MRS. ALVING.
Even a painter needs a little rest now and then.
MANDERS.
No doubt, no doubt. And meanwhile he can be preparing himself and
mustering his forces for some great work.
OSWALD.
Yes.—Mother, will dinner soon be ready?
MRS. ALVING.
In less than half an hour. He has a capital appetite, thank God.
MANDERS.
And a taste for tobacco, too.
OSWALD.
I found my father’s pipe in my room——
MANDERS.
Aha—then that accounts for it!
MRS. ALVING.
For what?
MANDERS.
When Oswald appeared there, in the doorway, with the pipe in his mouth,
I could have sworn I saw his father, large as life.
OSWALD.
No, really?
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, how can you say so? Oswald takes after me.
MANDERS.
Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of the mouth—something
about the lips—that reminds one exactly of Alving: at any rate, now that
he is smoking.
MRS. ALVING.
Not in the least. Oswald has rather a clerical curve about his mouth, I
think.
MANDERS.
Yes, yes; some of my colleagues have much the same expression.
MRS. ALVING.
But put your pipe away, my dear boy; I won’t have smoking in here.
OSWALD.
[_Does so._] By all means. I only wanted to try it; for I once smoked it
when I was a child.
MRS. ALVING.
You?
OSWALD.
Yes. I was quite small at the time. I recollect I came up to father’s
room one evening when he was in great spirits.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, you can’t recollect anything of those times.
OSWALD.
Yes, I recollect it distinctly. He took me on his knee, and gave me the
pipe. “Smoke, boy,” he said; “smoke away, boy!” And I smoked as hard as
I could, until I felt I was growing quite pale, and the perspiration
stood in great drops on my forehead. Then he burst out laughing
heartily——
MANDERS.
That was most extraordinary.
MRS. ALVING.
My dear friend, it’s only something Oswald has dreamt.
OSWALD.
No, mother, I assure you I didn’t dream it. For—don’t you remember
_this_?—you came and carried me out into the nursery. Then I was sick,
and I saw that you were crying.—Did father often play such practical
jokes?
MANDERS.
In his youth he overflowed with the joy of life——
OSWALD.
And yet he managed to do so much in the world; so much that was good and
useful; although he died so early.
MANDERS.
Yes, you have inherited the name of an energetic and admirable man, my
dear Oswald Alving. No doubt it will be an incentive to you——
OSWALD.
It ought to, indeed.
MANDERS.
It was good of you to come home for the ceremony in his honour.
OSWALD.
I could do no less for my father.
MRS. ALVING.
And I am to keep him so long! That is the best of all.
MANDERS.
You are going to pass the winter at home, I hear.
OSWALD.
My stay is indefinite, sir.—But, ah! it is good to be at home!
MRS. ALVING.
[_Beaming._] Yes, isn’t it, dear?
MANDERS.
[_Looking sympathetically at him._] You went out into the world early,
my dear Oswald.
OSWALD.
I did. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn’t _too_ early.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, not at all. A healthy lad is all the better for it; especially when
he’s an only child. He oughtn’t to hang on at home with his mother and
father, and get spoilt.
MANDERS.
That is a very disputable point, Mrs. Alving. A child’s proper place is,
and must be, the home of his fathers.
OSWALD.
There I quite agree with you, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS.
Only look at your own son—there is no reason why we should not say it in
his presence—what has the consequence been for him? He is six or seven
and twenty, and has never had the opportunity of learning what a
well-ordered home really is.
OSWALD.
I beg your pardon, Pastor; there you’re quite mistaken.
MANDERS.
Indeed? I thought you had lived almost exclusively in artistic circles.
OSWALD.
So I have.
MANDERS.
And chiefly among the younger artists?
OSWALD.
Yes, certainly.
MANDERS.
But I thought few of those young fellows could afford to set up house
and support a family.
OSWALD.
There are many who cannot afford to marry, sir.
MANDERS.
Yes, that is just what I say.
OSWALD.
But they may have a home for all that. And several of them have, as a
matter of fact; and very pleasant, well-ordered homes they are, too.
[MRS. ALVING _follows with breathless interest; nods, but says
nothing._
MANDERS.
But I’m not talking of bachelors’ quarters. By a “home” I understand the
home of a family, where a man lives with his wife and children.
OSWALD.
Yes; or with his children and his children’s mother.
MANDERS.
[_Starts; clasps his hands._] But, good heavens——
OSWALD.
Well?
MANDERS.
Lives with—his children’s mother!
OSWALD.
Yes. Would you have him turn his children’s mother out of doors?
MANDERS.
Then it is illicit relations you are talking of! Irregular marriages, as
people call them!
OSWALD.
I have never noticed anything particularly irregular about the life
these people lead.
MANDERS.
But how is it possible that a—a young man or young woman with any
decency of feeling can endure to live in that way?—in the eyes of all
the world!
OSWALD.
What are they to do? A poor young artist—a poor girl—marriage costs a
great deal. What are they to do?
MANDERS.
What are they to do? Let me tell you, Mr. Alving, what they ought to do.
They ought to exercise self-restraint from the first; that is what they
ought to do.
OSWALD.
That doctrine will scarcely go down with warm-blooded young people who
love each other.
MRS. ALVING.
No, scarcely!
MANDERS.
[_Continuing._] How can the authorities tolerate such things! Allow them
to go on in the light of day! [_Confronting_ MRS. ALVING.] Had I not
cause to be deeply concerned about your son? In circles where open
immorality prevails, and has even a sort of recognised position——!
OSWALD.
Let me tell you, sir, that I have been in the habit of spending nearly
all my Sundays in one or two such irregular homes——
MANDERS.
Sunday of all days!
OSWALD.
Isn’t that the day to enjoy one’s self? Well, never have I heard an
offensive word, and still less have I witnessed anything that could be
called immoral. No; do you know when and where I have come across
immorality in artistic circles?
MANDERS.
No, thank heaven, I don’t!
OSWALD.
Well, then, allow me to inform you. I have met with it when one or other
of our pattern husbands and fathers has come to Paris to have a look
round on his own account, and has done the artists the honour of
visiting their humble haunts. _They_ knew what was what. These gentlemen
could tell us all about places and things we had never dreamt of.
MANDERS.
What! Do you mean to say that respectable men from home here would——?
OSWALD.
Have you never heard these respectable men, when they got home again,
talking about the way in which immorality runs rampant abroad?
MANDERS.
Yes, no doubt——
MRS. ALVING.
I have too.
OSWALD.
Well, you may take their word for it. They know what they are talking
about! [_Presses his hands to his head._] Oh! that that great, free,
glorious life out there should be defiled in such a way!
MRS. ALVING.
You mustn’t get excited, Oswald. It’s not good for you.
OSWALD.
Yes; you’re quite right, mother. It’s bad for me, I know. You see, I’m
wretchedly worn out. I shall go for a little turn before dinner. Excuse
me, Pastor: I know you can’t take my point of view; but I couldn’t help
speaking out.
[_He goes out by the second door to the right._
MRS. ALVING.
My poor boy!
MANDERS.
You may well say so. Then this is what he has come to!
[MRS. ALVING _looks at him silently._
MANDERS.
[_Walking up and down._] He called himself the Prodigal Son. Alas! alas!
[MRS. ALVING _continues looking at him._
MANDERS.
And what do you say to all this?
MRS. ALVING.
I say that Oswald was right in every word.
MANDERS.
[_Stands still._] Right? Right! In such principles?
MRS. ALVING.
Here, in my loneliness, I have come to the same way of thinking, Pastor
Manders. But I have never dared to say anything. Well! now my boy shall
speak for me.
MANDERS.
You are greatly to be pitied, Mrs. Alving. But now I must speak
seriously to you. And now it is no longer your business manager and
adviser, your own and your husband’s early friend, who stands before
you. It is the priest—the priest who stood before you in the moment of
your life when you had gone farthest astray.
MRS. ALVING.
And what has the priest to say to me?
MANDERS.
I will first stir up your memory a little. The moment is well chosen.
To-morrow will be the tenth anniversary of your husband’s death.
To-morrow the memorial in his honour will be unveiled. To-morrow I shall
have to speak to the whole assembled multitude. But to-day I will speak
to you alone.
MRS. ALVING.
Very well, Pastor Manders. Speak.
MANDERS.
Do you remember that after less than a year of married life you stood on
the verge of an abyss? That you forsook your house and home? That you
fled from your husband? Yes, Mrs. Alving—fled, fled, and refused to
return to him, however much he begged and prayed you?
MRS. ALVING.
Have you forgotten how infinitely miserable I was in that first year?
MANDERS.
It is the very mark of the spirit of rebellion to crave for happiness in
this life. What right have we human beings to happiness? We have simply
to do our duty, Mrs. Alving! And your duty was to hold firmly to the man
you had once chosen, and to whom you were bound by the holiest ties.
MRS. ALVING.
You know very well what sort of life Alving was leading—what excesses he
was guilty of.
MANDERS.
I know very well what rumours there were about him; and I am the last to
approve the life he led in his young days, if report did not wrong him.
But a wife is not appointed to be her husband’s judge. It was your duty
to bear with humility the cross which a Higher Power had, in its wisdom,
laid upon you. But instead of that you rebelliously throw away the
cross, desert the back-slider whom you should have supported, go and
risk your good name and reputation, and—nearly succeed in ruining other
people’s reputation into the bargain.
MRS. ALVING.
Other people’s? One other person’s, you mean.
MANDERS.
It was incredibly reckless of you to seek refuge with me.
MRS. ALVING.
With our clergyman? With our intimate friend?
MANDERS.
Just on that account. Yes, you may thank God that I possessed the
necessary firmness; that I succeeded in dissuading you from your wild
designs; and that it was vouchsafed me to lead you back to the path of
duty, and home to your lawful husband.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, Pastor Manders, _that_ was certainly your work.
MANDERS.
I was but a poor instrument in a Higher Hand. And what a blessing has it
not proved to you, all the days of your life, that I induced you to
resume the yoke of duty and obedience! Did not everything happen as I
foretold? Did not Alving turn his back on his errors, as a man should?
Did he not live with you from that time, lovingly and blamelessly, all
his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the whole district? And did
he not help you to rise to his own level, so that you, little by little,
became his assistant in all his undertakings? And a capital assistant,
too—oh, I know, Mrs. Alving, _that_ praise is due to you.—But now I come
to the next great error in your life.
MRS. ALVING.
What do you mean?
MANDERS.
Just as you once disowned a wife’s duty, so you have since disowned a
mother’s.
MRS. ALVING.
Ah——!
MANDERS.
You have been all your life under the dominion of a pestilent spirit of
self-will. The whole bias of your mind has been towards insubordination
and lawlessness. You have never known how to endure any bond. Everything
that has weighed upon you in life you have cast away without care or
conscience, like a burden you were free to throw off at will. It did not
please you to be a wife any longer, and you left your husband. You found
it troublesome to be a mother, and you sent your child forth among
strangers.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, that is true. I did so.
MANDERS.
And thus you have become a stranger to him.
MRS. ALVING.
No! no! I am not.
MANDERS.
Yes, you are; you _must_ be. And in what state of mind has he returned
to you? Bethink yourself well, Mrs. Alving. You sinned greatly against
your husband;—that you recognise by raising yonder memorial to him.
Recognise now, also, how you have sinned against your son—there may yet
be time to lead him back from the paths of error. Turn back yourself,
and save what may yet be saved in him. For [_With uplifted forefinger_]
verily, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilt-laden mother!—This I have thought
it my duty to say to you.
[_Silence._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Slowly and with self-control._] You have now spoken out, Pastor
Manders; and to-morrow you are to speak publicly in memory of my
husband. I shall not speak to-morrow. But now I will speak frankly to
you, as you have spoken to me.
MANDERS.
To be sure; you will plead excuses for your conduct——
MRS. ALVING.
No. I will only tell you a story.
MANDERS.
Well——?
MRS. ALVING.
All that you have just said about my husband and me, and our life after
you had brought me back to the path of duty—as you called it—about all
that you know nothing from personal observation. From that moment you,
who had been our intimate friend, never set foot in our house again.
MANDERS.
You and your husband left the town immediately after.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; and in my husband’s lifetime you never came to see us. It was
business that forced you to visit me when you undertook the affairs of
the Orphanage.
MANDERS.
[_Softly and hesitatingly._] Helen—if that is meant as a reproach, I
would beg you to bear in mind——
MRS. ALVING.
——the regard you owed to your position, yes; and that I was a runaway
wife. One can never be too cautious with such unprincipled creatures.
MANDERS.
My dear—Mrs. Alving, you know that is an absurd exaggeration——
MRS. ALVING.
Well well, suppose it is. My point is that your judgment as to my
married life is founded upon nothing but common knowledge and report.
MANDERS.
I admit that. What then?
MRS. ALVING.
Well, then, Pastor Manders—I will tell you the truth. I have sworn to
myself that one day you should know it—you alone!
MANDERS.
What is the truth, then?
MRS. ALVING.
The truth is that my husband died just as dissolute as he had lived all
his days.
MANDERS.
[_Feeling after a chair._] What do you say?
MRS. ALVING.
After nineteen years of marriage, as dissolute—in his desires at any
rate—as he was before you married us.
MANDERS.
And those—those wild oats—those irregularities—those excesses, if you
like—you call “a dissolute life”?
MRS. ALVING.
Our doctor used the expression.
MANDERS.
I do not understand you.
MRS. ALVING.
You need not.
MANDERS.
It almost makes me dizzy. Your whole married life, the seeming union of
all these years, was nothing more than a hidden abyss!
MRS. ALVING.
Neither more nor less. Now you know it.
MANDERS.
This is—this is inconceivable to me. I cannot grasp it! I cannot realise
it! But how was it possible to——? How could such a state of things be
kept secret?
MRS. ALVING.
That has been my ceaseless struggle, day after day. After Oswald’s
birth, I thought Alving seemed to be a little better. But it did not
last long. And then I had to struggle twice as hard, fighting as though
for life or death, so that nobody should know what sort of man my
child’s father was. And you know what power Alving had of winning
people’s hearts. Nobody seemed able to believe anything but good of him.
He was one of those people whose life does not bite upon their
reputation. But at last, Mr. Manders—for you must know the whole
story—the most repulsive thing of all happened.
MANDERS.
More repulsive than what you have told me!
MRS. ALVING.
I had gone on bearing with him, although I knew very well the secrets of
his life out of doors. But when he brought the scandal within our own
walls——
MANDERS.
Impossible! Here!
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; here in our own home. It was there [_Pointing towards the first
door on the right_], in the dining-room, that I first came to know of
it. I was busy with something in there, and the door was standing ajar.
I heard our housemaid come up from the garden, with water for those
flowers.
MANDERS.
Well——?
MRS. ALVING.
Soon after, I heard Alving come in too. I heard him say something softly
to her. And then I heard—[_With a short laugh_]—oh! it still sounds in
my ears, so hateful and yet so ludicrous—I heard my own servant-maid
whisper, “Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!”
MANDERS.
What unseemly levity on his part! But it cannot have been more than
levity, Mrs. Alving; believe me, it cannot.
MRS. ALVING.
I soon knew what to believe. Mr. Alving had his way with the girl; and
that connection had consequences, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS.
[_As though petrified._] Such things in this house! in this house!
MRS. ALVING.
I had borne a great deal in this house. To keep him at home in the
evenings, and at night, I had to make myself his boon companion in his
secret orgies up in his room. There I have had to sit alone with him, to
clink glasses and drink with him, and to listen to his ribald, silly
talk. I have had to fight with him to get him dragged to bed——
MANDERS.
[_Moved._] And you were able to bear all this!
MRS. ALVING.
I had to bear it for my little boy’s sake. But when the last insult was
added; when my own servant-maid——; then I swore to myself: This shall
come to an end! And so I took the reins into my own hand—the whole
control—over him and everything else. For now I had a weapon against
him, you see; he dared not oppose me. It was then I sent Oswald away
from home. He was nearly seven years old, and was beginning to observe
and ask questions, as children do. That I could not bear. It seemed to
me the child must be poisoned by merely breathing the air of this
polluted home. That was why I sent him away. And now you can see, too,
why he was never allowed to set foot inside his home so long as his
father lived. No one knows what that cost me.
MANDERS.
You have indeed had a life of trial.
MRS. ALVING.
I could never have borne it if I had not had my work. For I may truly
say that I have worked! All the additions to the estate—all the
improvements—all the labour-saving appliances, that Alving was so much
praised for having introduced—do you suppose he had energy for anything
of the sort?—he, who lay all day on the sofa, reading an old Court
Guide! No; but I may tell you _this_ too: when he had his better
intervals, it was I who urged him on; it was I who had to drag the whole
load when he relapsed into his evil ways, or sank into querulous
wretchedness.
MANDERS.
And it is to this man that you raise a memorial?
MRS. ALVING.
There you see the power of an evil conscience.
MANDERS.
Evil——? What do you mean?
MRS. ALVING.
It always seemed to me impossible but that the truth must come out and
be believed. So the Orphanage was to deaden all rumours and set every
doubt at rest.
MANDERS.
In that you have certainly not missed your aim, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING.
And besides, I had one other reason. I was determined that Oswald, my
own boy, should inherit nothing whatever from his father.
MANDERS.
Then it is Alving’s fortune that——?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes. The sums I have spent upon the Orphanage, year by year, make up the
amount—I have reckoned it up precisely—the amount which made Lieutenant
Alving “a good match” in his day.
MANDERS.
I don’t understand——
MRS. ALVING.
It was my purchase-money. I do not choose that that money should pass
into Oswald’s hands. My son shall have everything from me—everything.
_OSWALD ALVING enters through the second door to the right; he
has taken off his hat and overcoat in the hall._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Going towards him._] Are you back again already? My dear, dear boy!
OSWALD.
Yes. What can a fellow do out of doors in this eternal rain? But I hear
dinner is ready. That’s capital!
REGINA.
[_With a parcel, from the dining-room._] A parcel has come for you, Mrs.
Alving. [_Hands it to her._
MRS. ALVING.
[_With a glance at MR. MANDERS._] No doubt copies of the ode for
to-morrow’s ceremony.
MANDERS.
H’m——
REGINA.
And dinner is ready.
MRS. ALVING.
Very well. We will come directly. I will just—— [_Begins to open the
parcel._
REGINA.
[_To_ OSWALD.] Would Mr. Alving like red or white wine?
OSWALD.
Both, if you please.
REGINA.
_Bien._ Very well, sir.
[_She goes into the dining-room._
OSWALD.
I may as well help to uncork it.
[_He also goes into the dining-room, the door of which swings
half open behind him._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Who has opened the parcel._] Yes, I thought so. Here is the Ceremonial
Ode, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS.
[_With folded hands._] With what countenance I am to deliver my
discourse to-morrow——!
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, you will get through it somehow.
MANDERS.
[_Softly, so as not to be heard in the dining-room._] Yes; it would not
do to provoke scandal.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Under her breath, but firmly._] No. But _then_ this long, hateful
comedy will be ended. From the day after to-morrow, I shall act in every
way as though he who is dead had never lived in this house. There shall
be no one here but my boy and his mother.
[_From the dining-room comes the noise of a chair overturned,
and at the same moment is heard_:
REGINA.
[_Sharply, but in a whisper._] Oswald! take care! are you mad? Let me
go!
MRS. ALVING.
[_Starts in terror._] Ah——!
[_She stares wildly towards the half-open door._ OSWALD _is
heard laughing and humming. A bottle is uncorked._
MANDERS.
[_Agitated._] What can be the matter? What is it, Mrs. Alving?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Hoarsely._] Ghosts! The couple from the conservatory—risen again!
MANDERS.
Is it possible! Regina——? Is _she_——?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes. Come. Not a word——!
[_She seizes_ PASTOR MANDERS _by the arm, and walks unsteadily
towards the dining-room._
-----
Footnote 11:
This and other French words used, by Regina are in that language in
the original.
Footnote 12:
A “krone” is equal to one shilling and three-halfpence.
ACT SECOND.
_The same room. The mist still lies heavy over the landscape._
_MANDERS and MRS. ALVING enter from the dining-room._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Still in the doorway._] _Velbekomme_,[13] 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.