SparkNotes

Act I

(SCENE.—A large room looking upon a garden door in the left-hand

wall, and two in the right. In the middle of the room, a round

table with chairs set about it, and books, magazines and

newspapers upon it. In the foreground on the left, a window, by

which is a small sofa with a work-table in front of it. At the

back the room opens into a conservatory rather smaller than the

room. From the right-hand side of this, a door leads to the

garden. Through the large panes of glass that form the outer wall

of the conservatory, a gloomy fjord landscape can be discerned,

half-obscured by steady rain.

ENGSTRAND is standing close to the garden door. His left leg

is slightly deformed, and he wears a boot with a clump of wood

under the sole. REGINA, with an empty garden-syringe in her hand,

is trying to prevent his coming in.)

Regina (below her breath). What is it you want? Stay where you

are. The rain is dripping off you,

Engstrand. God's good rain, my girl.

Regina. The Devil's own rain, that's what it is!

Engstrand. Lord, how you talk, Regina. (Takes a few limping steps

forward.) What I wanted to tell you was this—

Regina. Don't clump about like that, stupid! The young master is

lying asleep upstairs.

Engstrand. Asleep still? In the middle of the day?

Regina. Well, it's no business of yours.

Engstrand. I was out on a spree last night—

Regina. I don't doubt it.

Engstrand. Yes, we are poor weak mortals, my girl—

Regina. We are indeed.

Engstrand.—and the temptations of the world are manifold, you

know—but, for all that, here I was at my work at half-past five

this morning.

Regina. Yes, yes, but make yourself scarce now. I am not going to

stand here as if I had a rendezvous with you.

Engstrand. As if you had a what?

Regina. I am not going to have anyone find you here; so now you

know, and you can go.

Engstrand (coming a few steps nearer). Not a bit of it! Not

before we have had a little chat. This afternoon I shall have

finished my job down at the school house, and I shall be off home

to town by tonight's boat.

Regina (mutters). Pleasant journey to you!

Engstrand. Thanks, my girl. Tomorrow is the opening of the

Orphanage, and I expect there will be a fine kick-up here and

plenty of good strong drink, don't you know. And no one shall say

of Jacob Engstrand that be can't hold off when temptation comes

in his way.

Regina. Oho!

Engstrand. Yes, because there will be a lot of fine folk here

tomorrow. Parson Manders is expected from town, too.

Regina: What's more, he's coming today.

Engstrand. There you are! And I'm going to be precious careful he

doesn't have anything to say against me, do you see?

Regina. Oh, that's your game, is it?

Engstrand. What do you mean?

Regina (with a significant look at him). What is it you want to

humbug Mr. Manders out of this time?

Engstrand. Sh! Sh! Are you crazy? Do you suppose I would want to

humbug Mr. Manders? No, no—Mr. Manders has always been too kind

a friend for me to do that. But what I wanted to talk to you

about, was my going back home tonight.

Regina. The sooner you go, the better I shall be pleased.

Engstrand. Yes, only I want to take you with me, Regina.

Regina (open-mouthed). You want to take me—? What did you say?

Engstrand. I want to take you home with me, I said.

Regina (contemptuously). You will never get me home with you.

Engstrand. Ah, we shall see about that.

Regina. Yes, you can be quite certain we shall see about that. I,

who have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving?—I, who have

been treated almost as if I were her own child?—do you suppose I

am going home with you?—to such a house as yours? Not likely!

Engstrand. What the devil do you mean? Are you setting yourself

up against your father, you hussy?

Regina (mutters, without looking at him). You have often told me

I was none of yours.

Engstrand. Bah!—why do you want to pay any attention to that?

Regina. Haven't you many and many a time abused me and called me

a—? For shame?

Engstrand. I'll swear I never used such an ugly word.

Regina. Oh, it doesn't matter what word you used.

Engstrand. Besides, that was only when I was a bit fuddled...hm!

Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina.

Regina. Ugh!

Engstrand. And it was when your mother was in a nasty temper. I

had to find some way of getting my knife into her, my girl. She

was always so precious gentile. (Mimicking her.) "Let go, Jacob!

Let me be! Please to remember that I was three years with the

Alvings at Rosenvold, and they were people who went to Court!

(Laughs.) Bless my soul, she never could forget that Captain

Alving got a Court appointment while she was in service here.

Regina. Poor mother—you worried her into her grave pretty soon.

Engstrand (shrugging his shoulders). Of course, of course; I have

got to take the blame for everything.

Regina (beneath her breath, as she turns away). Ugh—that leg,

too!

Engstrand. What are you saying, my girl?

Regina. Pied de mouton.

Engstrand. Is that English?

Regina. Yes.

Engstrand. You have had a good education out here, and no

mistake; and it may stand you in good stead now, Regina.

Regina (after a short silence). And what was it you wanted me to

come to town for?

Engstrand. Need you ask why a father wants his only child? Ain't

I a poor lonely widower?

Regina. Oh, don't come to me with that tale. Why do you want me to

go?

Engstrand. Well, I must tell you I am thinking of taking up a new

line now.

Regina (whistles). You have tried that so often—but it has

always proved a fool's errand.

Engstrand. Ah, but this time you will just see, Regina! Strike me

dead if—

Regina (stamping her foot). Stop swearing!

Engstrand. Sh! Sh!—you're quite right, my girl, quite right!

What I wanted to say was only this, that I have put by a tidy

penny out of what I have made by working at this new Orphanage up

here.

Regina. Have you? All the better for you.

Engstrand. What is there for a man to spend his money on, out

here in the country?

Regina. Well, what then?

Engstrand. Well, you see, I thought of putting the money into

something that would pay. I thought of some kind of an eating-

house for seafaring folk—

Regina. Heavens!

Engstrand. Oh, a high-class eating-house, of course—not a

pigsty for common sailors. Damn it, no; it would be a place

ships' captains and first mates would come to; really good sort

of people, you know.

Regina. And what should I—?

Engstrand. You would help there: But only to make show, you know.

You wouldn't find it hard work, I can promise you, my girl. You

should do exactly as you liked.

Regina. Oh, yes, quite so!

Engstrand. But we must have some women in the house; that is as

clear as daylight. Because in the evening we must make the place

a little attractive—some singing and dancing, and that sort of

thing. Remember they are seafolk—wayfarers on the waters of

life! (Coming nearer to her.) Now don't be a fool and stand in

your own way, Regina. What good are you going to do here? Will

this education, that your mistress has paid for, be of any use?

You are to look after the children in the new Home, I hear. Is

that the sort of work for you? Are you so frightfully anxious to

go and wear out your health and strength for the sake of these

dirty brats?

Regina. No, if things were to go as I want them to, then—. Well,

it may happen; who knows? It may happen!

Engstrand. What may happen?

Regina. Never you mind. Is it much that you have put by, up here?

Engstrand. Taking it all round, I should say about forty or fifty

pounds.

Regina. That's not so bad.

Engstrand. It's enough to make a start with, my girl.

Regina. Don't you mean to give me any of the money?

Engstrand. No, I'm hanged if I do.

Regina. Don't you mean to send me as much as a dress-length of

stuff, just for once?

Engstrand. Come and live in the town with me and you shall have

plenty of dresses.

Regina: Pooh!—I can get that much for myself, if I have a mind

to.

Engstrand. But it's far better to have a father's guiding hand,

Regina. Just now I can get a nice house in Little Harbour Street.

They don't want much money down for it—and we could make it like

a sort of seamen's home, don't you know.

Regina. But I have no intention of living with you! I'll have

nothing whatever to do with you: So now, be off!

Engstrand. You wouldn't be living with me long, my girl. No such

luck—not if you knew how to play your cards. Such a fine wench

as you have grown this last year or two...

Regina. Well—?

Engstrand. It wouldn't be very long before some first mate came

along—or perhaps a captain.

Regina. I don't mean to marry a man of that sort. Sailors have no

savoir-vivre.

Engstrand. What haven't they got?

Regina. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They aren't the sort

of people to marry.

Engstrand. Well, don't bother about marrying them. You can make

it pay just as well. (More confidentially.) That fellow—the

Englishman—the one with the yacht—he gave seventy pounds, he

did; and she wasn't a bit prettier than you.

Regina (advancing towards him). Get out!

Engstrand (stepping back). Here! here!—you're not going to hit

me, I suppose?

Regina. Yes! If you talk like that of mother, I will hit you. Get

out, I tell. You! (Pushes him up to the garden door.) And don't

bang the doors. Young Mr. Alving—

Engstrand. Is asleep—I know. It's funny how anxious you are

about young Mr. Alving. (In a lower tone.) Oho! is it possible

that it is he that—?

Regina. Get out, and be quick about it! Your wits are wandering,

my good man. No, don't go that way; Mr. Manders is just coming

along. Be off down the kitchen stairs.

Engstrand (moving towards the. right). Yes, yes—all right. But

have a bit of a chat with him that's coming along. He's the chap

to tell you what a child owes to its father. For I am your

father, anyway, you know, I can prove it by the Register. (He

goes out through the farther door which REGINA has opened. She

shuts it after him, looks hastily at herself in the mirror, fans

herself with her handkerchief and sets her collar straight; then

busies herself with the flowers. MANDERS enters the conservatory

through the garden door. He wears an overcoat, carries an

umbrella, and has a small travelling-bag slung over his shoulder

on a strap.)

Manders. Good morning, Miss Engstrand.

Regina (turning round with a look of pleased. surprise), Oh, Mr.

Manders, good morning. The boat is in, then?

Manders. Just in. (Comes into the room.) It is most tiresome,

this rain every day.

Regina (following him in). It's a splendid rain for the farmers,

Mr. Manders.

Manders. Yes, you are quite right. We townfolk think so little

about that. (Begins to take off his overcoat.)

Regina. Oh, let me help you. That's it. Why, how wet it is! I

will hang it up in the hall. Give me your umbrella, too; I will

leave it open, so that it will dry.

(She goes out with the things by the farther door on the right.

MANDERS lays his bag and his hat down on a chair. REGINA re-

enters.)

Manders. Ah, it's very pleasant to get indoors. Well, is

everything going on well here?

Regina. Yes, thanks.

Manders. Properly busy, though, I expect, getting ready for

tomorrow?

Regina. Oh, yes, there is plenty to do.

Manders. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I hope?

Regina. Yes, she is. She has just gone upstairs to take the young

master his chocolate.

Manders. Tell me—I heard down at the pier that Oswald had come

back.

Regina. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect

him until today.

Manders. Strong and well, I hope?

Regina. Yes, thank you, well enough. But dreadfully tired after

his journey. He came straight from Paris without a stop—I mean,

he came all the way without breaking his journey. I fancy he is

having a sleep now, so we must talk a little bit more quietly, if

you don't mind.

Manders. All right, we will be very quiet.

Regina (while she moves an armchair up to the table), Please sit

down, Mr. Manders, and make yourself at home. (He sits down; she

puts a footstool under his feet.) There! Is that comfortable?

Manders. Thank you, thank you. That is most comfortable; (Looks

at her.) I'll tell you what, Miss Engstrand, I certainly think

you have grown since I saw you last.

Regina. Do you think so? Mrs. Alving says, too—that I have

developed.

Manders. Developed? Well, perhaps a little—just suitably. (A

short pause.)

Regina. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here?

Manders. Thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child. Now tell me,

Regina my dear, how has your father been getting on here?

Regina. Thank you, Mr. Manders, he is getting on pretty well.

Manders. He came to see me the last time he was in town.

Regina. Did he? He is always so glad when he can have a chat with

you.

Manders. And I suppose you have seen him pretty regularly every

day?

Regina. I? Oh, yes, I do—whenever I have time, that is to say.

Manders. Your father has not a very strong character, Miss

Engstrand. He sadly needs a guiding hand.

Regina. Yes, I can quite believe that.

Manders. He needs someone with him that he can cling to, someone

whose judgment he can rely on. He acknowledged that freely

himself, the last time he came up to see me.

Regina. Yes, he has said something of the same sort to me. But I

don't know whether Mrs. Alving could do without me—most of all

just now, when we have the new Orphanage to see about. And I

should be dreadfully unwilling to leave Mrs. Alving, too; she has

always been so good to me.

Manders. But a daughter's duty, my good child—. Naturally we

should have to get your mistress' consent first.

Regina. Still I don't know whether it would be quite the thing,

at my age, to keep house for a single man.

Manders. What! My dear Miss Engstrand, it is your own father we

are speaking of!

Regina. Yes, I dare say, but still—. Now, if it were in a good

house and with a real gentleman—

Manders. But, my dear Regina!

Regina.—one whom I could feel an affection for, and really feel

in the position of a daughter to...

Manders. Come, come—my dear good child—

Regina. I should like very much to live in town. Out here it is

terribly lonely; and you know yourself, Mr. Manders, what it is

to be alone in the world. And, though I say it, I really am both

capable and willing. Don't you know any place that would be

suitable for me, Mr. Manders?

Manders. I? No, indeed I don't.

Regina. But, dear Mr. Manders—at any rate don't forget me, in

case—

Manders (getting up). No, I won't forget you, Miss Engstrand.

Regina. Because, if I—

Manders. Perhaps you will be so kind as to let Mrs, Alving know I

am here?

Regina. I will fetch her at once, Mr. Manders. (Goes out to the

left. MANDERS walks up and down the room once or twice, stands

for a moment at the farther end of the room with his hands behind

his back and looks out into the garden. Then he comes back to the

table, takes up a book and looks at the title page, gives a

start, and looks at some of the others.)

Manders. Hm!—Really!

(MRS. ALVING comes in by the door on the left. She is followed by

REGINA, who goes out again at once through the nearer door on the

right.)

Mrs. Alving (holding out her hand). I am very glad to see you,

Mr. Manders.

Manders. How do you do, Mrs. Alving. Here I am, as I promised.

Mrs. Alving. Always punctual!

Manders. Indeed, I was hard put to it to get away. What with

vestry meetings and committees.

Mrs. Alving. It was all the kinder of you to come in such good

time; we can settle our business before dinner. But where is your

luggage?

Manders (quickly). My things are down at the village shop. I am

going to sleep there tonight.

Mrs. Alving (repressing a smile). Can't I really persuade you to

stay the night here this time?

Manders. No, no; many thanks all the same; I will put up there,

as usual. It is so handy for getting on board the boat again.

Mrs. Alving. Of course, you shall do as you please. But it seems

to me quite another thing, now we are two old people—

Manders. Ha! ha! You will have your joke! And it's natural you

should be in high spirits today—first of all there is the great

event tomorrow, and also you have got Oswald home.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, am I not a lucky woman! It is more than two

years since he was home last, and he has promised to stay the

whole winter with me.

Manders, Has he, really? That is very nice and filial of him;

because there must be many more attractions in his life in Rome

or in Paris, I should think.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, but he has his mother here, you see. Bless the

dear boy, he has got a corner in his heart for his mother still.

Manders. Oh, it would be very sad if absence and preoccupation

with such a thing as Art were to dull the natural affections.

Mrs. Alving. It would, indeed. But there is no fear of that with

him, I am glad to say. I am quite curious to see if you recognise

him again. He will be down directly; he is just lying down for a

little on the sofa upstairs. But do sit down, my dear friend.

Manders. Thank you. You are sure I am not disturbing you?

Mrs. Alving. Of course not. (She sits down at the table.)

Manders. Good. Then I will show you—. (He goes to the chair

where his bag is lying and takes a packet of papers from it; then

sits down at the opposite side of the table and looks for a clear

space to put the papers down.) Now first of all, here is—(breaks

off). Tell me, Mrs. Alving, what are these books doing here?

Mrs. Alving. These books? I am reading them,

Manders. Do you read this sort of thing?

Mrs, Alving. Certainly I do.

Manders. Do you feel any the better or the happier for reading

books of this kind?

Mrs. Alving. I think it makes me, as it were, more self-reliant.

Manders. That is remarkable. But why?

Mrs. Alving. Well, they give me an explanation or a confirmation

of lots of different ideas that have come into my own mind. But

what surprises me, Mr. Manders, is that, properly speaking, there

is nothing at all new in these books. There is nothing more in

them than what most people think and believe. The only thing is,

that most people either take no account of it or won't admit it

to themselves.

Manders. But, good heavens, do you seriously think that most

people—?

Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed, I do.

Manders. But not here in the country at any rate? Not here

amongst people like ourselves?

Mrs. Alving. Yes, amongst people like ourselves too.

Manders. Well, really, I must say—!

Mrs. Alving. But what is the particular objection that you have

to these books?

Manders. What objection? You surely don't suppose that I take any

particular interest in such productions?

Mrs. Alving. In fact, you don't know anything about what you are

denouncing?

Manders. I have read quite enough about these books to disapprove

of them:

Mrs. Alving. Yes, but your own opinion—

Manders. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life

when one has to rely on the opinion of others. That is the way in

this world, and it is quite right that it should be so. What

would become of society, otherwise?

Mrs. Alving. Well, you may be right.

Manders. Apart from that, naturally I don't deny that literature

of this kind may have a considerable attraction. And I cannot

blame you, either, for wishing to make yourself acquainted with

the intellectual tendencies which I am told are at work in the

wider world in which you have allowed your son to wander for so

long but—

Mrs. Alving. But—?

Manders (lowering his voice). But one doesn't talk about it, Mrs.

Alving. One certainly is not called upon to account to everyone

for what one reads or thinks in the privacy of one's own room.

Mrs. Alving. Certainly not. I quite agree with you.

Manders. Just think of the consideration you owe to this

Orphanage, which you decided to build at a time when your

thoughts on such subjects were very different from what they are

now—as far as I am able to judge.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, I freely admit that. But it was about the

Orphanage...

Manders. It was about the Orphanage we were going to talk; quite

so. Well—walk warily, dear Mrs. Alving! And now let us turn to

the business in hand. (Opens an envelope and takes out some

papers.) You see these?

Mrs. Alving. The deeds?

Manders. Yes, the whole lot—and everything in order; I can tell

you it has been no easy matter to get them in time. I had

positively to put pressure on the authorities; they are almost

painfully conscientious when it is a question of settling

property. But here they are at last. (Turns over the papers.)

Here is the deed of conveyance of that part of the Rosenvold

estate known as the Solvik property, together with the buildings

newly erected thereon—the school, the masters' houses and the

chapel. And here is the legal sanction for the statutes of the

institution. Here, you see—(reads) "Statutes for the Captain

Alving Orphanage."

Mrs. Alving (after a long look at the papers). That seems all in

order.

Manders. I thought "Captain " was the better title to use, rather

than your husband's Court title of "Chamberlain." "Captain "

seems less ostentatious.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes; just as you think best.

Manders. And here is the certificate for the investment of the

capital in the bank, the interest being earmarked for the current

expenses of the Orphanage.

Mrs. Alving. Many thanks; but I think it will be most convenient

if you will kindly take charge of them.

Manders. With pleasure. I think it will be best to leave the

money in the bank for the present. The interest is not very high,

it is true; four per cent at six months' call; later on, if we

can find some good mortgage—of course it must be a first mortgage

and on unexceptionable security—we can consider the matter

further.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Manders, you know best about

all that.

Manders. I will keep my eye on it, anyway. But there is one thing

in connection with it that I have often meant to ask you about.

Mrs. Alving. What is that?

Manders. Shall we insure the buildings, or not?

Mrs. Alving. Of course we must insure them.

Manders. Ah, but wait a moment, dear lady. Let us look into the

matter a little more closely.

Mrs. Alving. Everything of mine is insured—the house and its

contents, my livestock—everything.

Manders. Naturally. They are your own property. I do exactly the

same, of course. But this, you see, is quite a different case.

The Orphanage is, so to speak, dedicated to higher uses.

Mrs. Alving. Certainly, but—

Manders. As far as I am personally concerned, I can

conscientiously say that I don't see the smallest objection to

our insuring ourselves against all risks.

Mrs. Alving. That is exactly what I think.

Manders. But what about the opinion of the people hereabouts?

Mrs. Alving. Their opinion—?

Manders. Is there any considerable body of opinion here—opinion

of some account, I mean—that might take exception to it?

Mrs. Alving. What, exactly, do you mean by opinion of some

account?

Manders. Well, I was thinking particularly of persons of such

independent and influential position that one could hardly refuse

to attach weight to their opinion.

Mrs. Alving. There are a certain number of such people here, who

might perhaps take exception to it if we—

Manders. That's just it, you see. In town there are lots of them.

All my fellow-clergymen's congregations, for instance! It would

be so extremely easy for them to interpret it as meaning that

neither you nor I had a proper reliance on Divine protection.

Mrs. Alving. But as far as you are concerned, my dear friend, you

have at all events the consciousness that—

Manders. Yes I know I know; my own mind is quite easy about it,

it is true. But we should not be able to prevent a wrong and

injurious interpretation of our action. And that sort of thing,

moreover, might very easily end in exercising a hampering

influence on the work of the Orphanage.

Mrs. Alving. Oh, well, if that is likely to be the effect of it—

Manders. Nor can I entirely overlook the difficult—indeed, I may

say, painful—position I might possibly be placed in. In the best

circles in town the matter of this Orphanage is attracting a

great deal of attention. Indeed the Orphanage is to some extent

built for the benefit of the town too, and it is to be hoped that

it may result in the lowering of our poor-rate by a considerable

amount. But as I have been your adviser in the matter and have

taken charge of the business side of it, I should be afraid that

it would be I that spiteful persons would attack first of all.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, you ought not to expose yourself to that.

Manders. Not to mention the attacks that would undoubtedly be

made upon me in certain newspapers and reviews.

Mrs. Alving. Say no more about it, dear Mr. Manders; that quite

decides it.

Manders. Then you don't wish it to be insured?

Mrs. Alving. No, we will give up the idea.

Manders (leaning back in his chair). But suppose, now, that some

accident happened?—one can never tell—would you be prepared to

make good the damage?

Mrs. Alving. No; I tell you quite plainly I would not do so under

any circumstances.

Manders. Still, you know, Mrs. Alving—after all, it is a serious

responsibility that we are taking upon ourselves.

Mrs. Alving. But do you think we can do otherwise?

Manders. No, that's just it. We really can't do otherwise. We

ought not to expose ourselves to a mistaken judgment; and we have

no right to do anything that will scandalise the community.

Mrs. Alving. You ought not to, as a clergyman, at any rate.

Manders. And, what is more, I certainly think that we may count

upon our enterprise being attended by good fortune—indeed, that

it will be under a special protection.

Mrs. Alving. Let us hope so, Mr. Manders.

Manders. Then we will leave it alone?

Mrs. Alving. Certainly.

Manders. Very good. As you wish. (Makes a note.) No insurance,

then.

Mrs. Alving. It's a funny thing that you should just have

happened to speak about that today—

Manders. I have often meant to ask you about it.

Mrs. Alving.—because yesterday we very nearly had a fire up

there.

Manders. Do you mean it!

Mrs. Alving. Oh, as a matter of fact it was nothing of any

consequence. Some shavings in the carpenter's shop caught fire.

Manders. Where Engstrand works?

Mrs. Alving. Yes. They say he is often so careless with matches.

Manders. He has so many things on his mind, poor fellow—so many

anxieties. Heaven be thanked, I am told he is really making an

effort to live a blameless life,

Mrs. Alving. Really? Who told you so?

Manders. He assured me himself that it is so. He's good workman,

too.

Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes, when he is sober.

Manders. Ah, that sad weakness of his! But the pain in his poor

leg often drives him to it, he tells me. The last time he was in

town, I was really quite touched by him. He came to my house and

thanked me so gratefully for getting him work here, where he

could have the chance of being with Regina.

Mrs. Alving. He doesn't see very much of her.

Manders. But he assured me that he saw her every day.

Mrs. Alving. Oh well, perhaps he does.

Manders. He feels so strongly that he needs someone who can keep

a hold on him when temptations assail him. That is the most

winning thing about Jacob Engstrand; he comes to one like a

helpless child and accuses himself and confesses his frailty. The

last time he came and had a talk with me... Suppose now, Mrs.

Alving, that it were really a necessity of his existence to have

Regina at home with him again—

Mrs. Alving (standing up suddenly). Regina!

Manders.—you ought not to set yourself against him.

Mrs. Alving. Indeed, I set myself very definitely against that.

And, besides, you know Regina is to have a post in the Orphanage.

Manders. But consider, after all he is her father—

Mrs. Alving. I know best what sort of a father he has been to

her. No, she shall never go to him with my consent.

Manders (getting up). My dear lady, don't judge so hastily. It is

very sad how you misjudge poor Engstrand. One would really think

you were afraid...

Mrs. Alving (more calmly). That is not the question. I have taken

Regina into my charge, and in my charge she remains. (Listens.)

Hush, dear Mr. Manders, don't say any more about it. (Her face

brightens with pleasure.) Listen! Oswald is coming downstairs. We

will only think about him now.

(OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand and smoking a

big meerschaum pipe, comes in by the door on the left.)

Oswald (standing in the doorway). Oh, I beg your pardon, I

thought you were in the office. (Comes in.) Good morning, Mr.

Manders.

Manders (staring at him). Well! It's most extraordinary.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders?

Manders. I-I-no, can it possibly be—?

Oswald. Yes, it really is the prodigal son, Mr. Manders.

Manders. Oh, my dear young friend—

Oswald. Well, the son came home, then.

Mrs. Alving. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so

opposed to the idea of his being a painter.

Manders. We are only fallible, and many steps seem to us

hazardous at first, that afterwards—(grasps his hand). Welcome,

welcome! Really, my dear Oswald—may I still call you Oswald?

Oswald. What else would you think of calling me?

Manders. Thank you. What I mean, my dear Oswald, is that you must

not imagine that I have any unqualified disapproval of the

artist's life. I admit that there are many who, even in that

career, can keep the inner man free from harm.

Oswald. Let us hope so.

Mrs. Alving (beaming with pleasure). I know one who has kept both

the inner and the outer man free from harm. Just take a look at

him, Mr. Manders.

Oswald (walks across the room). Yes, yes, mother dear, of course.

Manders. Undoubtedly—no one can deny it. And I hear you have

begun to make a name for yourself. I have often seen mention of

you in the papers—and extremely favourable mention, too.

Although, I must admit, lately I have not seen your name so

often.

Oswald (going towards the conservatory). I haven't done so much

painting just lately.

Mrs. Alving. An artist must take a rest sometimes, like other

people.

Manders. Of course, of course. At those times the artist is

preparing and strengthening himself for a greater effort.

Oswald. Yes. Mother, will dinner soon be ready?

Mrs. Alving. In half an hour. He has a fine appetite, thank

goodness.

Manders. And a liking for tobacco too.

Oswald. I found father's pipe in the room upstairs, and—

Manders. Ah, that is what it was!

Mrs. Alving. What?

Manders. When Oswald came in at that door with the pipe in his

mouth, I thought for the moment it was his father in the flesh.

Oswald. Really?

Mrs. Alving. How can you say so! Oswald takes after me.

Manders. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of his

mouth—something about the lips—that reminds me so exactly of

Mr. Alving—especially when he smokes.

Mrs. Alving. I don't think so at all. To my mind, Oswald has much

more of a clergyman's mouth.

Menders. Well, yes—a good many of my colleagues in the church

have a similar expression.

Mrs. Alving. But put your pipe down, my dear boy. I don't allow

any smoking in here.

Oswald (puts down his pipe). All right, I only wanted to try it,

because I smoked it once when I was a child.

Mrs. Alving. You?

Oswald. Yes; it was when I was quite a little chap. And I can

remember going upstairs to father's room one evening when he was

in very good spirits.

Mrs. Alving. Oh, you can't remember anything about those days.

Oswald. Yes, I remember plainly that he took me on his knee and

let me smoke his pipe. "Smoke, my boy," he said, "have a good

smoke, boy!" And I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was

turning quite pale and the perspiration was standing in great

drops on my forehead. Then he laughed—such a hearty laugh.

Manders. It was an extremely odd thing to do.

Mrs. Alving. Dear Mr. Manders, Oswald only dreamt it.

Oswald. No indeed, mother, it was no dream. Because—don't you

remember—you came into the room and carried me off to the

nursery, where I was sick, and I saw that you were crying. Did

father often play such tricks?

Manders. In his young days he was full of fun—

Oswald. And, for all that, he did so much with his life—so much

that was good and useful, I mean—short as his life was.

Manders. Yes, my dear Oswald Alving, you have inherited the name

of a man who undoubtedly was both energetic and worthy. Let us

hope it will be a spur to your energies.

Oswald. It ought to be, certainly.

Manders. In any case it was nice of you to come home for the day

that is to honour his memory.

Oswald. I could do no less for my father.

Mrs. Alving. And to let me keep him so long here—that's the

nicest part of what he has done.

Manders. Yes, I hear you are going to spend the winter at home.

Oswald. I am here for an indefinite time, Mr. Manders.—Oh, it's

good to be at home again!

Mrs. Alving (beaming). Yes, isn't it?

Manders (looking sympathetically at him). You went out into the

world very young, my dear Oswald.

Oswald. I did. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't too young.

Mrs. Alving. Not a bit of it. It is the best thing for an active

boy, and especially for an only child. It's a pity when they are

kept at home with their parents and get spoiled.

Manders. That is a very debatable question, Mrs, Alving. A

child's own home is, and always must be, his proper place.

Oswald. There I agree entirely with Mr. Manders.

Manders. Take the case of your own son. Oh yes, we can talk about

it before him. What has the result been in his case? He is six or

seven and twenty, and has never yet had the opportunity of

learning what a well-regulated home means.

Oswald. Excuse me, Mr. Manders, you are quite wrong there.

Manders. Indeed? I imagined that your life abroad had practically

been spent entirely in artistic circles.

Oswald. So it has.

Manders. And chiefly amongst the younger artists.

Oswald. Certainly.

Manders. But I imagined that those gentry, as a rule, had not the

means necessary for family life and the support of a home.

Oswald. There are a considerable number of them who have not the

means to marry, Mr. Manders.

Manders. That is exactly my point.

Oswald. But they can have a home of their own, all the same; a

good many of them have. And they are very well-regulated and very

comfortable homes, too.

(MRS. ALVING, who has listened to him attentively, nods assent,

but says nothing.)

Manders. Oh, but I am not talking of bachelor establishments. By

a home I mean family life—the life a man lives with his wife and

children.

Oswald. Exactly, or with his children and his children's mother.

Manders (starts and clasps his hands). Good heavens!

Oswald. What is the matter?

Manders. Lives with-with-his children's mother.

Oswald. Well, would you rather he should repudiate his children's

mother?

Manders. Then what you are speaking of are those unprincipled

conditions known as irregular unions!

Oswald. I have never noticed anything particularly unprincipled

about these people's lives.

Manders. But do you mean to say that it is possible for a man of

any sort of bringing up, and a young woman, to reconcile

themselves to such a way of living—and to make no secret of it,

either!

Oswald. What else are they to do? A poor artist, and a poor girl-

-it costs a good deal to get married. What else are they to do?

Manders. What are they to do? Well, Mr. Alving, I will tell you

what they ought to do. They ought to keep away from each other

from the very beginning—that is what they ought to do!

Oswald. That advice wouldn't have much effect upon hot-blooded

young folk who are in love.

Mrs. Alving. No, indeed it wouldn't.

Manders (persistently). And to think that the authorities

tolerate such things! That they are allowed to go on, openly!

(Turns to MRS. ALVING.) Had I so little reason, then, to be sadly

concerned about your son? In circles where open immorality is

rampant—where, one may say, it is honoured—

Oswald. Let me tell you this, Mr. Manders. I have been a constant

Sunday guest at one or two of these "irregular" households.

Manders. On Sunday, too!

Oswald. Yes, that is the day of leisure. But never have I heard

one objectionable word there, still less have I ever seen

anything that could be called immoral. No; but do you know when

and where I have met with immorality in artists' circles?

Manders. No, thank heaven, I don't!

Oswald. Well, then, I shall have the pleasure of telling you. I

have met with it when someone or other of your model husbands

and fathers have come out there to have a bit of a look round on

their own account, and have done the artists the honour of

looking them up in their humble quarters. Then we had a chance of

learning something, I can tell you. These gentlemen were able to

instruct us about places and things that we had never so much as

dreamt of.

Manders. What? Do you want me to believe that honourable men when

they get away from home will—

Oswald. Have you never, when these same honourable men come home

again, heard them deliver themselves on the subject of the

prevalence of immorality abroad?

Manders. Yes, of course, but—

Mrs. Alving. I have heard them, too.

Oswald. Well, you can take their word for it, unhesitatingly.

Some of them are experts in the matter. (Putting his hands to his

head.) To think that the glorious freedom of the beautiful life

over there should be so besmirched!

Mrs. Alving. You mustn't get too heated, Oswald; you gain nothing

by that.

Oswald. No, you are quite right, mother. Besides, it isn't good

for me. It's because I am so infernally tired, you know. I will

go out and take a turn before dinner. I beg your pardon, Mr.

Manders. It is impossible for you to realise the feeling; but it

takes me that way (Goes out by the farther door on the right.)

Mrs. Alving. My poor boy!

Manders. You may well say so. This is what it has brought him to!

(MRS. ALVING looks at him, but does not speak.) He called himself

the prodigal son. It's only too true, alas—only too true! (MRS.

ALVING looks steadily at him.) And what do you say to all this?

Mrs. Alving. I say that Oswald was right in every single word he

said.

Manders. Right? Right? To hold such principles as that?

Mrs. Alving. In my loneliness here I have come to just the same

opinions as he, Mr. Manders. But I have never presumed to venture

upon such topics in conversation. Now there is no need; my boy

shall speak for me.

Manders. You deserve the deepest pity, Mrs. Alving. It is my duty

to say an earnest word to you. It is no longer your businessman

and adviser, no longer your old friend and your dead husband's

old friend, that stands before you now. It is your priest that

stands before you, just as he did once at the most critical

moment of your life.

Mrs. Alving. And what is it that my priest has to say to me?

Manders. First of all I must stir your memory. The moment is well

chosen. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of your husband's

death; tomorrow the memorial to the departed will be unveiled;

tomorrow I shall speak to the whole assembly that will be met

together, But today I want to speak to you alone.

Mrs. Alving, Very well, Mr. Manders, speak!

Manders. Have you forgotten that after barely a year of married

life you were standing at the very edge of a precipice?—that you

forsook your house and home? that you ran away from your husband-

-yes, Mrs. Alving, ran away, ran away-=and refused to return to

him in spite of his requests and entreaties?

Mrs. Alving. Have you forgotten how unspeakably unhappy I was

during that first year?

Manders. To crave for happiness in this world is simply to be

possessed by a spirit of revolt. What right have we to happiness?

No! we must do our duty, Mrs. Alving. And your duty was to cleave

to the man you had chosen and to whom you were bound by a sacred

bond.

Mrs. Alving. You know quite well what sort of a life my husband

was living at that time—what excesses he was guilty of.

Menders. I know only too well what rumour used to say of him; and

I should be the last person to approve of his conduct as a young

man, supposing that rumour spoke the truth. But it is not a

wife's part to be her husband's judge. You should have considered

it your bounden duty humbly to have borne the cross that a higher

will had laid upon you. But, instead of that, you rebelliously

cast off your cross, you deserted the man whose stumbling

footsteps you should have supported, you did what was bound to

imperil your good name and reputation, and came very near to

imperilling the reputation of others into the bargain.

Mrs. Alving. Of others? Of one other, you mean.

Manders. It was the height of imprudence, your seeking refuge

with me.

Mrs. Alving. With our priest? With our intimate friend?

Manders. All the more on that account; you should thank God that

I possessed the necessary strength of mind—that I was able to

turn you from your outrageous intention, and that it was

vouchsafed to me to succeed in leading you back into the path of

duty, and back to your lawful husband.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, Mr. Manders, that certainly was your doing.

Manders. I was but the humble instrument of a higher power. And

is it not true that my having been able to bring you again under

the yoke of duty and obedience sowed the seeds of a rich blessing

on all the rest of your life? Did things not turn out as I

foretold to you? Did not your husband turn from straying in the

wrong path, as a man should? Did he not, after that, live a life

of love and good report with you all his days? Did he not become

a benefactor to the neighbourhood? Did he not so raise you up to

his level, so that by degree you became his fellow-worker in all

his undertakings—and a noble fellow-worker, too. I know, Mrs.

Alving; that praise I will give you. But now I come to the second

serious false step in your life.

Mrs. Alving. What do you mean?

Manders, Just as once you forsook your duty as a wife, so, since

then, you have forsaken your duty as a mother.

Mrs. Alving. Oh—!

Manders. You have been overmastered all your life by a disastrous

spirit of willfulness. All your impulses have led you towards what

is undisciplined and lawless. You have never been willing to

submit to any restraint. Anything in life that has seemed irksome

to you, you have thrown aside recklessly and unscrupulously, as

if it were a burden that you were free to rid yourself of if you

would. It did not please you to be a wife any longer, and so you

left your husband. Your duties as a mother were irksome to you,

so you sent your child away among strangers.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true; I did that.

Menders. And that is why you have become a stranger to him.

Mrs. Alving. No, no, I am not that!

Manders. You are; you must be. And what sort of a son is it that

you have got back? Think over it seriously, Mrs. Alving. You

erred grievously in your husband's case—you acknowledge as much,

by erecting this memorial to him. Now you are bound to

acknowledge how much you have erred in your son's case; possibly

there may still be time to reclaim him from the path of

wickedness. Turn over a new leaf, and set yourself to reform what

there may still be that is capable of reformation in him. Because

(with uplifted forefinger) in very truth, Mrs. Alving, you are a

guilty mother!—That is what I have thought it my duty to say to

you.

(A short silence.)

Mrs. Alving (speaking slowly and with self-control). You have had

your say, Mr. Manders, and tomorrow you will be making a public

speech in memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But

now I wish to speak to you for a little, just as you have been

speaking to me.

Manders. By all means; no doubt you wish to bring forward some

excuses for your behaviour.

Mrs. Alving. No. I only want to tell you something—

Manders. Well?

Mrs. Alving. In all that you said just now about me and my

husband, and about our life together after you had, as you put

it, led me back into the path of duty—there was nothing that you

knew at first hand. From that moment you never again set foot in

our house—you, who had been our daily companion before that.

Manders. Remember that you and your husband moved out of town

immediately afterwards.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, and you never once came out here to see us in

my husband's lifetime. It was only the business in connection

with the Orphanage that obliged you to come and see me.

Manders (in a low and uncertain voice). Helen—if that is a

reproach, I can only beg you to consider—

Mrs. Alving.—the respect you owed by your calling?—yes. All

the more as I was a wife who had tried to run away from her

husband. One can never be too careful to have nothing to do with

such reckless women.

Manders. My dear—Mrs. Alving, you are exaggerating dreadfully.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,—very well. What I mean is this, that when

you condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon

than ordinary public opinion.

Manders. I admit it. What then?

Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you

the truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day-

-you, and you only!

Manders. And what may the truth be?

Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as

great a profligate as he had been all his life.

Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying?

Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as

profligate—in his desires at all events—as he was before you

married us.

Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions—his

irregularities—his excesses, if you like—as a profligate life!

Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it.

Manders. I don't understand what you mean.

Mrs. Alving. It is not necessary that you should.

Manders. It makes my brain reel. To think that your marriage—all

the years of wedded life you spent with your husband—were

nothing but a hidden abyss of misery.

Mrs. Alving. That and nothing else. Now you know.

Manders. This—this bewilders me. I can't understand it! I can't

grasp it! How in the world was it possible? How could such a

state of things remain concealed?

Mrs. Alving. That was just what I had to fight for incessantly,

day after day. When Oswald was born, I thought I saw a slight

improvement. But it didn't last long. And after that I had to

fight doubly hard—fight a desperate fight so that no one should

know what sort of a man my child's father was. You know quite

well what an attractive manner he had; it seemed as if people

could believe nothing but good of him. He was one of those men

whose mode of life seems to have no effect upon their

reputations. But at last, Mr. Manders—you must hear this too—at

last something happened more abominable than everything else.

Manders. More abominable than what you have told me!

Mrs. Alving. I had borne with it all, though I knew only too well

what he indulged in in secret, when he was out of the house. But

when it came to the point of the scandal coming within our four

walls—

Manders. Can you mean it! Here?

Mrs. Alving. Yes, here, in our own home. It was in there

(pointing to the nearer door on the right) in the dining-room

that I got the first hint of it. I had something to do in there

and the door was standing ajar. I heard our maid come up from the

garden with water for the flowers in the conservatory.

Manders. Well—?

Mrs. Alving. Shortly afterwards I heard my husband come in too. I

heard him say something to her in a low voice. And then I heard—

(with a short laugh)—oh, it rings in my ears still, with its

mixture of what was heartbreaking and what was so ridiculous—I

heard my own servant whisper: "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!"

Manders. What unseemly levity on his part! But surely nothing

more than levity, Mrs. Alving, believe me.

Mrs. Alving. I soon knew what to believe. My husband had his will

of the girl—and that intimacy had consequences, Mr. Manders.

Manders (as if turned to stone). And all that in this house! In

this house!

Mrs. Alving. I have suffered a good deal in this house. To keep

him at home in the evening—and at night—I have had to play the

part of boon companion in his secret drinking-bouts in his room

up there. I have had to sit there alone with him, have had to

hobnob and drink with him, have had to listen to his ribald

senseless talk, have had to fight with brute force to get him to

bed—

Manders (trembling). And you were able to endure all this!

Mrs. Alving. I had my little boy, and endured it for his sake.

But when the crowning insult came—when my own servant—then I

made up my mind that there should be an end of it. I took the

upper hand in the house, absolutely—both with him and all the

others. I had a weapon to use against him, you see; he didn't

dare to speak. It was then that Oswald was sent away. He was

about seven then, and was beginning to notice things and ask

questions as children will. I could endure all that, my friend.

It seemed to me that the child would be poisoned if he breathed

the air of this polluted house. That was why I sent him away. And

now you understand, too, why he never set foot here as long as

his father was alive. No one knows what it meant to me.

Manders. You have indeed had a pitiable experience.

Mrs. Alving. I could never have gone through with it, if I had

not had my work. Indeed, I can boast that I have worked. All the

increase in the value of the property, all the improvements, all

the useful arrangements that my husband got the honour and glory

of—do you suppose that he troubled himself about any of them?

He, who used to lie the whole day on the sofa reading old

official lists! No, you may as well know that too. It was I that

kept him up to the mark when he had his lucid intervals; it was I

that had to bear the whole burden of it when he began his

excesses again or took to whining about his miserable condition.

Manders. And this is the man you are building a memorial to!

Mrs. Alving. There you see the power of an uneasy conscience.

Manders. An uneasy conscience? What do you mean?

Mrs. Alving. I had always before me the fear that it was

impossible that the truth should not come out and be believed.

That is why the Orphanage is to exist, to silence all rumours and

clear away all doubt.

Manders. You certainly have not fallen short of the mark in that,

Mrs. Alving.

Mrs. Alving. I had another very good reason. I did not wish

Oswald, my own son, to inherit a penny that belonged to his

father.

Manders. Then it is with Mr. Alving's property.

Mrs. Alving. Yes. The sums of money that, year after year, I have

given towards this Orphanage, make up the amount of property—I

have reckoned it carefully—which in the old days made Lieutenant

Alving a catch.

Manders. I understand.

Mrs. Alving. That was my purchase money. I don't wish it to pass

into Oswald's hands. My son shall have everything from me, I am

determined.

(OSWALD comes in by the farther door on the right. He has left

his hat and coat outside.)

Mrs. Alving. Back again, my own dear boy?

Oswald. Yes, what can one do outside in this everlasting rain? I

hear dinner is nearly ready. That's good!

(REGINA comes in front the dining-room, carrying a parcel.)

Regina. This parcel has come for you, ma'am. (Gives it to her.)

Mrs. Alving (glancing at MANDERS). The ode to be sung tomorrow, I

expect.

Manders. Hm—!

Regina. And dinner is ready.

Mrs. Alving. Good. We will come in a moment. I will just—(begins

to open the parcel).

Regina (to OSWALD). Will you drink white or red wine, sir?

Oswald. Both, Miss Engstrand.

Regina. Bien—very good, Mr. Alving. (Goes into the dining-room.)

Oswald. I may as well help you to uncork it—. (Follows her into

the dining-room, leaving the door ajar after him.)

Mrs. Alving. Yes, I thought so. Here is the ode, Mr Manders.

Manders (clasping his hands). How shall I ever have the courage

tomorrow to speak the address that—

Mrs. Alving. Oh, you will get through it.

Manders (in a low voice, fearing to be heard in the dining room).

Yes, we must raise no suspicions.

Mrs. Alving (quietly but firmly). No; and then this long dreadful

comedy will be at an end. After tomorrow, I shall feel as if my

dead husband had never lived in this house. There will be no one

else here then but my boy and his mother.

(From the dining-room is heard the noise of a chair falling;

then REGINA'S voice is heard in a loud whisper: Oswald! Are you

mad? Let me go!)

Mrs. Alving (starting in horror). Oh—!

(She stares wildly at the half-open door. OSWALD is heard

coughing and humming, then the sound of a bottle being uncorked.)

Manders (in an agitated manner). What's the matter? What is it,

Mrs. Alving?

Mrs. Alving (hoarsely). Ghosts. The couple in the conservatory—

over again.

Manders. What are you saying! Regina—? Is SHE—!

Mrs. Alving. Yes, Come. Not a word—!

(Grips MANDERS by the arm and walks unsteadily with him into the

dining-room.)