■GHOSTS
The Characters
Mrs. Helen Alving, widow of Captain Alving,
late Chamberlain to the King
Oswald Alving, her son, a painter
Pastor Manders
Jacob Engstrand, a carpenter
Regirand, Mrs. Alving''''s maid
(The a takes place at Mrs. Alving''''s try house, beside one of the large fjords iern Norway.)
ACT I
A spacious garden-room, with one door to the left, and two doors to the right. In the middle of the room a round table, with chairs about it. Oable lie books, periodicals, and new
spapers. In the fround to the left a window, and by it a small sofa, with a worktable in front of it. In the background, the room is tinued into a somewhat narrower servatory, the walls of which are formed by large panes of glass. In the right-hand wall of the servatory is a door leading down into the garden. Through the glass wall a gloomy fjord landscape is faintly visible, veiled by steady rain.
Engstrand, the carpenter, stands by the garden door. His left leg is somewhat bent; he
has a clump of wood uhe sole of his boina, with ay garden syringe in her hand, hinders him from advang.
Regina. (In a low voice.)What do you want? Stop where you are. You''''re positively dripping.
Engstrand. It''''s the Lord''''s own rain, my girl.
Regina. It''''s the devil''''s rain, I say.
Engstrand. Lord, how you talk, Regina. (Limps a step or two forward into the room.)It''''s just this as I wao say—
Regina. Don''''t clatter so with that foot of yours, I tell you! The young master''''s asle
ep upstairs.
Engstrand. Asleep? In the middle of the day?
Regina. It''''s no business of yours.
Engstrand. I was out on the loose last night—
Regina. I quite believe that.
Engstrand. Yes, we''''re weak vessels, we poor mortals, my girl—
Regina. So it seems.
Engstrand. —Aations are manifold in this world, you see. But all the same, I was hard at wod knows, at half-past five this m.
Regina. Very well; only be off now. I won''''t stop here and have rendez-vous(his and other French word
s by Regina are in that language in the inal)with you.
Engstrand. What do you say you won''''t have?
Regina. I won''''t have anyone find you here; so just you go about your business.
Engstrand. (Advances a step or two.)Blest if I go before I''''ve had a talk with you. This afternoon I shall have finished my work at the school house, and then I shall take to-night''''s boat and be off home to the town.
Regina. (Mutters.)Pleasant jouro you!
Engstrand. Thank you, my child. To-morrow the Orphanage is to be
opened, and then there''''ll be fine doings, no doubt, and plenty of intoxig drink going, you know. And nobody shall say of Jacob Engstrand that he ''''t keep out of temptation''''s way.
Regina. Oh!
Engstrand. You see, there''''s to be heaps of grand folks here to-morrow. Pastor Manders is expected from town, too.
Regina. He''''s ing today.
Engstrand. There, you see! And I should be cursedly sorry if he found out anything against me, don''''t you uand?
Regina. Oho! Is that yame?
Engstrand. Is what
my game?
Regina. (Looking hard at him.)What are you going to fool Pastor Manders into doing, this time?
Engstrand. Sh! Sh! Are you crazy? Do I want to fool Pastor Manders? Oh no! Pastor Manders has been far too good a friend to me for that. But I just wao say, you know—that I mean to be off home again to-night.
Regina. The soohe better, say I.
Engstrand. Yes, but I want you with me, Regina.
Regina. (Open-mouthed.)You want me—? What are you talking about?
Engstrand. I want you to e home
with me, I say.
Regina. (Sfully.)Never in this world shall you get me home with you.
Engstrand. Oh, we''''ll see about that.
Regina. Yes, you may be sure we''''ll see about it! Me, that have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving! Me, that am treated almost as a daughter here! Is it me you want to go home with you? —to a house like yours? For shame!
Engstrand. What the devil do you mean? Do you set yourself up against your father, you hussy?
Regina. (Mutters without looking at him.)You''''ve said ofte
n enough I was no of yours.
Engstrand. Pooh! Why should you bother about that—
Regina. Haven''''t you many a time sworn at me and called me a—? Fi donc!
Engstrand. Curse me, now, if ever I used su ugly word.
Regina. Oh, I remember very well what word you used.
Engstrand. Well, but that was only when I was a bit on, don''''t you know? Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina.
Regina. Ugh!
Engstrand. And besides, it was when your mother was that aggravating—I had to find something to twit he
r with, my child. She was always setting up for a fine lady. (Mimics.)“Let me go, Engstrand; let me be. Remember I was three years in Chamberlain Alving''''s family at Rosenvold.”(Laughs.)Mer us! She could never fet that the Captain was made a Chamberlain while she was in service here.
Regina. Poor mother! You very soon tormented her intrave.
Engstrand. (With a twist of his shoulders.)Oh, of course! I''''m to have the blame for everything.
Regina. (Turns away; half aloud.)Ugh—! And that le
g too!
Engstrand. What do you say, my child?
Regina. Pied de mouton.
Engstrand. Is that English, eh?
Regina. Yes.
Engstrand. Ay, ay; you''''ve picked up some learning out here; and that may e in useful nina.
Regina. (After a short silence.)What do you want with me in town?
Engstrand. you ask what a father wants with his only child? A''''n''''t I a lonely, forlorn widower?
Regina. Oh, don''''t try on any nonsense like that with me! Why do you want me?
Engstrand. Well, let me tell you, I''''ve been thinking
of setting up in a new line of business.
Regina. (ptuously.)You''''ve tried that often enough, and much good you''''ve doh it.
Engstrand. Yes, but this time you shall see, Regina! Devil take me—
Regina. (Stamps.)Stop your swearing!
Engstrand. Hush, hush; you''''re right enough there, my girl. What I wao say was just this—I''''ve laid by a very tidy pile from this Orphanage job.
Regina. Have you? That''''s a good thing for you.
Engstrand. What a man spend his ha''''pen here in this try ho
le?
Regina. Well, what then?
Engstrand. Why, you see, I thought of putting the money into some paying speculation. I thought of a sort of a sailor''''s tavern—
Regina. Pah!
Engstrand. A regular high-class affair, of course; not any sort of pigsty for on sailors. No! damn it! It would be for captains and mates, and—and—regular swells, you know.
Regina. And I was to—?
Engstrand. You were to help, to be sure. Only for the look of the thing, you uand. Devil a bit of hard work shall you have, my gir
l. You shall do exactly what you like.
Regina. Oh, indeed!
Engstrand. But there must be a petticoat in the house; that''''s as clear as daylight. For I want to have it a bit lively like in the evenings, with singing and dang, and so on. You must remember they''''re weary wanderers on the o of life. (Nearer.)Now don''''t be a fool and stand in your own light, Regina. What''''s to bee of you out here? Your mistress has given you a lot of learning; but what good is that to you? You''''re to look after the
children at the new Orphanage, I hear. Is that the sort of thing for you, eh? Are you so dead set on wearing your life out for a pack of dirty brats?
Regina. No; if things go as I want them to—Well there''''s no saying—there''''s no saying.
Engstrand. What do you mean by“there''''s no saying”?
Regina. Never you mind. —How much money have you saved?
Engstrand. What with ohing and another, a matter of seven ht hundred s. #pageNote#0
Regina. That''''s not so bad.
Engstrand. It''''s enough to make a start with, my
girl.
Regina. Aren''''t you thinking of giving me any?
Engstrand. No, I''''m blest if I am!
Regina. Not even of sending me a scrap of stuff for a new dress?
Engstrand. e to town with me, my lass, and you''''ll soo dresses enough.
Regina. Pooh! I do that on my own at, if I want to.
Engstrand. No, a father''''s guiding hand is what you want, Regina. Now, I''''ve got my eye on a capital house in Little Harbour Street. They don''''t want much ready-money; and it could be a sort of a Sailors''''Home, you know.
Regina. But I will not live with you! I have nothing whatever to do with you. Be off!
Engstrand. You wouldn''''t stop long with me, my girl. No such luck! If you knew how to play your cards, such a fine figure of a girl as you''''ve grown in the last year or two—
Regina. Well?
Engstrand. You''''d soo hold of some mate—or maybe even a captain—
Regina. I won''''t marry anyone of that sort. Sailors have no savoir-vivre.
Engstrand. What''''s that they haven''''t got?
Regina. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They''''r
e not the sort of people to marry.
Engstrand. Then never mind about marrying them. You make it pay all the same. (More fidentially.)He—the Englishman—the man with the yacht—he came down with three hundred dollars, he did; and she wasn''''t a bit handsomer than you.
Regina. (Making for him.)Out you go!
Engstrand. (Falling back.)e, e! You''''re not going to hit me, I hope.
Regina. Yes, if you begin talking about mother I shall hit you. Get away with you, I say! (Drives him back towards the gard
en door.)And don''''t slam the doors. Young Mr. Alving—
Engstrand. He''''s asleep; I know. You''''re mightily taken up about young Mr. Alving—(More softly.)Oho! you don''''t mean to say it''''s him as—?
Regina. Be off this minute! You''''re crazy, I tell you! No, not that way. There es Pastor Manders. Dow stairs with you.
Engstrand. (Towards the right.)Yes, yes, I''''m going. But just you talk to him as is ing there. He''''s the man to tell you what a child owes its father. For I am your father all the
same, you know. I prove it from the church register.
(He goes out through the sed door to the right, which Regina has opened, and closes again after him. Regina glances hastily at herself in the mirror, dusts herself with her pocket handkerchief; ales her ie; then she busies herself with the flowers.)
(Pastor Manders, wearing an overcoat, carrying an umbrella, and with a small travelling-bag on a strap over his shoulder, es through the garden door into the servatory.)
Mande
rs. Good-m, Miss Engstrand.
Regina. (Turning round, surprised and pleased.)No, really! Good m, Pastor Manders. Is the steamer in already?
Manders. It is just iers the sitting-room.)Terrible weather we have been having lately.
Regina. (Follows him.)It''''s such blessed weather for the try, sir.
Manders. No doubt; you are quite right. We townspeople give too little thought to that. (He begins to take off his overcoat.)
Regina. Oh, mayn''''t I help you? —There! Why, how wet it is? I''''ll
just hang it up in the hall. And your umbrella, too—I''''ll open it a dry.
(She goes out with the things through the sed door on the right. Pastor Maakes off his travelling bag and lays it and his hat on a chair. Meanwhile Regina es in again.)
Manders. Ah, it''''s a fort to get safe under cover. I hope everything is going on well here?
Regina. Yes, thank you, sir.
Manders. You have your hands full, I suppose, in preparation for to-morrow?
Regina. Yes, there''''s plenty to do, of cours
e.
Manders. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I trust?
Regina. Oh dear, yes. She''''s just upstairs, looking after the young master''''s chocolate.
Manders. Yes, by-the-bye—I heard down at the pier that Oswald had arrived.
Regina. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn''''t expect him before today.
Manders. Quite strong and well, I hope?
Regina. Yes, thank you, quite; but dreadfully tired with the journey. He has made one rush right through from Paris—the whole way irain, I believe. He''''s sleeping a li
ttle now, I think; so perhaps we''''d better talk a little quietly.
Manders. Sh! —As quietly as you please.
Regina. (Arranging an armchair beside the table.)Now, do sit down, Pastor Manders, and make yourself fortable. (He sits down; she places a footstool under his feet.)There! Are you fortable now, sir?
Manders. Thanks, thanks, extremely so. (Looks at her.)Do you know, Miss Engstrand, I positively believe you have grown since I last saw you.
Regina. Do you think so, Sir? Mrs. Alving says I''''ve f
illed out too.
Manders. Filled out? Well, perhaps a little; just enough.
(Short pause.)
Regina. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here?
Manders. Thanks, thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child. —By-the-bye, Regina, my good girl, tell me, how is your father getting on out here?
Regina. Oh, thank you, sir, he''''s getting on well enough.
Manders. He called upon me last time he was in town.
Regina. Did he, indeed? He''''s always so glad of a ce of talking to you, sir.
Manders. And you often look in upon him
at his work, I daresay?
Regina. I? Oh, of course, when I have time, I—
Manders. Your father is not a man of strong character, Miss Engstrand. He stands terribly in need of a guiding hand.
Regina. Oh, yes; I daresay he does.
Manders. He requires someone near him whom he cares for, and whose judgment he respects. He frankly admitted as much when he last came to see me.
Regina. Yes, he mentioned something of the sort to me. But I don''''t know whether Mrs. Alving spare me; especially now that we''''ve got
the new Orphao attend to. And then I should be so sorry to leave Mrs. Alving; she has always been so kind to me.
Manders. But a daughter''''s duty, my good girl—Of course, we should first have to get your mistress''''s sent.
Regina. But I don''''t know whether it would be quite proper for me, at my age, to keep house for a single man.
Manders. What! My dear Miss Engstrand! When the man is your own father!
Regina. Yes, that may be; but all the same—Now, if it were in a thhly nice house, and wit
h a real gentleman—
Manders. Why, my dear Regina—
Regina. —One I could love and respect, and be a daughter to—
Manders. Yes, but my dear, good child—
Regina. Then I should be glad to go to town. It''''s very lonely out here; you know yourself, sir, what it is to be alone in the world. And I assure you I''''m both quid willing. Don''''t you know of any such plae, sir?
Manders. I? No, certainly not.
Regina. But, dear, dear Sir, do remember me if—
Manders. (Rising.)Yes, yes, certainly, Miss Engstr
and.
Regina. For if I—
Manders. Will you be so good as to tell your mistress I am here?
Regina. I will, at once, sir. (She goes out to the left.)
Manders. (Paces the room two or three times, stands a moment in the background with his hands behind his back, and looks out over the garden. Theurns to the table, takes up a book, and looks at the title-page; starts, and looks at several books.)Ha—indeed!
(Mrs. Alviers by the door on the left; she is followed by Regina, who immediately goes o
ut by the first door on the right.)
Mrs. Alving. (Holds out her hand.)Wele, my dear Pastor.
Manders. How do you do, Mrs. Alving? Here I am as I promised.
Mrs. Alving. Alunctual to the minute.
Manders. You may believe it was not so easy for me to get away. With all the Boards and ittees I belong to—
Mrs. Alving. That makes it all the kinder of you to e so early. Now we get through our business before dinner. But where is your portmanteau?
Manders. (Quickly.)I left it down at the inn
. I shall sleep there to-night.
Mrs. Alving. (Suppressing a smile.)Are you really not to be persuaded, even now, to pass the night under my roof?
Manders. No, no, Mrs. Alving; many thanks. I shall stay at the inn, as usual. It is so vely he landing-stage.
Mrs. Alving. Well, you must have your own way. But I really should have thought we two old people—
Manders. Now you are making fun of me. Ah, you''''re naturally i spirits today—what with to-morrow''''s festival and Oswald''''s return.
M
rs. Alving. Yes, you think what a delight it is to me! It''''s more than two years since he was home last. And now he has promised to stay with me all the winter.
Manders. Has he really? That is very nid dutiful of him. For I well believe that life in Rome and Paris has very different attras from any we offer here.
Mrs. Alving. Ah, but here he has his mother, you see. My own darling boy—he hasn''''t fotten his old mother!
Manders. It would be grievous indeed, if absend absor
ption in art and that sort of thio blunt his natural feelings.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, you may well say so. But there''''s nothing of that sort to fear with him. I''''m quite curious to see whether you know him again. He''''ll be dowly; he''''s upstairs just now, resting a little on the sofa. But do sit down, my dear Pastor.
Manders. Thank you. Are you quite at liberty—?
Mrs. Alving. Certainly. (She sits by the table.)
Manders. Very well. The me show you—(He goes to the chair where his travelli
ng-bag lies, takes out a packet of papers, sits down on the opposite side of the table, and tries to find a clear space for the papers.)Now, to begin with, here is—(Breaking off.)Tell me, Mrs. Alving, how do these books e to be here?
Mrs. Alving. These books? They are books I am reading.
Manders. Do you read this sort of literature?
Mrs. Alving. Certainly I do.
Manders. Do you feel better or happier for such reading?
Mrs. Alving. I feel, so to speak, more secure.
Manders. That is strange. How do yo
u mean?
Mrs. Alving. Well, I seem to find explanation and firmation of all sorts of things I myself have been thinking. For that is the wonderful part of it, Pastor Mahere is really nothing new in these books, nothing but what most people think and believe. Only most people either don''''t formulate it to themselves, or else keep quiet about it.
Manders. Great heavens! Do you really believe that most people—?
Mrs. Alving. I do, indeed.
Manders. But surely not in this try? Not here among u
s?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, certainly; here as elsewhere.
Manders. Well, I really must say—!
Mrs. Alving. For the rest, what do you object to in these books?
Manders. Object to in them? You surely do not suppose that I have nothier to do than to study such publications as these?
Mrs. Alving. That is to say, you know nothing of what you are ning?
Manders. I have read enough about these writings to disapprove of them.
Mrs. Alving. Yes; but your own judgment—
Manders. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are m
any occasions in life when one must rely upon others. Things are so ordered in this world; and it is well that they are. Otherwise, what would bee of society?
Mrs. Alving. Well, well, I daresay you''''re right there.
Manders. Besides, I of course do not deny that there may be much that is attractive in such books. Nor I blame you for wishing to keep up with the intellectual movements that are said to be going on in the great world—where you have let your son pass so much of his life. But—
Mrs.
Alving. But?
Manders. (L his voice.)But one should not talk about it, Mrs. Alving. One is certainly not bound to at to everybody for what one reads and thinks within one''''s own four walls.
Mrs. Alving. Of course not; I quite agree with you.
Manders. Only think, now, how you are bound to sider the is of this Orphanage, which you decided on founding at a time when—if I uand yhtly—you thought very differently on spiritual matters.
Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes; I quite admit tha
t. But it was about the Orphanage—
Manders. It was about the Orphanage we were to speak; yes. All I say is:prudence, my dear lady! And now let us get to business. (Opens the packet, and takes out a number of papers.)Do you see these?
Mrs. Alving. The dots?
Manders. All—and in perfect order. I tell you it was hard work to get them in time. I had to put on strong pressure. The authorities are almost morbidly scrupulous when there is any decisive step to be taken. But here they are at last. (
Looks through the bundle.)See! Here is the formal deed of gift of the parcel of ground known as Solvik in the Manor of Rosenvold, with all the newly structed buildings, schoolrooms, master''''s house, and chapel. And here is the legal fiat for the endowment and for the Bye-laws of the Institution. Will you look at them? (Reads.)“Bye-laws for the Children''''s Home to be known as‘Captain Alving''''s Foundation. ''''”
Mrs. Alving. (Looks long at the paper.)So there it is.
Manders. I have chosen the designati
on“Captain”rather than“Chamberlain.”“Captain”looks less pretentious.
Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes; just as you thi.
Manders. And here you have the Bank At of the capital lying at io cover the current expenses of the Orphanage.
Mrs. Alving. Thank you; but please keep it—it will be more ve.
Manders. With pleasure. I think we will leave the money in the Bank for the present. The i is certainly not what we could wish—four pert and six months''''notice of withdrawal. If a good
me could be found later on—of course it must be a first me and an unimpeachable security—then we could sider the matter.
Mrs. Alving. Certainly, my dear Pastor Manders. You are the best judge ihings.
Manders. I will keep my eyes open at any rate. —But now there is ohing more which I have several times been intending to ask you.
Mrs. Alving. And what is that?
Manders. Shall the Orphanage buildings be insured or not?
Mrs. Alving. Of course they must be insured.
Manders. Well
, wait a moment, Mrs. Alving. Let us look into the matter a little more closely.
Mrs. Alving. I have everything insured; buildings and movables and stod crops.
Manders. Of course you have—on your owe. And so have I—of course. But here, you see, it is quite another matter. The Orphanage is to be secrated, as it were, to a higher purpose.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, but that''''s no reason—
Manders. For my own part, I should certainly not see the smallest impropriety in guarding against all tinge
ncies—
Mrs. Alving. No, I should think not.
Manders. But what is the general feeling in the neighbourhood? You, of course, know better than I.
Mrs. Alving. Well—the general feeling—
Manders. Is there any siderable number of people—really responsible people—who might be sdalised?
Mrs. Alving. What do you mean by“really responsible people”?
Manders. Well, I mean people in sudepe and iial positions that one ot help attag some weight to their opinions.
Mrs. Alving. There are
several people of that sort here, who would very likely be shocked if—
Manders. There, you see! In town we have many such people. Think of all my colleague''''s adherents! People would be only too ready to interpret our a as a sign that her you nor I had the right faith in a Higher Providence.
Mrs. Alving. But for your own part, my dear Pastor, you at least tell yourself that—
Manders. Yes, I know—I know; my sce would be quite easy, that is true enough. But heless we should n
ot escape grave misinterpretation; and that might very likely reafavourably upon the Orphanage.
Mrs. Alving. Well, in that case—
Manders. Nor I entirely lose sight of the difficult—I may even say painful—position in which I might perhaps be placed. In the leading circles of the town, people take a lively i in this Orpha is, of course, founded partly for the be of the town, as well; and it is to be hoped it will, to a siderable extent, result in lightening our Poor R
ates. Now, as I have been your adviser, and have had the business arras in my hands, I ot but fear that I may have to bear the brunt of fanaticism—
Mrs. Alving. Oh, you mustn''''t run the risk of that.
Manders. To say nothing of the attacks that would assuredly be made upon me iain papers and periodicals, which—
Mrs. Alving. Enough, my dear Pastor Manders. That sideration is quite decisive.
Manders. Then you do not wish the Orphao be insured?
Mrs. Alving. No. We will let it alo
ne.
Manders. (Leaning ba his chair.)But if, now, a disaster were to happen? One ever tell—should you be able to make good the damage?
Mrs. Alving. No; I tell you plainly I should do nothing of the kind.
Manders. Then I must tell you, Mrs. Alving—we are taking no small responsibility upon ourselves.
Mrs. Alving. Do you think we do otherwise?
Manders. No, that is just the point; we really ot do otherwise. We ought not to expose ourselves to misinterpretation; and we have nht what
ever to give offeo the weaker brethren.
Mrs. Alving. You, as a clergymaainly should not.
Manders. I really think, too, we may trust that su institution has fortune on its side; in fact, that it stands under a special providence.
Mrs. Alving. Let us hope so, Pastor Manders.
Manders. Then we will let it take its ce?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, certainly.
Manders. Very well. So be it. (Makes a hen—no insurance.
Mrs. Alving. It''''s odd that you should just happen to mentioter today
—
Manders. I have often thought of asking you about it—
Mrs. Alving. —For we very nearly had a fire down there yesterday.
Manders. You don''''t say so!
Mrs. Alving. Oh, it was a trifling matter. A heap of shavings had caught fire in the carpenter''''s workshop.
Manders. Where Engstrand works?
Mrs. Alving. Yes. They say he''''s often very careless with matches.
Manders. He has so mu his mind, that man—so many things to fight against. Thank God, he is now striving to lead a det life, I hear.
Mrs. Alving. I
ndeed! Who says so?
Manders. He himself assures me of it. And he is certainly a capital workman.
Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes; so long as he''''s sober—
Manders. Ah, that melancholy weakness! But, he is often driven to it by his injured leg, he says. Last time he was in town I was really touched by him. He came and thanked me so warmly for having got him work here, so that he might be near Regina.
Mrs. Alving. He doesn''''t see much of her.
Manders. Oh, yes; he has a talk with her every day. He told me so himself.
Mrs. Alving. Well, it may be so.
Manders. He feels so acutely that he needs someoo keep a firm hold on him wheation es. That is what I ot help liking about Jacob Engstrand:he es to you so helplessly, acg himself and fessing his own weakness. The last time he was talking to me—Believe me, Mrs. Alving, supposing it were a real y for him to have Regina home again—
Mrs. Alving. (Rising hastily.)Regina!
Manders. —You must not set yourself against it.
Mrs. Alving. Inde
ed I shall set myself against it. And besides—Regina is to have a position in the Orphanage.
Manders. But, after all, remember he is her father—
Mrs. Alving. Oh, I know very well what sort of a father he has been to her. No! She shall never go to him with my goodwill.
Manders. (Rising.)My dear lady, don''''t take the matter so warmly. You sadly misjudge pstrand. You seem to be quite terrified—
Mrs. Alving. (More quietly.)It makes no difference. I have taken Regina into my house, and there she sh
all stay. (Listens.)Hush, my dear Mr. Manders; say no more about it. (Her face lights up with gladness.)Listen! There is Oswald ing downstairs. Now we''''ll think of no o him.
(Oswald Alving, in a light overcoat, hat in hand, and smoking a large meerschaum, enters by the door on the left; he stops in the doorway.)
Oswald. Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought you were iudy. (es food-m, Pastor Manders.
Manders. (Staring.)Ah—! How strange—!
Mrs. Alving. Well now, what do you
think of him, Mr. Manders?
Manders. I—I— it really be—?
Oswald. Yes, it''''s really the Prodigal Son, sir.
Manders. (Protesting.)My dear young friend—
Oswald. Well, then, the Lost Sheep Found.
Mrs. Alving. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so much opposed to his being a painter.
Manders. To our human eyes many a step seems dubious, which afterwards proves—(Wrings his hand.)But first of all, wele, wele home! Do not think, my dear Oswald—I suppose I may call you by your Christian na
me?
Oswald. What else should you call me?
Manders. Very good. What I wao say was this, my dear Oswald, you must not think that I utterly ist''''s calling. I have no doubt there are many who keep their inner self unharmed in that profession, as in any other.
Oswald. Let us hope so.
Mrs. Alving. (Beaming with delight.)I know one who has kept both his inner and his outer self unharmed. Just look at him, Mr. Manders.
Oswald. (Moves restlessly about the room.)Yes, yes, my dear mother
; let''''s say no more about it.
Manders. Why, certainly—that is undeniable. And you have begun to make a name for yourself already. The neers have often spoken of you, most favourably. Just lately, by-the-bye, I fancy I haven''''t seen your name quite so often.
Oswald. (Up in the servatory.)I haven''''t been able to paint so much lately.
Mrs. Alving. Even a painter needs a little rest now and then.
Manders. No doubt, no doubt. And meanwhile he be preparing himself and mustering his forces for so
me great work.
Oswald. Yes. —Mother, will dinner soon be ready?
Mrs. Alving. Ihan half an hour. He has a capital appetite, thank God.
Manders. And a taste for tobacco, too.
Oswald. I found my father''''s pipe in my room—
Manders. Aha—then that ats for it!
Mrs. Alving. For what?
Manders. When Oswald appeared there, in the doorway, with the pipe in his mouth, I could have sworn I saw his father, large as life.
Oswald. No, really?
Mrs. Alving. Oh, how you say so? Oswald takes after me.
Manders.
Yes, but there is an expression about the ers of the mouth—something about the lips—that reminds oly of Alving:at any rate, now that he is smoking.
Mrs. Alving. Not in the least. Oswald has rather a clerical curve about his mouth, I think.
Manders. Yes, yes; some of my colleagues have much the same expression.
Mrs. Alving. But put your pipe away, my dear boy; I won''''t have smoking in here.
Oswald. (Does so.)By all means. I only wao try it; for I once smoked it when I was a child.
Mr
s. Alving. You?
Oswald. Yes. I was quite small at the time. I recollect I came up to father''''s room one evening when he was i spirits.
Mrs. Alving. Oh, you ''''t recolleything of those times.
Oswald. Yes, I recollect it distinctly. He took me on his knee, and gave me the pipe. “Smoke, boy,”he said; “smoke away, boy!”And I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was growing quite pale, and the perspiration stood i drops on my forehead. Then he burst out laughiily—
Manders.
That was most extraordinary.
Mrs. Alving. My dear friend, it''''s only something Oswald has dreamt.
Oswald. No, mother, I assure you I didn''''t dream it. For—don''''t you remember this? —you came and carried me out into the nursery. Then I was sick, and I saw that you were g. Did father often play such practical jokes?
Manders. In his youth he overflowed with the joy of life—
Oswald. A he mao do so mu the world; so much that was good and useful; although he died so early.
Manders. Yes
, you have ied the name of aid admirable man, my dear Oswald Alving. No doubt it will be an iive to you—
Oswald. It ought to, indeed.
Manders. It was good of you to e home for the ceremony in his honour.
Oswald. I could do no less for my father.
Mrs. Alving. And I am to keep him so long! That is the best of all.
Manders. Yoing to pass the wi home, I hear.
Oswald. My stay is indefinite, sir. But, ah! It is good to be at home!
Mrs. Alving. (Beaming.)Yes, isn''''t it
, dear?
Manders. (Looking sympathetically at him.)You went out into the world early, my dear Oswald.
Oswald. I did. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn''''t too early.
Mrs. Alving. Oh, not at all. A healthy lad is all the better for it, especially when he''''s an only child. He oughtn''''t to hang on at home with his mother and father, a spoilt.
Manders. That is a very disputable point, Mrs. Alving. A child''''s proper place is, and must be, the home of his fathers.
Oswald. There I quite agree with you, Pas
tor Manders.
Manders. Only look at your own son—there is no reason why we should not say it in his presence—what has the sequence been for him? He is six or seven and twenty, and has never had the opportunity of learning what a well-ordered home really is.
Oswald. I beg your pardon, Pastor; there you''''re quite mistaken.
Manders. Indeed? I thought you had lived almost exclusively in artistic circles.
Oswald. So I have.
Manders. And chiefly among the younger artists?
Oswald. Yes, certainly.
Manders. Bu
t I thought few of those young fellows could afford to set up house and support a family.
Oswald. There are many who ot afford to marry, sir.
Manders. Yes, that is just what I say.
Oswald. But they may have a home for all that. And several of them have, as a matter of fact; and very pleasant, well-ordered homes they are, too.
(Mrs. Alving follows with breathless i; nods, but says nothing.)
Manders. But I''''m not talking of bachelors''''quarters. By a“home”I uand the home of a family, wher
e a man lives with his wife and children.
Oswald. Yes; or with his children and his children''''s mother.
Manders. (Starts; clasps his hands.)But, good heavens—
Oswald. Well?
Manders. Lives with—his children''''s mother!
Oswald. Yes. Would you have him turn his children''''s mother out of doors?
Manders. Then it is illicit relations you are talking of! Irregular marriages, as people call them!
Oswald. I have never noticed anything particularly irregular about the life these people lead.
Manders. But how is it po
ssible that a—a young man or young woman with any decy of feeling eo live in that way? —in the eyes of all the world!
Oswald. What are they to do? A poor young artist—a pirl—marriage costs a great deal. What are they to do?
Manders. What are they to do? Let me tell you, Mr. Alving, what they ought to do. They ought to exercise self-restraint from the first; that is what they ought to do.
Oswald. That doe will scarcely go down with warm-blooded young people who love each othe
r.
Mrs. Alving. No, scarcely!
Manders. (tinuing.)How the authorities tolerate such things! Allow them to go on in the light of day! (fronting Mrs. Alving.)Had I not cause to be deeply ed about your son? In circles where open immorality prevails, and has even a sort nised position—!
Oswald. Let me tell you, sir, that I have been in the habit of spending nearly all my Sundays in one or two such irregular homes—
Manders. Sunday of all days!
Oswald. Isn''''t that the day to enjoy on
e''''s self? Well, never have I heard an offensive word, and still less have I witnessed anything that could be called immoral. No; do you know when and where I have e across immorality in artistic circles?
Manders. No, thank heaven, I don''''t!
Oswald. Well, then, allow me to inform you. I have met with it when one or other of our pattern husbands and fathers has e to Paris to have a look round on his own at, and has dohe artists the honour of visiting their humble haunts. They knew what
was what. These gentlemen could tell us all about places and things we had never dreamt of.
Manders. What! Do you mean to say that respectable men from home here would—?
Oswald. Have you never heard these respectable men, when they got home again, talking about the way in which immorality runs rampant abroad?
Manders. Yes, no doubt—
Mrs. Alving. I have too.
Oswald. Well, you may take their word for it. They know what they are talking about! (Presses his hands to his head.)Oh! That great, free, glori
ous life out there should be defiled in such a way!
Mrs. Alving. You mustn''''t get excited, Oswald. It''''s not good for you.
Oswald. Yes, you''''re quite right, mother. It''''s bad for me, I know. You see, I''''m wretchedly worn out. I shall go for a little turn before dinner. Excuse me, Pastor, I know you ''''t take my point of view; but I couldn''''t help speaking out. (He goes out by the sed door to the right.)
Mrs. Alving. My poor boy!
Manders. You may well say so. Then this is what he has e to!
(Mrs. Alvi
ng looks at him silently.)
Manders. (Walking up and down.)He called himself the Prodigal Son. Alas! Alas!
(Mrs. Alving tinues looking at him.)
Manders. And what do you say to all this?
Mrs. Alving. I say that Oswald was right in every word.
Manders. (Stands still.)Right? Right! In such principles?
Mrs. Alving. Here, in my loneliness, I have e to the same way of thinking, Pastor Manders. But I have never dared to say anything. Well! Now my boy shall speak for me.
Manders. Yreatly to be pit
ied, Mrs. Alving. But now I must speak seriously to you. And now it is no longer your business manager and adviser, your own and your husband''''s early friend, who stands before you. It is the priest—the priest who stood before you in the moment of your life when you had gone farthest astray.
Mrs. Alving. And what has the priest to say to me?
Manders. I will first stir up your memory a little. The moment is well chosen. To-morrow will be the tenth anniversary of your husband''''s death. To-morrow the m
emorial in his honour will be unveiled. To-morrow I shall have to speak to the whole assembled multitude. But today I will speak to you alone.
Mrs. Alving. Very well, Pastor Manders. Speak.
Manders. Do you remember that after less than a year of married life you stood on the verge of an abyss? That you forsook your house and home? That you fled from your husband? Yes, Mrs. Alving—fled, fled, and refused to return to him, however much he begged and prayed you?
Mrs. Alving. Have you fotten how inf
initely miserable I was in that first year?
Manders. It is the very mark of the spirit of rebellion to crave for happiness in this life. What right have we human beings to happiness? We have simply to do our duty, Mrs. Alving! And your duty was to hold firmly to the man you had once chosen, and to whom you were bound by the holiest ties.
Mrs. Alving. You know very well what sort of life Alving was leading—what excesses he was guilty of.
Manders. I know very well what rumours there were about him; a
nd I am the last to approve the life he led in his young days, if report did n him. But a wife is not appoio be her husband''''s judge. It was your duty to bear with humility the cross which a Higher Power had, in its wisdom, laid upon you. But instead of that you rebelliously throw away the cross, desert the backslider whom you should have supported, go and risk yood name aation, and—nearly succeed in ruining other people''''s reputation into the bargain.
Mrs. Alving. Other
people''''s? Oher person''''s, you mean.
Manders. It was incredibly reckless of you to seek refuge with me.
Mrs. Alving. With our clergyman? With our intimate friend?
Manders. Just on that at. Yes, you may thank God that I possessed the necessary firmness; that I succeeded in dissuading you from your wild designs; and that it was vouchsafed me to lead you back to the path of duty, and home to your lawful husband.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, Pastor Manders, that was certainly your work.
Manders. I was but a
poor instrument in a Higher Hand. And what a blessing has it not proved to you, all the days of your life, that I induced you to resume the yoke of duty and obedience! Did not everything happen as I foretold? Did not Alving turn his ba his errors, as a man should? Did he not live with you from that time, lovingly and blamelessly, all his days? Did he not bee a beor to the whole district? And did he not help you to rise to his own level, so that you, little by little, became his as