, so hateful and yet so ludicrous—I + heard my own servant-maid whisper, "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!" + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What unseemly levity on his part! But it cannot have been more + than levity, Mrs. Alving; believe me, it cannot. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I soon knew what to believe. Mr. Alving had his way with + the girl; and that connection had consequences, Mr. Manders. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [As though petrified.] Such things in this house—in this + house! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I had borne a great deal in this house. To keep him at home + in the evenings, and at night, I had to make myself his boon companion + in his secret orgies up in his room. There I have had to sit alone with + him, to clink glasses and drink with him, and to listen to his ribald, + silly talk. I have had to fight with him to get him dragged to bed— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Moved.] And you were able to bear all this! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I had to bear it for my little boy's sake. But when the + last insult was added; when my own servant-maid—; then I swore to + myself: This shall come to an end! And so I took the reins into my own + hand—the whole control—over him and everything else. For now + I had a weapon against him, you see; he dared not oppose me. It was then + I sent Oswald away from home. He was nearly seven years old, and was + beginning to observe and ask questions, as children do. That I could not + bear. It seemed to me the child must be poisoned by merely breathing the + air of this polluted home. That was why I sent him away. And now you can + see, too, why he was never allowed to set foot inside his home so long + as his father lived. No one knows what that cost me. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You have indeed had a life of trial. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I could never have borne it if I had not had my work. For I + may truly say that I have worked! All the additions to the estate—all + the improvements—all the labour-saving appliances, that Alving was + so much praised for having introduced—do you suppose he had energy + for anything of the sort?—he, who lay all day on the sofa, reading + an old Court Guide! No; but I may tell you this too: when he had his + better intervals, it was I who urged him on; it was I who had to drag + the whole load when he relapsed into his evil ways, or sank into + querulous wretchedness. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And it is to this man that you raise a memorial? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. There you see the power of an evil conscience. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Evil—? What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. It always seemed to me impossible but that the truth must + come out and be believed. So the Orphanage was to deaden all rumours and + set every doubt at rest. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. In that you have certainly not missed your aim, Mrs. Alving. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. And besides, I had one other reason. I was determined that + Oswald, my own boy, should inherit nothing whatever from his father. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Then it is Alving's fortune that—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes. The sums I have spent upon the Orphanage, year by + year, make up the amount—I have reckoned it up precisely—the + amount which made Lieutenant Alving "a good match" in his day. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I don't understand— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. It was my purchase-money. I do not choose that that money + should pass into Oswald's hands. My son shall have everything from me—everything. + </p> + <p> + [OSWALD ALVING enters through the second door to the right; he has taken + of his hat and overcoat in the hall.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Going towards him.] Are you back again already? My dear, + dear boy! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes. What can a fellow do out of doors in this eternal rain? But + I hear dinner is ready. That's capital! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [With a parcel, from the dining-room.] A parcel has come for + you, Mrs. Alving. [Hands it to her.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [With a glance at MR. MANDERS.] No doubt copies of the ode + for to-morrow's ceremony. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. H'm— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. And dinner is ready. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Very well. We will come directly. I will just—[Begins + to open the parcel.] + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [To OSWALD.] Would Mr. Alving like red or white wine? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Both, if you please. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. <i>Bien</i>. Very well, sir. [She goes into the dining-room.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I may as well help to uncork it. [He also goes into the dining + room, the door of which swings half open behind him.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Who has opened the parcel.] Yes, I thought so. Here is the + Ceremonial Ode, Pastor Manders. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [With folded hands.] With what countenance I am to deliver my + discourse to-morrow—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, you will get through it somehow. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Softly, so as not to be heard in the dining-room.] Yes; it + would not do to provoke scandal. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Under her breath, but firmly.] No. But then this long, + hateful comedy will be ended. From the day after to-morrow, I shall act + in every way as though he who is dead had never lived in this house. + There shall be no one here but my boy and his mother. + </p> + <p> + [From the dining-room comes the noise of a chair overturned, and at the + same moment is heard:] + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Sharply, but in a whisper.] Oswald! take care! are you mad? Let + me go! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Starts in terror.] Ah—! + </p> + <p> + [She stares wildly towards the half-open door. OSWALD is heard laughing + and humming. A bottle is uncorked.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Agitated.] What can be the matter? What is it, Mrs. Alving? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Hoarsely.] Ghosts! The couple from the conservatory—risen + again! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Is it possible! Regina—? Is she—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes. Come. Not a word—! + </p> + <p> + [She seizes PASTOR MANDERS by the arm, and walks unsteadily towards the + dining-room.] + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT SECOND. + </h2> + <h3> + [The same room. The mist still lies heavy over the landscape.] + </h3> + <p> + [MANDERS and MRS. ALVING enter from the dining-room.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Still in the doorway.] <i>Velbekomme</i> [Note: A phrase + equivalent to the German <i>Prosit die Mahlzeit</i>—May good + digestion wait on appetite.], Mr. Manders. [Turns back towards the + dining-room.] Aren't you coming too, Oswald? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [From within.] No, thank you. I think I shall go out a little. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, do. The weather seems a little brighter now. [She + shuts the dining-room door, goes to the hall door, and calls:] Regina! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Outside.] Yes, Mrs. Alving? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Go down to the laundry, and help with the garlands. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, Mrs. Alving. + </p> + <p> + [MRS. ALVING assures herself that REGINA goes; then shuts the door.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I suppose he cannot overhear us in there? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Not when the door is shut. Besides, he's just going out. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I am still quite upset. I don't know how I could swallow a + morsel of dinner. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Controlling her nervousness, walks up and down.] Nor I. + But what is to be done now? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes; what is to be done? I am really quite at a loss. I am so + utterly without experience in matters of this sort. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I feel sure that, so far, no mischief has been done. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No; heaven forbid! But it is an unseemly state of things, + nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. It is only an idle fancy on Oswald's part; you may be sure + of that. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, as I say, I am not accustomed to affairs of the kind. But + I should certainly think— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Out of the house she must go, and that immediately. That is + as clear as daylight— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, of course she must. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But where to? It would not be right to— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Where to? Home to her father, of course. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. To whom did you say? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. To her—But then, Engstrand is not—? Good God, Mrs. + Alving, it's impossible! You must be mistaken after all. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately there is no possibility of mistake. Johanna + confessed everything to me; and Alving could not deny it. So there was + nothing to be done but to get the matter hushed up. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No, you could do nothing else. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. The girl left our service at once, and got a good sum of + money to hold her tongue for the time. The rest she managed for herself + when she got to town. She renewed her old acquaintance with Engstrand, + no doubt let him see that she had money in her purse, and told him some + tale about a foreigner who put in here with a yacht that summer. So she + and Engstrand got married in hot haste. Why, you married them yourself. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But then how to account for—? I recollect distinctly + Engstrand coming to give notice of the marriage. He was quite + overwhelmed with contrition, and bitterly reproached himself for the + misbehaviour he and his sweetheart had been guilty of. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; of course he had to take the blame upon himself. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But such a piece of duplicity on his part! And towards me too! + I never could have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall not fail to + take him seriously to task; he may be sure of that.—And then the + immorality of such a connection! For money—! How much did the girl + receive? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Three hundred dollars. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Just think of it—for a miserable three hundred dollars, + to go and marry a fallen woman! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Then what have you to say of me? I went and married a + fallen man. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Why—good heavens!—what are you talking about! A + fallen man! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Do you think Alving was any purer when I went with him to + the altar than Johanna was when Engstrand married her? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, but there is a world of difference between the two cases— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Not so much difference after all—except in the price:—a + miserable three hundred dollars and a whole fortune. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. How can you compare such absolutely dissimilar cases? You had + taken counsel with your own heart and with your natural advisers. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Without looking at him.] I thought you understood where + what you call my heart had strayed to at the time. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Distantly.] Had I understood anything of the kind, I should + not have been a daily guest in your husband's house. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. At any rate, the fact remains that with myself I took no + counsel whatever. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well then, with your nearest relatives—as your duty bade + you—with your mother and your two aunts. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true. Those three cast up the account for me. + Oh, it's marvellous how clearly they made out that it would be downright + madness to refuse such an offer. If mother could only see me now, and + know what all that grandeur has come to! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Nobody can be held responsible for the result. This, at least, + remains clear: your marriage was in full accordance with law and order. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [At the window.] Oh, that perpetual law and order! I often + think that is what does all the mischief in this world of ours. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Mrs. Alving, that is a sinful way of talking. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well, I can't help it; I must have done with all this + constraint and insincerity. I can endure it no longer. I must work my + way out to freedom. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What do you mean by that? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Drumming on the window frame.] I ought never to have + concealed the facts of Alving's life. But at that time I dared not do + anything else—I was afraid, partly on my own account. I was such a + coward. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. A coward? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. If people had come to know anything, they would have said—"Poor + man! with a runaway wife, no wonder he kicks over the traces." + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Such remarks might have been made with a certain show of right. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Looking steadily at him.] If I were what I ought to be, I + should go to Oswald and say, "Listen, my boy: your father led a vicious + life—" + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Merciful heavens—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING.—and then I should tell him all I have told you—every + word of it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You shock me unspeakably, Mrs. Alving. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; I know that. I know that very well. I myself am + shocked at the idea. [Goes away from the window.] I am such a coward. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You call it "cowardice" to do your plain duty? Have you + forgotten that a son ought to love and honour his father and mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Do not let us talk in such general terms. Let us ask: Ought + Oswald to love and honour Chamberlain Alving? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Is there no voice in your mother's heart that forbids you to + destroy your son's ideals? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But what about the truth? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But what about the ideals? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Do not despise ideals, Mrs. Alving; they will avenge themselves + cruelly. Take Oswald's case: he, unfortunately, seems to have few enough + ideals as it is; but I can see that his father stands before him as an + ideal. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And this habit of mind you have yourself implanted and fostered + by your letters. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; in my superstitious awe for duty and the proprieties, + I lied to my boy, year after year. Oh, what a coward—what a coward + I have been! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You have established a happy illusion in your son's heart, Mrs. + Alving; and assuredly you ought not to undervalue it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. H'm; who knows whether it is so happy after all—? + But, at any rate, I will not have any tampering with Regina. He shall + not go and wreck the poor girl's life. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No; good God—that would be terrible! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. If I knew he was in earnest, and that it would be for his + happiness— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What? What then? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But it couldn't be; for unfortunately Regina is not the + right sort of woman. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, what then? What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. If I weren't such a pitiful coward, I should say to him, + "Marry her, or make what arrangement you please, only let us have + nothing underhand about it." + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Merciful heavens, would you let them marry! Anything so + dreadful—! so unheard of— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Do you really mean "unheard of"? Frankly, Pastor Manders, + do you suppose that throughout the country there are not plenty of + married couples as closely akin as they? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I don't in the least understand you. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh yes, indeed you do. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Ah, you are thinking of the possibility that—Alas! yes, + family life is certainly not always so pure as it ought to be. But in + such a case as you point to, one can never know—at least with any + certainty. Here, on the other hand—that you, a mother, can think + of letting your son— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But I cannot—I wouldn't for anything in the world; + that is precisely what I am saying. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No, because you are a "coward," as you put it. But if you were + not a "coward," then—? Good God! a connection so shocking! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. So far as that goes, they say we are all sprung from + connections of that sort. And who is it that arranged the world so, + Pastor Manders? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Questions of that kind I must decline to discuss with you, Mrs. + Alving; you are far from being in the right frame of mind for them. But + that you dare to call your scruples "cowardly"—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Let me tell you what I mean. I am timid and faint-hearted + because of the ghosts that hang about me, and that I can never quite + shake off. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What do you say hangs about you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Ghosts! When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it was as + though ghosts rose up before me. But I almost think we are all of us + ghosts, Pastor Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from our + father and mother that "walks" in us. It is all sorts of dead ideas, and + lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they + cling to us all the same, and we cannot shake them off. Whenever I take + up a newspaper, I seem to see ghosts gliding between the lines. There + must be ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sands of the sea. + And then we are, one and all, so pitifully afraid of the light. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Aha—here we have the fruits of your reading. And pretty + fruits they are, upon my word! Oh, those horrible, revolutionary, + free-thinking books! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You are mistaken, my dear Pastor. It was you yourself who + set me thinking; and I thank you for it with all my heart. + </p> + MANDERS. I! + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes—when you forced me under the yoke of what you + called duty and obligation; when you lauded as right and proper what my + whole soul rebelled against as something loathsome. It was then that I + began to look into the seams of your doctrines. I wanted only to pick at + a single knot; but when I had got that undone, the whole thing ravelled + out. And then I understood that it was all machine-sewn. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Softly, with emotion.] And was that the upshot of my life's + hardest battle? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Call it rather your most pitiful defeat. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It was my greatest victory, Helen—the victory over + myself. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. It was a crime against us both. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. When you went astray, and came to me crying, "Here I am; take + me!" I commanded you, saying, "Woman, go home to your lawful husband." + Was that a crime? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, I think so. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. We two do not understand each other. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Not now, at any rate. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Never—never in my most secret thoughts have I regarded + you otherwise than as another's wife. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh—indeed? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Helen—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. People so easily forget their past selves. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I do not. I am what I always was. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Changing the subject.] Well well well; don't let us talk + of old times any longer. You are now over head and ears in Boards and + Committees, and I am fighting my battle with ghosts, both within me and + without. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Those without I shall help you to lay. After all the terrible + things I have heard from you today, I cannot in conscience permit an + unprotected girl to remain in your house. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Don't you think the best plan would be to get her provided + for?—I mean, by a good marriage. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No doubt. I think it would be desirable for her in every + respect. Regina is now at the age when—Of course I don't know much + about these things, but— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Regina matured very early. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, I thought so. I have an impression that she was remarkably + well developed, physically, when I prepared her for confirmation. But in + the meantime, she ought to be at home, under her father's eye—Ah! + but Engstrand is not—That he—that he—could so hide the + truth from me! [A knock at the door into the hall.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Who can this be? Come in! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [In his Sunday clothes, in the doorway.] I humbly beg your + pardon, but— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Aha! H'm— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Is that you, Engstrand? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND.—there was none of the servants about, so I took the + great liberty of just knocking. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, very well. Come in. Do you want to speak to me? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Comes in.] No, I'm obliged to you, ma'am; it was with his + Reverence I wanted to have a word or two. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Walking up and down the room.] Ah—indeed! You want to + speak to me, do you? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes, I'd like so terrible much to— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Stops in front of him.] Well; may I ask what you want? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Well, it was just this, your Reverence: we've been paid off + down yonder—my grateful thanks to you, ma'am,—and now + everything's finished, I've been thinking it would be but right and + proper if we, that have been working so honestly together all this time—well, + I was thinking we ought to end up with a little prayer-meeting to-night. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. A prayer-meeting? Down at the Orphanage? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Oh, if your Reverence doesn't think it proper— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Oh yes, I do; but—h'm— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. I've been in the habit of offering up a little prayer in the + evenings, myself— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Have you? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes, every now and then just a little edification, in a + manner of speaking. But I'm a poor, common man, and have little enough + gift, God help me!—and so I thought, as the Reverend Mr. Manders + happened to be here, I'd— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, you see, Engstrand, I have a question to put to you + first. Are you in the right frame of mind for such a meeting! Do you + feel your conscience clear and at ease? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Oh, God help us, your Reverence! we'd better not talk about + conscience. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, that is just what we must talk about. What have you to + answer? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Why—a man's conscience—it can be bad enough now + and then. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Ah, you admit that. Then perhaps you will make a clean breast + of it, and tell me—the real truth about Regina? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Quickly.] Mr. Manders! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Reassuringly.] Please allow me— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. About Regina! Lord, what a turn you gave me! [Looks at MRS. + ALVING.] There's nothing wrong about Regina, is there? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. We will hope not. But I mean, what is the truth about you and + Regina? You pass for her father, eh! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Uncertain.] Well—h'm—your Reverence knows all + about me and poor Johanna. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Come now, no more prevarication! Your wife told Mrs. Alving the + whole story before quitting her service. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Well, then, may—! Now, did she really? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You see we know you now, Engstrand. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. And she swore and took her Bible oath— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Did she take her Bible oath? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. No; she only swore; but she did it that solemn-like. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And you have hidden the truth from me all these years? Hidden + it from me, who have trusted you without reserve, in everything. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Well, I can't deny it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Have I deserved this of you, Engstrand? Have I not always been + ready to help you in word and deed, so far as it lay in my power? Answer + me. Have I not? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. It would have been a poor look-out for me many a time but for + the Reverend Mr. Manders. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And this is how you reward me! You cause me to enter falsehoods + in the Church Register, and you withhold from me, year after year, the + explanations you owed alike to me and to the truth. Your conduct has + been wholly inexcusable, Engstrand; and from this time forward I have + done with you! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [With a sigh.] Yes! I suppose there's no help for it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. How can you possibly justify yourself? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Who could ever have thought she'd have gone and made bad + worse by talking about it? Will your Reverence just fancy yourself in + the same trouble as poor Johanna— + </p> + MANDERS. I! + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Lord bless you, I don't mean just exactly the same. But I + mean, if your Reverence had anything to be ashamed of in the eyes of the + world, as the saying goes. We menfolk oughtn't to judge a poor woman too + hardly, your Reverence. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I am not doing so. It is you I am reproaching. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Might I make so bold as to ask your Reverence a bit of a + question? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, if you want to. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Isn't it right and proper for a man to raise up the fallen? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Most certainly it is. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. And isn't a man bound to keep his sacred word? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Why, of course he is; but— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. When Johanna had got into trouble through that Englishman—or + it might have been an American or a Russian, as they call them—well, + you see, she came down into the town. Poor thing, she'd sent me about my + business once or twice before: for she couldn't bear the sight of + anything as wasn't handsome; and I'd got this damaged leg of mine. Your + Reverence recollects how I ventured up into a dancing saloon, where + seafaring men was carrying on with drink and devilry, as the saying + goes. And then, when I was for giving them a bit of an admonition to + lead a new life— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [At the window.] H'm— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I know all about that, Engstrand; the ruffians threw you + downstairs. You have told me of the affair already. Your infirmity is an + honour to you. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. I'm not puffed up about it, your Reverence. But what I wanted + to say was, that when she came and confessed all to me, with weeping and + gnashing of teeth, I can tell your Reverence I was sore at heart to hear + it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Were you indeed, Engstrand? Well, go on. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. So I says to her, "The American, he's sailing about on the + boundless sea. And as for you, Johanna," says I, "you've committed a + grievous sin, and you're a fallen creature. But Jacob Engstrand," says + I, "he's got two good legs to stand upon, he has—" You see, your + Reverence, I was speaking figurative-like. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I understand quite well. Go on. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Well, that was how I raised her up and made an honest woman + of her, so as folks shouldn't get to know how as she'd gone astray with + foreigners. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. In all that you acted very well. Only I cannot approve of your + stooping to take money— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Money? I? Not a farthing! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Inquiringly to MRS. ALVING.] But— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Oh, wait a minute!—now I recollect. Johanna did have a + trifle of money. But I would have nothing to do with that. "No," says I, + "that's mammon; that's the wages of sin. This dirty gold—or notes, + or whatever it was—we'll just flint, that back in the American's + face," says I. But he was off and away, over the stormy sea, your + Reverence. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Was he really, my good fellow? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. He was indeed, sir. So Johanna and I, we agreed that the + money should go to the child's education; and so it did, and I can + account for every blessed farthing of it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Why, this alters the case considerably. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. That's just how it stands, your Reverence. And I make so bold + as to say as I've been an honest father to Regina, so far as my poor + strength went; for I'm but a weak vessel, worse luck! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, well, my good fellow— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. All the same, I bear myself witness as I've brought up the + child, and lived kindly with poor Johanna, and ruled over my own house, + as the Scripture has it. But it couldn't never enter my head to go to + your Reverence and puff myself up and boast because even the likes of me + had done some good in the world. No, sir; when anything of that sort + happens to Jacob Engstrand, he holds his tongue about it. It don't + happen so terrible often, I daresay. And when I do come to see your + Reverence, I find a mortal deal that's wicked and weak to talk about. + For I said it before, and I says it again—a man's conscience isn't + always as clean as it might be. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Oh, Lord! your Reverence— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Come, no nonsense [wrings his hand]. There we are! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. And if I might humbly beg your Reverence's pardon— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You? On the contrary, it is I who ought to beg your pardon— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Lord, no, Sir! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, assuredly. And I do it with all my heart. Forgive me for + misunderstanding you. I only wish I could give you some proof of my + hearty regret, and of my good-will towards you— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Would your Reverence do it? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. With the greatest pleasure. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Well then, here's the very chance. With the bit of money I've + saved here, I was thinking I might set up a Sailors' Home down in the + town. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes; it might be a sort of Orphanage, too, in a manner of + speaking. There's such a many temptations for seafaring folk ashore. But + in this Home of mine, a man might feel like as he was under a father's + eye, I was thinking. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. What do you say to this, Mrs. Alving? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. It isn't much as I've got to start with, Lord help me! But if + I could only find a helping hand, why— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, yes; we will look into the matter more closely. I entirely + approve of your plan. But now, go before me and make everything ready, + and get the candles lighted, so as to give the place an air of + festivity. And then we will pass an edifying hour together, my good + fellow; for now I quite believe you are in the right frame of mind. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes, I trust I am. And so I'll say good-bye, ma'am, and thank + you kindly; and take good care of Regina for me—[Wipes a tear from + his eye]—poor Johanna's child. Well, it's a queer thing, now; but + it's just like as if she'd growd into the very apple of my eye. It is, + indeed. [He bows and goes out through the hall.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well, what do you say of that man now, Mrs. Alving? That was a + very different account of matters, was it not? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, it certainly was. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It only shows how excessively careful one ought to be in + judging one's fellow creatures. But what a heartfelt joy it is to + ascertain that one has been mistaken! Don't you think so? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I think you are, and will always be, a great baby, Manders. + </p> + MANDERS. I? + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Laying her two hands upon his shoulders.] And I say that I + have half a mind to put my arms round your neck, and kiss you. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Stepping hastily back.] No, no! God bless me! What an idea! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [With a smile.] Oh, you needn't be afraid of me. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [By the table.] You have sometimes such an exaggerated way of + expressing yourself. Now, let me just collect all the documents, and put + them in my bag. [He does so.] There, that's all right. And now, good-bye + for the present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I shall + look in again later. [He takes his hat and goes out through the hall + door.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Sighs, looks for a moment out of the window, sets the room + in order a little, and is about to go into the dining-room, but stops at + the door with a half-suppressed cry.] Oswald, are you still at table? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [In the dining room.] I'm only finishing my cigar. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I thought you had gone for a little walk. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. In such weather as this? + </p> + <p> + [A glass clinks. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open, and sits down with + her knitting on the sofa by the window.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Wasn't that Pastor Manders that went out just now? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; he went down to the Orphanage. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. H'm. [The glass and decanter clink again.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [With a troubled glance.] Dear Oswald, you should take care + of that liqueur. It is strong. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. It keeps out the damp. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Wouldn't you rather come in here, to me? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I mayn't smoke in there. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You know quite well you may smoke cigars. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh, all right then; I'll come in. Just a tiny drop more first. + There! [He comes into the room with his cigar, and shuts the door after + him. A short silence.] Where has the pastor gone to? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I have just told you; he went down to the Orphanage. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh, yes; so you did. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Holding his cigar behind him.] But I find it so pleasant, + mother. [Strokes and caresses her.] Just think what it is for me to come + home and sit at mother's own table, in mother's room, and eat mother's + delicious dishes. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My dear, dear boy! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Somewhat impatiently, walks about and smokes.] And what else + can I do with myself here? I can't set to work at anything. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Why can't you? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. In such weather as this? Without a single ray of sunshine the + whole day? [Walks up the room.] Oh, not to be able to work—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Perhaps it was not quite wise of you to come home? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh, yes, mother; I had to. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You know I would ten times rather forgo the joy of having + you here, than let you— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Stops beside the table.] Now just tell me, mother: does it + really make you so very happy to have me home again? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Does it make me happy! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Crumpling up a newspaper.] I should have thought it must be + pretty much the same to you whether I was in existence or not. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. But you've got on very well without me all this time. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; I have got on without you. That is true. + </p> + <p> + [A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces to and fro + across the room. He has laid his cigar down.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Stops beside MRS. ALVING.] Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside + you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Makes room for him.] Yes, do, my dear boy. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Sits down.] There is something I must tell you, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Anxiously.] Well? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Looks fixedly before him.] For I can't go on hiding it any + longer. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Hiding what? What is it? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [As before.] I could never bring myself to write to you about + it; and since I've come home— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Seizes him by the arm.] Oswald, what is the matter? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Both yesterday and to-day I have tried to put the thoughts away + from me—to cast them off; but it's no use. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Rising.] Now you must tell me everything, Oswald! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Draws her down to the sofa again.] Sit still; and then I will + try to tell you.—I complained of fatigue after my journey— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well? What then? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. But it isn't that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary + fatigue— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Tries to jump up.] You are not ill, Oswald? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Draws her down again.] Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. + I'm not downright ill, either; not what is commonly called "ill." + [Clasps his hands above his head.] Mother, my mind is broken down—ruined—I + shall never be able to work again! [With his hands before his face, he + buries his head in her lap, and breaks into bitter sobbing.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [White and trembling.] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; it's not + true. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Looks up with despair in his eyes.] Never to be able to work + again! Never!—never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine + anything so horrible? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! How has this horrible thing come upon you? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Sitting upright again.] That's just what I cannot possibly + grasp or understand. I have never led a dissipated life—never, in any + respect. You mustn't believe that of me, mother! I've never done that. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I am sure you haven't, Oswald. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And yet this has come upon me just the same—this awful + misfortune! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, but it will pass over, my dear, blessed boy. It's + nothing but over-work. Trust me, I am right. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Sadly.] I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Tell me everything, from beginning to end. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, I will. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. When did you first notice it? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. It was directly after I had been home last time, and had got + back to Paris again. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head—chiefly + in the back of my head, they seemed to come. It was as though a tight + iron ring was being screwed round my neck and upwards. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well, and then? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. At first I thought it was nothing but the ordinary headache I + had been so plagued with while I was growing up— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. But it wasn't that. I soon found that out. I couldn't work any + more. I wanted to begin upon a big new picture, but my powers seemed to + fail me; all my strength was crippled; I could form no definite images; + everything swam before me—whirling round and round. Oh, it was an + awful state! At last I sent for a doctor—and from him I learned + the truth. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. How do you mean? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. He was one of the first doctors in Paris. I told him my + symptoms; and then he set to work asking me a string of questions which + I thought had nothing to do with the matter. I couldn't imagine what the + man was after— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. At last he said: "There has been something worm-eaten in you + from your birth." He used that very word—<i>vermoulu</i>. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Breathlessly.] What did he mean by that? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I didn't understand either, and begged him to explain himself + more clearly. And then the old cynic said—[Clenching his fist] Oh—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What did he say? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. He said, "The sins of the fathers are visited upon the + children." + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Rising slowly.] The sins of the fathers—! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I very nearly struck him in the face— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Walks away across the room.] The sins of the fathers— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Smiles sadly.] Yes; what do you think of that? Of course I + assured him that such a thing was out of the question. But do you think + he gave in? No, he stuck to it; and it was only when I produced your + letters and translated the passages relating to father— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But then—? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong track; + and so I learned the truth—the incomprehensible truth! I ought not + to have taken part with my comrades in that lighthearted, glorious life + of theirs. It had been too much for my strength. So I had brought it + upon myself! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oswald! No, no; do not believe it! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. No other explanation was possible, he said. That's the awful + part of it. Incurably ruined for life—by my own heedlessness! All + that I meant to have done in the world—I never dare think of it + again—I'm not able to think of it. Oh! if I could only live over + again, and undo all I have done! [He buries his face in the sofa.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Wrings her hands and walks, in silent struggle, backwards + and forwards.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [After a while, looks up and remains resting upon his elbow.] If + it had only been something inherited—something one wasn't + responsible for! But this! To have thrown away so shamefully, + thoughtlessly, recklessly, one's own happiness, one's own health, + everything in the world—one's future, one's very life—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. No, no, my dear, darling boy; this is impossible! [Bends + over him.] Things are not so desperate as you think. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh, you don't know—[Springs up.] And then, mother, to + cause you all this sorrow! Many a time I have almost wished and hoped + that at bottom you didn't care so very much about me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I, Oswald? My only boy! You are all I have in the world! + The only thing I care about! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Seizes both her hands and kisses them.] Yes, yes, I see it. + When I'm at home, I see it, of course; and that's almost the hardest + part for me.—But now you know the whole story and now we won't + talk any more about it to-day. I daren't think of it for long together. + [Goes up the room.] Get me something to drink, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. To drink? What do you want to drink now? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh, anything you like. You have some cold punch in the house. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, but my dear Oswald— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Don't refuse me, mother. Do be kind, now! I must have something + to wash down all these gnawing thoughts. [Goes into the conservatory.] + And then—it's so dark here! [MRS. ALVING pulls a bell-rope on the + right.] And this ceaseless rain! It may go on week after week, for + months together. Never to get a glimpse of the sun! I can't recollect + ever having seen the sun shine all the times I've been at home. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oswald—you are thinking of going away from me. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. H'm—[Drawing a heavy breath.]—I'm not thinking of + anything. I cannot think of anything! [In a low voice.] I let thinking + alone. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [From the dining-room.] Did you ring, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes; let us have the lamp in. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, ma'am. It's ready lighted. [Goes out.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Goes across to OSWALD.] Oswald, be frank with me. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well, so I am, mother. [Goes to the table.] I think I have told + you enough. + </p> + <p> + [REGINA brings the lamp and sets it upon the table.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Regina, you may bring us a small bottle of champagne. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Very well, ma'am. [Goes out.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Puts his arm round MRS. ALVING's neck.] That's just what I + wanted. I knew mother wouldn't let her boy go thirsty. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My own, poor, darling Oswald; how could I deny you anything + now? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Eagerly.] Is that true, mother? Do you mean it? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. How? What? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. That you couldn't deny me anything. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My dear Oswald— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Hush! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Brings a tray with a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses, + which she sets on the table.] Shall I open it? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. No, thanks. I will do it myself. + </p> + <p> + [REGINA goes out again.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Sits down by the table.] What was it you meant—that + I mustn't deny you? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Busy opening the bottle.] First let us have a glass—or + two. + </p> + <p> + [The cork pops; he pours wine into one glass, and is about to pour it + into the other.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Holding her hand over it.] Thanks; not for me. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh! won't you? Then I will! + </p> + <p> + [He empties the glass, fills, and empties it again; then he sits down by + the table.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [In expectancy.] Well? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Without looking at her.] Tell me—I thought you and Pastor + Manders seemed so odd—so quiet—at dinner to-day. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Did you notice it? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes. H'm—[After a short silence.] Tell me: what do you + think of Regina? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What do I think? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes; isn't she splendid? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My dear Oswald, you don't know her as I do— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Regina, unfortunately, was allowed to stay at home too + long. I ought to have taken her earlier into my house. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, mother? [He fills his + glass.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Regina has many serious faults— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh, what does that matter? [He drinks again.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. But I am fond of her, nevertheless, and I am responsible + for her. I wouldn't for all the world have any harm happen to her. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Springs up.] Mother, Regina is my only salvation! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Rising.] What do you mean by that? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I cannot go on bearing all this anguish of soul alone. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Have you not your mother to share it with you? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes; that's what I thought; and so I came home to you. But that + will not do. I see it won't do. I cannot endure my life here. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oswald! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I must live differently, mother. That is why I must leave you. I + will not have you looking on at it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, while you are so ill as this— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, mother, you + may be sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Wanders restlessly about.] But it's all the torment, the + gnawing remorse—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh—that + awful dread! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Walking after him.] Dread? What dread? What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Oh, you mustn't ask me any more. I don't know. I can't describe + it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Goes over to the right and pulls the bell.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. What is it you want? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I want my boy to be happy—that is what I want. He + sha'n't go on brooding over things. [To REGINA, who appears at the door:] + More champagne—a large bottle. [REGINA goes.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Mother! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Do you think we don't know how to live here at home? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Isn't she splendid to look at? How beautifully she's built! And + so thoroughly healthy! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Sits by the table.] Sit down, Oswald; let us talk quietly + together. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Sits.] I daresay you don't know, mother, that I owe Regina some + reparation. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. For a bit of thoughtlessness, or whatever you like to call it—very + innocent, at any rate. When I was home last time— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. She used often to ask me about Paris, and I used to tell her one + thing and another. Then I recollect I happened to say to her one day, + "Shouldn't you like to go there yourself?" + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I saw her face flush, and then she said, "Yes, I should like it + of all things." "Ah, well," I replied, "it might perhaps be managed"—or + something like that. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. And then? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Of course I had forgotten all about it; but the day before + yesterday I happened to ask her whether she was glad I was to stay at + home so long— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And then she gave me such a strange look, and asked, "But what's + to become of my trip to Paris?" + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Her trip! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And so it came out that she had taken the thing seriously; that + she had been thinking of me the whole time, and had set to work to learn + French— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. So that was why—! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Mother—when I saw that fresh, lovely, splendid girl + standing there before me—till then I had hardly noticed her—but + when she stood there as though with open arms ready to receive me— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oswald! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD.—then it flashed upon me that in her lay my salvation; for + I saw that she was full of the joy of life. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Starts.] The joy of life? Can there be salvation in that? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [From the dining room, with a bottle of champagne.] I'm sorry to + have been so long, but I had to go to the cellar. [Places the bottle on + the table.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And now bring another glass. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Looks at him in surprise.] There is Mrs. Alving's glass, Mr. + Alving. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, but bring one for yourself, Regina. [REGINA starts and + gives a lightning-like side glance at MRS. ALVING.] Why do you wait? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Softly and hesitatingly.] Is it Mrs. Alving's wish? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Bring the glass, Regina. + </p> + <p> + [REGINA goes out into the dining-room.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Follows her with his eyes.] Have you noticed how she walks?—so + firmly and lightly! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. This can never be, Oswald! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. It's a settled thing. Can't you see that? It's no use saying + anything against it. + </p> + <p> + [REGINA enters with an empty glass, which she keeps in her hand.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Sit down, Regina. + </p> + <p> + [REGINA looks inquiringly at MRS. ALVING.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Sit down. [REGINA sits on a chair by the dining room door, + still holding the empty glass in her hand.] Oswald—what were you + saying about the joy of life? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Ah, the joy of life, mother—that's a thing you don't know + much about in these parts. I have never felt it here. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Not when you are with me? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Not when I'm at home. But you don't understand that. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I think I almost understand it—now. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And then, too, the joy of work! At bottom, it's the same thing. + But that, too, you know nothing about. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Perhaps you are right. Tell me more about it, Oswald. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I only mean that here people are brought up to believe that work + is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is something + miserable, something it would be best to have done with, the sooner the + better. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. "A vale of tears," yes; and we certainly do our best to + make it one. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. But in the great world people won't hear of such things. There, + nobody really believes such doctrines any longer. There, you feel it a + positive bliss and ecstasy merely to draw the breath of life. Mother, + have you noticed that everything I have painted has turned upon the joy + of life?—always, always upon the joy of life?—light and + sunshine and glorious air and faces radiant with happiness. That is why + I'm afraid of remaining at home with you. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I'm afraid lest all my instincts should be warped into ugliness. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Looks steadily at him.] Do you think that is what would + happen? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I know it. You may live the same life here as there, and yet it + won't be the same life. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Who has been listening eagerly, rises, her eyes big with + thought, and says:] Now I see the sequence of things. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. What is it you see? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Rising.] Mother, I don't understand you. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Who has also risen.] Perhaps I ought to go? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. No. Stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my boy, you shall know + the whole truth. And then you can choose. Oswald! Regina! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Hush! The Pastor— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Enters by the hall door.] There! We have had a most edifying + time down there. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. So have we. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. We must stand by Engstrand and his Sailors' Home. Regina must + go to him and help him— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. No thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Noticing her for the first time.] What—? You here? And + with a glass in your hand! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Hastily putting the glass down.] Pardon! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Regina is going with me, Mr. Manders. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Going! With you! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes; as my wife—if she wishes it. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But, merciful God—! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. I can't help it, sir. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Or she'll stay here, if I stay. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Involuntarily.] Here! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I am thunderstruck at your conduct, Mrs. Alving. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. They will do neither one thing nor the other; for now I can + speak out plainly. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. You surely will not do that! No, no, no! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, I can speak and I will. And no ideals shall suffer + after all. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Mother—what is it you are hiding from me? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Listening.] Oh, ma'am, listen! Don't you hear shouts outside. + [She goes into the conservatory and looks out.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [At the window on the left.] What's going on? Where does that + light come from? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Cries out.] The Orphanage is on fire! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Rushing to the window.] On fire! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. On fire! Impossible! I've just come from there. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Where's my hat? Oh, never mind it—Father's Orphanage—! + [He rushes out through the garden door.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in a blaze! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Terrible! Mrs. Alving, it is a judgment upon this abode of + lawlessness. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, of course. Come, Regina. [She and REGINA hasten out + through the hall.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Clasps his hands together.] And we left it uninsured! [He goes + out the same way.] + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT THIRD. + </h2> + <p> + [The room as before. All the doors stand open. The lamp is still burning + on the table. It is dark out of doors; there is only a faint glow from + the conflagration in the background to the left.] + </p> + <p> + [MRS. ALVING, with a shawl over her head, stands in the conservatory, + looking out. REGINA, also with a shawl on, stands a little behind her.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. The whole thing burnt!—burnt to the ground! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. The basement is still burning. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. How is it Oswald doesn't come home? There's nothing to be + saved. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Should you like me to take down his hat to him? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Has he not even got his hat on? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Pointing to the hall.] No; there it hangs. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Let it be. He must come up now. I shall go and look for him + myself. [She goes out through the garden door.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Comes in from the hall.] Is not Mrs. Alving here? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. She has just gone down the garden. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. This is the most terrible night I ever went through. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes; isn't it a dreadful misfortune, sir? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Oh, don't talk about it! I can hardly bear to think of it. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. How can it have happened—? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Don't ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should <i>I</i> know? Do you, + too—? Is it not enough that your father—? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. What about him? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Oh, he has driven me distracted— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Enters through the hall.] Your Reverence— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Turns round in terror.] Are you after me here, too? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes, strike me dead, but I must—! Oh, Lord! what am I + saying? But this is a terrible ugly business, your Reverence. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Walks to and fro.] Alas! alas! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. What's the matter? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Why, it all came of this here prayer-meeting, you see. + [Softly.] The bird's limed, my girl. [Aloud.] And to think it should be + my doing that such a thing should be his Reverence's doing! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. But I assure you, Engstrand— + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. There wasn't another soul except your Reverence as ever laid + a finger on the candles down there. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Stops.] So you declare. But I certainly cannot recollect that + I ever had a candle in my hand. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. And I saw as clear as daylight how your Reverence took the + candle and snuffed it with your fingers, and threw away the snuff among + the shavings. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And you stood and looked on? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Yes; I saw it as plain as a pike-staff, I did. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It's quite beyond my comprehension. Besides, it has never been + my habit to snuff candles with my fingers. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. And terrible risky it looked, too, that it did! But is there + such a deal of harm done after all, your Reverence? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Walks restlessly to and fro.] Oh, don't ask me! + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Walks with him.] And your Reverence hadn't insured it, + neither? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Continuing to walk up and down.] No, no, no; I have told you + so. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Following him.] Not insured! And then to go straight away + down and set light to the whole thing! Lord, Lord, what a misfortune! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Wipes the sweat from his forehead.] Ay, you may well say that, + Engstrand. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. And to think that such a thing should happen to a benevolent + Institution, that was to have been a blessing both to town and country, + as the saying goes! The newspapers won't be for handling your Reverence + very gently, I expect. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No; that is just what I am thinking of. That is almost the + worst of the whole matter. All the malignant attacks and imputations—! + Oh, it makes me shudder to think of it! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Comes in from the garden.] He is not to be persuaded to + leave the fire. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Alving. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. So you have escaped your Inaugural Address, Pastor Manders. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Oh, I should so gladly— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [In an undertone.] It is all for the best. That Orphanage + would have done no one any good. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Do you think not? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Do you think it would? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. It is a terrible misfortune, all the same. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Let us speak of it plainly, as a matter of business.—Are + you waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [At the hall door.] That's just what I'm a-doing of, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Then sit down meanwhile. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Thank you, ma'am; I'd as soon stand. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [To MANDERS.] I suppose you are going by the steamer? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes; it starts in an hour. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Then be so good as to take all the papers with you. I won't + hear another word about this affair. I have other things to think of— + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Mrs. Alving— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Later on I shall send you a Power of Attorney to settle + everything as you please. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. That I will very readily undertake. The original destination of + the endowment must now be completely changed, alas! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Of course it must. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. I think, first of all, I shall arrange that the Solvik property + shall pass to the parish. The land is by no means without value. It can + always be turned to account for some purpose or other. And the interest + of the money in the Bank I could, perhaps, best apply for the benefit of + some undertaking of acknowledged value to the town. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Do just as you please. The whole matter is now completely + indifferent to me. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Give a thought to my Sailors' Home, your Reverence. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Upon my word, that is not a bad suggestion. That must be + considered. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Oh, devil take considering—Lord forgive me! + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [With a sigh.] And unfortunately I cannot tell how long I shall + be able to retain control of these things—whether public opinion + may not compel me to retire. It entirely depends upon the result of the + official inquiry into the fire— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What are you talking about? + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. And the result can by no means be foretold. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [Comes close to him.] Ay, but it can though. For here stands + old Jacob Engstrand. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Well well, but—? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [More softy.] And Jacob Engstrand isn't the man to desert a + noble benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying goes. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Yes, but my good fellow—how—? + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Jacob Engstrand may be likened to a sort of a guardian angel, + he may, your Reverence. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. No, no; I really cannot accept that. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. Oh, that'll be the way of it, all the same. I know a man as + has taken others' sins upon himself before now, I do. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Jacob! [Wrings his hand.] Yours is a rare nature. Well, you + shall be helped with your Sailors' Home. That you may rely upon. + [ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but cannot for emotion.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [Hangs his travelling-bag over his shoulder.] And now let us + set out. We two will go together. + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [At the dining-room door, softly to REGINA.] You come along + too, my lass. You shall live as snug as the yolk in an egg. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Tosses her head.] <i>Merci</i>! [She goes out into the hall and + fetches MANDERS' overcoat.] + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! and may the spirit of Law and Order + descend upon this house, and that quickly. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Good-bye, Pastor Manders. [She goes up towards the + conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in through the garden door.] + </p> + <p> + ENGSTRAND. [While he and REGINA help MANDERS to get his coat on.] + Good-bye, my child. And if any trouble should come to you, you know + where Jacob Engstrand is to be found. [Softly.] Little Harbour Street, + h'm—! [To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD.] And the refuge for wandering + mariners shall be called "Chamberlain Alving's Home," that it shall! And + if so be as I'm spared to carry on that house in my own way, I make so + bold as to promise that it shall be worthy of the Chamberlain's memory. + </p> + <p> + MANDERS. [In the doorway.] H'm—h'm!—Come along, my dear + Engstrand. Good-bye! Good-bye! [He and ENGSTRAND go out through the + hall.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Goes towards the table.] What house was he talking about? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, a kind of Home that he and Pastor Manders want to set + up. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. It will burn down like the other. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What makes you think so? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Everything will burn. All that recalls father's memory is + doomed. Here am I, too, burning down. [REGINA starts and looks at him.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oswald! You oughtn't to have remained so long down there, + my poor boy. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Sits down by the table.] I almost think you are right. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are quite wet. [She dries + his face with her pocket-handkerchief.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Stares indifferently in front of him.] Thanks, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Are you not tired, Oswald? Should you like to sleep? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Nervously.] No, no—not to sleep! I never sleep. I only + pretend to. [Sadly.] That will come soon enough. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Looking sorrowfully at him.] Yes, you really are ill, my + blessed boy. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Eagerly.] Is Mr. Alving ill? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Impatiently.] Oh, do shut all the doors! This killing dread— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Close the doors, Regina. + </p> + <p> + [REGINA shuts them and remains standing by the hall door. MRS. ALVING + takes her shawl off: REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws a chair + across to OSWALD'S, and sits by him.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. There now! I am going to sit beside you— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, do. And Regina shall stay here too. Regina shall be with me + always. You will come to the rescue, Regina, won't you? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. I don't understand— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. To the rescue? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes—when the need comes. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oswald, have you not your mother to come to the rescue? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. You? [Smiles.] No, mother; that rescue you will never bring me. + [Laughs sadly.] You! ha ha! [Looks earnestly at her.] Though, after all, + who ought to do it if not you? [Impetuously.] Why can't you say "thou" + to me, Regina? [Note: "Sige du" = Fr. <i>tutoyer</i>] Why don't you + call me "Oswald"? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Softly.] I don't think Mrs. Alving would like it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You shall have leave to, presently. And meanwhile sit over + here beside us. + </p> + <p> + [REGINA seats herself demurely and hesitatingly at the other side of the + table.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. And now, my poor suffering boy, I am going to take the + burden off your mind— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. You, mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING.—all the gnawing remorse and self-reproach you speak + of. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And you think you can do that? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you spoke of the + joy of life; and at that word a new light burst for me over my life and + everything connected with it. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Shakes his head.] I don't understand you. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You ought to have known your father when he was a young + lieutenant. He was brimming over with the joy of life! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, I know he was. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. It was like a breezy day only to look at him. And what + exuberant strength and vitality there was in him! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Well then, child of joy as he was—for he was like a + child in those days—he had to live at home here in a half-grown + town, which had no joys to offer him—only dissipations. He had no + object in life—only an official position. He had no work into + which he could throw himself heart and soul; he had only business. He + had not a single comrade that could realise what the joy of life meant—only + loungers and boon-companions— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Mother—! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. So the inevitable happened. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. The inevitable? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You told me yourself, this evening, what would become of + you if you stayed at home. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Do you mean to say that father—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Your poor father found no outlet for the overpowering joy + of life that was in him. And I brought no brightness into his home. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Not even you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. They had taught me a great deal about duties and so forth, + which I went on obstinately believing in. Everything was marked out into + duties—into my duties, and his duties, and—I am afraid I + made his home intolerable for your poor father, Oswald. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Why have you never spoken of this in writing to me? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I have never before seen it in such a light that I could + speak of it to you, his son. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. In what light did you see it, then? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Slowly.] I saw only this one thing: that your father was a + broken-down man before you were born. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Softly.] Ah—! [He rises and walks away to the window.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. And then; day after day, I dwelt on the one thought that by + rights Regina should be at home in this house—just like my own + boy. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Turning round quickly.] Regina—! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Springs up and asks, with bated breath.] I—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, now you know it, both of you. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Regina! + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [To herself.] So mother was that kind of woman. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Your mother had many good qualities, Regina. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, but she was one of that sort, all the same. Oh, I've often + suspected it; but—And now, if you please, ma'am, may I be allowed + to go away at once? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Do you really wish it, Regina? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Yes, indeed I do. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Of course you can do as you like; but— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Goes towards REGINA.] Go away now? Your place is here. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. <i>Merci</i>, Mr. Alving!—or now, I suppose, I may say + Oswald. But I can tell you this wasn't at all what I expected. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Regina, I have not been frank with you— + </p> + <p> + REGINA. No, that you haven't indeed. If I'd known that Oswald was an + invalid, why—And now, too, that it can never come to anything + serious between us—I really can't stop out here in the country and + wear myself out nursing sick people. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Not even one who is so near to you? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. No, that I can't. A poor girl must make the best of her young + days, or she'll be left out in the cold before she knows where she is. + And I, too, have the joy of life in me, Mrs. Alving! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately, you leave. But don't throw yourself away, + Regina. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh, what must be, must be. If Oswald takes after his father, I + take after my mother, I daresay.—May I ask, ma'am, if Pastor + Manders knows all this about me? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Pastor Manders knows all about it. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Busied in putting on her shawl.] Well then, I'd better make + haste and get away by this steamer. The Pastor is such a nice man to + deal with; and I certainly think I've as much right to a little of that + money as he has—that brute of a carpenter. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You are heartily welcome to it, Regina. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. [Looks hard at her.] I think you might have brought me up as a + gentleman's daughter, ma'am; it would have suited me better. [Tosses her + head.] But pooh—what does it matter! [With a bitter side glance at + the corked bottle.] I may come to drink champagne with gentlefolks yet. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. And if you ever need a home, Regina, come to me. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. No, thank you, ma'am. Pastor Manders will look after me, I know. + And if the worst comes to the worst, I know of one house where I've + every right to a place. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Where is that? + </p> + <p> + REGINA. "Chamberlain Alving's Home." + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Regina—now I see it—you are going to your ruin. + </p> + <p> + REGINA. Oh, stuff! Good-bye. [She nods and goes out through the hall.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Stands at the window and looks out.] Is she gone? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Murmuring aside to himself.] I think it was a mistake, this. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Goes up behind him and lays her hands on his shoulders.] + Oswald, my dear boy—has it shaken you very much? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Turns his face towards her.] All that about father, do you + mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have + been too much for you. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Why should you fancy that? Of course it came upon me as a great + surprise; but it can make no real difference to me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Draws her hands away.] No difference! That your father was + so infinitely unhappy! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Of course I can pity him, as I would anybody else; but— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Nothing more! Your own father! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Impatiently.]Oh, "father,"—"father"! I never knew + anything of father. I remember nothing about him, except that he once + made me sick. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. This is terrible to think of! Ought not a son to love his + father, whatever happens? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. When a son has nothing to thank his father for? has never known + him? Do you really cling to that old superstition?—you who are so + enlightened in other ways? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Can it be only a superstition—? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes; surely you can see that, mother. It's one of those notions + that are current in the world, and so— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Deeply moved.] Ghosts! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Crossing the room.] Yes; you may call them ghosts. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Wildly.] Oswald—then you don't love me, either! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. You I know, at any rate— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, you know me; but is that all! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And, of course, I know how fond you are of me, and I can't but + be grateful to you. And then you can be so useful to me, now that I am + ill. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, cannot I, Oswald? Oh, I could almost bless the illness + that has driven you home to me. For I see very plainly that you are not + mine: I have to win you. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Impatiently.] Yes yes yes; all these are just so many phrases. + You must remember that I am a sick man, mother. I can't be much taken up + with other people; I have enough to do thinking about myself. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [In a low voice.] I shall be patient and easily satisfied. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And cheerful too, mother! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. [Goes towards him.] + Have I relieved you of all remorse and self-reproach now? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, you have. But now who will relieve me of the dread? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. The dread? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Walks across the room.] Regina could have been got to do it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I don't understand you. What is this about dread—and + Regina? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Is it very late, mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. It is early morning. [She looks out through the + conservatory.] The day is dawning over the mountains. And the weather is + clearing, Oswald. In a little while you shall see the sun. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I'm glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and + live for— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I should think so, indeed! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Even if I can't work— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, you'll soon be able to work again, my dear boy—now + that you haven't got all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to brood + over any longer. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes, I'm glad you were able to rid me of all those fancies. And + when I've got over this one thing more—[Sits on the sofa.] Now we + will have a little talk, mother— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, let us. [She pushes an arm-chair towards the sofa, and + sits down close to him.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And meantime the sun will be rising. And then you will know all. + And then I shall not feel this dread any longer. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What is it that I am to know? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Not listening to her.] Mother, did you not say a little while + ago, that there was nothing in the world you would not do for me, if I + asked you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I said so! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. And you'll stick to it, mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. You may rely on that, my dear and only boy! I have nothing + in the world to live for but you alone. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Very well, then; now you shall hear—Mother, you have a + strong, steadfast mind, I know. Now you're to sit quite still when you + hear it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What dreadful thing can it be—? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. You're not to scream out. Do you hear? Do you promise me that? + We will sit and talk about it quietly. Do you promise me, mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I promise. Only speak! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well, you must know that all this fatigue—and my inability + to think of work—all that is not the illness itself— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Then what is the illness itself? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. The disease I have as my birthright—[He points to his + forehead and adds very softly]—is seated here. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Almost voiceless.] Oswald! No—no! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Don't scream. I can't bear it. Yes, mother, it is seated here + waiting. And it may break out any day—at any moment. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Oh, what horror—! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Now, quiet, quiet. That is how it stands with me— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Springs up.] It's not true, Oswald! It's impossible! It + cannot be so! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I have had one attack down there already. It was soon over. But + when I came to know the state I had been in, then the dread descended + upon me, raging and ravening; and so I set off home to you as fast as I + could. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Then this is the dread—! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes—it's so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it + had only been an ordinary mortal disease—! For I'm not so afraid + of death—though I should like to live as long as I can. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. But this is so unutterably loathsome. To become a little baby + again! To have to be fed! To have to—Oh, it's not to be spoken of! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. The child has his mother to nurse him. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Springs up.] No, never that! That is just what I will not have. + I can't endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many + years—and get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and + leave me. [Sits in MRS. ALVING'S chair.] For the doctor said it wouldn't + necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the + brain—or something like that. [Smiles sadly.] I think that + expression sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry-coloured + velvet—something soft and delicate to stroke. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Shrieks.] Oswald! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Springs up and paces the room.] And now you have taken Regina + from me. If I could only have had her! She would have come to the + rescue, I know. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Goes to him.] What do you mean by that, my darling boy? Is + there any help in the world that I would not give you? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. When I got over my attack in Paris, the doctor told me that when + it comes again—and it will come—there will be no more hope. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. He was heartless enough to— + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I demanded it of him. I told him I had preparations to make—[He + smiles cunningly.] And so I had. [He takes a little box from his inner + breast pocket and opens it.] Mother, do you see this? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. What is it? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Morphia. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Looks at him horror-struck.] Oswald—my boy! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I've scraped together twelve pilules— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Snatches at it.] Give me the box, Oswald. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Not yet, mother. [He hides the box again in his pocket.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I shall never survive this! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. It must be survived. Now if I'd had Regina here, I should have + told her how things stood with me—and begged her to come to the + rescue at the last. She would have done it. I know she would. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Never! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. When the horror had come upon me, and she saw me lying there + helpless, like a little new-born baby, impotent, lost, hopeless—past + all saving— + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Never in all the world would Regina have done this! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly + light-hearted. And she would soon have wearied of nursing an invalid + like me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Then heaven be praised that Regina is not here. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well then, it is you that must come to the rescue, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Shrieks aloud.] I! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Who should do it if not you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I! your mother! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. For that very reason. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. I, who gave you life! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. I never asked you for life. And what sort of a life have you + given me? I will not have it! You shall take it back again! + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. Help! Help! [She runs out into the hall.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Going after her.] Do not leave me! Where are you going? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [In the hall.] To fetch the doctor, Oswald! Let me pass! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Also outside.] You shall not go out. And no one shall come in. + [The locking of a door is heard.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Comes in again.] Oswald! Oswald—my child! + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Follows her.] Have you a mother's heart for me—and yet + can see me suffer from this unutterable dread? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [After a moment's silence, commands herself, and says:] + Here is my hand upon it. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Will you—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. If it should ever be necessary. But it will never be + necessary. No, no; it is impossible. + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Well, let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we + can. Thank you, mother. [He seats himself in the arm-chair which MRS. + ALVING has moved to the sofa. Day is breaking. The lamp is still burning + on the table.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Drawing near cautiously.] Do you feel calm now? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Bending over him.] It has been a dreadful fancy of yours, + Oswald—nothing but a fancy. All this excitement has been too much + for you. But now you shall have a long rest; at home with your mother, my + own blessëd boy. Everything you point to you shall have, just as when + you were a little child.—There now. The crisis is over. You see + how easily it passed! Oh, I was sure it would.—And do you see, + Oswald, what a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine! Now + you can really see your home. [She goes to the table and puts out the + lamp. Sunrise. The glacier and the snow-peaks in the background glow in + the morning light.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Sits in the arm-chair with his back towards the landscape, + without moving. Suddenly he says:] Mother, give me the sun. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [By the table, starts and looks at him.] What do you say? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Repeats, in a dull, toneless voice.] The sun. The sun. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Goes to him.] Oswald, what is the matter with you? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Seems to shrink together to the chair; all his muscles relax; + his face is expressionless, his eyes have a glassy stare.] + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Quivering with terror.] What is this? [Shrieks.] Oswald! + what is the matter with you? [Falls on her knees beside him and shakes + him.] Oswald! Oswald! look at me! Don't you know me? + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Tonelessly as before.] The sun.—The sun. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ALVING. [Springs up in despair, entwines her hands in her hair and + shrieks.] I cannot bear it! [Whispers, as though petrified]; I cannot + bear it! Never! [Suddenly.] Where has he got them? [Fumbles hastily in + his breast.] Here! [Shrinks back a few steps and screams:] No! No; no!—Yes!—No; + no! + </p> + <p> + [She stands a few steps away from him with her hands twisted in her + hair, and stares at him in speechless horror.] + </p> + <p> + OSWALD. [Sits motionless as before and says.] The sun.—The sun. + </p> + THE END <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ghosts, by Henrik Ibsen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GHOSTS *** + +***** This file should be named 8121-h.htm or 8121-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/1/2/8121/ + +Produced by Nicole Apostola, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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