Act II

(The same scene. The landscape is still obscured by Mist. MANDERS

and MRS. ALVING come in from the dining-room.)

Mrs. Alving (calls into the dining-room from the doorway). Aren't

you coming in here, Oswald?

Oswald. No, thanks; I think I will go out for a bit.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, do; the weather is clearing a little. (She

shuts the dining-room door, then goes to the hall door and

calls.) Regina!

Regina (from without). Yes, ma'am?

Mrs. Alving. Go down into the laundry and help with the garlands.

Regina. Yes, ma'am.

(MRS. ALVING satisfies herself that she has gone, then shuts the

door.)

Manders. I suppose he can't hear us?

Mrs. Alving. Not when the door is shut. Besides, he is going out.

Manders. I am still quite bewildered. I don't know how I managed

to swallow a mouthful of your excellent dinner.

Mrs. Alving (walking up and down, and trying to control her

agitation). Nor I. But, what are we to do?

Manders. Yes, what are we to do? Upon my word I don't know; I am

so completely unaccustomed to things of this kind.

Mrs. Alving. I am convinced that nothing serious has happened

yet.

Manders. Heaven forbid! But it is most unseemly behaviour, for

all that.

Mrs. Alving. It is nothing more than a foolish jest of Oswald's,

you may be sure.

Manders. Well, of course, as I said, I am quite inexperienced in

such matters; but it certainly seems to me—

Mrs. Alving. Out of the house she shall go—and at once. That

part of it is as clear as daylight—

Manders. Yes, that is quite clear.

Mrs. Alving. But where is she to go? We should not be justified

in—

Manders. Where to? Home to her father, of course.

Mrs. Alving. To whom, did you say?

Manders. To her—. No, of course Engstrand isn't—. But, great

heavens, Mrs. Alving, how is such a thing possible? You surely

may have been mistaken, in spite of everything.

Mrs. Alving. There was no chance of mistake, more's the pity.

Joanna was obliged to confess it to me—and my husband couldn't

deny it. So there was nothing else to do but to hush it up.

Manders. No, that was the only thing to do.

Mrs. Alving. The girl was sent away at once, and was given a

tolerably liberal sum to hold her tongue. She looked after the

rest herself when she got to town. She renewed an old

acquaintance with the carpenter Engstrand; gave him a hint, I

suppose, of how much money she had got, and told him some fairy

tale about a foreigner who had been here in his yacht in the

summer. So she and Engstrand were married in a great hurry. Why,

you married them yourself!

Manders. I can't understand it—, I remember clearly Engstrand's

coming to arrange about the marriage. He was full of contrition,

and accused himself bitterly for the light conduct he and his

fiancee had been guilty of.

Mrs. Alving. Of course he had to take the blame on himself.

Manders. But the deceitfulness of it! And with me, too! I

positively would not have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall

most certainly give him a serious talking to. And the immorality

of such a marriage! Simply for the sake of the money—! What sum

was it that the girl had?

Mrs. Alving. It was seventy pounds.

Manders. Just think of it—for a paltry seventy pounds to let

yourself be bound in marriage to a fallen woman!

Mrs. Alving. What about myself, then?—I let myself be bound in

marriage to a fallen man.

Manders. Heaven forgive you! What are you saying? A fallen man?

Mrs. Alving. Do you suppose my husband was any purer, when I went

with him to the altar, than Joanna was when Engstrand agreed to

marry her?

Manders. The two cases are as different as day from night.

Mrs. Alving. Not so very different, after all. It is true there

was a great difference in the price paid, between a paltry

seventy pounds and a whole fortune.

Manders. How can you compare such totally different things! I

presume you consulted your own heart—and your relations.

Mrs. Alving (looking away from him). I thought you understood

where what you call my heart had strayed to at that time.

Manders (in a constrained voice). If I had understood anything of

the kind, I would not have been a daily guest in your husband's

house.

Mrs. Alving. Well, at any rate this much is certain—I

didn't consult myself in the matter at all.

Manders. Still you consulted those nearest to you, as was only

right—your mother, your two aunts.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true. The three of them settled the

whole matter for me. It seems incredible to me now, how clearly

they made out that it would be sheer folly to reject such an

offer. If my mother could only see what all that fine prospect

has led to!

Manders. No one can be responsible for the result of it. Anyway

there is this to be said, that the match was made in complete

conformity with law and order.

Mrs. Alving (going to the window). Oh, law and order! I often

think it is that that is at the bottom of all the misery in the

world,

Manders. Mrs. Alving, it is very wicked of you to say that.

Mrs. Alving. That may be so; but I don't attach importance to

those obligations and considerations any longer. I cannot! I must

struggle for my freedom.

Manders. What do you mean?

Mrs. Alving (taping on the window panes). I ought never to have

concealed what sort of a life my husband led. But I had not the

courage to do otherwise then—for my own sake, either. I was too

much of a coward.

Manders. A coward?

Mrs. Alving. If others had known anything of what happened, they

would have said: "Poor man, it is natural enough that he should

go astray, when he has a wife that has run away from him."

Manders. They would have had a certain amount of justification

for saying so.

Mrs. Alving (looking fixedly at him). If I had been the woman I

ought, I would have taken Oswald into my confidence and said to

him: "Listen, my son, your father was a dissolute man"—

Manders. Miserable woman.

Mrs. Alving.—and I would have told him all I have told you,

from beginning to end.

Manders. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs. Alving.

Mrs. Alving. I know. I know quite well! I am shocked at myself

when I think of it. (Comes away from the window.) I am coward

enough for that.

Manders. Can you call it cowardice that you simply did your duty?

Have you forgotten that a child should love and honour his father

and mother?

Mrs. Alving. Don't let us talk in such general terms. Suppose we

say: "Ought Oswald to love and honour Mr. Alving?"

Manders. You are a mother—isn't there a voice in your heart that

forbids you to shatter your son's ideals?

Mrs. Alving. And what about the truth?

Manders. What about his ideals?

Mrs: Alving. Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward

as I am!

Manders. Do not spurn ideals, Mrs. Alving—they have a way of

avenging themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's own case, now. He

hasn't many ideals, more's the pity. But this much I have seen,

that his father is something of an ideal to him.

Mrs. Alving. You are right there.

Manders. And his conception of his father is what you inspired

and encouraged by your letters.

Mrs: Alving. Yes, I was swayed by duty and consideration for

others; that was why I lied to my son, year in and year out. Oh,

what a coward—what a coward I have been!

Manders. You have built up a happy illusion in your son's mind,

Mrs. Alving—and that is a thing you certainly ought not to

undervalue.

Mrs. Alving. Ah, who knows if that is such a desirable thing

after all!—But anyway I don't intend to put up with any goings

on with Regina. I am not going to let him get the poor girl into

trouble.

Manders. Good heavens, no—that would be a frightful thing!

Mrs. Alving. If only I knew whether he meant it seriously, and

whether it would mean happiness for him.

Manders. In what way? I don't understand.

Mrs. Alving. But that is impossible; Regina is not equal to it,

unfortunately.

Manders, I don't understand: What do you mean?

Mrs. Alving. If I were not such a miserable coward, I would say

to him: "Marry her, or make any arrangement you like with her—

only let there be no deceit in the matter."

Manders. Heaven forgive you! Are you actually suggesting anything

so abominable, so unheard of, as a marriage between them!

Mrs. Alving. Unheard of, do you call it? Tell me honestly, Mr.

Manders, don't you suppose there are plenty of married couples

out here in the country that are just as nearly related as they

are?

Manders. I am sure I don't understand you.

Mrs. Alving. Indeed you do.

Manders. I suppose you are thinking of cases where possibly—. It

is only too true, unfortunately, that family life is not always

as stainless as it should be. But as for the sort of thing you

hint at—well, it's impossible to tell, at all events, with any

certainty. Here on the other hand—for you, a mother, to be

willing to allow your—

Mrs. Alving. But I am not willing to allow it; I would not allow

it for anything in the world; that is just what I was saying.

Manders. No, because you are a coward, as you put it. But,

supposing you were not a coward—! Great heavens—such a

revolting union!

Mrs. Alving. Well, for the matter of that, we are all descended

from a union of that description, so we are told. And who was it

that was responsible for this state of things, Mr. Manders?

Manders. I can't discuss such questions with you, Mrs. Alving;

you are by no means in the right frame of mind for that. But for

you to dare to say that it is cowardly of you—!

Mrs. Alving. I will tell you what I mean by that. I am frightened

and timid, because I am obsessed by the presence of ghosts that I

never can get rid of,

Manders. The presence of what?

Mrs. Alving. Ghosts. When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it

was just like seeing ghosts before my eyes. I am half inclined to

think we are all ghosts, Mr. Manders. It is not only what we have

inherited from our fathers anal mothers that exists again in us,

but all sorts of old dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs

and things of that kind. They are not actually alive in us; but

there they are dormant, all the same, and we can never be rid of

them. Whenever I take up a newspaper and read it, I fancy I see

ghosts creeping between the lines. There must be ghosts all over

the world. They must be as countless as the grains of the sands,

it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of the light, all

of us.

Manders. Ah!—there we have the outcome of your reading. Fine

fruit it has borne—this abominable, subversive, free-thinking

literature!

Mrs. Alving. You are wrong there, my friend. You are the one who

made me begin to think; and I owe you my best thanks for it.

Menders. I!

Mrs. Alving. Yes, by forcing me to submit to what you called my

duty and my obligations; by praising as right and lust what my

whole soul revolted against, as it would against something

abominable. That was what led me to examine your teachings

critically. I only wanted to unravel one point in them; but as

soon as I had got that unravelled, the whole fabric came to

pieces. And then I realised that it was only machine-made.

Manders (softly, and with emotion). Is that all I accomplished by

the hardest struggle of my life?

Mrs. Alving. Call it rather the most ignominious defeat of your

life.

Manders. It was the greatest victory of my life, Helen; victory

over myself.

Mrs. Alving. It was a wrong done to both of us.

Manders. A wrong?—wrong for me to entreat you as a wife to go

back to your lawful husband, when you came to me half distracted

and crying: "Here I am, take me!" Was that a wrong?

Mrs. Alving. I think it was.

Menders. We two do not understand one another.

Mrs. Alving. Not now, at all events.

Manders. Never—even in my most secret thoughts—have I for a

moment regarded you as anything but the wife of another.

Mrs. Alving. Do you believe what you say?

Manders. Helen—!

Mrs. Alving. One so easily forgets one's own feelings. Manders.

Not I. I am the same as I always was.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes—don't let us talk any more about the old

days. You are buried up to your eyes now in committees and all

sorts of business; and I am here, fighting with ghosts both

without and within me.

Manders. I can at all events help you to get the better of those

without you. After all that I have been horrified to hear you

from today, I cannot conscientiously allow a young defenceless

girl to remain in your house.

Mrs. Alving. Don't you think it would be best if we could get her

settled?—by some suitable marriage, I mean.

Manders. Undoubtedly. I think, in any case, it would have been

desirable for her. Regina is at an age now that—well, I don't

know much about these things, but—

Mrs. Alving. Regina developed very early.

Manders. Yes, didn't she. I fancy I remember thinking she was

remarkably well developed, bodily, at the time I prepared her for

Confirmation. But, for the time being, she must in any case go

home. Under her father's care—no, but of course Engstrand is

not. To think that he, of all men, could so conceal the truth

from me! (A knock is heard at the hall door.)

Mrs. Alving. Who can that be? Come in!

(ENGSTRAND, dressed in his Sunday clothes, appears in the

doorway.)

Engstrand. I humbly beg pardon, but—

Manders. Aha! Hm!

Mrs. Alving. Oh, it's you, Engstrand!

Engstrand. There were none of the maids about, so I took the

great liberty of knocking.

Mrs. Alving. That's all right. Come in. Do you want to speak to

me?

Engstrand (coming in). No, thank you very much, ma'am. It was Mr.

Menders I wanted to speak to for a moment.

Manders (walking up and down). Hm!—do you. You want to speak to

me, do you?

Engstrand. Yes, sir, I wanted so very much to—

Manders (stopping in front of him). Well, may I ask what it is

you want?

Engstrand. It's this way, Mr. Manders. We are being paid off now.

And many thanks to you, Mrs. Alving. And now the work is quite

finished, I thought it would be so nice and suitable if all of

us, who have worked so honestly together all this time, were to

finish up with a few prayers this evening.

Manders. Prayers? Up at the Orphanage?

Engstrand. Yes, sir, but if it isn't agreeable to you, then—

Manders. Oh, certainly—but—hm!—

Engstrand. I have made a practice of saying a few prayers there

myself each evening.

Mrs: Alving. Have you?

Engstrand. Yes, ma'am, now—and then—just as a little

edification, so to speak. But I am only a poor common man, and

haven't rightly the gift, alas—and so I thought that as Mr,

Manders happened to be here, perhaps—

Manders. Look here, Engstrand! First of all I must ask you a

question. Are you in a proper frame of mind for such a thing? Is

your conscience free and untroubled?

Engstrand. Heaven have mercy on me a sinner! My conscience isn't

worth our speaking about, Mr. Manders.

Manders. But it is just what we must speak about. What do you say

to my question?

Engstrand. My conscience? Well—it's uneasy sometimes, of course.

Manders. Ah, you admit that at all events. Now will you tell me,

without any concealment—what is your relationship to Regina?

Mrs. Alving (hastily). Mr. Manders!

Manders (calming her).—Leave it to me!

Engstrand. With Regina? Good Lord, how you frightened me! (Looks

at MRS ALVING.) There is nothing wrong with Regina, is there?

Manders. Let us hope not. What I want to know is, what is your

relationship to her? You pass as her father, don't you?

Engstrand (unsteadily): Well—hm!—you know, sir, what happened

between me and my poor Joanna.

Manders. No more distortion of the truth! Your late wife made a

full confession to Mrs. Alving, before she left her service...

Engstrand. What!—do you mean to say—? Did she do that after

all?

Manders. You see it has all come out, Engstrand.

Engstrand. Do you mean to say that she, who gave me her promise

and solemn oath—

Manders. Did she take an oath?

Engstrand. Well, no—she only gave me her word, but as seriously

as a woman could.

Manders. And all these years you have been hiding the truth from

me—from me, who have had such complete and absolute faith in you.

Engstrand. I am sorry to say I have, sir.

Manders. Did I deserve that from you, Engstrand? Haven't I been

always ready to help you in word and deed as far as lay in my

power? Answer me! Is it not so?

Engstrand. Indeed there's many a time I should have been very

badly off without you, sir.

Manders. And this is the way you repay me—by causing me to make

false entries in the church registers, and afterwards keeping

back from me for years the information which you owed it both to

me and to your sense of the truth to divulge. Your conduct has

been absolutely inexcusable, Engstrand, and from today everything

is at an end between us.

Engstrand (with a sigh). Yes, I can see that's what it means.

Manders. Yes, because how can you possibly justify what you did?

Engstrand. Was the poor girl to go and increase her load of shame

by talking about it? Just suppose, sir, for a moment that your

reverence was in the same predicament as my poor Joanna.

Manders. I!

Engstrand. Good Lord, sir, I don't mean the same predicament. I

mean, suppose there were something your reverence was ashamed of

in the eyes of the world, so to speak. We men ought not judge a

poor woman too hardly, Mr. Manders.

Manders. But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming.

Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small

question?

Manders. Ask away.

Engstrand. Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up

the fallen?

Manders. Of course it is.

Engstrand. And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honour?

Manders. Certainly he is; but—

Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this

Englishman—or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they

call 'em—well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had

refused me once or twice before; she only had eyes for good-

looking men in those days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your

reverence will remember how I had ventured up into a dancing-

saloon where seafaring men were revelling in drunkenness and

intoxication, as they say. And when I tried to exhort them to

turn from their evil ways—

Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem!

Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know—the rough brutes threw you

downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The

affliction to your leg is a credit to you.

Engstrand. I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence.

But what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided

in me with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it

went to my heart to hear her.

Manders. Did it, indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then?

Engstrand. Well, then I said to her: "The American is roaming

about on the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna," I said, "you

have committed a sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands

Jacob Engstrand," I said, "on two strong legs"—of course that

was only speaking in a kind of metaphor, as it were, your

reverence.

Manders. I quite understand. Go on.

Engstrand. Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her my

lawful wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she had

carried on with the stranger.

Manders. That was all very kindly done. The only thing I cannot

justify was your bringing yourself to accept the money.

Engstrand. Money? I? Not a farthing.

Manders (to MRS. ALVING, in a questioning tare). But—

Engstrand. Ah, yes!—wait a bit; I remember now. Joanna did have

a trifle of money, you are quite right. But I didn't want to know

anything about that. "Fie," I said, "on the mammon of

unrighteousness, it's the price of your sin; as for this tainted

gold"—or notes, or whatever it was—"we will throw it back in

the American's face," I said. But he had gone away and

disappeared on the stormy seas, your reverence.

Manders. Was that how it was, my good fellow?

Engstrand. It was, sir. So then Joanna and I decided that the

money should go towards the child's bringing-up, and that's what

became of it; and I can give a faithful account of every single

penny of it.

Manders. This alters the complexion of the affair very

considerably.

Engstrand. That's how it was, your reverence. And I make bold to

say that I have been a good father to Regina—as far as was in my

power—for I am a poor erring mortal, alas!

Manders. There, there, my dear Engstrand.

Engstrand. Yes, I do make bold to say that I brought up the

child, and made my poor Joanna a loving and careful husband, as

the Bible says we ought. But it never occurred to me to go to

your reverence and claim credit for it or boast about it because

I had done one good deed in this world. No; when Jacob Engstrand

does a thing like that, he holds his tongue about it.

Unfortunately it doesn't often happen, I know that only too well.

And whenever I do come to see your reverence, I never seem to

have anything but trouble and wickedness to talk about. Because,

as I said just now—and I say it again—conscience can be very

hard on us sometimes.

Manders. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand,

Engstrand. Oh, sir, I don't like—

Manders. No nonsense, (Grasps his hand.) That's it!

Engstrand. And may I make bold humbly to beg your reverence's

pardon—

Manders. You? On the contrary it is for me to beg your pardon—

Engstrand. Oh no, sir.

Manders. Yes, certainly it is, and I do it with my whole heart.

Forgive me for having so much misjudged you. And I assure you

that if I can do anything for you to prove my sincere regret and

my goodwill towards you—

Engstrand. Do you mean it, sir?

Manders. It would give me the greatest pleasure.

Engstrand. As a matter of fact, sir, you could do it now. I am

thinking of using the honest money I have put away out of my

wages up here, in establishing a sort of Sailors' Home in the

town.

Mrs. Alving. You?

Engstrand. Yes, to be a sort of Refuge, as it were, There are

such manifold temptations lying in wait for sailor men when they

are roaming about on shore. But my idea is that in this house of

mine they should have a sort of parental care looking after them.

Menders. What do you say to that, Mrs. Alving!

Engstrand. I haven't much to begin such a work with, I know; but

Heaven might prosper it, and if I found any helping hand

stretched out to me, then—

Manders. Quite so; we will talk over the matter further. Your

project attracts me enormously. But in the meantime go back to

the Orphanage and put everything tidy and light the lights, so

that the occasion may seem a little solemn. And then we will

spend a little edifying time together, my dear Engstrand, for now

I am sure you are in a suitable frame of mind.

Engstrand. I believe I am, sir, truly. Goodbye, then, Mrs.

Alving, and thank you for all your kindness; and take good care

of Regina for me. (Wipes a tear from his eye.) Poor Joanna's

child—it is an extraordinary thing, but she seems to have grown

into my life and to hold me by the heartstrings. That's how I

feel about it, truly. (Bows, and goes out.)

Manders. Now then, what do you think of him, Mrs Alving! That was

quite another explanation that he gave us.

Mrs. Alving. It was, indeed.

Manders. There, you see how exceedingly careful we ought to be in

condemning our fellow-men. But at the same time it gives one

genuine pleasure to find that one was mistaken. Don't you think

so?

Mrs. Alving. What I think is that you are, and always will

remain, a big baby, Mr. Manders.

Menders. I?

Mrs. Alving (laying her hands on his shoulders). And I think that

I should like very much to give you a good hug.

Manders (drawing beck hastily). No, no, good gracious! What an

idea!

Mrs. Alving (with a smile). Oh, you needn't be afraid of me.

Manders (standing by the table). You choose such an extravagant

way of expressing yourself sometimes. Now I must get these papers

together and put them in my bag. (Does so.) That's it. And now

goodbye, for the present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes

back. I will come back and see you again presently.

(He takes his hat and goes out by the hall door. MRS. ALVING

sighs, glances out of the window, puts one or two things tidy in

the room and turns to go into the dining-room. She stops in the

doorway with a stifled cry.)

Mrs. Alving. Oswald, are you still sitting at table!

Oswald (from the dining-room). I am only finishing my cigar.

Mrs. Alving. I thought you had gone out for a little turn.

Oswald (from within the room). In weather like this? (A glass is

heard clinking. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down

with her knitting on the couch by the window.) Wasn't that Mr.

Manders that went out just now?

Mrs. Alving. Yes, he has gone over to the Orphanage.

Oswald. Oh. (The clink of a bottle on a glass is heard again.)

Mrs. Alving (with an uneasy expression.) Oswald, dear, you should

be careful with that liqueur. It is strong.

Oswald. It's a good protective against the damp.

Mrs. Alving. Wouldn't you rather come in here?

Oswald. You know you don't like smoking in there.

Mrs. Alving. You may smoke a cigar in here, certainly.

Oswald. All right; I will come in, then. Just one drop more.

There! (Comes in, smoking a cigar, and shuts the door after him.

A short silence.) Where has the parson gone?

Mrs. Alving. I told you he had gone over to the Orphanage.

Oswald. Oh, so you did.

Mrs. Alving. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald,

Oswald (holding his cigar behind his back). But it's so nice and

cosy, mother dear. (Caresses her with one hand.) Think what it

means to me—to have come home; to sit at my mother's own table,

in my mother's own room, and to enjoy the charming meals she

gives me.

Mrs. Alving. My dear, dear boy!

Oswald (a little impatiently, as he walks tip and down smoking.)

And what else is there for me to do here? I have no occupation—

Mrs. Alving. No occupation?

Oswald. Not in this ghastly weather, when there isn't a blink of

sunshine all day long. (Walks up and down the floor.) Not to be

able to work, it's—!

Mrs. Alving. I don't believe you were wise to come home.

Oswald. Yes, mother; I had to.

Mrs. Alving. Because I would ten times rather give up the

happiness of having you with me, sooner than that you should—

Oswald (standing still by the table). Tell me, mother—is it

really such a great happiness for you to have me at home?

Mrs. Alving. Can you ask?

Oswald (crumpling up a newspaper). I should have thought it would

have been pretty much the same to you whether I were here or

away.

Mrs. Alving. Have you the heart to say that to your mother,

Oswald?

Oswald. But you have been quite happy living without me so far.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, I have lived without you—that is true.

(A silence. The dusk falls by degrees. OSWALD walks restlessly up

and down. He has laid aside his cigar.) Oswald (stopping beside

MRS. ALVING). Mother, may I sit on the couch beside you?

Mrs. Alving. Of course, my dear boy.

Oswald (sitting down). Now I must tell you something mother.

Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What?

Oswald (staring in front of him). I can't bear it any longer.

Mrs. Alving. Bear what? What do you mean?

Oswald (as before). I couldn't bring myself to write to you about

it; and since I have been at home—

Mrs. Alving (catching him by the arm). Oswald, what is it?

Oswald. Both yesterday and today I have tried to push my

thoughts away from me—to free myself from them. But I can't.

Mrs. Alving (getting up). You must speak plainly, Oswald!

Oswald (drawing her down to her seat again). Sit still, and I

will try and tell you. I have made a great deal of the fatigue I

felt after my journey—

Mrs. Alving. Well, what of that?

Oswald. But that isn't what is the matter. It is no ordinary

fatigue—

Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald!

Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it

quietly. I am not exactly ill—not ill in the usual sense. (Takes

his head in his hands.) Mother, it's my mind that has broken

down—gone to pieces—I shall never be able to work anymore!

(Buries his face in his hands and throws himself at her knees in

an outburst of sobs.)

Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it

isn't true!

Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be

able to work anymore! Never—never! A living death! Mother, can

you imagine anything so horrible!

Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing

happened?

Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly

understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must

believe that of me, mother, I have never done that.

Mrs. Alving. I haven't a doubt of it, Oswald.

Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible

disaster!

Mrs. Alving. Oh, but it will all come right again, my dear

precious boy. It is nothing but overwork. Believe me, that is so.

Oswald (dully). I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so.

Mrs. Alving. Tell me all about it.

Oswald. Yes, I will.

Mrs. Alving. When did you first feel anything?

Oswald. It was just after I had been home last time and had got

back to Paris. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head-

-mostly at the back, I think. It was as if a tight band of iron

was pressing on me from my neck upwards.

Mrs. Alving. And then?

Oswald. At first I thought it was nothing but the headaches I

always used to be so much troubled with while I was growing.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes.

Oswald. But it wasn't; I soon saw that. I couldn't work any

longer. I would try and start some big new picture; but it seemed

as if all my faculties had forsaken me, as if all my strengths

were paralysed. I couldn't manage to collect my thoughts; my head

seemed to swim—everything went round and round. It was a

horrible feeling! At last I sent for a doctor—and from him I

learned the truth.

Mrs. Alving. In what way, do you mean?

Oswald. He was one of the best doctors there. He made me describe

what I felt, and then he began to ask me a whole heap of

questions which seemed to me to have nothing to do with the

matter. I couldn't see what he was driving at—

Mrs. Alving. Well?

Oswald. At last he said: "You have had the canker of disease in

you practically from your birth"—the actual word he used was "vermoulu"...

Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What did he mean by that? Oswald. I

couldn't understand, either—and I asked him for a clearer

explanation, And then the old cynic said—(clenching his fist).

Oh!

Mrs. Alving. What did he say?

Oswald. He said: "The sins of the fathers are visited on the

children."

Mrs. Alving (getting up slowly). The sins of the fathers—!

Oswald. I nearly struck him in the face.

Mrs. Alving (walking across the room). The sins of the fathers—!

Oswald (smiling sadly). Yes, just imagine! Naturally I assured

him that what he thought was impossible. But do you think he paid

any heed to me? No, he persisted in his opinion; and it was only

when I got out your letters and translated to him all the

passages that referred to my father—

Mrs. Alving. Well, and then?

Oswald. Well, then of course he had to admit that he was on the

wrong track; and then I learned the truth—the incomprehensible

truth! I ought to have had nothing to do with the joyous happy

life I had lived with my comrades. It had been too much for my

strength. So it was my own fault!

Mrs. Alving. No, no, Oswald! Don't believe that—

Oswald. There was no other explanation of it possible, he said.

That is the most horrible part of it. My whole life incurably

ruined—just because of my own imprudence. All that I wanted to do

in the world-=not to dare to think of it any more—not to be able

to think of it! Oh! if only I could live my life over again—if

only I could undo what I have done! (Throws himself on his face

on the couch. MRS. ALVING wrings her hands, and walks up and down

silently fighting with herself.)

Oswald (looks up after a while, raising himself on his elbows).

If only it had been something I had inherited—something I could

not help. But, instead of that, to have disgracefully, stupidly,

thoughtlessly thrown away one's happiness, one's health,

everything in the world—one's future, one's life!

Mrs. Alving. No, no, my darling boy; that is impossible! (Bending

over him.) Things are not so desperate as you think.

Oswald. Ah, you don't know—(Springs up.) And to think, mother,

that I should bring all this sorrow upon you! Many a time I have

almost wished and hoped that you really did not care so very much

for me.

Mrs. Alving. I, Oswald? My only son! All that I have in the

world! The only thing I care about!

Oswald (taking hold of her hands and kissing them). Yes, yes, I

know that is so. When I am at home I know that is true. And that

is one of the hardest parts of it to me. But now you know all

about it; and now we won't talk anymore about it today. I can't

stand thinking about it long at a time. (Walks across the room.)

Let me have something to drink, mother!

Mrs. Alving. To drink? What do you want?

Oswald. Oh, anything you like. I suppose you have got some punch

in the house.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, but my dear Oswald—!

Oswald. Don't tell me I mustn't, mother. Do be nice! I must have

something to drown these gnawing thoughts. (Goes into the

conservatory.) And how—how gloomy it is here! (MRS. ALVING rings

the bell.) And this incessant rain. It may go on week after week-

-a whole month. Never a ray of sunshine. I don't remember ever

having seen the sunshine once when I have been at home.

Mrs. Alving. Oswald—you are thinking of going away from me!

Oswald. Hm!—(sighs deeply). I am not thinking about anything. I

can't think about anything! (In a low voice.) I have to let that

alone.

Regina (coming from the dining-room). Did you ring, ma'am?

Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us have the lamp in.

Regina. In a moment, ma'am; it is all ready lit. (Goes out.)

Mrs. Alving (going up to OSWALD). Oswald, don't keep anything

back from me.

Oswald. I don't, mother. (Goes to the table.) It seems to me I

have told you a good lot.

(REGINA brings the lamp and puts it upon the table.)

Mrs. Alving. Regina, you might bring us a small bottle of

champagne.

Regina. Yes, ma'am. (Goes out.)

Oswald (taking hold of his mother's face). That's right; I knew

my mother wouldn't let her son go thirsty.

Mrs, Alving. My poor dear boy, how could I refuse you anything

now?

Oswald (eagerly). Is that true, mother? Do you mean it?

Mrs. Alving. Mean what?

Oswald. That you couldn't deny me anything?

Mrs. Alving. My dear Oswald—

Oswald. Hush!

(REGINA brings in a tray with a small bottle of champagne and two

glasses, which she puts on the table.)

Regina. Shall I open the bottle?

Oswald. No, thank you, I will do it. (REGINA goes out.)

Mrs, Alving (sitting clown at the table). What did you mean, when

you asked if I could refuse you nothing?

Oswald (busy opening the bottle). Let us have a glass first—or

two.

(He draws the cork, fills one glass and is going to fill the

other.)

Mrs. Alving (holding her hand over the second glass) No, thanks—

not for me.

Oswald. Oh, well, for me then! (He empties his glass, fills it

again and empties it; then sits down at the table.)

Mrs. Alving (expectantly). Now, tell me.

Oswald (without looking at her). Tell me this; I thought you and