Ghosts (Act 2)

[The same room. The mist still lies heavy over the landscape.]

[MANDERS and MRS. ALVING enter from the dining-room.]

MRS. ALVING
[Still in the doorway.] Velbekomme [Note: A phrase equivalent to the German "Prosit die Mahlzeit"—May good digestion wait on appetite.], Mr. MANDERS. [Turns back towards the dining-room.] Aren't you coming too, Oswald?

OSWALD
[From within.] No, thank you. I think I shall go out a little.

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!

REGINA
[Outside.] Yes, Mrs. Alving?

MRS. ALVING
Go down to the laundry, and help with the garlands.

REGINA
Yes, MRS. ALVING.

[MRS. ALVING assures herself that REGINA goes; then shuts the door.]

MANDERS
I suppose he cannot overhear us in there?

MRS. ALVING
Not when the door is shut. Besides, he's just going out.

MANDERS
I am still quite upset. I don't know how I could swallow a morsel of dinner.

MRS. ALVING
[Controlling her nervousness, walks up and down.] Nor I. But what is to be done now?

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.

MRS. ALVING
I feel sure that, so far, no mischief has been done.

MANDERS
No; heaven forbid! But it is an unseemly state of things, nevertheless.

MRS. ALVING
It is only an idle fancy on Oswald's part; you may be sure of that.

MANDERS
Well, as I say, I am not accustomed to affairs of the kind. But I should certainly think—

MRS. ALVING
Out of the house she must go, and that immediately. That is as clear as daylight—

MANDERS
Yes, of course she must.

MRS. ALVING
But where to? It would not be right to—

MANDERS
Where to? Home to her father, of course.

MRS. ALVING
To whom did you say?

MANDERS
To her—But then, Engstrand is not—? Good God, Mrs. Alving, it's impossible! You must be mistaken after all.

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.

MANDERS
No, you could do nothing else.

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.

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.

MRS. ALVING
Yes; of course he had to take the blame upon himself.

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?

MRS. ALVING
Three hundred dollars.

MANDERS
Just think of it—for a miserable three hundred dollars, to go and marry a fallen woman!

MRS. ALVING
Then what have you to say of me? I went and married a fallen man.

MANDERS
Why—good heavens!—what are you talking about! A fallen man!

MRS. ALVING
Do you think Alving was any purer when I went with him to the altar than Johanna was when Engstrand married her?

MANDERS
Well, but there is a world of difference between the two cases—

MRS. ALVING
Not so much difference after all—except in the price:—a miserable three hundred dollars and a whole fortune.

MANDERS
How can you compare such absolutely dissimilar cases? You had taken counsel with your own heart and with your natural advisers.

MRS. ALVING
[Without looking at him.] I thought you understood where what you call my heart had strayed to at the time.

MANDERS
[Distantly.] Had I understood anything of the kind, I should not have been a daily guest in your husband's house.

MRS. ALVING
At any rate, the fact remains that with myself I took no counsel whatever.

MANDERS
Well then, with your nearest relatives—as your duty bade you—with your mother and your two aunts.

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!

MANDERS
Nobody can be held responsible for the result. This, at least, remains clear: your marriage was in full accordance with law and order.

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.

MANDERS
Mrs. Alving, that is a sinful way of talking.

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.

MANDERS
What do you mean by that?

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.

MANDERS
A coward?

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."

MANDERS
Such remarks might have been made with a certain show of right.

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—"

MANDERS
Merciful heavens—!

MRS. ALVING
—and then I should tell him all I have told you—every word of it.

MANDERS
You shock me unspeakably, MRS. ALVING.

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.

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?

MRS. ALVING
Do not let us talk in such general terms. Let us ask: Ought Oswald to love and honour Chamberlain Alving?

MANDERS
Is there no voice in your mother's heart that forbids you to destroy your son's ideals?

MRS. ALVING
But what about the truth?

MANDERS
But what about the ideals?

MRS. ALVING
Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward!

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.

MRS. ALVING
Yes, that is true.

MANDERS
And this habit of mind you have yourself implanted and fostered by your letters.

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!

MANDERS
You have established a happy illusion in your son's heart, Mrs. Alving; and assuredly you ought not to undervalue it.

MRS. ALVING
H'm; who knows whether it is so happy after all—? But, at any rate, I will not have any tampering wide REGINA. He shall not go and wreck the poor girl's life.

MANDERS
No; good God—that would be terrible!

MRS. ALVING
If I knew he was in earnest, and that it would be for his happiness—

MANDERS
What? What then?

MRS. ALVING
But it couldn't be; for unfortunately Regina is not the right sort of woman.

MANDERS
Well, what then? What do you mean?

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."

MANDERS
Merciful heavens, would you let them marry! Anything so dreadful—! so unheard of—

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?

MANDERS
I don't in the least understand you.

MRS. ALVING
Oh yes, indeed you do.

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—

MRS. ALVING
But I cannot—I wouldn't for anything in the world; that is precisely what I am saying.

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!

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?

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"—!

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.

MANDERS
What do you say hangs about you?

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.

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!

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.

MANDERS
I!

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.

MANDERS
[Softly, with emotion.] And was that the upshot of my life's hardest battle?

MRS. ALVING
Call it rather your most pitiful defeat.

MANDERS
It was my greatest victory, Helen—the victory over myself.

MRS. ALVING
It was a crime against us both.

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?

MRS. ALVING
Yes, I think so.

MANDERS
We two do not understand each other.

MRS. ALVING
Not now, at any rate.

MANDERS
Never—never in my most secret thoughts have I regarded you otherwise than as another's wife.

MRS. ALVING
Oh—indeed?

MANDERS
Helen—!

MRS. ALVING
People so easily forget their past selves.

MANDERS
I do not. I am what I always was.

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.

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.

MRS. ALVING
Don't you think the best plan would be to get her provided for?—I mean, by a good marriage.

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—

MRS. ALVING
Regina matured very early.

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.]

MRS. ALVING
Who can this be? Come in!

ENGSTRAND
[In his Sunday clothes, in the doorway.] I humbly beg your pardon, but—

MANDERS
Aha! H'm—

MRS. ALVING
Is that you, Engstrand?

ENGSTRAND
—there was none of the servants about, so I took the great liberty of just knocking.

MRS. ALVING
Oh, very well. Come in. Do you want to speak to me?

ENGSTRAND
[Comes in.] No, I'm obliged to you, ma'am; it was with his Reverence I wanted to have a word or two.

MANDERS
[Walking up and down the room.] Ah—indeed! You want to speak to me, do you?

ENGSTRAND
Yes, I'd like so terrible much to—

MANDERS
[Stops in front of him.] Well; may I ask what you want?

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.

MANDERS
A prayer-meeting? Down at the Orphanage?

ENGSTRAND
Oh, if your Reverence doesn't think it proper—

MANDERS
Oh yes, I do; but—h'm—

ENGSTRAND
I've been in the habit of offering up a little prayer in the evenings, myself—

MRS. ALVING
Have you?

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—

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?

ENGSTRAND
Oh, God help us, your Reverence! we'd better not talk about conscience.

MANDERS
Yes, that is just what we must talk about. What have you to answer?

ENGSTRAND
Why—a man's conscience—it can be bad enough now and then.

MANDERS
Ah, you admit that. Then perhaps you will make a clean breast of it, and tell me—the real truth about Regina?

MRS. ALVING
[Quickly.] Mr. Manders!

MANDERS
[Reassuringly.] Please allow me—

ENGSTRAND
About Regina! Lord, what a turn you gave me! [Looks at MRS. ALVING.] There's nothing wrong about Regina, is there?

MANDERS
We will hope not. But I mean, what is the truth about you and Regina? You pass for her father, eh!

ENGSTRAND
[Uncertain.] Well—h'm—your Reverence knows all about me and poor Johanna.

MANDERS
Come now, no more prevarication! Your wife told Mrs. Alving the whole story before quitting her service.

ENGSTRAND
Well, then, may—! Now, did she really?

MANDERS
You see we know you now, ENGSTRAND.

ENGSTRAND
And she swore and took her Bible oath—

MANDERS
Did she take her Bible oath?

ENGSTRAND
No; she only swore; but she did it that solemn-like.

MANDERS
And you have hidden the truth from me all these years? Hidden it from me, who have trusted you without reserve, in everything.

ENGSTRAND
Well, I can't deny it.

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?

ENGSTRAND
It would have been a poor look-out for me many a time but for the Reverend Mr. MANDERS.

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!

ENGSTRAND
[With a sigh.] Yes! I suppose there's no help for it.

MANDERS
How can you possibly justify yourself?

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—

MANDERS
I!

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.

MANDERS
I am not doing so. It is you I am reproaching.

ENGSTRAND
Might I make so bold as to ask your Reverence a bit of a question?

MANDERS
Yes, if you want to.

ENGSTRAND
Isn't it right and proper for a man to raise up the fallen?

MANDERS
Most certainly it is.

ENGSTRAND
And isn't a man bound to keep his sacred word?

MANDERS
Why, of course he is; but—

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—

MRS. ALVING
[At the window.] H'm—

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.

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.

MANDERS
Were you indeed, Engstrand? Well, go on.

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.

MANDERS
I understand quite well. Go on.

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.

MANDERS
In all that you acted very well. Only I cannot approve of your stooping to take money—

ENGSTRAND
Money? I? Not a farthing!

MANDERS
[Inquiringly to MRS. ALVING] But—

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.

MANDERS
Was he really, my good fellow?

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.

MANDERS
Why, this alters the case considerably.

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!

MANDERS
Well, well, my good fellow—

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.

MANDERS
Give me your hand, Jacob ENGSTRAND.

ENGSTRAND
Oh, Lord! your Reverence—

MANDERS
Come, no nonsense [wrings his hand]. There we are!

ENGSTRAND
And if I might humbly beg your Reverence's pardon—

MANDERS
You? On the contrary, it is I who ought to beg your pardon—

ENGSTRAND
Lord, no, Sir!

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—

ENGSTRAND
Would your Reverence do it?

MANDERS
With the greatest pleasure.

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.

MRS. ALVING
You?

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.

MANDERS
What do you say to this, Mrs. Alving?

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—

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.

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.]

MANDERS
Well, what do you say of that man now, Mrs. Alving? That was a very different account of matters, was it not?

MRS. ALVING
Yes, it certainly was.

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?

MRS. ALVING
I think you are, and will always be, a great baby, MANDERS.

MANDERS
I?

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.

MANDERS
[Stepping hastily back.] No, no! God bless me! What an idea!

MRS. ALVING
[With a smile.] Oh, you needn't be afraid of me.

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.]

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?

OSWALD
[In the dining room.] I'm only finishing my cigar.

MRS. ALVING
I thought you had gone for a little walk.

OSWALD
In such weather as this?

[A glass clinks. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open, and sits down with her knitting on the sofa by the window.]

OSWALD
Wasn't that Pastor Manders that went out just now?

MRS. ALVING
Yes; he went down to the Orphanage.

OSWALD
H'm. [The glass and decanter clink again.]

MRS. ALVING
[With a troubled glance.] Dear Oswald, you should take care of that liqueur. It is strong.

OSWALD
It keeps out the damp.

MRS. ALVING
Wouldn't you rather come in here, to me?

OSWALD
I mayn't smoke in there.

MRS. ALVING
You know quite well you may smoke cigars.

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?

MRS. ALVING
I have just told you; he went down to the Orphanage.

OSWALD
Oh, yes; so you did.

MRS. ALVING
You shouldn't sit so long at table, OSWALD.

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.

MRS. ALVING
My dear, dear boy!

OSWALD
[Somewhat impatiently, walks about and smokes.] And what else can I do with myself here? I can't set to work at anything.

MRS. ALVING
Why can't you?

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—!

MRS. ALVING
Perhaps it was not quite wise of you to come home?

OSWALD
Oh, yes, mother; I had to.

MRS. ALVING
You know I would ten times rather forgo the joy of having you here, than let you—

OSWALD
[Stops beside the table.] Now just tell me, mother: does it really make you so very happy to have me home again?

MRS. ALVING
Does it make me happy!

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.

MRS. ALVING
Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald?

OSWALD
But you've got on very well without me all this time.

MRS. ALVING
Yes; I have got on without you. That is true.

[A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces to and fro across the room. He has laid his cigar down.]

OSWALD
[Stops beside MRS. ALVING.] Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside you?

MRS. ALVING
[Makes room for him.] Yes, do, my dear boy.

OSWALD
[Sits down.] There is something I must tell you, mother.

MRS. ALVING
[Anxiously.] Well?

OSWALD
[Looks fixedly before him.] For I can't go on hiding it any longer.

MRS. ALVING
Hiding what? What is it?

OSWALD
[As before.] I could never bring myself to write to you about it; and since I've come home—

MRS. ALVING
[Seizes him by the arm.] Oswald, what is the matter?

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.

MRS. ALVING
[Rising.] Now you must tell me everything, Oswald!

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—

MRS. ALVING
Well? What then?

OSWALD
But it isn't that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary fatigue—

MRS. ALVING
[Tries to jump up.] You are not ill, Oswald?

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.]

MRS. ALVING
[White and trembling.] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; it's not true.

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?

MRS. ALVING
My poor boy! How has this horrible thing come upon you?

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.

MRS. ALVING
I am sure you haven't, OSWALD.

OSWALD
And yet this has come upon me just the same—this awful misfortune!

MRS. ALVING
Oh, but it will pass over, my dear, blessed boy. It's nothing but over-work. Trust me, I am right.

OSWALD
[Sadly.] I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so.

MRS. ALVING
Tell me everything, from beginning to end.

OSWALD
Yes, I will.

MRS. ALVING
When did you first notice it?

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.

MRS. ALVING
Well, and then?

OSWALD
At first I thought it was nothing but the ordinary headache I had been so plagued with while I was growing up—

MRS. ALVING
Yes, yes—

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.

MRS. ALVING
How do you mean?

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—

MRS. ALVING
Well?

OSWALD
At last he said: "There has been something worm-eaten in you from your birth." He used that very word—vermoulu.

MRS. ALVING
[Breathlessly.] What did he mean by that?

OSWALD
I didn't understand either, and begged him to explain himself more clearly. And then the old cynic said—[Clenching his fist] Oh—!

MRS. ALVING
What did he say?

OSWALD
He said, "The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children."

MRS. ALVING
[Rising slowly.] The sins of the fathers—!

OSWALD
I very nearly struck him in the face—

MRS. ALVING
[Walks away across the room.] The sins of the fathers—

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—

MRS. ALVING
But then—?

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!

MRS. ALVING
Oswald! No, no; do not believe it!

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.]

MRS. ALVING
[Wrings her hands and walks, in silent struggle, backwards and forwards.]

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—!

MRS. ALVING
No, no, my dear, darling boy; this is impossible! [Bends over him.] Things are not so desperate as you think.

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.

MRS. ALVING
I, Oswald? My only boy! You are all I have in the world! The only thing I care about!

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.

MRS. ALVING
To drink? What do you want to drink now?

OSWALD
Oh, anything you like. You have some cold punch in the house.

MRS. ALVING
Yes, but my dear Oswald—

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.

MRS. ALVING
Oswald—you are thinking of going away from me.

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.

REGINA
[From the dining-room.] Did you ring, ma'am?

MRS. ALVING
Yes; let us have the lamp in.

REGINA
Yes, ma'am. It's ready lighted.
[Goes out.]

MRS. ALVING
[Goes across to OSWALD.] Oswald, be frank with me.

OSWALD
Well, so I am, mother. [Goes to the table.] I think I have told you enough.

[REGINA brings the lamp and sets it upon the table.]

MRS. ALVING
Regina, you may bring us a small bottle of champagne.

REGINA
Very well, ma'am. [Goes out.]

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.

MRS. ALVING
My own, poor, darling Oswald; how could I deny you anything now?

OSWALD
[Eagerly.] Is that true, mother? Do you mean it?

MRS. ALVING
How? What?

OSWALD
That you couldn't deny me anything.

MRS. ALVING
My dear Oswald—

OSWALD
Hush!

REGINA
[Brings a tray with a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses, which she sets on the table.] Shall I open it?

OSWALD
No, thanks. I will do it myself.

[REGINA goes out again.]

MRS. ALVING
[Sits down by the table.] What was it you meant—that I musn't deny you?

OSWALD
[Busy opening the bottle.] First let us have a glass—or two.

[The cork pops; he pours wine into one glass, and is about to pour it into the other.]

MRS. ALVING
[Holding her hand over it.] Thanks; not for me.

OSWALD
Oh! won't you? Then I will!

[He empties the glass, fells, and empties it again; then he sits down by the table.]

MRS. ALVING
[In expectancy.] Well?

OSWALD
[Without looking at her.] Tell me—I thought you and Pastor Manders seemed so odd—so quiet—at dinner to-day.

MRS. ALVING
Did you notice it?

OSWALD
Yes. H'm—[After a short silence.] Tell me: what do you think of Regina?

MRS. ALVING
What do I think?

OSWALD
Yes; isn't she splendid?

MRS. ALVING
My dear Oswald, you don't know her as I do—

OSWALD
Well?

MRS. ALVING
Regina, unfortunately, was allowed to stay at home too long. I ought to have taken her earlier into my house.

OSWALD
Yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, mother? [He fills his glass.]

MRS. ALVING
Regina has many serious faults—

OSWALD
Oh, what does that matter? [He drinks again.]

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.

OSWALD
[Springs up.] Mother, Regina is my only salvation!

MRS. ALVING
[Rising.] What do you mean by that?

OSWALD
I cannot go on bearing all this anguish of soul alone.

MRS. ALVING
Have you not your mother to share it with you?

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.

MRS. ALVING
Oswald!

OSWALD
I must live differently, mother. That is why I must leave you. I will not have you looking on at it.

MRS. ALVING
My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, while you are so ill as this—

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.

MRS. ALVING
Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not?

OSWALD
[Wanders restlessly about.] But it's all the torment, the gnawing remorse—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh—that awful dread!

MRS. ALVING
[Walking after him.] Dread? What dread? What do you mean?

OSWALD
Oh, you mustn't ask me any more. I don't know. I can't describe it.

MRS. ALVING
[Goes over to the right and pulls the bell.]

OSWALD
What is it you want?

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.]

OSWALD
Mother!

MRS. ALVING
Do you think we don't know how to live here at home?

OSWALD
Isn't she splendid to look at? How beautifully she's built! And so thoroughly healthy!

MRS. ALVING
[Sits by the table.] Sit down, Oswald; let us talk quietly together.

OSWALD
[Sits.] I daresay you don't know, mother, that I owe Regina some reparation.

MRS. ALVING
You!

OSWALD
For a bit of thoughtlessness, or whatever you like to call it—very innocent, at any rate. When I was home last time—

MRS. ALVING
Well?

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?"

MRS. ALVING
Well?

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.

MRS. ALVING
And then?

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—

MRS. ALVING
Yes?

OSWALD
And then she gave me such a strange look, and asked, "But what's to become of my trip to Paris?"

MRS. ALVING
Her trip!

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—

MRS. ALVING
So that was why—!

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—

MRS. ALVING
Oswald!

OSWALD
—then it flashed upon me that in her lay my salvation; for I saw that she was full of the joy of life.

MRS. ALVING
[Starts.] The joy of life? Can there be salvation in that?

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.]

OSWALD
And now bring another glass.

REGINA
[Looks at him in surprise.] There is Mrs. Alving's glass, Mr. Alving.

OSWALD
Yes, but bring one for yourself, REGINA. [REGINA starts and gives a lightning-like side glance at MRS. ALVING.] Why do you wait?

REGINA
[Softly and hesitatingly.] Is it Mrs. Alving's wish?

MRS. ALVING
Bring the glass, REGINA.

[REGINA goes out into the dining-room.]

OSWALD
[Follows her with his eyes.] Have you noticed how she walks?—so firmly and lightly!

MRS. ALVING
This can never be, Oswald!

OSWALD
It's a settled thing. Can't you see that? It's no use saying anything against it.

[REGINA enters with an empty glass, which she keeps in her hand.]

OSWALD
Sit down, REGINA.

[REGINA looks inquiringly at MRS. ALVING.]

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?

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.

MRS. ALVING
Not when you are with me?

OSWALD
Not when I'm at home. But you don't understand that.

MRS. ALVING
Yes, yes; I think I almost understand it—now.

OSWALD
And then, too, the joy of work! At bottom, it's the same thing. But that, too, you know nothing about.

MRS. ALVING
Perhaps you are right. Tell me more about it, OSWALD.

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.

MRS. ALVING
"A vale of tears," yes; and we certainly do our best to make it one.

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.

MRS. ALVING
Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me?

OSWALD
I'm afraid lest all my instincts should be warped into ugliness.

MRS. ALVING
[Looks steadily at him.] Do you think that is what would happen?

OSWALD
I know it. You may live the same life here as there, and yet it won't be the same life.

MRS. ALVING
[Who has been listening eagerly, rises, her eyes big with thought, and says:] Now I see the sequence of things.

OSWALD
What is it you see?

MRS. ALVING
I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak.

OSWALD
[Rising.] Mother, I don't understand you.

REGINA
[Who has also risen.] Perhaps I ought to go?

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!

OSWALD
Hush! The Pastor—

MANDERS
[Enters by the hall door.] There! We have had a most edifying time down there.

OSWALD
So have we.

MANDERS
We must stand by Engstrand and his Sailors' Home. Regina must go to him and help him—

REGINA
No thank you, sir.

MANDERS
[Noticing her for the first tine.] What—? You here? And with a glass in your hand!

REGINA
[Hastily putting the glass down.] Pardon!

OSWALD
Regina is going with me, Mr. Manders.

MANDERS
Going! With you!

OSWALD
Yes; as my wife—if she wishes it.

MANDERS
But, merciful God—!

REGINA
I can't help it, sir.

OSWALD
Or she'll stay here, if I stay.

REGINA
[Involuntarily.] Here!

MANDERS
I am thunderstruck at your conduct, Mrs. Alving.

MRS. ALVING
They will do neither one thing nor the other; for now I can speak out plainly.

MANDERS
You surely will not do that! No, no, no!

MRS. ALVING
Yes, I can speak and I will. And no ideals shall suffer after all.

OSWALD
Mother—what is it you are hiding from me?

REGINA
[Listening.] Oh, ma'am, listen! Don't you hear shouts outside. [She goes into the conservatory and looks out.]

OSWALD
[At the window on the left.] What's going on? Where does that light come from?

REGINA
[Cries out.] The Orphanage is on fire!

MRS. ALVING
[Rushing to the window.] On fire!

MANDERS
On fire! Impossible! I've just come from there.

OSWALD
Where's my hat? Oh, never mind it—Father's Orphanage—! [He rushes out through the garden door.]

MRS. ALVING
My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in a blaze!

MANDERS
Terrible! Mrs. Alving, it is a judgment upon this abode of lawlessness.

MRS. ALVING
Yes, of course. Come, Regina. [She and REGINA hasten out through the hall.]

MANDERS
[Clasps his hands together.] And we left it uninsured! [He goes out the same way.]