Act II

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. Velbekomme4 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 with 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 fainthearted 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, freethinking 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 tonight.
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 lookout 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 goodwill 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 goodbye, 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, goodbye 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 today 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 overwork. 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 today. 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 mustn’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, fills, 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 today.
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 shan’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 time. 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.

Act III

Ibsen's Plays

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