MANDERS.
But such a piece of duplicity on his part! And towards me too! I never
could have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall not fail to take him
seriously to task; he may be sure of that.—And then the immorality of
such a connection! For money——! How much did the girl receive?
MRS. ALVING.
Three hundred dollars.
MANDERS.
Just think of it—for a miserable three hundred dollars, to go and marry
a fallen woman!
MRS. ALVING.
Then what have you to say of me? I went and married a fallen man.
MANDERS.
Why—good heavens!—what are you talking about! A fallen man!
MRS. ALVING.
Do you think Alving was any purer when I went with him to the altar than
Johanna was when Engstrand married her?
MANDERS.
Well, but there is a world of difference between the two cases——
MRS. ALVING.
Not so much difference after all—except in the price:—a miserable three
hundred dollars and a whole fortune.
MANDERS.
How can you compare such absolutely dissimilar cases? You had taken
counsel with your own heart and with your natural advisers.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Without looking at him._] I thought you understood where what you call
my heart had strayed to at the time.
MANDERS.
[_Distantly._] Had I understood anything of the kind, I should not have
been a daily guest in your husband’s house.
MRS. ALVING.
At any rate, the fact remains that with myself I took no counsel
whatever.
MANDERS.
Well then, with your nearest relatives—as your duty bade you—with your
mother and your two aunts.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, that is true. Those three cast up the account for me. Oh, it’s
marvellous how clearly they made out that it would be downright madness
to refuse such an offer. If mother could only see me now, and know what
all that grandeur has come to!
MANDERS.
Nobody can be held responsible for the result. This, at least, remains
clear: your marriage was in full accordance with law and order.
MRS. ALVING.
[_At the window._] Oh, that perpetual law and order! I often think that
is what does all the mischief in this world of ours.
MANDERS.
Mrs. Alving, that is a sinful way of talking.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, I can’t help it; I must have done with all this constraint and
insincerity. I can endure it no longer. I must work my way out to
freedom.
MANDERS.
What do you mean by that?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Drumming on the window-frame._] I ought never to have concealed the
facts of Alving’s life. But at that time I dared not do anything else—I
was afraid, partly on my own account. I was such a coward.
MANDERS.
A coward?
MRS. ALVING.
If people had come to know anything, they would have said—“Poor man!
with a runaway wife, no wonder he kicks over the traces.”
MANDERS.
Such remarks might have been made with a certain show of right.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Looking steadily at him._] If I were what I ought to be, I should go
to Oswald and say, “Listen, my boy: your father led a vicious life——”
MANDERS.
Merciful heavens——!
MRS. ALVING.
——and then I should tell him all I have told you—every word of it.
MANDERS.
You shock me unspeakably, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; I know that. I know that very well. I myself am shocked at the
idea. [_Goes away from the window._] I am such a coward.
MANDERS.
You call it “cowardice” to do your plain duty? Have you forgotten that a
son ought to love and honour his father and mother?
MRS. ALVING.
Do not let us talk in such general terms. Let us ask: Ought Oswald to
love and honour Chamberlain Alving?
MANDERS.
Is there no voice in your mother’s heart that forbids you to destroy
your son’s ideals?
MRS. ALVING.
But what about the truth?
MANDERS.
But what about the ideals?
MRS. ALVING.
Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward!
MANDERS.
Do not despise ideals, Mrs. Alving; they will avenge themselves cruelly.
Take Oswald’s case: he, unfortunately, seems to have few enough ideals
as it is; but I can see that his father stands before him as an ideal.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, that is true.
MANDERS.
And this habit of mind you have yourself implanted and fostered by your
letters.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; in my superstitious awe for duty and the proprieties, I lied to my
boy, year after year. Oh, what a coward—what a coward I have been!
MANDERS.
You have established a happy illusion in your son’s heart, Mrs. Alving;
and assuredly you ought not to undervalue it.
MRS. ALVING.
H’m; who knows whether it is so happy after all——? But, at any rate, I
will not have any tampering with Regina. He shall not go and wreck the
poor girl’s life.
MANDERS.
No; good God—that would be terrible!
MRS. ALVING.
If I knew he was in earnest, and that it would be for his happiness——
MANDERS.
What? What then?
MRS. ALVING.
But it couldn’t be; for unfortunately Regina is not the right sort of
woman.
MANDERS.
Well, what then? What do you mean?
MRS. ALVING.
If I weren’t such a pitiful coward, I should say to him, “Marry her, or
make what arrangement you please, only let us have nothing underhand
about it.”
MANDERS.
Merciful heavens, would you let them _marry_! Anything so dreadful——! so
unheard of——
MRS. ALVING.
Do you really mean “unheard of”? Frankly, Pastor Manders, do you suppose
that throughout the country there are not plenty of married couples as
closely akin as they?
MANDERS.
I don’t in the least understand you.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh yes, indeed you do.
MANDERS.
Ah, you are thinking of the possibility that——Alas! yes, family life is
certainly not always so pure as it ought to be. But in such a case as
you point to, one can never know—at least with any certainty. Here, on
the other hand—that you, a mother, can think of letting your son——!
MRS. ALVING.
But I cannot—I wouldn’t for anything in the world; that is precisely
what I am saying.
MANDERS.
No, because you are a “coward,” as you put it. But if you were not a
“coward,” then——? Good God! a connection so shocking!
MRS. ALVING.
So far as that goes, they say we are all sprung from connections of that
sort. And who is it that arranged the world so, Pastor Manders?
MANDERS.
Questions of that kind I must decline to discuss with you, Mrs. Alving;
you are far from being in the right frame of mind for them. But that you
dare to call your scruples “cowardly”——!
MRS. ALVING.
Let me tell you what I mean. I am timid and faint-hearted because of the
ghosts that hang about me, and that I can never quite shake off.
MANDERS.
What do you say hangs about you?
MRS. ALVING.
Ghosts! When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it was as though ghosts
rose up before me. But I almost think we are all of us ghosts, Pastor
Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from our father and
mother that “walks” in us. It is all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless
old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us
all the same, and we cannot shake them off. Whenever I take up a
newspaper, I seem to see ghosts gliding between the lines. There must be
ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sands of the sea. And then
we are, one and all, so pitifully afraid of the light.
MANDERS.
Aha—here we have the fruits of your reading. And pretty fruits they are,
upon my word! Oh, those horrible, revolutionary, freethinking books!
MRS. ALVING.
You are mistaken, my dear Pastor. It was you yourself who set me
thinking; and I thank you for it with all my heart.
MANDERS.
I!
MRS. ALVING.
Yes—when you forced me under the yoke of what you called duty and
obligation; when you lauded as right and proper what my whole soul
rebelled against as something loathsome. It was then that I began to
look into the seams of your doctrines. I wanted only to pick at a single
knot; but when I had got that undone, the whole thing ravelled out. And
then I understood that it was all machine-sewn.
MANDERS.
[_Softly, with emotion._] And was that the upshot of my life’s hardest
battle?
MRS. ALVING.
Call it rather your most pitiful defeat.
MANDERS.
It was my greatest victory, Helen—the victory over myself.
MRS. ALVING.
It was a crime against us both.
MANDERS.
When you went astray, and came to me crying, “Here I am; take me!” I
commanded you, saying, “Woman, go home to your lawful husband.” Was
_that_ a crime?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, I think so.
MANDERS.
We two do not understand each other.
MRS. ALVING.
Not now, at any rate.
MANDERS.
Never—never in my most secret thoughts have I regarded you otherwise
than as another’s wife.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh—indeed?
MANDERS.
Helen——!
MRS. ALVING.
People so easily forget their past selves.
MANDERS.
I do not. I am what I always was.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Changing the subject._] Well well well; don’t let us talk of old times
any longer. You are now over head and ears in Boards and Committees, and
I am fighting my battle with ghosts, both within me and without.
MANDERS.
Those without I shall help you to lay. After all the terrible things I
have heard from you today, I cannot in conscience permit an unprotected
girl to remain in your house.
MRS. ALVING.
Don’t you think the best plan would be to get her provided for?—I mean,
by a good marriage.
MANDERS.
No doubt. I think it would be desirable for her in every respect. Regina
is now at the age when——Of course I don’t know much about these things,
but——
MRS. ALVING.
Regina matured very early.
MANDERS.
Yes, I thought so. I have an impression that she was remarkably well
developed, physically, when I prepared her for confirmation. But in the
meantime, she ought to be at home, under her father’s eye——Ah! but
Engstrand is not——That he—that _he_—could so hide the truth from me! [_A
knock at the door into the hall._
MRS. ALVING.
Who can this be? Come in!
ENGSTRAND.
[_In his Sunday clothes, in the doorway._] I humbly beg your pardon,
but——
MANDERS.
Aha! H’m——
MRS. ALVING.
Is that you, Engstrand?
ENGSTRAND.
——there was none of the servants about, so I took the great liberty of
just knocking.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, very well. Come in. Do you want to speak to me?
ENGSTRAND.
[_Comes in._] No, I’m obliged to you, ma’am; it was with his Reverence I
wanted to have a word or two.
MANDERS.
[_Walking up and down the room._] Ah—indeed! You want to speak to me, do
you?
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, I’d like so terrible much to——
MANDERS.
[_Stops in front of him._] Well; may I ask what you want?
ENGSTRAND.
Well, it was just this, your Reverence: we’ve been paid off down
yonder—my grateful thanks to you, ma’am,—and now everything’s finished,
I’ve been thinking it would be but right and proper if we, that have
been working so honestly together all this time—well, I was thinking we
ought to end up with a little prayer-meeting to-night.
MANDERS.
A prayer-meeting? Down at the Orphanage?
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, if your Reverence doesn’t think it proper——
MANDERS.
Oh yes, I do; but—h’m—
ENGSTRAND.
I’ve been in the habit of offering up a little prayer in the evenings,
myself——
MRS. ALVING.
Have you?
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, every now and then—just a little edification, in a manner of
speaking. But I’m a poor, common man, and have little enough gift, God
help me!—and so I thought, as the Reverend Mr. Manders happened to be
here, I’d——
MANDERS.
Well, you see, Engstrand, I have a question to put to you first. Are you
in the right frame of mind for such a meeting! Do you feel your
conscience clear and at ease?
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, God help us, your Reverence! we’d better not talk about conscience.
MANDERS.
Yes, that is just what we must talk about. What have you to answer?
ENGSTRAND.
Why—a man’s conscience—it can be bad enough now and then.
MANDERS.
Ah, you admit that. Then perhaps you will make a clean breast of it, and
tell me—the real truth about Regina?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Quickly._] Mr. Manders!
MANDERS.
[_Reassuringly._] Please allow me——
ENGSTRAND.
About Regina! Lord, what a turn you gave me! [_Looks at MRS. ALVING._]
There’s nothing wrong about Regina, is there?
MANDERS.
We will hope not. But I mean, what is the truth about you and Regina?
You pass for her father, eh!
ENGSTRAND.
[_Uncertain._] Well—h’m—your Reverence knows all about me and poor
Johanna.
MANDERS.
Come now, no more prevarication! Your wife told Mrs. Alving the whole
story before quitting her service.
ENGSTRAND.
Well, then, may——! Now, did she really?
MANDERS.
You see we know you now, Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND.
And she swore and took her Bible oath——
MANDERS.
Did she take her Bible oath?
ENGSTRAND
No; she only swore; but she did it that solemn-like.
MANDERS.
And you have hidden the truth from me all these years? Hidden it from
me, who have trusted you without reserve, in everything.
ENGSTRAND.
Well, I can’t deny it.
MANDERS.
Have I deserved this of you, Engstrand? Have I not always been ready to
help you in word and deed, so far as it lay in my power? Answer me. Have
I not?
ENGSTRAND.
It would have been a poor look-out for me many a time but for the
Reverend Mr. Manders.
MANDERS.
And this is how you reward me! You cause me to enter falsehoods in the
Church Register, and you withhold from me, year after year, the
explanations you owed alike to me and to the truth. Your conduct has
been wholly inexcusable, Engstrand; and from this time forward I have
done with you!
ENGSTRAND.
[_With a sigh._] Yes! I suppose there’s no help for it.
MANDERS.
How can you possibly justify yourself?
ENGSTRAND.
Who could ever have thought she’d have gone and made bad worse by
talking about it? Will your Reverence just fancy yourself in the same
trouble as poor Johanna——
MANDERS.
I!
ENGSTRAND.
Lord bless you, I don’t mean just exactly the same. But I mean, if your
Reverence had anything to be ashamed of in the eyes of the world, as the
saying goes. We menfolk oughtn’t to judge a poor woman too hardly, your
Reverence.
MANDERS.
I am not doing so. It is you I am reproaching.
ENGSTRAND.
Might I make so bold as to ask your Reverence a bit of a question?
MANDERS.
Yes, if you want to.
ENGSTRAND.
Isn’t it right and proper for a man to raise up the fallen?
MANDERS.
Most certainly it is.
ENGSTRAND.
And isn’t a man bound to keep his sacred word?
MANDERS.
Why, of course he is; but——
ENGSTRAND.
When Johanna had got into trouble through that Englishman—or it might
have been an American or a Russian, as they call them—well, you see, she
came down into the town. Poor thing, she’d sent me about my business
once or twice before: for she couldn’t bear the sight of anything as
wasn’t handsome; and I’d got this damaged leg of mine. Your Reverence
recollects how I ventured up into a dancing saloon, where seafaring men
was carrying on with drink and devilry, as the saying goes. And then,
when I was for giving them a bit of an admonition to lead a new life——
MRS. ALVING.
[_At the window._] H’m——
MANDERS.
I know all about that, Engstrand; the ruffians threw you downstairs. You
have told me of the affair already. Your infirmity is an honour to you.
ENGSTRAND.
I’m not puffed up about it, your Reverence. But what I wanted to say
was, that when she came and confessed all to me, with weeping and
gnashing of teeth, I can tell your Reverence I was sore at heart to hear
it.
MANDERS.
Were you indeed, Engstrand? Well, go on.
ENGSTRAND.
So I says to her, “The American, he’s sailing about on the boundless
sea. And as for you, Johanna,” says I, “you’ve committed a grievous sin,
and you’re a fallen creature. But Jacob Engstrand,” says I, “he’s got
two good legs to stand upon, he has——” You see, your Reverence, I was
speaking figurative-like.
MANDERS.
I understand quite well. Go on.
ENGSTRAND.
Well, that was how I raised her up and made an honest woman of her, so
as folks shouldn’t get to know how as she’d gone astray with foreigners.
MANDERS.
In all that you acted very well. Only I cannot approve of your stooping
to take money——
ENGSTRAND.
Money? I? Not a farthing!
MANDERS.
[_Inquiringly to MRS. ALVING._] But——
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, wait a minute!—now I recollect. Johanna _did_ have a trifle of
money. But I would have nothing to do with _that_. “No,” says I, “that’s
mammon; that’s the wages of sin. This dirty gold—or notes, or whatever
it was—we’ll just fling that back in the American’s face,” says I. But
he was off and away, over the stormy sea, your Reverence.
MANDERS.
Was he really, my good fellow?
ENGSTRAND.
He was indeed, sir. So Johanna and I, we agreed that the money should go
to the child’s education; and so it did, and I can account for every
blessed farthing of it.
MANDERS.
Why, this alters the case considerably.
ENGSTRAND.
That’s just how it stands, your Reverence. And I make so bold as to say
as I’ve been an honest father to Regina, so far as my poor strength
went; for I’m but a weak vessel, worse luck!
MANDERS.
Well, well, my good fellow——
ENGSTRAND.
All the same, I bear myself witness as I’ve brought up the child, and
lived kindly with poor Johanna, and ruled over my own house, as the
Scripture has it. But it couldn’t never enter my head to go to your
Reverence and puff myself up and boast because even the likes of me had
done some good in the world. No, sir; when anything of that sort happens
to Jacob Engstrand, he holds his tongue about it. It don’t happen so
terrible often, I daresay. And when I do come to see your Reverence, I
find a mortal deal that’s wicked and weak to talk about. For I said it
before, and I says it again—a man’s conscience isn’t always as clean as
it might be.
MANDERS.
Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, Lord! your Reverence——?
MANDERS.
Come, no nonsense [wrings his hand]. There we are!
ENGSTRAND.
And if I might humbly beg your Reverence’s pardon——
MANDERS.
You? On the contrary, it is I who ought to beg your pardon——
ENGSTRAND.
Lord, no, sir!
MANDERS.
Yes, assuredly. And I do it with all my heart. Forgive me for
misunderstanding you. I only wish I could give you some proof of my
hearty regret, and of my good-will towards you——
ENGSTRAND.
Would your Reverence do it?
MANDERS.
With the greatest pleasure.
ENGSTRAND.
Well then, here’s the very chance. With the bit of money I’ve saved
here, I was thinking I might set up a Sailors’ Home down in the town.
MRS. ALVING.
_You?_
ENGSTRAND.
Yes; it might be a sort of Orphanage, too, in a manner of speaking.
There’s such a many temptations for seafaring folk ashore. But in this
Home of mine, a man might feel like as he was under a father’s eye, I
was thinking.
MANDERS.
What do you say to this, Mrs. Alving?
ENGSTRAND.
It isn’t much as I’ve got to start with, Lord help me! But if I could
only find a helping hand, why——
MANDERS.
Yes, yes; we will look into the matter more closely. I entirely approve
of your plan. But now, go before me and make everything ready, and get
the candles lighted, so as to give the place an air of festivity. And
then we will pass an edifying hour together, my good fellow; for now I
quite believe you are in the right frame of mind.
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, I trust I am. And so I’ll say good-bye, ma’am, and thank you
kindly; and take good care of Regina for me—[_Wipes a tear from his
eye_]—poor Johanna’s child. Well, it’s a queer thing, now; but it’s just
like as if she’d growd into the very apple of my eye. It is, indeed.
[_He bows and goes out through the hall._
MANDERS.
Well, what do you say of that man now, Mrs. Alving? _That_ was a very
different account of matters, was it not?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, it certainly was.
MANDERS.
It only shows how excessively careful one ought to be in judging one’s
fellow creatures. But what a heartfelt joy it is to ascertain that one
has been mistaken! Don’t you think so?
MRS. ALVING.
I think you are, and will always be, a great baby, Manders.
MANDERS.
I?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Laying her two hands upon his shoulders._] And I say that I have half
a mind to put my arms round your neck, and kiss you.
MANDERS.
[_Stepping hastily back._] No, no! God bless me! What an idea!
MRS. ALVING.
[_With a smile._] Oh, you needn’t be afraid of me.
MANDERS.
[_By the table._] You have sometimes such an exaggerated way of
expressing yourself. Now, let me just collect all the documents, and put
them in my bag. [_He does so._] There, that’s all right. And now,
good-bye for the present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I
shall look in again later.
[_He takes his hat and goes out through the hall door._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Sighs, looks for a moment out of the window, sets the room in order a
little, and is about to go into the dining-room, but stops at the door
with a half-suppressed cry._] Oswald, are you still at table?
OSWALD.
[_In the dining room._] I’m only finishing my cigar.
MRS. ALVING.
I thought you had gone for a little walk.
OSWALD.
In such weather as this?
[_A glass clinks. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open, and sits
down with her knitting on the sofa by the window._
OSWALD.
Wasn’t that Pastor Manders that went out just now?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; he went down to the Orphanage.
OSWALD.
H’m. [_The glass and decanter clink again._
MRS. ALVING.
[_With a troubled glance._] Dear Oswald, you should take care of that
liqueur. It is strong.
OSWALD.
It keeps out the damp.
MRS. ALVING.
Wouldn’t you rather come in here, to me?
OSWALD.
I mayn’t smoke in there.
MRS. ALVING.
You know quite well you may smoke cigars.
OSWALD.
Oh, all right then; I’ll come in. Just a tiny drop more first.—There!
[_He comes into the room with his cigar, and shuts the door after him. A
short silence._] Where has the pastor gone to?
MRS. ALVING.
I have just told you; he went down to the Orphanage.
OSWALD.
Oh, yes; so you did.
MRS. ALVING.
You shouldn’t sit so long at table, Oswald.
OSWALD.
[_Holding his cigar behind him._] But I find it so pleasant, mother.
[_Strokes and caresses her._] Just think what it is for me to come home
and sit at mother’s own table, in mother’s room, and eat mother’s
delicious dishes.
MRS. ALVING.
My dear, dear boy!
OSWALD.
[_Somewhat impatiently, walks about and smokes._] And what else can I do
with myself here? I can’t set to work at anything.
MRS. ALVING.
Why can’t you?
OSWALD.
In such weather as this? Without a single ray of sunshine the whole day?
[_Walks up the room._] Oh, not to be able to work——!
MRS. ALVING.
Perhaps it was not quite wise of you to come home?
OSWALD.
Oh, yes, mother; I had to.
MRS. ALVING.
You know I would ten times rather forgo the joy of having you here, than
let you——
OSWALD.
[_Stops beside the table._] Now just tell me, mother: does it really
make you so very happy to have me home again?
MRS. ALVING.
_Does_ it make me happy!
OSWALD.
[_Crumpling up a newspaper._] I should have thought it must be pretty
much the same to you whether I was in existence or not.
MRS. ALVING.
Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald?
OSWALD.
But you’ve got on very well without me all this time.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; I have got on without you. That is true.
[_A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces to and
fro across the room. He has laid his cigar down._
OSWALD.
[_Stops beside Mrs. Alving._] Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside you?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Makes room for him._] Yes, do, my dear boy.
OSWALD.
[_Sits down._] There is something I must tell you, mother.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Anxiously._] Well?
OSWALD.
[_Looks fixedly before him._] For I can’t go on hiding it any longer.
MRS. ALVING.
Hiding what? What is it?
OSWALD.
[_As before._] I could never bring myself to write to you about it; and
since I’ve come home——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Seizes him by the arm._] Oswald, what is the matter?
OSWALD.
Both yesterday and to-day I have tried to put the thoughts away from
me—to cast them off; but it’s no use.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Rising._] Now you must tell me everything, Oswald!
OSWALD.
[_Draws her down to the sofa again._] Sit still; and then I will try to
tell you.—I complained of fatigue after my journey——
MRS. ALVING.
Well? What then?
OSWALD.
But it isn’t that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary fatigue——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Tries to jump up._] You are not ill, Oswald?
OSWALD.
[_Draws her down again._] Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. I’m not
downright ill, either; not what is commonly called “ill.” [_Clasps his
hands above his head._] Mother, my mind is broken down—ruined—I shall
never be able to work again!
[_With his hands before his face, he buries his head in her lap,
and breaks into bitter sobbing._
MRS. ALVING.
[_White and trembling._] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; it’s not true.
OSWALD.
[_Looks up with despair in his eyes._] Never to be able to work again!
Never!—never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so
horrible?
MRS. ALVING.
My poor boy! How has this horrible thing come upon you?
OSWALD.