in the eyes of the world, so to speak. We men ought not judge a poor woman too hardly, Mr. Manders.
Manders. But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming.
Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small question?
Engstrand. Shouldn’t you say it was right for a man to raise up the fallen?
Engstrand. And isn’t a man bound to keep his word of honour?
Manders. Certainly he is; but–
Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this Englishman–or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they call ’em–well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had refused me once or twice before; she only had eyes for good- looking men in those days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your reverence will remember how I had ventured up into a dancing- saloon where seafaring men were revelling in drunkenness and intoxication, as they say. And when I tried to exhort them to turn from their evil ways–
Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem!
Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know–the rough brutes threw you downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The affliction to your leg is a credit to you.
Engstrand. I don’t want to claim credit for it, your reverence. But what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided in me with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it went to my heart to hear her.
Manders. Did it, indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then?
Engstrand. Well, then I said to her: “The American is roaming about on the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna,” I said, “you have committed a sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands Jacob Engstrand,” I said, “on two strong legs”–of course that was only speaking in a kind of metaphor, as it were, your reverence.
Manders. I quite understand. Go on.
Engstrand. Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her my lawful wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she had carried on with the stranger.
Manders. That was all very kindly done. The only thing I cannot justify was your bringing yourself to accept the money.
Engstrand. Money? I? Not a farthing.
Manders (to MRS. ALVING, in a questioning tare). But–
Engstrand. Ah, yes!–wait a bit; I remember now. Joanna did have a trifle of money, you are quite right. But I didn’t want to know anything about that. “Fie,” I said, “on the mammon of unrighteousness, it’s the price of your sin; as for this tainted gold”–or notes, or whatever it was–“we will throw it back in the American’s face,” I said. But he had gone away and disappeared on the stormy seas, your reverence.
Manders. Was that how it was, my good fellow?
Engstrand. It was, sir. So then Joanna and I decided that the money should go towards the child’s bringing-up, and that’s what became of it; and I can give a faithful account of every single penny of it.
Manders. This alters the complexion of the affair very considerably.
Engstrand. That’s how it was, your reverence. And I make bold to say that I have been a good father to Regina–as far as was in my power–for I am a poor erring mortal, alas!
Manders. There, there, my dear Engstrand.
Engstrand. Yes, I do make bold to say that I brought up the child, and made my poor Joanna a loving and careful husband, as the Bible says we ought. But it never occurred to me to go to your reverence and claim credit for it or boast about it because I had done one good deed in this world. No; when Jacob Engstrand does a thing like that, he holds his tongue about it. Unfortunately it doesn’t often happen, I know that only too well. And whenever I do come to see your reverence, I never seem to have anything but trouble and wickedness to talk about. Because, as I said just now–and I say it again–conscience can be very hard on us sometimes.
Manders. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand,
Engstrand. Oh, sir, I don’t like–
Manders. No nonsense, (Grasps his hand.) That’s it!
Engstrand. And may I make bold humbly to beg your reverence’s pardon–
Manders. You? On the contrary it is for me to beg your pardon–
Manders. Yes, certainly it is, and I do it with my whole heart. Forgive me for having so much misjudged you. And I assure you that if I can do anything for you to prove my sincere regret and my goodwill towards you–
Engstrand. Do you mean it, sir?
Manders. It would give me the greatest pleasure.
Engstrand. As a matter of fact, sir, you could do it now. I am thinking of using the honest money I have put away out of my wages up here, in establishing a sort of Sailors’ Home in the town.
Engstrand. Yes, to be a sort of Refuge, as it were, There are such manifold temptations lying in wait for sailor men when they are roaming about on shore. But my idea is that in this house of mine they should have a sort of parental care looking after them.
Menders. What do you say to that, Mrs. Alving!
Engstrand. I haven’t much to begin such a work with, I know; but Heaven might prosper it, and if I found any helping hand stretched out to me, then–
Manders. Quite so; we will talk over the matter further. Your project attracts me enormously. But in the meantime go back to the Orphanage and put everything tidy and light the lights, so that the occasion may seem a little solemn. And then we will spend a little edifying time together, my dear Engstrand, for now I am sure you are in a suitable frame of mind.
Engstrand. I believe I am, sir, truly. Goodbye, then, Mrs. Alving, and thank you for all your kindness; and take good care of Regina for me. (Wipes a tear from his eye.) Poor Joanna’s child– it is an extraordinary thing, but she seems to have grown into my life and to hold me by the heartstrings. That’s how I feel about it, truly. (Bows, and goes out.)
Manders. Now then, what do you think of him, Mrs Alving! That was quite another explanation that he gave us.
Manders. There, you see how exceedingly careful we ought to be in condemning our fellow-men. But at the same time it gives one genuine pleasure to find that one was mistaken. Don’t you think so?
Mrs. Alving. What I think is that you are, and always will remain, a big baby, Mr. Manders.
Mrs. Alving (laying her hands on his shoulders). And I think that I should like very much to give you a good hug.
Manders (drawing beck hastily). No, no, good gracious! What an idea!
Mrs. Alving (with a smile). Oh, you needn’t be afraid of me.
Manders (standing by the table). You choose such an extravagant way of expressing yourself sometimes. Now I must get these papers together and put them in my bag. (Does so.) That’s it. And now goodbye, for the present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I will come back and see you again presently.
(He takes his hat and goes out by the hall door. MRS. ALVING sighs, glances out of the window, puts one or two things tidy in the room and turns to go into the dining-room. She stops in the doorway with a stifled cry.)
Mrs. Alving. Oswald, are you still sitting at table!
Oswald (from the dining-room). I am only finishing my cigar.
Mrs. Alving. I thought you had gone out for a little turn.
Oswald (from within the room). In weather like this? (A glass is heard clinking. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down with her knitting on the couch by the window.) Wasn’t that Mr. Manders that went out just now?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, he has gone over to the Orphanage.
Oswald. Oh. (The clink of a bottle on a glass is heard again.)
Mrs. Alving (with an uneasy expression.) Oswald, dear, you should be careful with that liqueur. It is strong.
Oswald. It’s a good protective against the damp.
Mrs. Alving. Wouldn’t you rather come in here?
Oswald. You know you don’t like smoking in there.
Mrs. Alving. You may smoke a cigar in here, certainly.
Oswald. All right; I will come in, then. Just one drop more. There! (Comes in, smoking a cigar, and shuts the door after him. A short silence.) Where has the parson gone?
Mrs. Alving. I told you he had gone over to the Orphanage.
Mrs. Alving. You shouldn’t sit so long at table, Oswald,
Oswald (holding his cigar behind his back). But it’s so nice and cosy, mother dear. (Caresses her with one hand.) Think what it means to me–to have come home; to sit at my mother’s own table, in my mother’s own room, and to enjoy the charming meals she gives me.
Mrs. Alving. My dear, dear boy!
Oswald (a little impatiently, as he walks tip and down smoking.) And what else is there for me to do here? I have no occupation–
Oswald. Not in this ghastly weather, when there isn’t a blink of sunshine all day long. (Walks up and down the floor.) Not to be able to work, it’s–!
Mrs. Alving. I don’t believe you were wise to come home.
Oswald. Yes, mother; I had to.
Mrs. Alving. Because I would ten times rather give up the happiness of having you with me, sooner than that you should–
Oswald (standing still by the table). Tell me, mother–is it really such a great happiness for you to have me at home?
Oswald (crumpling up a newspaper). I should have thought it would have been pretty much the same to you whether I were here or away.
Mrs. Alving. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald?
Oswald. But you have been quite happy living without me so far.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, I have lived without you–that is true.
(A silence. The dusk falls by degrees. OSWALD walks restlessly up and down. He has laid aside his cigar.) Oswald (stopping beside MRS. ALVING). Mother, may I sit on the couch beside you?
Mrs. Alving. Of course, my dear boy.
Oswald (sitting down). Now I must tell you something mother.
Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What?
Oswald (staring in front of him). I can’t bear it any longer.
Mrs. Alving. Bear what? What do you mean?
Oswald (as before). I couldn’t bring myself to write to you about it; and since I have been at home–
Mrs. Alving (catching him by the arm). Oswald, what is it?
Oswald. Both yesterday and today I have tried to push my thoughts away from me–to free myself from them. But I can’t.
Mrs. Alving (getting up). You must speak plainly, Oswald!
Oswald (drawing her down to her seat again). Sit still, and I will try and tell you. I have made a great deal of the fatigue I felt after my journey–
Mrs. Alving. Well, what of that?
Oswald. But that isn’t what is the matter. It is no ordinary fatigue–
Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald!
Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. I am not exactly ill–not ill in the usual sense. (Takes his head in his hands.) Mother, it’s my mind that has broken down–gone to pieces–I shall never be able to work anymore! (Buries his face in his hands and throws himself at her knees in an outburst of sobs.)
Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it isn’t true!
Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be able to work anymore! Never–never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so horrible!
Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing happened?
Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must believe that of me, mother, I have never done that.
Mrs. Alving. I haven’t a doubt of it, Oswald.
Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible disaster!
Mrs. Alving. Oh, but it will all come right again, my dear precious boy. It is nothing but overwork. Believe me, that is so.
Oswald (dully). I thought so too, at first; but it isn’t so.
Mrs. Alving. Tell me all about it.
Mrs. Alving. When did you first feel anything?
Oswald. It was just after I had been home last time and had got back to Paris. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head- -mostly at the back, I think. It was as if a tight band of iron was pressing on me from my neck upwards.
Oswald. At first I thought it was nothing but the headaches I always used to be so much troubled with while I was growing.
Oswald. But it wasn’t; I soon saw that. I couldn’t work any longer. I would try and start some big new picture; but it seemed as if all my faculties had forsaken me, as if all my strengths were paralysed. I couldn’t manage to collect my thoughts; my head seemed to swim–everything went round and round. It was a horrible feeling! At last I sent for a doctor–and from him I learned the truth.
Mrs. Alving. In what way, do you mean?
Oswald. He was one of the best doctors there. He made me describe what I felt, and then he began to ask me a whole heap of questions which seemed to me to have nothing to do with the matter. I couldn’t see what he was driving at–
Oswald. At last he said: “You have had the canker of disease in you practically from your birth”–the actual word he used was “vermoulu”…
Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What did he mean by that? Oswald. I couldn’t understand, either–and I asked him for a clearer explanation, And then the old cynic said–(clenching his fist). Oh!
Oswald. He said: “The sins of the fathers are visited on the children.”
Mrs. Alving (getting up slowly). The sins of the fathers–!
Oswald. I nearly struck him in the face.
Mrs. Alving (walking across the room). The sins of the fathers–!
Oswald (smiling sadly). Yes, just imagine! Naturally I assured him that what he thought was impossible. But do you think he paid any heed to me? No, he persisted in his opinion; and it was only when I got out your letters and translated to him all the passages that referred to my father–
Oswald. Well, then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong track; and then I learned the truth– the incomprehensible truth! I ought to have had nothing to do with the joyous happy life I had lived with my comrades. It had been too much for my strength. So it was my own fault!
Mrs. Alving. No, no, Oswald! Don’t believe that–
Oswald. There was no other explanation of it possible, he said. That is the most horrible part of it. My whole life incurably ruined–just because of my own imprudence. All that I wanted to do in the world-=not to dare to think of it any more–not to be able to think of it! Oh! if only I could live my life over again–if only I could undo what I have done! (Throws himself on his face on the couch. MRS. ALVING wrings her hands, and walks up and down silently fighting with herself.)
Oswald (looks up after a while, raising himself on his elbows). If only it had been something I had inherited–something I could not help. But, instead of that, to have disgracefully, stupidly, thoughtlessly thrown away one’s happiness, one’s health, everything in the world–one’s future, one’s life!
Mrs. Alving. No, no, my darling boy; that is impossible! (Bending over him.) Things are not so desperate as you think.
Oswald. Ah, you don’t know–(Springs up.) And to think, mother, that I should bring all this sorrow upon you! Many a time I have almost wished and hoped that you really did not care so very much for me.
Mrs. Alving. I, Oswald? My only son! All that I have in the world! The only thing I care about!
Oswald (taking hold of her hands and kissing them). Yes, yes, I know that is so. When I am at home I know that is true. And that is one of the hardest parts of it to me. But now you know all about it; and now we won’t talk anymore about it today. I can’t stand thinking about it long at a time. (Walks across the room.) Let me have something to drink, mother!
Mrs. Alving. To drink? What do you want?
Oswald. Oh, anything you like. I suppose you have got some punch in the house.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, but my dear Oswald–!
Oswald. Don’t tell me I mustn’t, mother. Do be nice! I must have something to drown these gnawing thoughts. (Goes into the conservatory.) And how–how gloomy it is here! (MRS. ALVING rings the bell.) And this incessant rain. It may go on week after week- -a whole month. Never a ray of sunshine. I don’t remember ever having seen the sunshine once when I have been at home.
Mrs. Alving. Oswald–you are thinking of going away from me!
Oswald. Hm!–(sighs deeply). I am not thinking about anything. I can’t think about anything! (In a low voice.) I have to let that alone.
Regina (coming from the dining-room). Did you ring, ma’am?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us have the lamp in.
Regina. In a moment, ma’am; it is all ready lit. (Goes out.)
Mrs. Alving (going up to OSWALD). Oswald, don’t keep anything back from me.
Oswald. I don’t, mother. (Goes to the table.) It seems to me I have told you a good lot.
(REGINA brings the lamp and puts it upon the table.)
Mrs. Alving. Regina, you might bring us a small bottle of champagne.
Regina. Yes, ma’am. (Goes out.)
Oswald (taking hold of his mother’s face). That’s right; I knew my mother wouldn’t let her son go thirsty.
Mrs, Alving. My poor dear boy, how could I refuse you anything now?
Oswald (eagerly). Is that true, mother? Do you mean it?
Oswald. That you couldn’t deny me anything?
(REGINA brings in a tray with a small bottle of champagne and two glasses, which she puts on the table.)
Regina. Shall I open the bottle?
Oswald. No, thank you, I will do it. (REGINA goes out.)
Mrs, Alving (sitting clown at the table). What did you mean, when you asked if I could refuse you nothing?
Oswald (busy opening the bottle). Let us have a glass first–or two.
(He draws the cork, fills one glass and is going to fill the other.)
Mrs. Alving (holding her hand over the second glass) No, thanks– not for me.
Oswald. Oh, well, for me then! (He empties his glass, fills it again and empties it; then sits down at the table.)
Mrs. Alving (expectantly). Now, tell me.
Oswald (without looking at her). Tell me this; I thought you and Mr. Manders seemed so strange–so quiet–at dinner.
Mrs. Alving. Did you notice that?
Oswald. Yes. Ahem! (After a short pause.) Tell me–what do you think of Regina?
Mrs. Alving. What do I think of her?
Oswald. Yes, isn’t she splendid!
Mrs. Alving. Dear Oswald, you don’t know her as well as I do–
Mrs. Alving. Regina was too long at home, unfortunately. I ought to have taken her under my charge sooner.
Oswald. Yes, but isn’t she splendid to look at, mother? (Fills his glass,)
Mrs. Alving. Regina has many serious faults–
Oswald. Yes, but what of that? (Drinks.)
Mrs. Alving. But I am fond of her, all the same; and I have made myself responsible for her. I wouldn’t for the world she should come to any harm.
Oswald (jumping up). Mother, Regina is my only hope of salvation!
Mrs. Alving (getting up). What do you mean?
Oswald. I can’t go on bearing all this agony of mind alone.
Mrs. Alving, Haven’t you your mother to help you to bear it?
Oswald. Yes, I thought so; that was why I came home to you. But it is no use; I see that it isn’t. I cannot spend my life here.
Oswald. I must live a different sort of life, mother; so I shall have to go away from you, I don’t want you watching it.
Mrs. Alving. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, as long as you are ill like this–
Oswald. If it was only a matter of feeling ill, I would stay with you, mother. You are the best friend I have in the world.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, I am that, Oswald, am I not?
Oswald (walking restlessly about). But all this torment–the regret, the remorse–and the deadly fear. Oh–this horrible fear!
Mrs. Alving (following him). Fear? Fear of what? What do you mean?
Oswald. Oh, don’t ask me any more about it. I don’t know what it is. I can’t put it into words. (MRS. ALVING crosses the room and rings the bell.) What do you want?
Mrs. Alving. I want my boy to be happy, that’s what I want. He mustn’t brood over anything. (To REGINA, who has come to the door.) More champagne– a large bottle.
Mrs. Alving. Do you think we country people don’t know how to live?
Oswald. Isn’t she splendid to look at? What a figure! And the picture of health!
Mrs. Alving (sitting down at the table). Sit down, Oswald, and let us have a quiet talk.
Oswald (sitting down). You don’t know, mother, that I owe Regina a little reparation.
Oswald. Oh, it was only a little thoughtlessness–call it what you like. Something quite innocent, anyway. The last time I was home–
Oswald. –she used often to ask me questions about Paris, and I told her one thing and another about the life there. And I remember saying one day: “Wouldn’t you like to go there yourself?”
Oswald. I saw her blush, and she said: “Yes, I should like to very much.” “All right.” I said, “I daresay it might be managed”- -or something of that sort.
Oswald. I naturally had forgotten all about it; but the day before yesterday I happened to ask her if she was glad I was to be so long at home–
Oswald. –and she looked so queerly at me, and asked: “But what is to become of my trip to Paris? ”
Oswald. And then I got it out of her that she had taken the thing seriously, and had been thinking about me all the time, and had set herself to learn French–
Oswald. Mother–when I saw this fine, splendid, handsome girl standing there in front of me–I had never paid any attention to her before then–but now, when she stood there as if with open arms ready for me to take her to myself–
Oswald. –then I realised that my salvation lay in her, for I saw the joy of life in her!
Mrs. Alving (starting back). The joy of life–? Is there salvation in that?
Regina (coming in from the dining-room with a bottle of champagne). Excuse me for being so long; but I had to go to the cellar. (Puts the bottle down on the table.)
Oswald. Bring another glass, too.
Regina (looking at him in astonishment). The mistress’s glass is there, sir.
Oswald. Yes, but fetch one for yourself, Regina (REGINA starts, and gives a quick shy glance at MRS. ALVING.) Well?
Regina (in a low and hesitating voice). Do you wish me to, ma’am?
Mrs. Alving. Fetch the glass, Regina. (REGINA goes into the dining-room.)
Oswald (looking after her). Have you noticed how well she walks?- -so firmly and confidently!
Mrs. Alving. It cannot be, Oswald.
Oswald. It is settled. You must see that. It is no use forbidding it. (REGINA comes in with a gloss, which she holds in her hand.) Sit down, Regina. (REGINA looks questioningly at MRS. ALVING.)
Mrs. Alving. Sit down. (REGINA sits down on a chair near the dining-room door, still holding the glass in her hand.) Oswald, what was it you were saying about the joy of life?
Oswald. Ah, mother–the joy of life! You don’t know very much about that at home here. I shall never realise it here.
Mrs. Alving. Not even when you are with me?
Oswald. Never at home. But you can’t understand that.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed I almost think I do understand you now.
Oswald. That–and the joy of work. They are really the same thing at bottom. Put you don’t know anything about that either.
Mrs. Alving. Perhaps you are right. Tell me some more about it, Oswald.
Oswald. Well, all I mean is that here people are brought up to believe that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is a state of wretchedness and that the sooner we can get out of it the better.
Mrs. Alving. A vale of tears, yes. And we quite conscientiously make it so.
Oswald. But the people over there will have none of that. There is no one there who really believes doctrines of that kind any longer. Over there the mere fact of being alive is thought to be a matter for exultant happiness. Mother, have you noticed that everything I have painted has turned upon the joy of life?– always upon the joy of life, unfailingly. There is light there, and sunshine, and a holiday feeling–and people’s faces beaming with happiness. That is why I am afraid to stay at home here with you.
Mrs. Alving. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me?
Oswald. I am afraid that all these feelings that are so strong in me would degenerate into something ugly here.
Mrs. Alving (looking steadily at him). Do you think that is what would happen?
Oswald. I am certain it would. Even if one lived the same life at home here, as over there–it would never really be the same life.
Mrs. Alving (who has listened anxiously to him, gets up with a thoughtful expression and says:) Now I see clearly how it all happened.
Mrs. Alving. I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak.
Oswald (getting up). Mother, I don’t understand you.
Regina (who has got up also). Perhaps I had better go.
Mrs. Alving. No, stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my son, you shall know the whole truth. Oswald! Regina!
Oswald. Hush!–here is the parson.
(MANDERS comes in by the hall door.)
Manders. Well, my friends, we have been spending an edifying time over there.
Manders. Engstrand must have help with his Sailors Home. Regina must go home with him and give him her assistance.
Regina. No, thank you, Mr. Manders.
Manders (perceiving her for the first time). What–?You in here?– and with a wineglass in your hand!
Regina (putting down the glass hastily). I beg your pardon–!
Oswald. Regina is going away with me, Mr. Manders.
Manders. Going away! With you!
Oswald. Yes, as my wife–if she insists on that.
Regina. It is not my fault, Mr. Manders.
Oswald. Or else she stays here if I stay.
Manders. I am amazed at you, Mrs. Alving.
Mrs. Alving. Neither of those things will happen, for now I can speak openly.
Manders. But you won’t do that! No, no, no!
Mrs. Alving. Yes, I can and I will. And without destroying anyone’s ideals.
Oswald. Mother, what is it that is being concealed from me?
Regina (listening). Mrs. Alving! Listen! They are shouting outside.
(Goes into the conservatory and looks out.)
Oswald (going to the window on the left). What can be the matter? Where does that glare come from?
Regina (calls out). The Orphanage is on fire!
Mrs. Alving (going to the window). On fire?
Manders. On fire? Impossible. I was there just a moment ago.
Oswald. Where is my hat? Oh, never mind that. Father’s Orphanage–!
(Runs out through the garden door.)
Mrs. Alving. My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in flames.
Manders. How terrible! Mrs. Alving, that fire is a judgment on this house of sin!
Mrs. Alving. Quite so. Come, Regina.
Manders (clasping his hands). And no insurance! (Follows them out.)
(The same scene. All the doors are standing open. The lamp is still burning on the table. It is dark outside, except for a faint glimmer of light seen through the windows at the back. MRS. ALVING, with a shawl over her head, is standing in the conservatory, looking out. REGINA, also wrapped in a shawl, is standing a little behind her.)
Mrs. Alving. Everything bured–down to the ground.
Regina. It is burning still in the basement.
Mrs. Alving. I can’t think why Oswald doesn’t come hack. There is no chance of saving anything.
Regina. Shall I go and take his hat to him?
Mrs. Alving. Hasn’t he even got his hat?
Regina (pointing to the hall). No, there it is, hanging up.
Mrs. Alving. Never mind. He is sure to come back soon. I will go and see what he is doing. (Goes out by the garden door. MANDERS comes in from the hall.)
Manders. Isn’t Mrs. Alving here?
Regina. She has just this moment gone down into the garden.
Manders. I have never spent such a terrible night in my life.
Regina. Isn’t it a shocking misfortune, sir!
Manders. Oh, don’t speak about it. I scarcely dare to think about it.
Regina. But how can it have happened?
Manders. Don’t ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should I know? Are you going to suggest too–? Isn’t it enough that your father–?
Manders. He has nearly driven me crazy.
Engstrand (coming in from the hall). Mr. Manders–!
Manders (turning round with a start). Have you ever followed me here!
Engstrand. Yes, God help us all–! Great heavens! What a dreadful thing, your reverence!
Manders (walking u¢ and down). Oh dear, oh dear!
Engstrand. Our little prayer-meeting was the cause of it all, don’t you see? (Aside, to REGINA.) Now we’ve got the old fool, my girl. (Aloud.) And to think it is my fault that Mr. Manders should be the cause of such a thing!
Manders. I assure you, Engstrand–
Engstrand. But there was no one else carrying a light there except you, sir.
Manders (standing still). Yes, so you say. But I have no clear recollection of having had a light in my hand.
Engstrand. But I saw quite distinctly your reverence take a candle and snuff it with your fingers and throw away the burning bit of wick among the shavings.
Manders. I can’t understand it at all. It is never my habit to snuff a candle with my fingers.
Engstrand. Yes, it wasn’t like you to do that, sir. But, who would have thought it could be such a dangerous thing to do?
Manders (walking restlessly backwards and forwards) Oh, don’t ask me!
Engstrand (following him about). And you hadn’t insured it either, had you, sir?
Manders. No, no, no; you heard me say so.
Engstrand. You hadn’t insured it–and then went and set light to the whole place! Good Lord, what bad luck!
Manders (wiping the perspiration from his forehead). You may well say so, Engstrand.
Engstrand. And that it should happen to a charitable institution that would have been of service both to the town and the country, so to speak! The newspapers won’t be very kind to your reverence, I expect.
Manders. No, that is just what I am thinking of. It is almost the worst part of the whole thing. The spiteful attacks and accusations–it is horrible to think of!
Mrs. Alving (coming in from the garden). I can’t get him away from the fire.
Manders. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Alving.
Mrs. Alving. You will escape having to make your inaugural address now, at all events, Mr. Manders.
Manders. Oh, I would so gladly have–
Mrs. Alving (in a dull voice). It is just as well it has happened. This Orphanage would never have come to any good.
Manders. But it is none the less an extraordinary piece of ill luck.
Mrs: Alving. We will discuss it simply as a business matter. Are you waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand?
Engstrand (at the hall door). Yes, I am.
Mrs. Alving. Sit down then, while you are waiting.
Engstrand. Thank you, I would rather stand.
Mrs. Alving (to MANDERS). I suppose you are going by the boat?
Manders. Yes: It goes in about an hour–
Mrs. Alving. Please take all the documents back with you. I don’t want to hear another word about the matter. I have something else to think about now.
Mrs. Alving. Later on I will send you a power of attorney to deal with it exactly as you please.
Manders. I shall be most happy to undertake that; I am afraid the original intention of the bequest will have to be entirely altered now.
Meanders. Provisionally, I should suggest this way of disposing of it: Make over the Solvik property to the parish. The land is undoubtedly not without a certain value; it will always be useful for some purpose or another. And as for the interest on the remaining capital that is on deposit in the bank, possibly I might make suitable use of that in support of some undertaking that promises to be of use to the town.
Mrs. Alving. Do exactly as you please. The whole thing is a matter of indifference to me now.
Engstrand. You will think of my Sailors’ Home, Mr, Manders?
Manders. Yes, certainly, that is a suggestion. But we must consider the matter carefully.
Engstrand (aside). Consider!–devil take it! Oh Lord.
Manders (sighing). And unfortunately I can’t tell how much longer I may have anything to do with the matter–whether public opinion may not force me to retire from it altogether. That depends entirely upon the result of the inquiry into the cause of the fire.
Manders. And one cannot in any way reckon upon the result beforehand.
Engstrand (going nearer to him). Yes, indeed one can; because here stand I, Jacob Engstrand.
Engstrand (lowering his voice). And Jacob Engstrand isn’t the man to desert a worthy benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying is.
Manders. Yes, but, my dear fellow-how–?
Engstrand. You might say Jacob Engstrand is an angel of salvation, so to speak, your reverence.
Manders. No, no, I couldn’t possibly accept that.
Engstrand. That’s how it will be, all the same. I know someone who has taken the blame for someone else on his shoulders before now, I do.
Manders. Jacob! (Grasps his hand.) You are one in a thousand! You shall have assistance in the matter of your Sailors’ Home, you may rely upon that.
(ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but is prevented by emotion.)
Manders (hanging his wallet over his shoulder). Now we must be off. We will travel together.
Engstrand (by the dining-room door, says aside to REGINA). Come with me, you hussy! You shall be as cosy as the yolk in an egg!
Regina (tossing her head). Merci!
(She goes out into the hall and brings back MANDERS’ luggage.)
Manders. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! And may the spirit of order and of what is lawful speedily enter into this house.
Mrs. Alving. Goodbye, Mr. Manders.
(She goes into the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in by the garden door.)
Engstrand (as he and REGINA are helping MANDERS on with his coat). Goodbye, my child. And if anything should happen to you, you know where Jacob Engstrand is to be found. (Lowering his voice.) Little Harbour Street, ahem–! (To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD.) And my house for poor seafaring men shall be called the “Alving Home,” it shall. And, if I can carry out my own ideas about it, I shall make bold to hope that it may be worthy of bearing the late Mr. Alving’s name.
Manders (at the door). Ahem–ahem! Come along, my dear Engstrand. Goodbye–goodbye!
(He and ENGSTRAND go out by the hall door.)
Oswald (going to the table). What house was he speaking about?
Mrs. Alving. I believe it is some sort of a Home that he and Mr. Manders want to start.
Oswald. It will be burned up just like this one.
Mrs. Alving. What makes you think that?
Oswald. Everything will be burned up; nothing will be left that is in memory of my father. Here am I being burned up, too.
(REGINA looks at him in alarm.)
Mrs. Alving. Oswald! You should not have stayed so long over there, my poor boy.
Oswald (sitting down at the table). I almost believe you are right.
Mrs: Alving. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are all wet. (Wipes his face with her handkerchief.)
Oswald (looking straight before him, with no expression in his eyes). Thank you, mother.
Mrs. Alving. And aren’t you tired, Oswald? Don’t you want to go to sleep?
Oswald (uneasily). No, no–not to sleep! I never sleep; I only pretend to. (Gloomily.) That will come soon enough.
Mrs. Alving (looking at him anxiously). Anyhow you are really ill, my darling boy.
Regina (intently). Is Mr. Alving ill?
Oswald (impatiently). And do shut all the doors! This deadly fear–
Mrs. Alving. Shut the doors, Regina. (REGINA shuts the doors and remains standing by the hall door. MRS, ALVING takes off her shawl; REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws up a chair near to OSWALD’S and sits down beside him.) That’s it! Now I will sit beside you–
Oswald. Yes, do. And Regina must stay in here too; Regina must always be near me. You must give me a helping hand, you know, Regina. Won’t you do that?
Oswald. Yes–when there is need for it.
Mrs: Alving. Oswald, have you not your mother to give you a helping hand?
Oswald. You? (Smiles.) No, mother, you will never give me the kind of helping hand I mean. (Laughs grimly.) You! Ha, ha! (Looks gravely at her.) After all, you have the best right. (Impetuously.) Why don’t you call me by my Christian name, Regina? Why don’t you say Oswald?
Regina (in a low voice). I did not think Mrs. Alving would like it.
Mrs. Alving. It will not be long before you have the right to do it. Sit down here now beside us, too. (REGINA sits down quietly and hesitatingly at the other side of the table.) And now, my poor tortured boy, I am going to take the burden off your mind–
Mrs. Alving. –all that you call remorse and regret and self- reproach.
Oswald. And you think you can do that?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you were talking about the joy of life, and what you said seemed to shed a new light upon everything in my whole life.
Oswald (shaking his head). I don’t in the least understand what you mean.
Mrs. Alving. You should have known your father in his young days in the army. He was full of the joy of life, I can tell you.
Mrs. Alving. It gave me a holiday feeling only to look at him, full of irrepressible energy and exuberant spirits.
Mrs. Alving, Well, then this boy, full of the joy of life–for he was just like a boy, then–had to make his home in a second-rate town which had none of the joy of life to offer him, but only dissipations. He had to come out here and live an aimless life; he had only an official post. He had no work worth devoting his whole mind to; he had nothing more than official routine to attend to. He had not a single companion capable of appreciating what the joy of life meant; nothing but idlers and tipplers…
Mrs. Alving. And so the inevitable happened!
Oswald. What was the inevitable?
Mrs. Alving. You said yourself this evening what would happen in your case if you stayed at home.
Oswald. Do you mean by that, that father–?
Mrs. Alving. Your poor father never found any outlet for the overmastering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no holiday spirit into his home, either.
Mrs. Alving. I had been taught about duty, and the sort of thing that I believed in so long here. Everything seemed to turn upon duty–my duty, or his duty–and I am afraid I made your poor father’s home unbearable to him, Oswald.
Oswald. Why didn’t you ever say anything about it to me in your letters?
Mrs. Alving. I never looked at it as a thing I could speak of to you, who were his son.
Oswald. What way did you look at it, then?
Mrs. Alving. I only saw the one fact, that your father was a lost man before ever you were born.
Oswald (in a choking voice). Ah–! (He gets up and goes to the window.)
Mrs. Alving. And then I had the one thought in my mind, day and night, that Regina in fact had as good a right in this house–as my own boy had.
Oswald (turns round suddenly), Regina–?
Regina (gets up and asks in choking tones). I–?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, now you both know it.
Regina (to herself). So mother was one of that sort too.
Mrs. Alving. Your mother had many good qualities, Regina.
Regina. Yes, but she was one of that sort too, all the same. I have even thought so myself, sometimes, but–. Then, if you please, Mrs. Alving, may I have permission to leave at once?
Mrs. Alving. Do you really wish to, Regina?
Regina. Yes, indeed, I certainly wish to.
Mrs. Alving. Of course you shall do as you like, but–
Oswald (going up to REGINA). Leave now? This is your home.
Regina. Merci, Mr. Alving–oh, of course I may say Oswald now, but that is not the way I thought it would become allowable.
Mrs. Alving. Regina, I have not been open with you–
Regina. No, I can’t say you have! If I had known Oswald was ill– And now that there can never be anything serious between us–. No, I really can’t stay here in the country and wear myself out looking after invalids.
Oswald. Not even for the sake of one who has so near a claim on you?
Regina. No, indeed I can’t. A poor girl must make some use of her youth, otherwise she may easily land herself out in the cold before she knows where she is. And I have got the joy of life in me too, Mrs. Alving!
Mrs. Alving. Yes, unfortunately; but don’t throw yourself away, Regina.
Regina. Oh, what’s going to happen will happen. If Oswald takes after his father, it is just as likely I take after my mother, I expect.–May I ask, Mrs. Alving, whether Mr. Manders knows this about me?
Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders knows everything.
Regina (putting on her shawl). Oh, well then, the best thing I can do is to get away by the boat as soon as I can. Mr. Manders is such a nice gentleman to deal with; and it certainly seems to me that I have just as much right to some of that money as he–as that horrid carpenter.
Mrs. Alving. You are quite welcome to it, Regina.
Regina (looking at her fixedly). You might as well have brought me up like a gentleman’s daughter; it would have been more suitable. (Tosses her head.) Oh, well–never mind! (With a bitter glance at the unopened bottle.) I daresay someday I shall be drinking champagne with gentlefolk, after all.
Mrs. Alving. If ever you need a home, Regina, come to me.
Regina. No, thank you, Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders takes an interest in me, I know. And if things should go very badly with me, I know one house at any rate where I shall feel at home.
Mrs. Alving. Regina–I can see quite well–you are going to your ruin!
(She bows to them and goes out through the hall.)
Oswald (standing by the window and looking out). Has she gone?
Oswald (muttering to himself). I think it’s all wrong.
Mrs. Alving (going up to him from behind and putting her hands on his shoulders). Oswald, my dear boy–has it been a great shock to you?
Oswald (turning his face towards her). All this about father, do you mean?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have been too much for you.
Oswald. What makes you think that? Naturally it has taken me entirely by surprise; but, after all, I don’t know that it matters much to me.
Mrs. Alving (drawing back her hands). Doesn’t matter!–that your father’s life was such a terrible failure!
Oswald. Of course I can feel sympathy for him, just as I would for anyone else, but–
Mrs. Alving. No more than that! For your own father!
Oswald (impatiently). Father–father! I never knew anything of my father. I don’t remember anything else about him except that he once made me sick.
Mrs. Alving. It is dreadful to think of!–But surely a child should feel some affection for his father, whatever happens?
Oswald. When the child has nothing to thank his father for? When he has never known him? Do you really cling to that antiquated superstition–you, who are so broad-minded in other things?
Mrs. Alving. You call it nothing but a superstition!
Oswald. Yes, and you can see that for yourself quite well, mother. It is one of those beliefs that are put into circulation in the world, and–
Mrs. Alving. Ghosts of beliefs!
Oswald (walking across the room). Yes, you might call them ghosts.
Mrs. Alving (with an outburst of feeling). Oswald! then you don’t love me either!
Oswald. You I know, at any rate–
Mrs. Alving. You know me, yes; but is that all?
Oswald. And I know how fond you are of me, and I ought to be grateful to you for that. Besides, you can be so tremendously useful to me, now that I am ill.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, can’t I, Oswald! I could almost bless your illness, as it has driven you home to me. For I see quite well that you are not my very own yet; you must be won.
Oswald (impatiently). Yes, yes, yes; all that is just a way of talking. You must remember I am a sick man, mother. I can’t concern myself much with anyone else; I have enough to do, thinking about myself.
Mrs. Alving (gently). I will be very good and patient.
Oswald. And cheerful too, mother!
Mrs. Alving. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. (Goes up to him.) Now have I taken away all your remorse and self-reproach?
Oswald. Yes, you have done that. But who will take away the fear?
Oswald (crossing the room). Regina would have done it for one kind word.
Mrs. Alving. I don’t understand you. What fear do you mean–and what has Regina to do with it?
Oswald. Is it very late, mother?
Mrs. Alving. It is early morning. (Looks out through the conservatory windows.) The dawn is breaking already on the heights. And the sky is clear, Oswald. In a little while you will see the sun.
Oswald. I am glad of that. After all, there may be many things yet for me to be glad of and to live for–
Mrs. Alving. I should hope so!
Oswald. Even if I am not able to work–
Mrs. Alving. You will soon find you are able to work again now, my dear boy. You have no longer all those painful depressing thoughts to brood over.
Oswald. No, it is a good thing that you have been able to rid me of those fancies; if only, now, I could overcome this one thing– (Sits down on the couch.) Let us have a little chat, mother.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us. (Pushes an armchair near to the couch and sits down beside him.)
Oswald. The sun is rising–and you know all about it; so I don’t feel the fear any longer.
Mrs. Alving. I know all about what?
Oswald (without listening to her). Mother, isn’t it the case that you said this evening there was nothing in the world you would not do for me if I asked you?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, certainly I said so.
Oswald. And will you be as good as your word, mother?
Mrs. Alving. You may rely upon that, my own dear boy. I have nothing else to live for, but you.
Oswald. Yes, yes; well, listen to me, mother, You are very strong-minded, I know. I want you to sit quite quiet when you hear what I am going to tell you,
Mrs. Alving. But what is this dreadful thing–?
Oswald. You mustn’t scream. Do you hear? Will you promise me that? We are going to sit and talk it over quite quietly. Will you promise me that, mother?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, I promise–only tell me what it is.
Oswald. Well, then, you must know that this fatigue of mine–and my mot being able to think about my work–all that is not really the illness itself–
Mrs. Alving. What is the illness itself?
Oswald. What I am suffering from is hereditary; it–(touches his forehead, and speaks very quietly)–it lies here.
Mrs. Alving (almost speechless). Oswald! No–no!
Oswald. Don’t scream; I can’t stand it. Yes, I tell you, it lies here, waiting. And any time, any moment, it may break out.
Oswald. Do keep quiet. That is the state I am in–
Mrs. Alving (springing up). It isn’t true, Oswald! It is impossible! It can’t be that!
Oswald. I had one attack while I was abroad. It passed off quickly. But when I learned the condition I had been in, then this dreadful haunting fear took possession of me.
Mrs. Alving. That was the fear, then–
Oswald. Yes, it is so indescribably horrible, you know If only it had been an ordinary mortal disease–. I am not so much afraid of dying; though, of course, I should like to live as long as I can.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must!
Oswald. But this is so appallingly horrible. To become like a helpless child again–to have to be fed, to have to be–. Oh, it’s unspeakable!
Mrs. Alving. My child has his mother to tend him.
Oswald (jumping up). No, never; that is just what I won’t endure! I dare not think what it would mean to linger on like that for years–to get old and grey like that. And you might die before I did. (Sits down in MRS. ALVING’S chair.) Because it doesn’t necessarily have a fatal end quickly, the doctor said; he called it a kind of softening of the brain–or something of that sort. (Smiles mournfully.) I think that expression sounds so nice. It always makes me think of cherry-coloured velvet curtains– something that is soft to stroke.
Mrs. Alving (with a scream). Oswald!
Oswald (jumps up and walks about the room). And now you have taken Regina from me! If I had only had her, she would have given me a helping hand, I know.
Mrs. Alving (going up to him). What do you mean, my darling boy? Is there any help in the world I would not be willing to give you?
Oswald. When I had recovered from the attack I had abroad, the doctor told me that when it recurred–and it will recur–there would be no more hope.
Mrs. Alving. And he was heartless enough to–
Oswald. I insisted on knowing. I told him I had arrangements to make–. (Smiles cunningly.) And so I had. (Takes a small box from his inner breast-pocket.) Mother, do you see this?
Mrs. Alving (looking at him in terror). Oswald–my boy!
Oswald. I have twelve of them saved up–
Mrs. Alving (snatching at it). Give me the box, Oswald!
Oswald. Not yet, mother. (Puts it lack in his pocket.)
Mrs. Alving. I shall never get over this!
Oswald, You must. If I had had Regina here now, I would have told her quietly how things stand with me–and asked her to give me this last helping hand. She would have helped me, I am certain.
Oswald. If this horrible thing had come upon me and she had seen me lying helpless, like a baby, past help, past saving, past hope–with no chance of recovering–
Mrs. Alving. Never in the world would Regina have done it.
Oswald. Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly light-hearted. And she would very soon have tired of looking after an invalid like me.
Mrs. Alving. Then thank heaven Regina is not here!
Oswald. Well, now you have got to give me that helping hand, mother.
Mrs. Alving (with a loud scream). I!
Oswald. Who has a better right than you?
Mrs. Alving. I, who gave you your life!
Oswald, I never asked you for life. And what kind of a life was it that you gave me? I don’t want it! You shall take it back!
Mrs. Alving. Help! Help! (Runs into the hall.)
Oswald (following her). Don’t leave me! Where are you going?
Mrs. Alving (in the hall). To fetch the doctor to you, Oswald! Let me out!
Oswald (going into the hall). You shan’t go out. And no one shall come in. (Turns the key in the lock.)
Mrs. Alving (coming in again). Oswald! Oswald!–my child!
Oswald (following her). Have you a mother’s heart–and can bear to see me suffering this unspeakable terror?
Mrs. Alving (controlling herself, after a moment’s silence). There is my hand on it.
Mrs. Alving. If it becomes necessary. But it shan’t become necessary: No, no–it is impossible it should!
Oswald. Let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. Thank you, mother.
(He sits down in the armchair, which MRS. ALVING had moved beside the couch. Day is breaking; the lamp is still burning on the table.)
Mrs. Alving (coming cautiously nearer). Do you feel calmer now?
Mrs. Alving (bending over him). It has only been a dreadful fancy of yours, Oswald. Nothing but fancy. All this upset has been bad for you. But now you will get some rest, at home with your own mother, my darling boy. You shall have everything you want, just as you did when you were a little child.–There, now. The attack is over. You see how easily it passed off! I knew it would.–And look, Oswald, what a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine. Now you will be able to see your home properly. (She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. It is sunrise. The glaciers and peaks in the distance are seen bathed in bright morning fight.)
Oswald (who has been sitting motionless in the armchair, with his back to the scene outside, suddenly says:) Mother, give me the sun.
Mrs. Alving (standing at the table, and looking at him in amazement). What do you say?
Oswald (repeats in a dull, toneless voice). The sun–the sun.
Mrs. Alving (going up to him). Oswald, what is the matter with you? (OSWALD seems to shrink up in the chair; all his muscles relax; his face loses its expression, and his eyes stare stupidly. MRS. ALVING is trembling with terror.) What is it! (Screams.) Oswald! What is the matter with you! (Throws herself on her knees beside him and shakes him.) Oswald! Oswald! Look at me! Don’t you know me!
Oswald (in an expressionless voice, as before). The sun–the sun.
Mrs. Alving (jumps up despairingly, beats her head with her hands, and screams). I can’t bear it! (Whispers as though paralysed with fear.) I can’t bear it… I Never! (Suddenly.) Where has he got it? (Passes her hand quickly over his coat.) Here! (Draws back a little spay and cries 🙂 No, no, no!–Yes!–no, no! (She stands a few steps from him, her hands thrust into her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror.)
Oswald (sitting motionless, as before). The sun–the sun.