find something to twit her with, my child. She was always setting up for
a fine lady. [_Mimics._] “Let me go, Engstrand; let me be. Remember I
was three years in Chamberlain Alving’s family at Rosenvold.”
[_Laughs._] Mercy on us! She could never forget that the Captain was
made a Chamberlain while she was in service here.
REGINA.
Poor mother! you very soon tormented her into her grave.
ENGSTRAND.
[_With a twist of his shoulders._] Oh, of course! I’m to have the blame
for everything.
REGINA.
[_Turns away; half aloud._] Ugh——! And that leg too!
ENGSTRAND.
What do you say, my child?
REGINA.
_Pied de mouton._
ENGSTRAND.
Is that English, eh?
REGINA.
Yes.
ENGSTRAND.
Ay, ay; you’ve picked up some learning out here; and that may come in
useful now, Regina.
REGINA.
[_After a short silence._] What do you want with me in town?
ENGSTRAND.
Can you ask what a father wants with his only child? A’n’t I a lonely,
forlorn widower?
REGINA.
Oh, don’t try on any nonsense like that with _me_! Why do you want me?
ENGSTRAND.
Well, let me tell you, I’ve been thinking of setting up in a new line of
business.
REGINA.
[_Contemptuously._] You’ve tried that often enough, and much good you’ve
done with it.
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, but this time you shall see, Regina! Devil take me——
REGINA.
[_Stamps._] Stop your swearing!
ENGSTRAND.
Hush, hush; you’re right enough there, my girl. What I wanted to say was
just this—I’ve laid by a very tidy pile from this Orphanage job.
REGINA.
Have you? That’s a good thing for you.
ENGSTRAND.
What can a man spend his ha’pence on here in this country hole?
REGINA.
Well, what then?
ENGSTRAND.
Why, you see, I thought of putting the money into some paying
speculation. I thought of a sort of a sailor’s tavern——
REGINA.
Pah!
ENGSTRAND.
A regular high-class affair, of course; not any sort of pig-sty for
common sailors. No! damn it! it would be for captains and mates,
and—and—regular swells, you know.
REGINA.
And I was to——?
ENGSTRAND.
You were to help, to be sure. Only for the look of the thing, you
understand. Devil a bit of hard work shall you have, my girl. You shall
do exactly what you like.
REGINA.
Oh, indeed!
ENGSTRAND.
But there must be a petticoat in the house; that’s as clear as daylight.
For I want to have it a bit lively-like in the evenings, with singing
and dancing, and so on. You must remember they’re weary wanderers on the
ocean of life. [_Nearer._] Now don’t be a fool and stand in your own
light, Regina. What’s to become of you out here? Your mistress has given
you a lot of learning; but what good is _that_ to you? You’re to look
after the children at the new Orphanage, I hear. Is _that_ the sort of
thing for you, eh? Are you so dead set on wearing your life out for a
pack of dirty brats?
REGINA.
No; if things go as I want them to——Well there’s no saying—there’s no
saying.
ENGSTRAND.
What do you mean by “there’s no saying”?
REGINA.
Never you mind.—How much money have you saved?
ENGSTRAND.
What with one thing and another, a matter of seven or eight hundred
crowns.[12]
REGINA.
That’s not so bad.
ENGSTRAND.
It’s enough to make a start with, my girl.
REGINA.
Aren’t you thinking of giving me any?
ENGSTRAND.
No, I’m blest if I am!
REGINA.
Not even of sending me a scrap of stuff for a new dress?
ENGSTRAND.
Come to town with me, my lass, and you’ll soon get dresses enough.
REGINA.
Pooh! I can do that on my own account, if I want to.
ENGSTRAND.
No, a father’s guiding hand is what you want, Regina. Now, I’ve got my
eye on a capital house in Little Harbour Street. They don’t want much
ready-money; and it could be a sort of a Sailors’ Home, you know.
REGINA.
But I will _not_ live with you! I have nothing whatever to do with you.
Be off!
ENGSTRAND.
You wouldn’t stop long with me, my girl. No such luck! If you knew how
to play your cards, such a fine figure of a girl as you’ve grown in the
last year or two——
REGINA.
Well?
ENGSTRAND.
You’d soon get hold of some mate—or maybe even a captain——
REGINA.
I won’t marry any one of that sort. Sailors have no _savoir vivre_.
ENGSTRAND.
What’s that they haven’t got?
REGINA.
I know what sailors are, I tell you. They’re not the sort of people to
marry.
ENGSTRAND.
Then never mind about marrying them. You can make it pay all the same.
[_More confidentially._] He—the Englishman—the man with the yacht—he
came down with three hundred dollars, he did; and she wasn’t a bit
handsomer than you.
REGINA.
[_Making for him._] Out you go!
ENGSTRAND.
[_Falling back._] Come, come! You’re not going to hit me, I hope.
REGINA.
Yes, if you begin talking about mother I shall hit you. Get away with
you, I say! [_Drives him back towards the garden door._] And don’t slam
the doors. Young Mr. Alving——
ENGSTRAND.
He’s asleep; I know. You’re mightily taken up about young Mr.
Alving——[_More softly._] Oho! you don’t mean to say it’s him as——?
REGINA.
Be off this minute! You’re crazy, I tell you! No, not that way. There
comes Pastor Manders. Down the kitchen stairs with you.
ENGSTRAND.
[_Towards the right._] Yes, yes, I’m going. But just you talk to him as
is coming there. _He’s_ the man to tell you what a child owes its
father. For I _am_ your father all the same, you know. I can prove it
from the church register.
[_He goes out through the second door to the right, which REGINA
has opened, and closes again after him. REGINA glances
hastily at herself in the mirror, dusts herself with her
pocket handkerchief, and settles her necktie; then she
busies herself with the flowers._
_PASTOR MANDERS, wearing an overcoat, carrying an umbrella, and
with a small travelling-bag on a strap over his shoulder,
comes through the garden door into the conservatory._
MANDERS.
Good-morning, Miss Engstrand.
REGINA.
[_Turning round, surprised and pleased._] No, really! Good-morning,
Pastor Manders. Is the steamer in already?
MANDERS.
It is just in. [_Enters the sitting-room._] Terrible weather we have
been having lately.
REGINA.
[_Follows him._] It’s such blessëd weather for the country, sir.
MANDERS.
No doubt; you are quite right. We townspeople give too little thought to
that.
[_He begins to take off his overcoat._
REGINA.
Oh, mayn’t I help you?—There! Why, how wet it is? I’ll just hang it up
in the hall. And your umbrella, too—I’ll open it and let it dry.
[_She goes out with the things through the second door on the
right._ PASTOR MANDERS _takes off his travelling-bag and
lays it and his hat on a chair. Meanwhile_ REGINA _comes in
again._
MANDERS.
Ah, it’s a comfort to get safe under cover. I hope everything is going
on well here?
REGINA.
Yes, thank you, sir.
MANDERS.
You have your hands full, I suppose, in preparation for to-morrow?
REGINA.
Yes, there’s plenty to do, of course.
MANDERS.
And Mrs. Alving is at home, I trust?
REGINA.
Oh dear, yes. She’s just upstairs, looking after the young master’s
chocolate.
MANDERS.
Yes, by-the-bye—I heard down at the pier that Oswald had arrived.
REGINA.
Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn’t expect him before
to-day.
MANDERS.
Quite strong and well, I hope?
REGINA.
Yes, thank you, quite; but dreadfully tired with the journey. He has
made one rush right through from Paris—the whole way in one train, I
believe. He’s sleeping a little now, I think; so perhaps we’d better
talk a little quietly.
MANDERS.
Sh!—as quietly as you please.
REGINA.
[_Arranging an arm-chair beside the table._] Now, do sit down, Pastor
Manders, and make yourself comfortable. [_He sits down; she places a
footstool under his feet._] There! Are you comfortable now, sir?
MANDERS.
Thanks, thanks, extremely so. [_Looks at her._] Do you know, Miss
Engstrand, I positively believe you have grown since I last saw you.
REGINA.
Do you think so, sir? Mrs. Alving says I’ve filled out too.
MANDERS.
Filled out? Well, perhaps a little; just enough.
[_Short pause._
REGINA.
Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here?
MANDERS.
Thanks, thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child.—By-the-bye, Regina, my
good girl, tell me: how is your father getting on out here?
REGINA.
Oh, thank you, sir, he’s getting on well enough.
MANDERS.
He called upon me last time he was in town.
REGINA.
Did he, indeed? He’s always so glad of a chance of talking to you, sir.
MANDERS.
And you often look in upon him at his work, I daresay?
REGINA.
I? Oh, of course, when I have time, I——
MANDERS.
Your father is not a man of strong character, Miss Engstrand. He stands
terribly in need of a guiding hand.
REGINA.
Oh, yes; I daresay he does.
MANDERS.
He requires some one near him whom he cares for, and whose judgment he
respects. He frankly admitted as much when he last came to see me.
REGINA.
Yes, he mentioned something of the sort to me. But I don’t know whether
Mrs. Alving can spare me; especially now that we’ve got the new
Orphanage to attend to. And then I should be so sorry to leave Mrs.
Alving; she has always been so kind to me.
MANDERS.
But a daughter’s duty, my good girl——Of course, we should first have to
get your mistress’s consent.
REGINA.
But I don’t know whether it would be quite proper for me, at my age, to
keep house for a single man.
MANDERS.
What! My dear Miss Engstrand! When the man is your own father!
REGINA.
Yes, that may be; but all the same——Now, if it were in a thoroughly
_nice_ house, and with a real gentleman——
MANDERS.
Why, my dear Regina——
REGINA.
——one I could love and respect, and be a daughter to——
MANDERS.
Yes, but my dear, good child——
REGINA.
Then I should be glad to go to town. It’s very lonely out here; you know
yourself, sir, what it is to be alone in the world. And I can assure you
I’m both quick and willing. Don’t you know of any such place for me,
sir?
MANDERS.
I? No, certainly not.
REGINA.
But, dear, dear sir, do remember me if——
MANDERS.
[_Rising._] Yes, yes, certainly, Miss Engstrand.
REGINA.
For if I——
MANDERS.
Will you be so good as to tell your mistress I am here?
REGINA.
I will, at once, sir. [_She goes out to the left._
MANDERS.
[_Paces the room two or three times, stands a moment in the background
with his hands behind his back, and looks out over the garden. Then he
returns to the table, takes up a book, and looks at the title-page;
starts, and looks at several books._] Ha—indeed!
_MRS. ALVING enters by the door on the left; she is followed by
REGINA, who immediately goes out by the first door on the
right._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Holds out her hand._] Welcome, my dear Pastor.
MANDERS.
How do you do, Mrs. Alving? Here I am as I promised.
MRS. ALVING.
Always punctual to the minute.
MANDERS.
You may believe it was not so easy for me to get away. With all the
Boards and Committees I belong to——
MRS. ALVING.
That makes it all the kinder of you to come so early. Now we can get
through our business before dinner. But where is your portmanteau?
MANDERS.
[_Quickly._] I left it down at the inn. I shall sleep there to-night.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Suppressing a smile._] Are you really not to be persuaded, even now,
to pass the night under my roof?
MANDERS.
No, no, Mrs. Alving; many thanks. I shall stay at the inn, as usual. It
is so conveniently near the landing-stage.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, you must have your own way. But I really should have thought we
two old people——
MANDERS.
Now you are making fun of me. Ah, you’re naturally in great spirits
to-day—what with to-morrow’s festival and Oswald’s return.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; you can think what a delight it is to me! It’s more than two years
since he was home last. And now he has promised to stay with me all the
winter.
MANDERS.
Has he really? That is very nice and dutiful of him. For I can well
believe that life in Rome and Paris has very different attractions from
any we can offer here.
MRS. ALVING.
Ah, but here he has his mother, you see. My own darling boy—he hasn’t
forgotten his old mother!
MANDERS.
It would be grievous indeed, if absence and absorption in art and that
sort of thing were to blunt his natural feelings.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, you may well say so. But there’s nothing of that sort to fear with
him. I’m quite curious to see whether you know him again. He’ll be down
presently; he’s upstairs just now, resting a little on the sofa. But do
sit down, my dear Pastor.
MANDERS
Thank you. Are you quite at liberty——?
MRS. ALVING.
Certainly. [_She sits by the table._
MANDERS.
Very well. Then let me show you——[_He goes to the chair where his
travelling-bag lies, takes out a packet of papers, sits down on the
opposite side of the table, and tries to find a clear space for the
papers._] Now, to begin with, here is——[_Breaking off._] Tell me, Mrs.
Alving, how do these books come to be here?
MRS. ALVING.
These books? They are books I am reading.
MANDERS.
Do you read this sort of literature?
MRS. ALVING.
Certainly I do.
MANDERS.
Do you feel better or happier for such reading?
MRS. ALVING.
I feel, so to speak, more secure.
MANDERS.
That is strange. How do you mean?
MRS. ALVING.
Well, I seem to find explanation and confirmation of all sorts of things
I myself have been thinking. For that is the wonderful part of it,
Pastor Manders—there is really nothing new in these books, nothing but
what most people think and believe. Only most people either don’t
formulate it to themselves, or else keep quiet about it.
MANDERS.
Great heavens! Do you really believe that most people——?
MRS. ALVING.
I do, indeed.
MANDERS.
But surely not in this country? Not here among us?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, certainly; here as elsewhere.
MANDERS.
Well, I really must say——!
MRS. ALVING.
For the rest, what do you object to in these books?
MANDERS.
Object to in them? You surely do not suppose that I have nothing better
to do than to study such publications as these?
MRS. ALVING.
That is to say, you know nothing of what you are condemning?
MANDERS.
I have read enough _about_ these writings to disapprove of them.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; but your own judgment——
MANDERS.
My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one must rely
upon others. Things are so ordered in this world; and it is well that
they are. Otherwise, what would become of society?
MRS. ALVING.
Well, well, I daresay you’re right there.
MANDERS.
Besides, I of course do not deny that there may be much that is
attractive in such books. Nor can I blame you for wishing to keep up
with the intellectual movements that are said to be going on in the
great world—where you have let your son pass so much of his life. But——
MRS. ALVING.
But?
MANDERS.
[_Lowering his voice._] But one should not talk about it, Mrs. Alving.
One is certainly not bound to account to everybody for what one reads
and thinks within one’s own four walls.
MRS. ALVING.
Of course not; I quite agree with you.
MANDERS.
Only think, now, how you are bound to consider the interests of this
Orphanage, which you decided on founding at a time when—if I understand
you rightly—you thought very differently on spiritual matters.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, yes; I quite admit that. But it was about the Orphanage——
MANDERS.
It was about the Orphanage we were to speak; yes. All I say is:
prudence, my dear lady! And now let us get to business. [_Opens the
packet, and takes out a number of papers._] Do you see these?
MRS. ALVING.
The documents?
MANDERS.
All—and in perfect order. I can tell you it was hard work to get them in
time. I had to put on strong pressure. The authorities are almost
morbidly scrupulous when there is any decisive step to be taken. But
here they are at last. [_Looks through the bundle._] See! here is the
formal deed of gift of the parcel of ground known as Solvik in the Manor
of Rosenvold, with all the newly constructed buildings, schoolrooms,
master’s house, and chapel. And here is the legal fiat for the endowment
and for the Bye-laws of the Institution. Will you look at them?
[_Reads._] “Bye-laws for the Children’s Home to be known as ‘Captain
Alving’s Foundation.’”
MRS. ALVING.
[_Looks long at the paper._] So there it is.
MANDERS.
I have chosen the designation “Captain” rather than “Chamberlain.”
“Captain” looks less pretentious.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, yes; just as you think best.
MANDERS.
And here you have the Bank Account of the capital lying at interest to
cover the current expenses of the Orphanage.
MRS. ALVING.
Thank you; but please keep it—it will be more convenient.
MANDERS.
With pleasure. I think we will leave the money in the Bank for the
present. The interest is certainly not what we could wish—four per cent.
and six months’ notice of withdrawal. If a good mortgage could be found
later on—of course it must be a first mortgage and an unimpeachable
security—then we could consider the matter.
MRS. ALVING.
Certainly, my dear Pastor Manders. You are the best judge in these
things.
MANDERS.
I will keep my eyes open at any rate.—But now there is one thing more
which I have several times been intending to ask you.
MRS. ALVING.
And what is that?
MANDERS.
Shall the Orphanage buildings be insured or not?
MRS. ALVING.
Of course they must be insured.
MANDERS.
Well, wait a moment, Mrs. Alving. Let us look into the matter a little
more closely.
MRS. ALVING.
I have everything insured; buildings and movables and stock and crops.
MANDERS.
Of course you have—on your own estate. And so have I—of course. But
here, you see, it is quite another matter. The Orphanage is to be
consecrated, as it were, to a higher purpose.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, but that’s no reason——
MANDERS.
For my own part, I should certainly not see the smallest impropriety in
guarding against all contingencies——
MRS. ALVING.
No, I should think not.
MANDERS.
But what is the general feeling in the neighbourhood? You, of course,
know better than I.
MRS. ALVING.
Well—the general feeling——
MANDERS.
Is there any considerable number of people—really responsible people—who
might be scandalised?
MRS. ALVING.
What do you mean by “really responsible people”?
MANDERS.
Well, I mean people in such independent and influential positions that
one cannot help attaching some weight to their opinions.
MRS. ALVING.
There are several people of that sort here, who would very likely be
shocked if——
MANDERS.
There, you see! In town we have many such people. Think of all my
colleague’s adherents! People would be only too ready to interpret our
action as a sign that neither you nor I had the right faith in a Higher
Providence.
MRS. ALVING.
But for your own part, my dear Pastor, you can at least tell yourself
that——
MANDERS.
Yes, I know—I know; my conscience would be quite easy, that is true
enough. But nevertheless we should not escape grave misinterpretation;
and that might very likely react unfavourably upon the Orphanage.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, in that case——
MANDERS.
Nor can I entirely lose sight of the difficult—I may even say
painful—position in which _I_ might perhaps be placed. In the leading
circles of the town, people take a lively interest in this Orphanage. It
is, of course, founded partly for the benefit of the town, as well; and
it is to be hoped it will, to a considerable extent, result in
lightening our Poor Rates. Now, as I have been your adviser, and have
had the business arrangements in my hands, I cannot but fear that I may
have to bear the brunt of fanaticism——
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, you mustn’t run the risk of that.
MANDERS.
To say nothing of the attacks that would assuredly be made upon me in
certain papers and periodicals, which——
MRS. ALVING.
Enough, my dear Pastor Manders. That consideration is quite decisive.
MANDERS.
Then you do not wish the Orphanage to be insured?
MRS. ALVING.
No. We will let it alone.
MANDERS.
[_Leaning back in his chair._] But if, now, a disaster were to happen?
One can never tell——Should you be able to make good the damage?
MRS. ALVING.
No; I tell you plainly I should do nothing of the kind.
MANDERS.
Then I must tell you, Mrs. Alving—we are taking no small responsibility
upon ourselves.
MRS. ALVING.
Do you think we can do otherwise?
MANDERS.
No, that is just the point; we really cannot do otherwise. We ought not
to expose ourselves to misinterpretation; and we have no right whatever
to give offence to the weaker brethren.
MRS. ALVING.
You, as a clergyman, certainly should not.
MANDERS.
I really think, too, we may trust that such an institution has fortune
on its side; in fact, that it stands under a special providence.
MRS. ALVING.
Let us hope so, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS.
Then we will let it take its chance?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, certainly.
MANDERS.
Very well. So be it. [_Makes a note._] Then—no insurance.
MRS. ALVING.
It’s odd that you should just happen to mention the matter to-day——
MANDERS.
I have often thought of asking you about it——
MRS. ALVING.
——for we very nearly had a fire down there yesterday.
MANDERS.
You don’t say so!
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, it was a trifling matter. A heap of shavings had caught fire in the
carpenter’s workshop.
MANDERS.
Where Engstrand works?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes. They say he’s often very careless with matches.
MANDERS.
He has so much on his mind, that man—so many things to fight against.
Thank God, he is now striving to lead a decent life, I hear.
MRS. ALVING.
Indeed! Who says so?
MANDERS.
He himself assures me of it. And he is certainly a capital workman.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, yes; so long as he’s sober——
MANDERS.
Ah, that melancholy weakness! But he is often driven to it by his
injured leg, he says. Last time he was in town I was really touched by
him. He came and thanked me so warmly for having got him work here, so
that he might be near Regina.
MRS. ALVING.
He doesn’t see much of _her_.
MANDERS.
Oh, yes; he has a talk with her every day. He told me so himself.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, it may be so.
MANDERS.
He feels so acutely that he needs some one to keep a firm hold on him
when temptation comes. That is what I cannot help liking about Jacob
Engstrand: he comes to you so helplessly, accusing himself and
confessing his own weakness. The last time he was talking to me——Believe
me, Mrs. Alving, supposing it were a real necessity for him to have
Regina home again——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Rising hastily._] Regina!
MANDERS.
——you must not set yourself against it.
MRS. ALVING.
Indeed I _shall_ set myself against it. And besides—Regina is to have a
position in the Orphanage.
MANDERS.
But, after all, remember he is her father——
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, I know very well what sort of a father he has been to her. No! She
shall never go to him with _my_ goodwill.
MANDERS.
[_Rising._] My dear lady, don’t take the matter so warmly. You sadly
misjudge poor Engstrand. You seem to be quite terrified——
MRS. ALVING.
[_More quietly._] It makes no difference. I have taken Regina into my
house, and there she shall stay. [_Listens._] Hush, my dear Mr. Manders;
say no more about it. [_Her face lights up with gladness._] Listen!
there is Oswald coming downstairs. Now we’ll think of no one but him.
_OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand, and smoking a
large meerschaum, enters by the door on the left; he stops
in the doorway._
OSWALD.
Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought you were in the study. [_Comes
forward._] Good-morning, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS.
[_Staring._] Ah——! How strange——!
MRS. ALVING.
Well now, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders?
MANDERS.
I—I—can it really be——?
OSWALD.
Yes, it’s really the Prodigal Son, sir.
MANDERS.
[_Protesting._] My dear young friend——
OSWALD.
Well, then, the Lost Sheep Found.
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so much opposed to his
becoming a painter.
MANDERS.
To our human eyes many a step seems dubious, which afterwards
proves——[_Wrings his hand._] But first of all, welcome, welcome home! Do
not think, my dear Oswald—I suppose I may call you by your Christian
name?
OSWALD.
What else should you call me?
MANDERS.
Very good. What I wanted to say was this, my dear Oswald—you must not
think that I utterly condemn the artist’s calling. I have no doubt there
are many who can keep their inner self unharmed in that profession, as
in any other.
OSWALD.
Let us hope so.
MRS. ALVINO.
[_Beaming with delight._] I know one who has kept both his inner and his
outer self unharmed. Just look at him, Mr. Manders.
OSWALD.
[_Moves restlessly about the room._] Yes, yes, my dear mother; let’s say
no more about it.
MANDERS.
Why, certainly—that is undeniable. And you have begun to make a name for
yourself already. The newspapers have often spoken of you, most
favourably. Just lately, by-the-bye, I fancy I haven’t seen your name
quite so often.
OSWALD.