OSWALD.
Yes, do. And Regina shall stay here too. Regina shall be with me always.
You will come to the rescue, Regina, won’t you?
REGINA.
I don’t understand——
MRS. ALVING.
To the rescue?
OSWALD.
Yes—when the need comes.
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald, have you not your mother to come to the rescue?
OSWALD.
You? [_Smiles._] No, mother; _that_ rescue you will never bring me.
[_Laughs sadly._] You! ha ha! [_Looks earnestly at her._] Though, after
all, who ought to do it if not you? [_Impetuously._] Why can’t you say
“thou” to me, Regina?[14] Why do’n’t you call me “Oswald”?
REGINA.
[_Softly._] I don’t think Mrs. Alving would like it.
MRS. ALVING.
You shall have leave to, presently. And meanwhile sit over here beside
us.
[_REGINA seats herself demurely and hesitatingly at the other
side of the table._
MRS. ALVING.
And now, my poor suffering boy, I am going to take the burden off your
mind——
OSWALD.
You, mother?
MRS. ALVING.
——all the gnawing remorse and self-reproach you speak of.
OSWALD.
And you think you can do that?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you spoke of the joy of life;
and at that word a new light burst for me over my life and everything
connected with it.
OSWALD.
[_Shakes his head._] I don’t understand you.
MRS. ALVING.
You ought to have known your father when he was a young lieutenant. He
was brimming over with the joy of life!
OSWALD.
Yes, I know he was.
MRS. ALVING.
It was like a breezy day only to look at him. And what exuberant
strength and vitality there was in him!
OSWALD.
Well——?
MRS. ALVING.
Well then, child of joy as he was—for he _was_ like a child in those
days—he had to live at home here in a half-grown town, which had no joys
to offer him—only dissipations. He had no object in life—only an
official position. He had no work into which he could throw himself
heart and soul; he had only business. He had not a single comrade that
could realise what the joy of life meant—only loungers and
boon-companions——
OSWALD.
Mother——!
MRS. ALVING.
So the inevitable happened.
OSWALD.
The inevitable?
MRS. ALVING.
You told me yourself, this evening, what would become of _you_ if you
stayed at home.
OSWALD.
Do you mean to say that father——?
MRS. ALVING.
Your poor father found no outlet for the over-powering joy of life that
was in him. And I brought no brightness into his home.
OSWALD.
Not even you?
MRS. ALVING.
They had taught me a great deal about duties and so forth, which I went
on obstinately believing in. Everything was marked out into duties—into
_my_ duties, and _his_ duties, and—I am afraid I made his home
intolerable for your poor father, Oswald.
OSWALD.
Why have you never spoken of this in writing to me?
MRS. ALVING.
I have never before seen it in such a light that I could speak of it to
you, his son.
OSWALD.
In what light did you see it, then?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Slowly._] I saw only this one thing: that your father was a
broken-down man before you were born.
OSWALD.
[_Softly._] Ah——!
[_He rises and walks away to the window._
MRS. ALVING.
And then, day after day, I dwelt on the one thought that by rights
Regina should be at home in this house—just like my own boy.
OSWALD.
[_Turning round quickly._] Regina——!
REGINA.
[_Springs up and asks, with bated breath._] I——?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, now you know it, both of you.
OSWALD.
Regina!
REGINA.
[_To herself._] So mother _was_ that kind of woman.
MRS. ALVING.
Your mother had many good qualities, Regina.
REGINA.
Yes, but she was one of that sort, all the same. Oh, I’ve often
suspected it; but——And now, if you please, ma’am, may I be allowed to go
away at once?
MRS. ALVING.
Do you really wish it, Regina?
REGINA.
Yes, indeed I do.
MRS. ALVING.
Of course you can do as you like; but——
OSWALD.
[_Goes towards_ REGINA.] Go away now? Your place is here.
REGINA.
_Merci_, Mr. Alving!—or now, I suppose, I may say Oswald. But I can tell
you _this_ wasn’t at all what I expected.
MRS. ALVING.
Regina, I have not been frank with you——
REGINA.
No, that you haven’t indeed. If I’d known that Oswald was an invalid,
why——And now, too, that it can never come to anything serious between
us——I really can’t stop out here in the country and wear myself out
nursing sick people.
OSWALD.
Not even one who is so near to you?
REGINA.
No, that I can’t. A poor girl must make the best of her young days, or
she’ll be left out in the cold before she knows where she is. And I,
too, have the joy of life in me, Mrs. Alving!
MRS. ALVING.
Unfortunately, you have. But don’t throw yourself away, Regina.
REGINA.
Oh, what must be, must be. If Oswald takes after his father, I take
after my mother, I daresay.—May I ask, ma’am, if Pastor Manders knows
all this about me?
MRS. ALVING.
Pastor Manders knows all about it.
REGINA.
[_Busied in putting on her shawl._] Well then, I’d better make haste and
get away by this steamer. The Pastor is such a nice man to deal with;
and I certainly think I’ve as much right to a little of that money as
_he_ has—that brute of a carpenter.
MRS. ALVING.
You are heartily welcome to it, Regina.
REGINA.
[_Looks hard at her._] I think you might have brought me up as a
gentleman’s daughter, ma’am; it would have suited me better. [_Tosses
her head._] But pooh—what does it matter! [_With a bitter side glance at
the corked bottle._] I may come to drink champagne with gentlefolks yet.
MRS. ALVING.
And if you ever need a home, Regina, come to me.
REGINA.
No, thank you, ma’am. Pastor Manders will look after me, I know. And if
the worst comes to the worst, I know of one house where I’ve every right
to a place.
MRS. ALVING.
Where is that?
REGINA.
“Chamberlain Alving’s Home.”
MRS. ALVING.
Regina—now I see it—you are going to your ruin.
REGINA.
Oh, stuff! Good-bye.
[_She nods and goes out through the hall._
OSWALD.
[_Stands at the window and looks out._] Is she gone?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes.
OSWALD.
[_Murmuring aside to himself._] I think it was a mistake, this.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Goes up behind him and lays her hands on his shoulders._] Oswald, my
dear boy—has it shaken you very much?
OSWALD.
[_Turns his face towards her._] All that 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.
Why should you fancy that? Of course it came upon me as a great
surprise; but it can make no real difference to me.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Draws her hands away._] No difference! That your father was so
infinitely unhappy!
OSWALD.
Of course I can pity him, as I would anybody else; but——
MRS. ALVING.
Nothing more! Your own father!
OSWALD.
[_Impatiently._] Oh, “father,”—“father”! I never knew anything of
father. I remember nothing about him, except that he once made me sick.
MRS. ALVING.
This is terrible to think of! Ought not a son to love his father,
whatever happens?
OSWALD.
When a son has nothing to thank his father for? has never known him? Do
you really cling to that old superstition?—you who are so enlightened in
other ways?
MRS. ALVING.
Can it be only a superstition——?
OSWALD.
Yes; surely you can see _that_, mother. It’s one of those notions that
are current in the world, and so——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Deeply moved._] Ghosts!
OSWALD.
[_Crossing the room._] Yes; you may call them ghosts.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Wildly._] Oswald—then you don’t love me, either!
OSWALD.
You I know, at any rate——
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, you know me; but is that all!
OSWALD.
And, of course, I know how fond you are of me, and I can’t but be
grateful to you. And then you can be so useful to me, now that I am ill.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, cannot I, Oswald? Oh, I could almost bless the illness that has
driven you home to me. For I see very plainly that you are not mine: I
have to win you.
OSWALD.
[_Impatiently._] Yes yes yes; all these are just so many phrases. You
must remember that I am a sick man, mother. I can’t be much taken up
with other people; I have enough to do thinking about myself.
MRS. ALVING.
[_In a low voice._] I shall be patient and easily satisfied.
OSWALD.
And cheerful too, mother!
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. [_Goes towards him._] Have I
relieved you of all remorse and self-reproach now?
OSWALD.
Yes, you have. But now who will relieve me of the dread?
MRS. ALVING.
The dread?
OSWALD.
[_Walks across the room._] Regina could have been got to do it.
MRS. ALVING.
I don’t understand you. What is this about dread—and Regina?
OSWALD.
Is it very late, mother?
MRS. ALVING.
It is early morning. [_She looks out through the conservatory._] The day
is dawning over the mountains. And the weather is clearing, Oswald. In a
little while you shall see the sun.
OSWALD.
I’m glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and live for——
MRS. ALVING.
I should think so, indeed!
OSWALD.
Even if I can’t work——
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, you’ll soon be able to work again, my dear boy—now that you haven’t
got all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to brood over any longer.
OSWALD.
Yes, I’m glad you were able to rid me of all those fancies. And when
I’ve got over this one thing more——[_Sits on the sofa._] Now we will
have a little talk, mother——
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, let us.
[_She pushes an arm-chair towards the sofa, and sits down close
to him._
OSWALD.
And meantime the sun will be rising. And then you will know all. And
then I shall not feel this dread any longer.
MRS. ALVING.
What is it that I am to know?
OSWALD.
[_Not listening to her._] Mother, did you not say a little while ago,
that there was nothing in the world you would not do for me, if I asked
you?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, indeed I said so!
OSWALD.
And you’ll stick to it, mother?
MRS. ALVING.
You may rely on that, my dear and only boy! I have nothing in the world
to live for but you alone.
OSWALD.
Very well, then; now you shall hear——Mother, you have a strong,
steadfast mind, I know. Now you’re to sit quite still when you hear it.
MRS. ALVING.
What dreadful thing can it be——?
OSWALD.
You’re not to scream out. Do you hear? Do you promise me that? We will
sit and talk about it quietly. Do you promise me, mother?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, yes; I promise. Only speak!
OSWALD.
Well, you must know that all this fatigue—and my inability to think of
work—all that is not the illness itself——
MRS. ALVING.
Then what is the illness itself?
OSWALD.
The disease I have as my birthright—[_He points to his forehead and adds
very softly_]—is seated here.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Almost voiceless._] Oswald! No—no!
OSWALD.
Don’t scream. I can’t bear it. Yes, mother, it is seated here—waiting.
And it may break out any day—at any moment.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, what horror——!
OSWALD.
Now, quiet, quiet. That is how it stands with me——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Springs up._] It’s not true, Oswald! It’s impossible! It cannot be so!
OSWALD.
I have had _one_ attack down there already. It was soon over. But when I
came to know the state I had been in, then the dread descended upon me,
raging and ravening; and so I set off home to you as fast as I could.
MRS. ALVING.
Then this is the dread——!
OSWALD.
Yes—it’s so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it had only been
an ordinary mortal disease——! For I’m not so afraid of death—though I
should like to live as long as I can.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, yes, Oswald, you must!
OSWALD.
But this is so unutterably loathsome. To become a little baby again! To
have to be fed! To have to——Oh, it’s not to be spoken of!
MRS. ALVING.
The child has his mother to nurse him.
OSWALD.
[_Springs up._] No, never that! That is just what I will not have. I
can’t endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many
years—and get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and leave
me. [_Sits in_ MRS. ALVING’S _chair._] For the doctor said it wouldn’t
necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the
brain—or something like that. [_Smiles sadly._] I think that expression
sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry-coloured
velvet—something soft and delicate to stroke.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Shrieks._] Oswald!
OSWALD.
[_Springs up and paces the room._] And now you have taken Regina from
me. If I could only have had her! She would have come to the rescue, I
know.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Goes to him._] What do you mean by that, my darling boy? Is there any
help in the world that I would not give you?
OSWALD.
When I got over my attack in Paris, the doctor told me that when it
comes again—and it _will_ come—there will be no more hope.
MRS. ALVING.
He was heartless enough to——
OSWALD.
I demanded it of him. I told him I had preparations to make——[_He smiles
cunningly._] And so I had. [_He takes a little box from his inner breast
pocket and opens it._] Mother, do you see this?
MRS. ALVING.
What is it?
OSWALD.
Morphia.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Looks at him horror-struck._] Oswald—my boy!
OSWALD.
I’ve scraped together twelve pilules——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Snatches at it._] Give me the box, Oswald!
OSWALD.
Not yet, mother.
[_He hides the box again in his pocket._
MRS. ALVING.
I shall never survive this!
OSWALD.
It must be survived. Now if I’d had Regina here, I should have told her
how things stood with me—and begged her to come to the rescue at the
last. She would have done it. I know she would.
MRS. ALVING.
Never!
OSWALD.
When the horror had come upon me, and she saw me lying there helpless,
like a little new-born baby, impotent, lost, hopeless—past all saving——
MRS. ALVING.
Never in all the world would Regina have done this!
OSWALD.
Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly light-hearted. And
she would soon have wearied of nursing an invalid like me.
MRS. ALVING.
Then heaven be praised that Regina is not here.
OSWALD.
Well then, it is you that must come to the rescue, mother.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Shrieks aloud._] I!
OSWALD.
Who should do it if not you?
MRS. ALVING.
I! your mother!
OSWALD.
For that very reason.
MRS. ALVING.
I, who gave you life!
OSWALD.
I never asked you for life. And what sort of a life have you given me? I
will not have it! You shall take it back again!
MRS. ALVING.
Help! Help! [_She runs out into the hall._
OSWALD.
[_Going after her._] Do not leave me! Where are you going?
MRS. ALVING.
[_In the hall._] To fetch the doctor, Oswald! Let me pass!
OSWALD.
[_Also outside._] You shall not go out. And no one shall come in.
[_The locking of a door is heard._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Comes in again._] Oswald! Oswald—my child!
OSWALD.
[_Follows her._] Have you a mother’s heart for me—and yet can see me
suffer from this unutterable dread?
MRS. ALVING.
[_After a moment’s silence, commands herself, and says:_] Here is my
hand upon it.
OSWALD.
Will you——?
MRS. ALVING.
If it should ever be necessary. But it will never be necessary. No, no;
it is impossible.
OSWALD.
Well, let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. Thank
you, mother.
[_He seats himself in the arm-chair which_ MRS. ALVING _has
moved to the sofa. Day is breaking. The lamp is still
burning on the table._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Drawing near cautiously._] Do you feel calm now?
OSWALD.
Yes.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Bending over him._] It has been a dreadful fancy of yours,
Oswald—nothing but a fancy. All this excitement has been too much for
you. But now you shall have a long rest; at home with your mother, my
own blessëd boy. Everything you point to you shall have, just as when
you were a little child.—There now. The crisis is over. You see how
easily it passed! Oh, I was sure it would.—And do you see, Oswald, what
a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine! Now you can
really see your home.
[_She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. Sunrise. The
glacier and the snow-peaks in the background glow in the
morning light._
OSWALD.
[_Sits in the arm-chair with his back towards the landscape, without
moving. Suddenly he says:_] Mother, give me the sun.
MRS. ALVING.
[_By the table, starts and looks at him._] What do you say?
OSWALD.
[_Repeats, in a dull, toneless voice._] The sun. The sun.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Goes to him._] Oswald, what is the matter with you?
OSWALD.
[_Seems to shrink together in the chair; all his muscles relax;
his face is expressionless, his eyes have a glassy stare._]
MRS. ALVING.
[_Quivering with terror._] What is this? [_Shrieks._] Oswald! what is
the matter with you? [_Falls on her knees beside him and shakes him._]
Oswald! Oswald! look at me! Don’t you know me?
OSWALD.
[_Tonelessly as before._] The sun.—The sun.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Springs up in despair, entwines her hands in her hair and shrieks._] I
cannot bear it! [_Whispers, as though petrified_;] I cannot bear it!
Never! [_Suddenly._] Where has he got them? [_Fumbles hastily in his
breast._] Here! [_Shrinks back a few steps and screams:_] No; no;
no!—Yes!—No; no!
[_She stands a few steps away from him with her hands twisted in
her hair, and stares at him in speechless horror._
OSWALD.
[_Sits motionless as before and says._] The sun.—The sun.
THE END.
-----
Footnote 14:
“Sige du” = Fr. _tutoyer_.
Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
There was no anchor for the footnote on p. 276. An anchor has been
placed on the most likely spot, based on the context.
There are quite a few instances of missing punctuation. The conventional
period following the character’s name is sometimes missing and has been
added for consistency’s sake without further comment. Those missing from
setting and stage direction are also added without comment, since there
is no obvious purpose to be served by the omission. However, the
restoration of punctuation missing from dialogue is noted below, since
the punctuation is frequently expressive. Several instances of dubious
‘?’ marks have been corrected, based on context.
Volume I of this series included errata for each succeeding volume, but
noted none in Volume VII.
The contraction ‘mustn’t’ appears twenty-one times, but twice without
the internal ‘t’ as ‘musn’t’. These have been corrected.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
13.3 how wonderful it is to think of[?/!] Replaced.
14.2 I see you don’t recognise me[.] Added.
28.16 Yes, of cou[r]se. Inserted.
36.11 Ugly[?] Added.
47.27 Only unpleasantness[.] Added.
52.5 to your father[?] Added.
54.22 b[n/u]t soon pauses. Inverted.
55.18 Has anybody been here[./?] Replaced.
68.21 I’ll tell you something[?/.] Replaced.
72.19 “trying on[.]” Inserted.
84.15 Look here[!] Look! Added.
84.22 look at the rest too[.] Added.
98.28 That l[a/e]tter is from Krogstad Replaced.
103.12 you mus[t]n’t even touch Inserted.
106.28 mustn’t look at the letter-box[.] Added.
122.2 I shall not speak[?/.] Replaced.
133.14 it is best to go silently[.] Added.
207.19 be kept [r/s]ecret Replaced.
273.8 REGIN[A.] Restored.
289.7 though [I] should like to live Missing.
291.24 Regina is not here[.] Added.