This is a modern-English version of Ghosts, originally written by Ibsen, Henrik. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.

GHOSTS

By Henrik Ibsen

Translated, with an Introduction, by William Archer

INTRODUCTION.

INTRODUCTION.

The winter of 1879-80 Ibsen spent in Munich, and the greater part of the summer of 1880 at Berchtesgaden. November 1880 saw him back in Rome, and he passed the summer of 1881 at Sorrento. There, fourteen years earlier, he had written the last acts of Peer Gynt; there he now wrote, or at any rate completed, Gengangere. It was published in December 1881, after he had returned to Rome. On December 22 he wrote to Ludwig Passarge, one of his German translators, "My new play has now appeared, and has occasioned a terrible uproar in the Scandinavian press; every day I receive letters and newspaper articles decrying or praising it.... I consider it utterly impossible that any German theatre will accept the play at present. I hardly believe that they will dare to play it in the Scandinavian countries for some time to come." How rightly he judged we shall see anon.

The winter of 1879-80, Ibsen spent in Munich, and most of the summer of 1880 in Berchtesgaden. By November 1880, he was back in Rome, and he spent the summer of 1881 in Sorrento. It was there, fourteen years earlier, that he had written the last acts of Peer Gynt; now, he wrote, or at least finished, Gengangere. It was published in December 1881, after he returned to Rome. On December 22, he wrote to Ludwig Passarge, one of his German translators, "My new play has now come out, and it has created a huge uproar in the Scandinavian press; every day I receive letters and newspaper articles condemning or praising it.... I think it's entirely impossible for any German theater to accept the play right now. I hardly believe they'll dare to perform it in the Scandinavian countries for some time." How accurately he judged we will see shortly.

In the newspapers there was far more obloquy than praise. Two men, however, stood by him from the first: Björnson, from whom he had been practically estranged ever since The League of Youth, and Georg Brandes. The latter published an article in which he declared (I quote from memory) that the play might or might not be Ibsen's greatest work, but that it was certainly his noblest deed. It was, doubtless, in acknowledgment of this article that Ibsen wrote to Brandes on January 3, 1882: "Yesterday I had the great pleasure of receiving your brilliantly clear and so warmly appreciative review of Ghosts.... All who read your article must, it seems to me, have their eyes opened to what I meant by my new book—assuming, that is, that they have any wish to see. For I cannot get rid of the impression that a very large number of the false interpretations which have appeared in the newspapers are the work of people who know better. In Norway, however, I am willing to believe that the stultification has in most cases been unintentional; and the reason is not far to seek. In that country a great many of the critics are theologians, more or less disguised; and these gentlemen are, as a rule, quite unable to write rationally about creative literature. That enfeeblement of judgment which, at least in the case of the average man, is an inevitable consequence of prolonged occupation with theological studies, betrays itself more especially in the judging of human character, human actions, and human motives. Practical business judgment, on the other hand, does not suffer so much from studies of this order. Therefore the reverend gentlemen are very often excellent members of local boards; but they are unquestionably our worst critics." This passage is interesting as showing clearly the point of view from which Ibsen conceived the character of Manders. In the next paragraph of the same letter he discusses the attitude of "the so-called Liberal press"; but as the paragraph contains the germ of An Enemy of the People, it may most fittingly be quoted in the introduction to that play.

In the newspapers, there was a lot more criticism than praise. Two men, however, supported him from the beginning: Björnson, with whom he had been mostly distanced since The League of Youth, and Georg Brandes. The latter published an article where he stated (I’m quoting from memory) that the play might or might not be Ibsen's greatest work, but it was definitely his noblest accomplishment. It was likely in response to this article that Ibsen wrote to Brandes on January 3, 1882: "Yesterday I had the great pleasure of receiving your brilliantly clear and warmly appreciative review of Ghosts.... Everyone who reads your article must, it seems to me, have their eyes opened to what I intended with my new book—assuming, of course, that they have any wish to see. Because I can't shake the feeling that many of the wrong interpretations appearing in the newspapers are from people who know better. In Norway, however, I'm willing to believe that the misunderstanding has mostly been unintentional; and the reason isn’t hard to find. In that country, many critics are theologians, more or less disguised; and these gentlemen are generally quite unable to write clearly about creative literature. The weakening of judgment that, at least for the average person, is an unavoidable result of prolonged study of theology, shows itself especially in the evaluation of human character, actions, and motives. Practical business judgment, on the other hand, doesn’t suffer as much from this type of study. Therefore, the reverend gentlemen often make excellent members of local boards; but they are undoubtedly our worst critics." This passage is interesting as it clearly shows the perspective from which Ibsen conceived the character of Manders. In the next paragraph of the same letter, he discusses the attitude of "the so-called Liberal press"; but since this paragraph contains the core idea of An Enemy of the People, it might be best quoted in the introduction to that play.

Three days later (January 6) Ibsen wrote to Schandorph, the Danish novelist: "I was quite prepared for the hubbub. If certain of our Scandinavian reviewers have no talent for anything else, they have an unquestionable talent for thoroughly misunderstanding and misinterpreting those authors whose books they undertake to judge.... They endeavour to make me responsible for the opinions which certain of the personages of my drama express. And yet there is not in the whole book a single opinion, a single utterance, which can be laid to the account of the author. I took good care to avoid this. The very method, the order of technique which imposes its form upon the play, forbids the author to appear in the speeches of his characters. My object was to make the reader feel that he was going through a piece of real experience; and nothing could more effectually prevent such an impression than the intrusion of the author's private opinions into the dialogue. Do they imagine at home that I am so inexpert in the theory of drama as not to know this? Of course I know it, and act accordingly. In no other play that I have written is the author so external to the action, so entirely absent from it, as in this last one."

Three days later (January 6), Ibsen wrote to Schandorph, the Danish novelist: "I was totally ready for the chaos. If some of our Scandinavian reviewers lack talent in other areas, they definitely have a unique knack for completely misunderstanding and misinterpreting the authors whose work they are judging... They try to hold me accountable for the views expressed by certain characters in my play. Yet, there isn’t a single opinion or statement in the entire book that can be attributed to me as the author. I made sure to avoid that. The very method and technical structure that shape the play prevent the author from showing up in the characters’ words. My goal was to make the reader feel like they were experiencing something real; and nothing could undermine that feeling more than inserting the author's personal opinions into the dialogue. Do they think I’m so clueless about drama theory that I wouldn’t understand this? Of course I understand it and act accordingly. In no other play I've written am I so distanced from the action, so completely absent from it, as in this last one."

"They say," he continued, "that the book preaches Nihilism. Not at all. It is not concerned to preach anything whatsoever. It merely points to the ferment of Nihilism going on under the surface, at home as elsewhere. A Pastor Manders will always goad one or other Mrs. Alving to revolt. And just because she is a woman, she will, when once she has begun, go to the utmost extremes."

“They say,” he continued, “that the book promotes Nihilism. Not at all. It doesn’t aim to preach anything. It simply highlights the underlying turmoil of Nihilism happening both at home and beyond. A Pastor Manders will always provoke one of the Mrs. Alvings to rebel. And just because she’s a woman, once she starts, she’ll go to the extreme.”

Towards the end of January Ibsen wrote from Rome to Olaf Skavlan: "These last weeks have brought me a wealth of experiences, lessons, and discoveries. I, of course, foresaw that my new play would call forth a howl from the camp of the stagnationists; and for this I care no more than for the barking of a pack of chained dogs. But the pusillanimity which I have observed among the so-called Liberals has given me cause for reflection. The very day after my play was published the Dagblad rushed out a hurriedly-written article, evidently designed to purge itself of all suspicion of complicity in my work. This was entirely unnecessary. I myself am responsible for what I write, I and no one else. I cannot possibly embarrass any party, for to no party do I belong. I stand like a solitary franc-tireur at the outposts, and fight for my own hand. The only man in Norway who has stood up freely, frankly, and courageously for me is Björnson. It is just like him. He has in truth a great, kingly soul, and I shall never forget his action in this matter."

Towards the end of January, Ibsen wrote from Rome to Olaf Skavlan: "The last few weeks have brought me a lot of experiences, lessons, and discoveries. I knew my new play would provoke a reaction from the stagnationists, and I don't care about it any more than I do about the barking of a pack of chained dogs. But the timidity I've seen among the so-called Liberals has made me think. The day after my play was published, the Dagblad quickly put out an article, clearly trying to distance itself from my work. This was completely unnecessary. I am solely responsible for what I write; it’s just me, no one else. I can't embarrass any party because I don’t belong to any. I stand like a lone sharpshooter at the front lines, fighting for myself. The only person in Norway who has openly and courageously supported me is Björnson. It's just like him. He truly has a great, noble spirit, and I will never forget his stance in this situation."

One more quotation completes the history of these stirring January days, as written by Ibsen himself. It occurs in a letter to a Danish journalist, Otto Borchsenius. "It may well be," the poet writes, "that the play is in several respects rather daring. But it seemed to me that the time had come for moving some boundary-posts. And this was an undertaking for which a man of the older generation, like myself, was better fitted than the many younger authors who might desire to do something of the kind. I was prepared for a storm; but such storms one must not shrink from encountering. That would be cowardice."

One more quote wraps up the story of these exciting January days, as written by Ibsen himself. It appears in a letter to a Danish journalist, Otto Borchsenius. "It may well be," the poet writes, "that the play is in several ways quite bold. But it seemed to me that the time had come to move some boundary markers. And this was a job that someone from the older generation, like me, was better suited for than many of the younger authors who might want to attempt something similar. I was ready for a backlash; but you can't back down from facing such backlash. That would be cowardly."

It happened that, just in these days, the present writer had frequent opportunities of conversing with Ibsen, and of hearing from his own lips almost all the views expressed in the above extracts. He was especially emphatic, I remember, in protesting against the notion that the opinions expressed by Mrs. Alving or Oswald were to be attributed to himself. He insisted, on the contrary, that Mrs. Alving's views were merely typical of the moral chaos inevitably produced by re-action from the narrow conventionalism represented by Manders.

It just so happened that during these days, I had many chances to talk with Ibsen and hear almost all the ideas mentioned in the excerpts above directly from him. I distinctly remember him emphasizing that the opinions expressed by Mrs. Alving or Oswald were not his own. He insisted, instead, that Mrs. Alving's views were simply reflective of the moral chaos that inevitably arises from reacting against the strict conventionalism represented by Manders.

With one consent, the leading theatres of the three Scandinavian capitals declined to have anything to do with the play. It was more than eighteen months old before it found its way to the stage at all. In August 1883 it was acted for the first time at Helsingborg, Sweden, by a travelling company under the direction of an eminent Swedish actor, August Lindberg, who himself played Oswald. He took it on tour round the principal cities of Scandinavia, playing it, among the rest, at a minor theatre in Christiania. It happened that the boards of the Christiania Theatre were at the same time occupied by a French farce; and public demonstrations of protest were made against the managerial policy which gave Tête de Linotte the preference over Gengangere. Gradually the prejudice against the play broke down. Already in the autumn of 1883 it was produced at the Royal (Dramatiska) Theatre in Stockholm. When the new National Theatre was opened in Christiania in 1899, Gengangere found an early place in its repertory; and even the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen has since opened its doors to the tragedy.

With one accord, the major theaters in the three Scandinavian capitals refused to engage with the play. It took more than eighteen months before it even made it to the stage. In August 1883, it was performed for the first time in Helsingborg, Sweden, by a traveling company led by the renowned Swedish actor, August Lindberg, who played Oswald himself. He took it on a tour through the main cities of Scandinavia, performing it, among other places, at a smaller theater in Christiania. At the same time, the Christiania Theatre was hosting a French farce, and there were public protests against the management's choice to prioritize Tête de Linotte over Gengangere. Gradually, the bias against the play faded. By autumn 1883, it was staged at the Royal (Dramatiska) Theatre in Stockholm. When the new National Theatre was inaugurated in Christiania in 1899, Gengangere was quickly included in its repertoire; even the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen has since welcomed the tragedy.

Not until April 1886 was Gespenster acted in Germany, and then only at a private performance, at the Stadttheater, Augsburg, the poet himself being present. In the following winter it was acted at the famous Court Theatre at Meiningen, again in the presence of the poet. The first (private) performance in Berlin took place on January 9, 1887, at the Residenz Theater; and when the Freie Bühne, founded on the model of the Paris Theatre Libre, began its operations two years later (September 29, 1889), Gespenster was the first play that it produced. The Freie Bühne gave the initial impulse to the whole modern movement which has given Germany a new dramatic literature; and the leaders of the movement, whether authors or critics, were one and all ardent disciples of Ibsen, who regarded Gespenster as his typical masterpiece. In Germany, then, the play certainly did, in Ibsen's own words, "move some boundary-posts." The Prussian censorship presently withdrew its veto, and on November 27, 1894, the two leading literary theatres of Berlin, the Deutsches Theater and the Lessing Theater, gave simultaneous performances of the tragedy. Everywhere in Germany and Austria it is now freely performed; but it is naturally one of the least popular of Ibsen's plays.

Not until April 1886 was Gespenster performed in Germany, and even then it was just a private show at the Stadttheater in Augsburg, with the poet himself in attendance. The following winter, it was staged at the famous Court Theatre in Meiningen, again in the poet's presence. The first private performance in Berlin happened on January 9, 1887, at the Residenz Theater; and when the Freie Bühne, inspired by the Paris Theatre Libre, started its work two years later (on September 29, 1889), Gespenster was the first play it presented. The Freie Bühne sparked the whole modern movement that introduced a new dramatic literature in Germany; and the leaders of this movement, both authors and critics, were all passionate followers of Ibsen, who viewed Gespenster as his quintessential masterpiece. In Germany, the play certainly did, in Ibsen's own words, "move some boundary-posts." The Prussian censorship eventually lifted its ban, and on November 27, 1894, the two main literary theaters in Berlin, the Deutsches Theater and the Lessing Theater, held simultaneous performances of the tragedy. Now, it is performed openly throughout Germany and Austria; however, it is naturally one of the least popular plays by Ibsen.

It was with Les Revenants that Ibsen made his first appearance on the French stage. The play was produced by the Théâtre Libre (at the Théâtre des Menus-Plaisirs) on May 29, 1890. Here, again, it became the watchword of the new school of authors and critics, and aroused a good deal of opposition among the old school. But the most hostile French criticisms were moderation itself compared with the torrents of abuse which were poured upon Ghosts by the journalists of London when, on March 13, 1891, the Independent Theatre, under the direction of Mr. J. T. Grein, gave a private performance of the play at the Royalty Theatre, Soho. I have elsewhere [Note: See "The Mausoleum of Ibsen," Fortnightly Review, August 1893. See also Mr. Bernard Shaw's Quintessence of Ibsenism, p. 89, and my introduction to Ghosts in the single-volume edition.] placed upon record some of the amazing feats of vituperation achieved of the critics, and will not here recall them. It is sufficient to say that if the play had been a tenth part as nauseous as the epithets hurled at it and its author, the Censor's veto would have been amply justified. That veto is still (1906) in force. England enjoys the proud distinction of being the one country in the world where Ghosts may not be publicly acted. In the United States, the first performance of the play in English took place at the Berkeley Lyceum, New York City, on January 5, 1894. The production was described by Mr. W. D. Howells as "a great theatrical event—the very greatest I have ever known." Other leading men of letters were equally impressed by it. Five years later, a second production took place at the Carnegie Lyceum; and an adventurous manager has even taken the play on tour in the United States. The Italian version of the tragedy, Gli Spettri, has ever since 1892 taken a prominent place in the repertory of the great actors Zaccone and Novelli, who have acted it, not only throughout Italy, but in Austria, Germany, Russia, Spain, and South America.

It was with Les Revenants that Ibsen first appeared on the French stage. The play was produced by the Théâtre Libre (at the Théâtre des Menus-Plaisirs) on May 29, 1890. Once again, it became the rallying cry for the new generation of authors and critics, sparking a lot of backlash from the old guard. However, the harshest French criticisms were relatively mild compared to the waves of insults that Ghosts received from London journalists when, on March 13, 1891, the Independent Theatre, under Mr. J. T. Grein, staged a private performance at the Royalty Theatre in Soho. I've previously documented some of the incredible attacks made by critics [Note: See "The Mausoleum of Ibsen," Fortnightly Review, August 1893. See also Mr. Bernard Shaw's Quintessence of Ibsenism, p. 89, and my introduction to Ghosts in the single-volume edition.], so I won't go into detail about them here. It's enough to say that if the play had been even a fraction as offensive as the insults thrown at it and its author, the Censor's ban would have been fully warranted. That ban is still in effect (1906). England proudly holds the distinction of being the only country in the world where Ghosts cannot be performed publicly. In the United States, the first performance of the play in English took place at the Berkeley Lyceum in New York City on January 5, 1894. Mr. W. D. Howells described the production as "a great theatrical event—the very greatest I have ever known." Other prominent writers were equally impressed. Five years later, a second performance occurred at the Carnegie Lyceum, and an adventurous manager even took the play on tour across the United States. The Italian version of the tragedy, Gli Spettri, has been a staple in the repertoires of renowned actors Zaccone and Novelli since 1892, who have performed it not just throughout Italy but also in Austria, Germany, Russia, Spain, and South America.

In an interview, published immediately after Ibsen's death, Björnstjerne Björnson, questioned as to what he held to be his brother-poet's greatest work, replied, without a moment's hesitation, Gengangere. This dictum can scarcely, I think, be accepted without some qualification. Even confining our attention to the modern plays, and leaving out of comparison The Pretenders, Brand, and Peer Gynt, we can scarcely call Ghosts Ibsen's richest or most human play, and certainly not his profoundest or most poetical. If some omnipotent Censorship decreed the annihilation of all his works save one, few people, I imagine, would vote that that one should be Ghosts. Even if half a dozen works were to be saved from the wreck, I doubt whether I, for my part, would include Ghosts in the list. It is, in my judgment, a little bare, hard, austere. It is the first work in which Ibsen applies his new technical method—evolved, as I have suggested, during the composition of A Doll's House—and he applies it with something of fanaticism. He is under the sway of a prosaic ideal—confessed in the phrase, "My object was to make the reader feel that he was going through a piece of real experience"—and he is putting some constraint upon the poet within him. The action moves a little stiffly, and all in one rhythm. It lacks variety and suppleness. Moreover, the play affords some slight excuse for the criticism which persists in regarding Ibsen as a preacher rather than as a creator—an author who cares more for ideas and doctrines than for human beings. Though Mrs. Alving, Engstrand and Regina are rounded and breathing characters, it cannot be denied that Manders strikes one as a clerical type rather than an individual, while even Oswald might not quite unfairly be described as simply and solely his father's son, an object-lesson in heredity. We cannot be said to know him, individually and intimately, as we know Helmer or Stockmann, Hialmar Ekdal or Gregors Werle. Then, again, there are one or two curious flaws in the play. The question whether Oswald's "case" is one which actually presents itself in the medical books seems to me of very trifling moment. It is typically true, even if it be not true in detail. The suddenness of the catastrophe may possibly be exaggerated, its premonitions and even its essential nature may be misdescribed. On the other hand, I conceive it probable that the poet had documents to found upon, which may be unknown to his critics. I have never taken any pains to satisfy myself upon the point, which seems to me quite immaterial. There is not the slightest doubt that the life-history of a Captain Alving may, and often does, entail upon posterity consequences quite as tragic as those which ensue in Oswald's case, and far more wide-spreading. That being so, the artistic justification of the poet's presentment of the case is certainly not dependent on its absolute scientific accuracy. The flaws above alluded to are of another nature. One of them is the prominence given to the fact that the Asylum is uninsured. No doubt there is some symbolical purport in the circumstance; but I cannot think that it is either sufficiently clear or sufficiently important to justify the emphasis thrown upon it at the end of the second act. Another dubious point is Oswald's argument in the first act as to the expensiveness of marriage as compared with free union. Since the parties to free union, as he describes it, accept all the responsibilities of marriage, and only pretermit the ceremony, the difference of expense, one would suppose, must be neither more nor less than the actual marriage fee. I have never seen this remark of Oswald's adequately explained, either as a matter of economic fact, or as a trait of character. Another blemish, of somewhat greater moment, is the inconceivable facility with which, in the third act, Manders suffers himself to be victimised by Engstrand. All these little things, taken together, detract, as it seems to me, from the artistic completeness of the play, and impair its claim to rank as the poet's masterpiece. Even in prose drama, his greatest and most consummate achievements were yet to come.

In an interview published right after Ibsen's death, Björnstjerne Björnson, when asked what he considered to be his brother-poet's greatest work, answered without hesitation, *Ghosts*. This statement can hardly be accepted without some qualifications. Even if we focus only on Ibsen's modern plays and leave out *The Pretenders*, *Brand*, and *Peer Gynt*, we can’t really say that *Ghosts* is Ibsen's richest or most human play, and certainly not his deepest or most poetic. If an all-powerful Censorship decided to eliminate all his works except one, I doubt many people would choose *Ghosts* as the one to save. Even if we could save half a dozen works from destruction, I wouldn’t include *Ghosts* on my list. To me, it feels a bit bare, harsh, and austere. It’s the first work in which Ibsen uses his new technical method—developed, as I mentioned, while writing *A Doll's House*—and he approaches it with a kind of fanaticism. He's driven by a practical ideal—shown in the phrase, "My goal was to make the reader feel like they were experiencing something real"—and he puts some limits on the poet within him. The action is somewhat stiff and consistent. It lacks variety and flexibility. Moreover, the play gives some slight support for the criticism that sees Ibsen more as a preacher than a creator—an author who cares more about ideas and doctrines than about people. Although Mrs. Alving, Engstrand, and Regina are well-rounded and lively characters, it’s clear that Manders comes off more as a clerical archetype than as an individual, and even Oswald could be unfairly labeled as merely his father’s son, a lesson in heredity. We can’t claim to know him as intimately as we know Helmer or Stockmann, Hialmar Ekdal or Gregors Werle. Additionally, there are one or two peculiar flaws in the play. Whether Oswald's "case" is one that actually appears in medical literature seems to me unimportant. It's generally true, even if the details are not. The abruptness of the disaster might be overstated, its warnings and even its essence may be misrepresented. On the other hand, I believe it’s likely the poet had sources to rely on that his critics don’t know about. I’ve never bothered to investigate that point, which seems quite irrelevant to me. There’s no doubt that the life story of a Captain Alving can, and often does, lead to consequences as tragic as those in Oswald's situation, and far more widespread. That being said, the artistic justification of the poet’s presentation of the case certainly doesn’t rest on its absolute scientific accuracy. The flaws I mentioned earlier are of a different nature. One is the emphasis placed on the fact that the Asylum is uninsured. There’s undoubtedly some symbolic meaning in that circumstance, but I don’t think it’s clear or significant enough to warrant the emphasis placed on it at the end of the second act. Another questionable point is Oswald's argument in the first act about how marriage is more expensive than free union. Since the parties in a free union, as he describes it, take on all the responsibilities of marriage and just skip the ceremony, you'd think the expense difference should only be the cost of the marriage license. I've never seen this comment from Oswald adequately explained, either as a matter of economic fact or as a character trait. Another issue, which is a bit more significant, is the almost unbelievable ease with which Manders allows himself to be manipulated by Engstrand in the third act. All these little things, taken together, seem to me to detract from the artistic completeness of the play and weaken its claim to be the poet's masterpiece. Even in prose drama, his greatest and most polished achievements were still to come.

Must we, then, wholly dissent from Björnson's judgment? I think not. In a historical, if not in an aesthetic, sense, Ghosts may well rank as Ibsen's greatest work. It was the play which first gave the full measure of his technical and spiritual originality and daring. It has done far more than any other of his plays to "move boundary-posts." It has advanced the frontiers of dramatic art and implanted new ideals, both technical and intellectual, in the minds of a whole generation of playwrights. It ranks with Hernani and La Dame aux Camélias among the epoch-making plays of the nineteenth century, while in point of essential originality it towers above them. We cannot, I think, get nearer to the truth than Georg Brandes did in the above-quoted phrase from his first notice of the play, describing it as not, perhaps, the poet's greatest work, but certainly his noblest deed. In another essay, Brandes has pointed to it, with equal justice, as marking Ibsen's final breach with his early—one might almost say his hereditary romanticism. He here becomes, at last, "the most modern of the moderns." "This, I am convinced," says the Danish critic, "is his imperishable glory, and will give lasting life to his works."

Must we completely disagree with Björnson's opinion? I don’t think so. In a historical, if not an aesthetic, sense, Ghosts might actually be Ibsen's greatest work. It was the play that first showcased the full extent of his technical and spiritual originality and boldness. It has done far more than any of his other plays to "move boundary-posts." It has pushed the limits of dramatic art and instilled new ideals, both technical and intellectual, in the minds of an entire generation of playwrights. It ranks alongside Hernani and La Dame aux Camélias as one of the groundbreaking plays of the nineteenth century, while in terms of essential originality, it stands above them. I believe we cannot get closer to the truth than Georg Brandes did in the quoted phrase from his first review of the play, describing it as possibly not the poet's greatest work, but definitely his noblest achievement. In another essay, Brandes noted, equally rightly, that it signifies Ibsen's final break from his early—one might almost say his inherited romanticism. Here he finally becomes "the most modern of the moderns." "This, I am convinced," says the Danish critic, "is his lasting glory, and will give enduring life to his works."

GHOSTS

A FAMILY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS.

(1881) CHARACTERS.

  MRS. HELEN ALVING, widow of Captain Alving, late Chamberlain to
  the King. [Note: Chamberlain (Kammerherre) is the only title of
  honour now existing in Norway. It is a distinction conferred by the
  King on men of wealth and position, and is not hereditary.]
  OSWALD ALVING, her son, a painter.
  PASTOR MANDERS.
  JACOB ENGSTRAND, a carpenter.
  REGINA ENGSTRAND, Mrs. Alving's maid.

  MRS. HELEN ALVING, widow of Captain Alving, the former Chamberlain to the King. [Note: Chamberlain (Kammerherre) is the only noble title still in use in Norway. It's an honor given by the King to wealthy and influential men, and it isn't passed down to their children.]
  OSWALD ALVING, her son, a painter.
  PASTOR MANDERS.
  JACOB ENGSTRAND, a carpenter.
  REGINA ENGSTRAND, Mrs. Alving's maid.

The action takes place at Mrs. Alving's country house, beside one of the large fjords in Western Norway.

The story unfolds at Mrs. Alving's country house, next to one of the big fjords in Western Norway.

ACT FIRST.

[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. On the table lie books, periodicals, and newspapers. In the foreground to the left a window, and by it a small sofa, with a worktable in front of it. In the background, the room is continued into a somewhat narrower conservatory, the walls of which are formed by large panes of glass. In the right-hand wall of the conservatory is a door leading down into the garden. Through the glass wall a gloomy fjord landscape is faintly visible, veiled by steady rain.]

[A spacious garden-room, with one door on the left and two doors on the right. In the center of the room is a round table surrounded by chairs. On the table are books, magazines, and newspapers. In the foreground on the left is a window, and beside it is a small sofa, with a worktable in front. In the background, the room extends into a narrower conservatory, with walls made of large glass panes. On the right wall of the conservatory is a door that leads down into the garden. Through the glass wall, a gloomy fjord landscape is faintly visible, obscured by steady rain.]

[ENGSTRAND, the carpenter, stands by the garden door. His left leg is somewhat bent; he has a clump of wood under the sole of his boot. REGINA, with an empty garden syringe in her hand, hinders him from advancing.]

[ENGSTRAND, the carpenter, stands by the garden door. His left leg is slightly bent; there's a piece of wood stuck under the sole of his boot. REGINA, holding an empty garden syringe, stops him from moving forward.]

REGINA. [In a low voice.] What do you want? Stop where you are. You're positively dripping.

REGINA. [In a low voice.] What do you want? Stay right there. You're drenched.

ENGSTRAND. It's the Lord's own rain, my girl.

ENGSTRAND. It's God's 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 wanted to say—

ENGSTRAND. Wow, Regina, the way you talk. [Limps a step or two forward into the room.] Here’s what I wanted to say—

REGINA. Don't clatter so with that foot of yours, I tell you! The young master's asleep upstairs.

REGINA. Stop making so much noise with your foot, I’m serious! The young master is sleeping upstairs.

ENGSTRAND. Asleep? In the middle of the day?

ENGSTRAND. Asleep? In the daylight?

REGINA. It's no business of yours.

REGINA. It's not your problem.

ENGSTRAND. I was out on the loose last night—

ENGSTRAND. I was out and about last night—

REGINA. I can quite believe that.

REGINA. I completely believe that.

ENGSTRAND. Yes, we're weak vessels, we poor mortals, my girl—

ENGSTRAND. Yes, we’re fragile beings, we poor souls, my girl—

REGINA. So it seems.

REGINA. Looks that way.

ENGSTRAND.—and temptations are manifold in this world, you see. But all the same, I was hard at work, God knows, at half-past five this morning.

ENGSTRAND.—and there are many temptations in this world, you see. But still, I was really hard at work, God knows, at half-past five this morning.

REGINA. Very well; only be off now. I won't stop here and have rendezvous's [Note: This and other French words by Regina are in that language in the original] with you.

REGINA. Alright; just go now. I won’t stick around and have rendezvous with you.

ENGSTRAND. What do you say you won't have?

ENGSTRAND. What do you mean you won't have?

REGINA. I won't have any one find you here; so just you go about your business.

REGINA. I don’t want anyone to find you here, so just 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.

ENGSTRAND. [Takes a step or two forward.] I swear, I'm not leaving until I've had a chat with you. This afternoon, I'll finish my work at the schoolhouse, and then I'll catch tonight’s boat and head back to town.

REGINA. [Mutters.] Pleasant journey to you!

REGINA. [Mutters.] Have a nice trip!

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 intoxicating drink going, you know. And nobody shall say of Jacob Engstrand that he can't keep out of temptation's way.

ENGSTRAND. Thanks, my child. Tomorrow the Orphanage opens, and there will be celebrations for sure, with lots of drinks flowing, you know. And nobody can say that Jacob Engstrand can't resist temptation.

REGINA. Oh!

REGINA. Wow!

ENGSTRAND. You see, there's to be heaps of grand folks here to-morrow. Pastor Manders is expected from town, too.

ENGSTRAND. You see, there are going to be a lot of important people here tomorrow. Pastor Manders is also expected from town.

REGINA. He's coming to-day.

REGINA. He's coming today.

ENGSTRAND. There, you see! And I should be cursedly sorry if he found out anything against me, don't you understand?

ENGSTRAND. See! I would be seriously upset if he discovered anything about me, don’t you get it?

REGINA. Oho! is that your game?

REGINA. Oh wow! Is that your plan?

ENGSTRAND. Is what my game?

ENGSTRAND. Is this my game?

REGINA. [Looking hard at him.] What are you going to fool Pastor Manders into doing, this time?

REGINA. [Looking hard at him.] What are you planning to trick 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 wanted to say, you know—that I mean to be off home again to-night.

ENGSTRAND. Shh! Are you out of your mind? Do I want to trick Pastor Manders? Absolutely not! Pastor Manders has been way too good a friend to me for that. But I just wanted to mention, you know—that I'm planning to head home again tonight.

REGINA. The sooner the better, say I.

REGINA. The sooner, the better, I say.

ENGSTRAND. Yes, but I want you with me, Regina.

REGINA. [Open-mouthed.] You want me—? What are you talking about?

REGINA. [Open-mouthed.] You want me—? What are you saying?

ENGSTRAND. I want you to come home with me, I say.

ENGSTRAND. I want you to come home with me, I said.

REGINA. [Scornfully.] Never in this world shall you get me home with you.

REGINA. [Scornfully.] You'll never get me to go 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!

REGINA. Yes, you can be sure we'll look into it! Me, who was raised by a woman like Mrs. Alving! Me, who is treated almost like a daughter here! Is it me you want to take home with you?—to a house like yours? That's disgraceful!

ENGSTRAND. What the devil do you mean? Do you set yourself up against your father, you hussy?

ENGSTRAND. What the hell do you mean? Are you really going against your father, you little brat?

REGINA. [Mutters without looking at him.] You've said often enough I was no concern of yours.

REGINA. [Mutters without looking at him.] You've made it clear many times that I wasn't your concern.

ENGSTRAND. Pooh! Why should you bother about that—

ENGSTRAND. Ugh! Why should you care about that—

REGINA. Haven't you many a time sworn at me and called me a—? Fi donc!

REGINA. Haven't you often sworn at me and called me a—? Fi donc!

ENGSTRAND. Curse me, now, if ever I used such an ugly word.

ENGSTRAND. Damn me, now, if I ever used such an ugly word.

REGINA. Oh, I remember very well what word you used.

REGINA. Oh, I remember exactly 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.

ENGSTRAND. Well, that was only when I was feeling a little off, you know? There are many temptations in this world, Regina.

REGINA. Ugh!

ENGSTRAND. And besides, it was when your mother was that aggravating—I had to find something to twit her 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.] Mercy on us! She could never forget that the Captain was made a Chamberlain while she was in service here.

ENGSTRAND. And besides, your mother was so annoying— I had to find something to tease her about, my child. She always acted like a high-class lady. [Mimics.] "Let me go, Engstrand; just let me be. Remember, I spent three years in Chamberlain Alving's household at Rosenvold." [Laughs.] Good gracious! She could never let go of the fact that the Captain became a Chamberlain while she was working here.

REGINA. Poor mother! you very soon tormented her into her grave.

REGINA. Poor mother! You quickly drove her to her grave.

ENGSTRAND. [With a twist of his shoulders.] Oh, of course! I'm to have the blame for everything.

ENGSTRAND. [With a twist of his shoulders.] Oh, of course! I'm going to be blamed for everything.

REGINA. [Turns away; half aloud.] Ugh—! And that leg too!

REGINA. [Turns away; half aloud.] Ugh—! And that leg as well!

ENGSTRAND. What do you say, my child?

ENGSTRAND. What do you think, my child?

REGINA. Pied de mouton.

REGINA. Sheepsfoot.

ENGSTRAND. Is that English, eh?

ENGSTRAND. Is that English, huh?

REGINA. Yes.

REGINA. Yeah.

ENGSTRAND. Ay, ay; you've picked up some learning out here; and that may come in useful now, Regina.

ENGSTRAND. Yeah, yeah; you've picked up some knowledge out here; and that might come in handy now, Regina.

REGINA. [After a short silence.] What do you want with me in town?

REGINA. [After a brief pause.] What do you need from me in town?

ENGSTRAND. Can you ask what a father wants with his only child? A'n't I a lonely, forlorn widower?

ENGSTRAND. Can you tell me what a father wants with his only child? Am I not a lonely, miserable widower?

REGINA. Oh, don't try on any nonsense like that with me! Why do you want me?

REGINA. Oh, don’t pull 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.

ENGSTRAND. Well, let me tell you, I've been thinking about starting a new business.

REGINA. [Contemptuously.] You've tried that often enough, and much good you've done with it.

REGINA. [Contemptuously.] You've attempted that plenty of times, and it hasn't helped you at all.

ENGSTRAND. Yes, but this time you shall see, Regina! Devil take me—

ENGSTRAND. Yeah, but this time you’ll see, Regina! Devil take me—

REGINA. [Stamps.] Stop your swearing!

REGINA. [Stamps.] Stop cursing!

ENGSTRAND. Hush, hush; you're right enough there, my girl. What I wanted to say was just this—I've laid by a very tidy pile from this Orphanage job.

ENGSTRAND. Hush, hush; you’re absolutely right there, my girl. What I wanted to say was this—I’ve saved up a pretty good amount from this Orphanage job.

REGINA. Have you? That's a good thing for you.

REGINA. Have you? That's great for you.

ENGSTRAND. What can a man spend his ha'pence on here in this country hole?

ENGSTRAND. What can a guy spend his pennies on in this country dump?

REGINA. Well, what then?

REGINA. So, what now?

ENGSTRAND. Why, you see, I thought of putting the money into some paying speculation. I thought of a sort of a sailor's tavern—

ENGSTRAND. Well, you see, I was thinking about putting the money into some profitable venture. I considered opening a kind of sailors' bar—

REGINA. Pah!

REGINA. Ugh!

ENGSTRAND. A regular high-class affair, of course; not any sort of pig-sty for common sailors. No! damn it! it would be for captains and mates, and—and—regular swells, you know.

ENGSTRAND. A proper upscale place, of course; not some rundown dive for ordinary sailors. No! Damn it! it would be for captains and first mates, and—and—real VIPs, you know.

REGINA. And I was to—?

REGINA. And I was supposed to—?

ENGSTRAND. You were to help, to be sure. Only for the look of the thing, you understand. Devil a bit of hard work shall you have, my girl. You shall do exactly what you like.

ENGSTRAND. You were supposed to help, that's for sure. Just for appearances, you know. You won't have to lift a finger, my girl. You can do whatever you want.

REGINA. Oh, indeed!

REGINA. Oh, definitely!

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 dancing, and so on. You must remember they're weary wanderers on the ocean of life. [Nearer.] Now don't be a fool and stand in your own light, Regina. What's to become 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?

ENGSTRAND. But there has to be a woman in the house; that's obvious. I want to have some fun like we do in the evenings, with singing and dancing, and all that. You have to remember they're tired travelers on the journey of life. [Closer.] Now don’t be foolish and get in your own way, Regina. What’s going to happen to you out here? Your boss has taught you a lot, but what good is that to you? I hear you’re supposed to take care of the kids at the new orphanage. Is that really the kind of thing you want to do? Are you so determined to wear yourself out for a bunch of filthy little kids?

REGINA. No; if things go as I want them to—Well there's no saying—there's no saying.

REGINA. No; if things go the way I want them to—well, who knows—there’s no telling.

ENGSTRAND. What do you mean by "there's no saying"?

ENGSTRAND. What do you mean by "there's no telling"?

REGINA. Never you mind.—How much money have you saved?

REGINA. Don't worry about it. How much money have you saved?

ENGSTRAND. What with one thing and another, a matter of seven or eight hundred crowns. [A "krone" is equal to one shilling and three-halfpence.]

ENGSTRAND. With everything going on, it's about seven or eight hundred crowns. [A "krone" is equal to one shilling and three-halfpence.]

REGINA. That's not so bad.

REGINA. That's not too bad.

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

ENGSTRAND. This is a good start, my girl.

REGINA. Aren't you thinking of giving me any?

REGINA. Aren't you thinking about giving me any?

ENGSTRAND. No, I'm blest if I am!

ENGSTRAND. No, I swear I’m not!

REGINA. Not even of sending me a scrap of stuff for a new dress?

REGINA. Not even sending me anything for a new dress?

ENGSTRAND. Come to town with me, my lass, and you'll soon get dresses enough.

ENGSTRAND. Come to town with me, girl, and you'll soon have plenty of dresses.

REGINA. Pooh! I can do that on my own account, if I want to.

REGINA. Ugh! I can handle that myself, 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.

ENGSTRAND. No, what you need is a father's guidance, Regina. Now, I've been looking at a solid house on Little Harbour Street. They don't require much upfront cash; and it could serve as a kind of Sailors' Home, you know.

REGINA. But I will not live with you! I have nothing whatever to do with you. Be off!

REGINA. But I won't live with you! I want nothing to do with you. Go away!

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—

ENGSTRAND. You wouldn't stick around with me for long, my girl. No such luck! If you knew how to handle things, such a beautiful girl as you've become in the last year or two—

REGINA. Well?

REGINA. So?

ENGSTRAND. You'd soon get hold of some mate—or maybe even a captain—

ENGSTRAND. You'd quickly find a buddy—or maybe even a captain—

REGINA. I won't marry any one of that sort. Sailors have no savoir vivre.

REGINA. I won't marry anyone like that. Sailors have no savoir vivre.

ENGSTRAND. What's that they haven't got?

ENGSTRAND. What is it that they don't have?

REGINA. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They're not the sort of people to marry.

REGINA. I know what sailors are like, believe me. They're not the kind of people you want to marry.

ENGSTRAND. Then never mind about marrying them. You can make it pay all the same. [More confidentially.] 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.

ENGSTRAND. Then forget about marrying them. You can still make it work. [More confidentially.] He—the Englishman—the guy with the yacht—he showed up with three hundred dollars, he did; and she wasn't any prettier than you.

REGINA. [Making for him.] Out you go!

REGINA. [Walking toward him.] Get out!

ENGSTRAND. [Falling back.] Come, come! You're not going to hit me, I hope.

ENGSTRAND. [Stepping back.] Come on! I hope you're not actually going to hit me.

REGINA. Yes, if you begin talking about mother I shall hit you. Get away with you, I say! [Drives him back towards the garden door.] And don't slam the doors. Young Mr. Alving—

REGINA. Yes, if you start talking about my mother, I'll hit you. Get out of here, I say! [Pushes him back toward the garden 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—?

ENGSTRAND. He’s asleep; I know. You’re really concerned about young Mr. Alving—[More softly.] Oh! you don’t mean to say it’s him who—?

REGINA. Be off this minute! You're crazy, I tell you! No, not that way. There comes Pastor Manders. Down the kitchen stairs with you.

REGINA. Get lost right now! You’re out of your mind, I’m telling you! No, not that way. Here comes Pastor Manders. Hurry down the kitchen stairs!

ENGSTRAND. [Towards the right.] Yes, yes, I'm going. But just you talk to him as is coming 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 can prove it from the church register.

ENGSTRAND. [Towards the right.] Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way. But you should talk to him when he gets here. He’s the one who can explain what a child owes to their father. Because I’m still your father, you know. I can prove it with the church records.

[He goes out through the second 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; and settles her necktie; then she busies herself with the flowers.]

[He exits through the second door on the right, which REGINA has opened, and it shuts behind him. REGINA quickly checks herself in the mirror, dusts herself off with her pocket handkerchief, and adjusts her necktie; then she starts arranging the flowers.]

[PASTOR MANDERS, wearing an overcoat, carrying an umbrella, and with a small travelling-bag on a strap over his shoulder, comes through the garden door into the conservatory.]

[PASTOR MANDERS, wearing a coat, holding an umbrella, and with a small travel bag slung over his shoulder, enters the conservatory through the garden door.]

MANDERS. Good-morning, Miss Engstrand.

MANDERS. Good morning, Miss Engstrand.

REGINA. [Turning round, surprised and pleased.] No, really! Good morning, Pastor Manders. Is the steamer in already?

REGINA. [Turning around, surprised and happy.] No way! Good morning, Pastor Manders. Is the steamer here already?

MANDERS. It is just in. [Enters the sitting-room.] Terrible weather we have been having lately.

MANDERS. It's just in. [Enters the sitting-room.] We've been having some terrible weather lately.

REGINA. [Follows him.] It's such blessed weather for the country, sir.

REGINA. [Follows him.] It's such beautiful weather for the countryside, sir.

MANDERS. No doubt; you are quite right. We townspeople give too little thought to that. [He begins to take off his overcoat.]

MANDERS. No doubt; you're absolutely right. We city folks don’t think about that enough. [He starts 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 and let it dry.

REGINA. Oh, can I help you?—Wow, it’s so wet! I’ll just hang it up in the hallway. And your umbrella, too—I’ll open it and let it dry.

[She goes out with the things through the second door on the right. PASTOR MANDERS takes off his travelling bag and lays it and his hat on a chair. Meanwhile REGINA comes in again.]

[She goes out with the things through the second door on the right. PASTOR MANDERS takes off his travel bag and sets it and his hat on a chair. Meanwhile, REGINA comes in again.]

MANDERS. Ah, it's a comfort to get safe under cover. I hope everything is going on well here?

MANDERS. Ah, it's nice to finally be indoors. I hope everything is going smoothly here?

REGINA. Yes, thank you, sir.

REGINA. Yes, thank you.

MANDERS. You have your hands full, I suppose, in preparation for to-morrow?

MANDERS. I guess you’re busy getting ready for tomorrow?

REGINA. Yes, there's plenty to do, of course.

REGINA. Yes, there's a lot to do, of course.

MANDERS. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I trust?

MANDERS. I hope Mrs. Alving is at home?

REGINA. Oh dear, yes. She's just upstairs, looking after the young master's chocolate.

REGINA. Oh dear, yes. She’s just upstairs, taking care of the young master’s chocolate.

MANDERS. Yes, by-the-bye—I heard down at the pier that Oswald had arrived.

MANDERS. By the way, I heard at the pier that Oswald is here.

REGINA. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect him before to-day.

REGINA. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect him until today.

MANDERS. Quite strong and well, I hope?

MANDERS. I hope you're doing well and feeling strong?

REGINA. Yes, thank you, quite; but dreadfully tired with the journey. He has made one rush right through from Paris—the whole way in one train, I believe. He's sleeping a little now, I think; so perhaps we'd better talk a little quietly.

REGINA. Yeah, thanks, that's good; but I'm really tired from the trip. He made a non-stop journey all the way from Paris—in one train, I think. He’s sleeping a bit now, so maybe we should talk a little more quietly.

MANDERS. Sh!—as quietly as you please.

MANDERS. Shh!—as quietly as you can.

REGINA. [Arranging an arm-chair beside the table.] Now, do sit down, Pastor Manders, and make yourself comfortable. [He sits down; she places a footstool under his feet.] There! Are you comfortable now, sir?

REGINA. [Arranging an armchair beside the table.] Now, please take a seat, Pastor Manders, and get comfortable. [He sits down; she puts a footstool under his feet.] There! Are you comfortable 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.

MANDERS. Thanks, thanks, a lot. [Looks at her.] You know, Miss Engstrand, I really think you’ve grown since I last saw you.

REGINA. Do you think so, Sir? Mrs. Alving says I've filled out too.

REGINA. Do you really think so, Sir? Mrs. Alving says I've gotten a bit fuller too.

MANDERS. Filled out? Well, perhaps a little; just enough.

MANDERS. Filled out? Well, maybe a bit; just enough.

[Short pause.]

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

REGINA. Should I let Mrs. Alving know you’re 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?

MANDERS. Thanks, thanks, there’s no rush, my dear. By the way, Regina, my good girl, can you tell me how your father is doing out here?

REGINA. Oh, thank you, sir, he's getting on well enough.

REGINA. Oh, thank you, sir, he's doing just fine.

MANDERS. He called upon me last time he was in town.

MANDERS. He visited me the last time he was in town.

REGINA. Did he, indeed? He's always so glad of a chance of talking to you, sir.

REGINA. Did he really? He's always so happy to have a chance to talk to you, sir.

MANDERS. And you often look in upon him at his work, I daresay?

MANDERS. I suppose you often check in on him while he's working?

REGINA. I? Oh, of course, when I have time, I—

REGINA. I? Oh, sure, 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.

MANDERS. Your father isn't a strong person, Miss Engstrand. He really needs someone to help him.

REGINA. Oh, yes; I daresay he does.

REGINA. Oh, yes; I bet he does.

MANDERS. He requires some one near him whom he cares for, and whose judgment he respects. He frankly admitted as much when he last came to see me.

MANDERS. He needs someone close by that he cares about and respects their opinion. He openly admitted this the last time he came to see me.

REGINA. Yes, he mentioned something of the sort to me. But I don't know whether Mrs. Alving can spare me; especially now that we've got the new Orphanage to attend to. And then I should be so sorry to leave Mrs. Alving; she has always been so kind to me.

REGINA. Yeah, he mentioned something like that to me. But I’m not sure if Mrs. Alving can spare me, especially now that we have the new Orphanage to take care of. Plus, I would really hate to leave Mrs. Alving; she’s 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 consent.

MANDERS. But a daughter's responsibility, my dear girl—Of course, we would first need to get your mistress's approval.

REGINA. But I don't know whether it would be quite proper for me, at my age, to keep house for a single man.

REGINA. But I’m not sure if it would be proper for me, at my age, to run a household for a single man.

MANDERS. What! My dear Miss Engstrand! When the man is your own father!

MANDERS. What! My dear Miss Engstrand! When the man is your own dad!

REGINA. Yes, that may be; but all the same—Now, if it were in a thoroughly nice house, and with a real gentleman—

REGINA. Yeah, that could be true; but still—Now, if it were in a really nice house, and with a true gentleman—

MANDERS. Why, my dear Regina—

REGINA.—one I could love and respect, and be a daughter to—

REGINA.—someone I could love and respect, and be a daughter to—

MANDERS. Yes, but my dear, good child—

MANDERS. Yes, but my dear, good kid—

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 can assure you I'm both quick and willing. Don't you know of any such place for me, sir?

REGINA. Then I'd be happy to go to town. It’s really lonely out here; you know how it feels to be alone in the world. And I can promise you I’m both eager and ready. Don’t you know of any place like that for me, sir?

MANDERS. I? No, certainly not.

Absolutely not.

REGINA. But, dear, dear Sir, do remember me if—

REGINA. But, dear, dear Sir, please remember me if—

MANDERS. [Rising.] Yes, yes, certainly, Miss Engstrand.

MANDERS. [Rising.] Yes, of course, Miss Engstrand.

REGINA. For if I—

REGINA. Because if I—

MANDERS. Will you be so good as to tell your mistress I am here?

MANDERS. Could you please let your mistress know I’m here?

REGINA. I will, at once, sir. [She goes out to the left.]

REGINA. I’ll do that right away, sir. [She exits 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. Then he returns to the table, takes up a book, and looks at the title-page; starts, and looks at several books.] Ha—indeed!

MANDERS. [Walks around the room a few times, pauses for a moment in the background with his hands behind his back, and gazes out at the garden. Then he goes back to the table, picks up a book, and checks the title page; he jumps slightly and flips through several books.] Wow—really!

[MRS. ALVING enters by the door on the left; she is followed by REGINA, who immediately goes out by the first door on the right.]

[MRS. ALVING enters through the door on the left; she is followed by REGINA, who quickly exits through the first door on the right.]

MRS. ALVING. [Holds out her hand.] Welcome, my dear Pastor.

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

MANDERS. How are you, Mrs. Alving? I'm here as I said I would be.

MRS. ALVING. Always punctual to the minute.

MRS. ALVING. Always on time, right to the minute.

MANDERS. You may believe it was not so easy for me to get away. With all the Boards and Committees I belong to—

MANDERS. You might think it was easy for me to leave. With all the Boards and Committees I'm part of—

MRS. ALVING. That makes it all the kinder of you to come so early. Now we can get through our business before dinner. But where is your portmanteau?

MRS. ALVING. That's why it's so thoughtful of you to come so early. Now we can take care of our business before dinner. But where's your suitcase?

MANDERS. [Quickly.] I left it down at the inn. I shall sleep there to-night.

MANDERS. [Quickly.] I left it at the inn. I'm staying there tonight.

MRS. ALVING. [Suppressing a smile.] Are you really not to be persuaded, even now, to pass the night under my roof?

MRS. ALVING. [Holding back a smile.] Are you really not going to be convinced, even now, to spend the night at my place?

MANDERS. No, no, Mrs. Alving; many thanks. I shall stay at the inn, as usual. It is so conveniently near the landing-stage.

MANDERS. No, no, Mrs. Alving; thank you very much. I'll stay at the inn, like always. It's so conveniently close to the landing stage.

MRS. ALVING. Well, you must have your own way. But I really should have thought we two old people—

MRS. ALVING. Well, you have to do things your way. But I honestly would have thought we two older folks—

MANDERS. Now you are making fun of me. Ah, you're naturally in great spirits to-day—what with to-morrow's festival and Oswald's return.

MANDERS. Now you're teasing me. Ah, you're in a great mood today—what with tomorrow's festival and Oswald coming back.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; you can 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.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; you can imagine how wonderful that is for me! It's been over two years since he was last home. And now he has promised to stay with me for the whole winter.

MANDERS. Has he really? That is very nice and dutiful of him. For I can well believe that life in Rome and Paris has very different attractions from any we can offer here.

MANDERS. Has he really? That's very thoughtful and responsible of him. I can definitely understand that life in Rome and Paris has a lot more to offer than anything we can provide here.

MRS. ALVING. Ah, but here he has his mother, you see. My own darling boy—he hasn't forgotten his old mother!

MRS. ALVING. Ah, but he has his mother here, you see. My sweet boy—he hasn't forgotten his old mom!

MANDERS. It would be grievous indeed, if absence and absorption in art and that sort of thing were to blunt his natural feelings.

MANDERS. It would be really sad if being away and caught up in art and all that stuff made him lose touch with 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 down presently; he's upstairs just now, resting a little on the sofa. But do sit down, my dear Pastor.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, you could say that. But there’s nothing to worry about with him. I’m really curious to see if you recognize him again. He’ll be down shortly; he’s upstairs right now, resting on the sofa. But please, have a seat, my dear Pastor.

MANDERS. Thank you. Are you quite at liberty—?

MANDERS. Thank you. Are you free to talk—?

MRS. ALVING. Certainly. [She sits by the table.]

MRS. ALVING. Of course. [She sits at the table.]

MANDERS. Very well. Then let me show you—[He goes to the chair where his travelling-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 come to be here?

MANDERS. Alright. Let me show you—[He goes to the chair where his travel bag is, 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 start, here is—[Breaking off.] Tell me, Mrs. Alving, how did these books end up here?

MRS. ALVING. These books? They are books I am reading.

MRS. ALVING. These books? They’re books I’m reading.

MANDERS. Do you read this sort of literature?

MANDERS. Do you read this kind of literature?

MRS. ALVING. Certainly I do.

MRS. ALVING. Of course I do.

MANDERS. Do you feel better or happier for such reading?

MANDERS. Do you feel better or happier after reading that?

MRS. ALVING. I feel, so to speak, more secure.

MRS. ALVING. I feel, in a way, more secure.

MANDERS. That is strange. How do you mean?

MANDERS. That's odd. What do you mean?

MRS. ALVING. Well, I seem to find explanation and confirmation of all sorts of things I myself have been thinking. For that is the wonderful part of it, Pastor Manders—there 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.

MRS. ALVING. Well, I feel like I’m discovering explanations and validation for all kinds of things I’ve been pondering. That’s the amazing part, Pastor Manders—there’s really nothing new in these books, just what most people think and believe. The only difference is that most people either don’t put it into words for themselves or choose to stay silent about it.

MANDERS. Great heavens! Do you really believe that most people—?

MANDERS. Oh my gosh! Do you really think that most people—?

MRS. ALVING. I do, indeed.

Mrs. Alving: I really do.

MANDERS. But surely not in this country? Not here among us?

MANDERS. But definitely not in this country? Not here with us?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, certainly; here as elsewhere.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, of course; just like everywhere else.

MANDERS. Well, I really must say—!

MANDERS. Well, I have to say—!

MRS. ALVING. For the rest, what do you object to in these books?

MRS. ALVING. So, what do you disagree with in these books?

MANDERS. Object to in them? You surely do not suppose that I have nothing better to do than to study such publications as these?

MANDERS. Objection to them? You can't seriously think that I have nothing better to do than read stuff like this?

MRS. ALVING. That is to say, you know nothing of what you are condemning?

MRS. ALVING. So you’re saying you have no idea what you’re criticizing?

MANDERS. I have read enough about these writings to disapprove of them.

MANDERS. I've read enough about these writings to disapprove of them.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; but your own judgment—

MANDERS. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many 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 become of society?

MANDERS. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many times in life when we have to depend on each other. That’s just how things are in this world, and it's a good thing they are. Otherwise, what would happen to society?

MRS. ALVING. Well, well, I daresay you're right there.

MRS. ALVING. Well, I guess you're right about that.

MANDERS. Besides, I of course do not deny that there may be much that is attractive in such books. Nor can 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—

MANDERS. Besides, I certainly don't deny that there can be a lot that’s appealing in those kinds of books. And I can't fault you for wanting to stay in touch with the intellectual trends that are supposedly happening in the wider world—where you've allowed your son to spend so much of his life. But—

MRS. ALVING. But?

MRS. ALVING. But why?

MANDERS. [Lowering his voice.] But one should not talk about it, Mrs. Alving. One is certainly not bound to account to everybody for what one reads and thinks within one's own four walls.

MANDERS. [Lowering his voice.] But we shouldn't discuss it, Mrs. Alving. We're definitely not obligated to explain to everyone what we read and think in the privacy of our own homes.

MRS. ALVING. Of course not; I quite agree with you.

MRS. ALVING. Of course not; I totally agree with you.

MANDERS. Only think, now, how you are bound to consider the interests of this Orphanage, which you decided on founding at a time when—if I understand you rightly—you thought very differently on spiritual matters.

MANDERS. Just think about how you have to consider the interests of this Orphanage, which you decided to start when—if I’m getting you correctly—you had a very different view on spiritual matters.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; I quite admit that. But it was about the Orphanage—

MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; I totally agree with that. 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?

MANDERS. We were supposed to talk about the Orphanage; that's right. All I’m saying is: be careful, my dear lady! Now, let's get down to business. [Opens the packet and takes out a number of papers.] Do you see these?

MRS. ALVING. The documents?

Mrs. Alving. The papers?

MANDERS. All—and in perfect order. I can 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 constructed 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.'"

MANDERS. Everything’s here—and in perfect order. I can tell you it was tough to get them on time. I had to really push. The authorities are almost overly meticulous when it comes to making any important decisions. But here they are at last. [Looks through the bundle.] Look! Here’s the formal deed of gift for the piece of land called Solvik in the Manor of Rosenvold, including all the newly built structures, classrooms, the master's house, and the chapel. And here’s the legal approval for the endowment and the bylaws of the Institution. Will you take a look at them? [Reads.] "Bylaws for the Children's Home to be known as 'Captain Alving's Foundation.'"

MRS. ALVING. (Looks long at the paper.) So there it is.

MRS. ALVING. (Stares at the paper for a while.) So, here it is.

MANDERS. I have chosen the designation "Captain" rather than "Chamberlain." "Captain" looks less pretentious.

MANDERS. I’ve picked the title "Captain" instead of "Chamberlain." "Captain" feels less showy.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; just as you think best.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, sure; whatever you think is best.

MANDERS. And here you have the Bank Account of the capital lying at interest to cover the current expenses of the Orphanage.

MANDERS. And here’s the bank account for the capital earning interest to cover the ongoing expenses of the orphanage.

MRS. ALVING. Thank you; but please keep it—it will be more convenient.

MRS. ALVING. Thank you, but please hold onto it—it’ll be more convenient.

MANDERS. With pleasure. I think we will leave the money in the Bank for the present. The interest is certainly not what we could wish—four per cent. and six months' notice of withdrawal. If a good mortgage could be found later on—of course it must be a first mortgage and an unimpeachable security—then we could consider the matter.

MANDERS. Sure thing. I think we’ll keep the money in the bank for now. The interest isn’t great—four percent and we need to give six months' notice to withdraw. If we can find a good mortgage later on—obviously, it has to be a first mortgage with solid security—then we can think about it.

MRS. ALVING. Certainly, my dear Pastor Manders. You are the best judge in these things.

MRS. ALVING. Of course, my dear Pastor Manders. You’re the best at judging these things.

MANDERS. I will keep my eyes open at any rate.—But now there is one thing more which I have several times been intending to ask you.

MANDERS. I’ll definitely stay alert. —But there's one more thing I've meant to ask you several times.

MRS. ALVING. And what is that?

MANDERS. Shall the Orphanage buildings be insured or not?

MANDERS. Should the Orphanage buildings be insured or not?

MRS. ALVING. Of course they must be insured.

MRS. ALVING. Of course they need to be insured.

MANDERS. Well, wait a moment, Mrs. Alving. Let us look into the matter a little more closely.

MANDERS. Hold on, Mrs. Alving. Let's take a closer look at this.

MRS. ALVING. I have everything insured; buildings and movables and stock and crops.

MRS. ALVING. I have everything insured: the buildings, the belongings, the inventory, and the crops.

MANDERS. Of course you have—on your own estate. And so have I—of course. But here, you see, it is quite another matter. The Orphanage is to be consecrated, as it were, to a higher purpose.

MANDERS. Of course you have—on your own property. And so have I—of course. But here, you see, it's a different situation. The Orphanage is meant to be dedicated, in a way, to a higher purpose.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, but that's no reason—

MRS. ALVING. Yes, but that’s not a reason—

MANDERS. For my own part, I should certainly not see the smallest impropriety in guarding against all contingencies—

MANDERS. As for me, I definitely wouldn’t see any problem in being cautious about all possibilities—

MRS. ALVING. No, I should think not.

MRS. ALVING. No, I don't think so.

MANDERS. But what is the general feeling in the neighbourhood? You, of course, know better than I.

MANDERS. But what's the vibe in the neighborhood? You, of course, know better than I do.

MRS. ALVING. Well—the general feeling—

MRS. ALVING. Well—the vibe—

MANDERS. Is there any considerable number of people—really responsible people—who might be scandalised?

MANDERS. Are there any significant number of people—truly responsible people—who might be offended?

MRS. ALVING. What do you mean by "really responsible people"?

MRS. ALVING. What do you mean by "truly responsible people"?

MANDERS. Well, I mean people in such independent and influential positions that one cannot help attaching some weight to their opinions.

MANDERS. Well, I mean people in really independent and influential roles, so you can't help but take their opinions seriously.

MRS. ALVING. There are several people of that sort here, who would very likely be shocked if—

MRS. ALVING. There are several people like that here, who would probably 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 action as a sign that neither you nor I had the right faith in a Higher Providence.

MANDERS. There, you see! In town, we have plenty of people like that. Just think of all my colleague's supporters! They would be more than willing to take our actions as proof that neither you nor I truly believed in a Higher Providence.

MRS. ALVING. But for your own part, my dear Pastor, you can at least tell yourself that—

MRS. ALVING. But for your own sake, my dear Pastor, you can at least tell yourself that—

MANDERS. Yes, I know—I know; my conscience would be quite easy, that is true enough. But nevertheless we should not escape grave misinterpretation; and that might very likely react unfavourably upon the Orphanage.

MANDERS. Yes, I know—I know; my conscience would be clear, that’s true. But still, we could face serious misunderstandings; and that could very likely have a negative impact on the Orphanage.

MRS. ALVING. Well, in that case—

MANDERS. Nor can 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 interest in this Orphanage. It is, of course, founded partly for the benefit of the town, as well; and it is to be hoped it will, to a considerable extent, result in lightening our Poor Rates. Now, as I have been your adviser, and have had the business arrangements in my hands, I cannot but fear that I may have to bear the brunt of fanaticism—

MANDERS. I also can’t overlook the tough—I might even say painful—situation I could find myself in. People in the prominent circles of the town are really interested in this Orphanage. It’s been established partly for the town’s benefit too, and hopefully, it will significantly help reduce our Poor Rates. Now, since I’ve been your advisor and have managed the business aspects, I can’t help but worry that I might have to face the backlash of fanaticism—

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you mustn't run the risk of that.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you can't take that chance.

MANDERS. To say nothing of the attacks that would assuredly be made upon me in certain papers and periodicals, which—

MANDERS. Not to mention the criticisms that would definitely be aimed at me in certain newspapers and magazines, which—

MRS. ALVING. Enough, my dear Pastor Manders. That consideration is quite decisive.

MRS. ALVING. That's enough, my dear Pastor Manders. That point is quite conclusive.

MANDERS. Then you do not wish the Orphanage to be insured?

MANDERS. So you don't want the Orphanage to be insured?

MRS. ALVING. No. We will let it alone.

MRS. ALVING. No. We'll leave it be.

MANDERS. [Leaning back in his chair.] But if, now, a disaster were to happen? One can never tell—Should you be able to make good the damage?

MANDERS. [Leaning back in his chair.] But what if a disaster were to happen? You can never tell—Would you be able to cover the damages?

MRS. ALVING. No; I tell you plainly I should do nothing of the kind.

MRS. ALVING. No; I'm telling you clearly I wouldn't do anything like that.

MANDERS. Then I must tell you, Mrs. Alving—we are taking no small responsibility upon ourselves.

MANDERS. Then I need to tell you, Mrs. Alving—we're taking on quite a big responsibility here.

MRS. ALVING. Do you think we can do otherwise?

MRS. ALVING. Do you think there's another way we can handle this?

MANDERS. No, that is just the point; we really cannot do otherwise. We ought not to expose ourselves to misinterpretation; and we have no right whatever to give offence to the weaker brethren.

MANDERS. No, that's exactly it; we really can't do anything else. We shouldn't put ourselves in a position to be misunderstood, and we have no right to offend those who are more vulnerable.

MRS. ALVING. You, as a clergyman, certainly should not.

MRS. ALVING. You, as a pastor, definitely should not.

MANDERS. I really think, too, we may trust that such an institution has fortune on its side; in fact, that it stands under a special providence.

MANDERS. I truly believe that we can trust this institution has good fortune on its side; in fact, that it is under a special kind of protection.

MRS. ALVING. Let us hope so, Pastor Manders.

MRS. ALVING. Let's hope so, Pastor Manders.

MANDERS. Then we will let it take its chance?

MANDERS. So, are we just going to let it take its chance?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, certainly.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, of course.

MANDERS. Very well. So be it. [Makes a note.] Then—no insurance.

MANDERS. Alright. That’s settled. [Makes a note.] Then—no insurance.

MRS. ALVING. It's odd that you should just happen to mention the matter to-day—

MRS. ALVING. It's strange that you would bring this up today—

MANDERS. I have often thought of asking you about it—

MANDERS. I've often thought about asking you about it—

MRS. ALVING.—for we very nearly had a fire down there yesterday.

MRS. ALVING.—because we almost had a fire down there yesterday.

MANDERS. You don't say so!

MANDERS. No way!

MRS. ALVING. Oh, it was a trifling matter. A heap of shavings had caught fire in the carpenter's workshop.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, it was a small thing. A bunch of sawdust had caught fire in the carpenter's workshop.

MANDERS. Where Engstrand works?

MANDERS. Where does Engstrand work?

MRS. ALVING. Yes. They say he's often very careless with matches.

MRS. ALVING. Yes. They say he's often pretty careless with matches.

MANDERS. He has so much on his mind, that man—so many things to fight against. Thank God, he is now striving to lead a decent life, I hear.

MANDERS. That man has so much on his mind—so many battles to fight. Thank God he’s now trying to live a decent life, I hear.

MRS. ALVING. Indeed! Who says so?

MRS. ALVING. Really! Who says that?

MANDERS. He himself assures me of it. And he is certainly a capital workman.

MANDERS. He assures me of it himself. And he is definitely a great worker.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; so long as he's sober—

MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; as long as he's not drunk—

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.

MANDERS. Ah, that sad weakness! But he often says it’s because of his injured leg. The last time he was in town, I was truly moved by him. He came by and thanked me so sincerely for getting him a job here, so he could be close to Regina.

MRS. ALVING. He doesn't see much of her.

MRS. ALVING. He doesn't spend much time with her.

MANDERS. Oh, yes; he has a talk with her every day. He told me so himself.

MANDERS. Oh, yes; he talks to her every day. He told me that himself.

MRS. ALVING. Well, it may be so.

MRS. ALVING. Well, that could be true.

MANDERS. He feels so acutely that he needs some one to keep a firm hold on him when temptation comes. That is what I cannot help liking about Jacob Engstrand: he comes to you so helplessly, accusing himself and confessing his own weakness. The last time he was talking to me—Believe me, Mrs. Alving, supposing it were a real necessity for him to have Regina home again—

MANDERS. He feels so deeply that he needs someone to hold him steady when temptation hits. That's what I can't help but like about Jacob Engstrand: he approaches you so helplessly, blaming himself and admitting his own weaknesses. The last time he talked to me—Believe me, Mrs. Alving, if it were truly necessary for him to have Regina back home—

MRS. ALVING. [Rising hastily.] Regina!

Mrs. Alving. [Rising quickly.] Regina!

MANDERS.—you must not set yourself against it.

MANDERS.—You shouldn't resist it.

MRS. ALVING. Indeed I shall set myself against it. And besides—Regina is to have a position in the Orphanage.

MRS. ALVING. I will definitely oppose it. And besides—Regina is going to have a role at the Orphanage.

MANDERS. But, after all, remember he is her father—

MANDERS. But, after all, remember he’s her dad—

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.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, I know exactly what kind of father he has been to her. No! She will never go to him with my blessing.

MANDERS. [Rising.] My dear lady, don't take the matter so warmly. You sadly misjudge poor Engstrand. You seem to be quite terrified—

MANDERS. [Rising.] My dear lady, don’t take this so personally. You’re seriously misjudging poor Engstrand. You seem to be really scared—

MRS. ALVING. [More quietly.] It makes no difference. I have taken Regina into my house, and there she shall stay. [Listens.] Hush, my dear Mr. Manders; say no more about it. [Her face lights up with gladness.] Listen! there is Oswald coming downstairs. Now we'll think of no one but him.

MRS. ALVING. [More softly.] It doesn’t matter. I’ve invited Regina into my home, and she’s staying. [Listens.] Hush, my dear Mr. Manders; let’s not discuss it anymore. [Her face brightens with happiness.] Listen! Oswald is coming downstairs now. From now on, we’ll focus only on 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 ALVING, wearing a light overcoat and holding his hat, smoking a large meerschaum pipe, enters through the door on the left; he pauses in the doorway.]

OSWALD. Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought you were in the study. [Comes forward.] Good-morning, Pastor Manders.

OSWALD. Oh, I'm sorry; I thought you were in the study. [Steps forward.] Good morning, Pastor Manders.

MANDERS. [Staring.] Ah—! How strange—!

MANDERS. [Staring.] Ah—! How bizarre—!

MRS. ALVING. Well now, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders?

MRS. ALVING. So, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders?

MANDERS. I—I—can it really be—?

MANDERS. I—I—can it actually be—?

OSWALD. Yes, it's really the Prodigal Son, sir.

OSWALD. Yes, it's truly 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 becoming a painter.

MRS. ALVING. Oswald is reminiscing about the time when you were so against him becoming a painter.

MANDERS. To our human eyes many a step seems dubious, which afterwards proves—[Wrings his hand.] But first of all, welcome, welcome home! Do not think, my dear Oswald—I suppose I may call you by your Christian name?

MANDERS. To us, many steps seem uncertain, but later prove—[Wrings his hand.] But first of all, welcome, welcome home! Don't think, my dear Oswald—I hope I can call you by your first name?

OSWALD. What else should you call me?

OSWALD. What else would you call me?

MANDERS. Very good. What I wanted to say was this, my dear Oswald--you must not think that I utterly condemn the artist's calling. I have no doubt there are many who can keep their inner self unharmed in that profession, as in any other.

MANDERS. That's great. What I wanted to say, my dear Oswald, is that you should not believe I completely dismiss the artist's profession. I have no doubt that there are many who can protect their true selves in that line of work, just like in any other.

OSWALD. Let us hope so.

OSWALD. Let's 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.

MRS. ALVING. [Beaming with delight.] I know someone who has managed to protect both his inner and outer self. Just look at him, Mr. Manders.

OSWALD. [Moves restlessly about the room.] Yes, yes, my dear mother; let's say no more about it.

OSWALD. [Moves restlessly around the room.] Yes, yes, my dear mother; let’s not talk about it anymore.

MANDERS. Why, certainly—that is undeniable. And you have begun to make a name for yourself already. The newspapers have often spoken of you, most favourably. Just lately, by-the-bye, I fancy I haven't seen your name quite so often.

MANDERS. Of course—that's for sure. You've already started to build a reputation for yourself. The newspapers have mentioned you quite a bit, and mostly in a positive light. By the way, I feel like I haven't seen your name pop up as much lately.

OSWALD. [Up in the conservatory.] I haven't been able to paint so much lately.

OSWALD. [Up in the conservatory.] I haven't been able to paint much lately.

MRS. ALVING. Even a painter needs a little rest now and then.

MRS. ALVING. Even a painter needs to take a break now and then.

MANDERS. No doubt, no doubt. And meanwhile he can be preparing himself and mustering his forces for some great work.

MANDERS. For sure, for sure. And in the meantime, he can be getting ready and gathering his resources for some significant project.

OSWALD. Yes.—Mother, will dinner soon be ready?

OSWALD. Yes.—Mom, is dinner almost ready?

MRS. ALVING. In less than half an hour. He has a capital appetite, thank God.

MRS. ALVING. In under half an hour. He has a great appetite, thank God.

MANDERS. And a taste for tobacco, too.

MANDERS. And a liking for tobacco, too.

OSWALD. I found my father's pipe in my room—

OSWALD. I found my dad's pipe in my room—

MANDERS. Aha—then that accounts for it!

MANDERS. Ah—that makes sense!

MRS. ALVING. For what?

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.

MANDERS. When Oswald showed up in the doorway with a pipe in his mouth, I could have sworn I was seeing his father, just as he was.

OSWALD. No, really?

OSWALD. Seriously?

MRS. ALVING. Oh, how can you say so? Oswald takes after me.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, how can you say that? Oswald is just like me.

MANDERS. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of the mouth—something about the lips—that reminds one exactly of Alving: at any rate, now that he is smoking.

MANDERS. Yes, but there's a saying about the corners of the mouth—something about the lips—that makes you think of Alving, especially now that he’s smoking.

MRS. ALVING. Not in the least. Oswald has rather a clerical curve about his mouth, I think.

MRS. ALVING. Not at all. I think Oswald has a bit of a serious look about his mouth.

MANDERS. Yes, yes; some of my colleagues have much the same expression.

MANDERS. Yes, yes; some of my coworkers have a similar look.

MRS. ALVING. But put your pipe away, my dear boy; I won't have smoking in here.

MRS. ALVING. But put your pipe away, my dear; I can't have smoking in here.

OSWALD. [Does so.] By all means. I only wanted to try it; for I once smoked it when I was a child.

OSWALD. [Does so.] Of course. I just wanted to give it a try; I smoked it once when I was a kid.

MRS. ALVING. You?

You?

OSWALD. Yes. I was quite small at the time. I recollect I came up to father's room one evening when he was in great spirits.

OSWALD. Yeah. I was pretty young back then. I remember going up to my dad's room one evening when he was in a really good mood.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you can't recollect anything of those times.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you can't remember anything from back then.

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 in great drops on my forehead. Then he burst out laughing heartily—

OSWALD. Yeah, I remember it clearly. He sat me on his lap and handed me the pipe. "Smoke, kid," he said; "go ahead, smoke!" And I puffed away as much as I could until I felt myself getting really pale, and sweat was dripping down my forehead. Then he started laughing really hard—

MANDERS. That was most extraordinary.

MANDERS. That was really amazing.

MRS. ALVING. My dear friend, it's only something Oswald has dreamt.

MRS. ALVING. My dear friend, it's just something Oswald imagined.

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 crying.—Did father often play such practical jokes?

OSWALD. No, Mom, I promise you I didn't dream it. Remember when you came and took me out to the nursery? Then I got sick, and I saw you crying. Did Dad often pull those kinds of practical jokes?

MANDERS. In his youth he overflowed with the joy of life—

MANDERS. In his youth, he was full of the joy of life—

OSWALD. And yet he managed to do so much in the world; so much that was good and useful; although he died so early.

OSWALD. And yet he accomplished so much in the world; so much that was good and helpful; even though he died so young.

MANDERS. Yes, you have inherited the name of an energetic and admirable man, my dear Oswald Alving. No doubt it will be an incentive to you—

MANDERS. Yes, you’ve inherited the name of a dynamic and admirable man, my dear Oswald Alving. No doubt it will motivate you—

OSWALD. It ought to, indeed.

OSWALD. It should, for sure.

MANDERS. It was good of you to come home for the ceremony in his honour.

MANDERS. It was kind of you to come back for the ceremony in his honor.

OSWALD. I could do no less for my father.

OSWALD. I couldn’t do anything less for my dad.

MRS. ALVING. And I am to keep him so long! That is the best of all.

MRS. ALVING. And I have to keep him for so long! That’s the best part of it all.

MANDERS. You are going to pass the winter at home, I hear.

MANDERS. I hear you’re going to spend the winter at home.

OSWALD. My stay is indefinite, sir. But, ah! it is good to be at home!

OSWALD. I'm staying for an indefinite period, sir. But, oh! it feels great to be home!

MRS. ALVING. [Beaming.] Yes, isn't it, dear?

MRS. ALVING. [Beaming.] Yes, isn't it great, dear?

MANDERS. [Looking sympathetically at him.] You went out into the world early, my dear Oswald.

MANDERS. [Looking sympathetically at him.] You entered the world at a young age, my dear Oswald.

OSWALD. I did. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn't too early.

OSWALD. I did. Sometimes I wonder if it was too soon.

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, and get spoilt.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, not at all. A healthy kid is all the better for it; especially when he's an only child. He shouldn't cling to his mom and dad at home and get spoiled.

MANDERS. That is a very disputable point, Mrs. Alving. A child's proper place is, and must be, the home of his fathers.

MANDERS. That's a really debatable point, Mrs. Alving. A child's rightful place is, and has to be, the home of their parents.

OSWALD. There I quite agree with you, Pastor Manders.

OSWALD. I completely agree with you, Pastor Manders.

MANDERS. Only look at your own son—there is no reason why we should not say it in his presence—what has the consequence 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.

MANDERS. Just look at your own son—there’s no reason not to say this in front of him—what has it meant for him? He’s in his late twenties and has never had the chance to learn what a well-structured home truly is.

OSWALD. I beg your pardon, Pastor; there you're quite mistaken.

OSWALD. I’m sorry, Pastor; you’ve got that wrong.

MANDERS. Indeed? I thought you had lived almost exclusively in artistic circles.

MANDERS. Really? I thought you spent most of your time in artistic circles.

OSWALD. So I have.

OSWALD. Yes, I have.

MANDERS. And chiefly among the younger artists?

MANDERS. And especially among the younger artists?

OSWALD. Yes, certainly.

OSWALD. Of course.

MANDERS. But I thought few of those young fellows could afford to set up house and support a family.

MANDERS. But I thought not many of those young guys could afford to have their own place and support a family.

OSWALD. There are many who cannot afford to marry, sir.

OSWALD. There are many people who can't afford to get married, sir.

MANDERS. Yes, that is just what I say.

MANDERS. Yes, that's exactly what I mean.

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.

OSWALD. But they might have a home for all that. And several of them do, actually; and they’re very nice, well-kept homes, too.

[MRS. ALVING follows with breathless interest; nods, but says nothing.]

[MRS. ALVING watches closely, clearly intrigued; she nods but doesn't say anything.]

MANDERS. But I'm not talking of bachelors' quarters. By a "home" I understand the home of a family, where a man lives with his wife and children.

MANDERS. But I'm not talking about a bachelor's pad. By a "home," I mean a family home, where a man lives with his wife and kids.

OSWALD. Yes; or with his children and his children's mother.

OSWALD. Yes; or with his kids and their mom.

MANDERS. [Starts; clasps his hands.] But, good heavens—

MANDERS. [Starts; clasps his hands.] But, oh my god—

OSWALD. Well?

OSWALD. So?

MANDERS. Lives with—his children's mother!

MANDERS. Lives with his kids' mom!

OSWALD. Yes. Would you have him turn his children's mother out of doors?

OSWALD. Yes. Would you have him throw the mother of his children out of the house?

MANDERS. Then it is illicit relations you are talking of! Irregular marriages, as people call them!

MANDERS. So you're talking about illegal relationships! Irregular marriages, as people say!

OSWALD. I have never noticed anything particularly irregular about the life these people lead.

OSWALD. I’ve never seen anything especially unusual about the life these people live.

MANDERS. But how is it possible that a—a young man or young woman with any decency of feeling can endure to live in that way?—in the eyes of all the world!

MANDERS. But how is it possible for a young man or woman with any sense of decency to keep living like that?—under the gaze of everyone!

OSWALD. What are they to do? A poor young artist—a poor girl—marriage costs a great deal. What are they to do?

OSWALD. What are they supposed to do? A struggling young artist—a young woman—getting married is really expensive. What are they going 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.

MANDERS. What are they supposed to do? Let me tell you, Mr. Alving, what they should do. They should practice self-control from the beginning; that's what they should do.

OSWALD. That doctrine will scarcely go down with warm-blooded young people who love each other.

OSWALD. That idea definitely won't sit well with passionate young people who are in love.

MRS. ALVING. No, scarcely!

MRS. ALVING. No, barely!

MANDERS. [Continuing.] How can the authorities tolerate such things! Allow them to go on in the light of day! [Confronting MRS. ALVING.] Had I not cause to be deeply concerned about your son? In circles where open immorality prevails, and has even a sort of recognised position—!

MANDERS. [Continuing.] How can the authorities allow this to happen! They let it go on in broad daylight! [Confronting MRS. ALVING.] Shouldn't I be very worried about your son? In circles where blatant immorality is common and even somewhat accepted—!

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—

OSWALD. Let me tell you, sir, that I usually spend almost all my Sundays in one or two of those unconventional homes—

MANDERS. Sunday of all days!

OSWALD. Isn't that the day to enjoy one'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 come across immorality in artistic circles?

OSWALD. Isn't that the day to have some fun? Well, I've never heard an insulting word, and I've seen even less that's immoral. No; do you know when and where I've encountered immorality in artistic communities?

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

MANDERS. No, thank goodness, 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 come to Paris to have a look round on his own account, and has done the 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.

OSWALD. Well, let me tell you. I've encountered this when one of our typical husbands or fathers has come to Paris to explore for himself and has graciously visited the artists in their simple spaces. They knew the score. These gentlemen could share stories about places and things we had never even imagined.

MANDERS. What! Do you mean to say that respectable men from home here would—?

MANDERS. What! Are you seriously saying that respectable men from home would—?

OSWALD. Have you never heard these respectable men, when they got home again, talking about the way in which immorality runs rampant abroad?

OSWALD. Haven't you ever heard these respectable men, when they got home again, talking about how immorality is everywhere?

MANDERS. Yes, no doubt—

MANDERS. Yes, for sure—

MRS. ALVING. I have too.

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 that great, free, glorious life out there should be defiled in such a way!

OSWALD. Well, you can trust them. They really know what they're talking about! [Presses his hands to his head.] Oh! How could that great, free, glorious life out there be spoiled like this!

MRS. ALVING. You mustn't get excited, Oswald. It's not good for you.

MRS. ALVING. You need to stay calm, Oswald. It's not good for your health.

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 can't take my point of view; but I couldn't help speaking out. [He goes out by the second door to the right.]

OSWALD. Yeah, you’re absolutely right, Mom. It’s not good for me, I get it. You see, I’m completely exhausted. I’m going to take a quick walk before dinner. Sorry, Pastor: I know you can’t see it my way, but I had to say something. [He goes out through the second door on the right.]

MRS. ALVING. My poor boy!

Mrs. Alving. My poor kid!

MANDERS. You may well say so. Then this is what he has come to!

MANDERS. You could say that. So this is what he’s become!

[MRS. ALVING looks at him silently.]

MANDERS. [Walking up and down.] He called himself the Prodigal Son. Alas! alas!

MANDERS. [Walking back and forth.] He referred to himself as the Prodigal Son. Oh no!

[MRS. ALVING continues looking at him.]

[MRS. ALVING keeps looking at him.]

MANDERS. And what do you say to all this?

MANDERS. So, what do you think about all this?

MRS. ALVING. I say that Oswald was right in every word.

MRS. ALVING. I’m saying that Oswald was right in everything he said.

MANDERS. [Stands still.] Right? Right! In such principles?

MANDERS. [Stands still.] Right? Right! In these principles?

MRS. ALVING. Here, in my loneliness, I have come to the same way of thinking, Pastor Manders. But I have never dared to say anything. Well! now my boy shall speak for me.

MRS. ALVING. In my solitude, I've come to the same conclusion, Pastor Manders. But I've never had the courage to voice it. Well! Now my son will speak for me.

MANDERS. You are greatly to be pitied, 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.

MANDERS. You have my sympathy, Mrs. Alving. But now I need to speak to you seriously. It’s no longer your business manager and advisor, your early friend and your husband’s friend, who’s standing in front of you. It’s the priest—the priest who was there when you were at your most lost.

MRS. ALVING. And what has the priest to say to me?

MRS. ALVING. So what does the priest want 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 memorial in his honour will be unveiled. To-morrow I shall have to speak to the whole assembled multitude. But to-day I will speak to you alone.

MANDERS. Let me jog your memory a bit. This is a good time for it. Tomorrow marks the tenth anniversary of your husband’s death. Tomorrow, the memorial in his honor will be unveiled. Tomorrow, I will have to address the entire crowd. But today, I want to talk to you alone.

MRS. ALVING. Very well, Pastor Manders. Speak.

MRS. ALVING. Alright, Pastor Manders. Go ahead.

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?

MANDERS. Do you remember that after less than a year of being married, you were on the brink of disaster? That you left your home? That you ran away from your husband? Yes, Mrs. Alving—ran away, ran away, and refused to go back to him, no matter how much he pleaded and begged you?

MRS. ALVING. Have you forgotten how infinitely miserable I was in that first year?

MRS. ALVING. Have you forgotten how incredibly 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.

MANDERS. It's a clear sign of rebelliousness to seek happiness in this life. What right do we humans have to happiness? We just need to fulfill our duties, Mrs. Alving! And your duty was to stay committed to the man you once chose, bound to him by the strongest ties.

MRS. ALVING. You know very well what sort of life Alving was leading—what excesses he was guilty of.

MRS. ALVING. You know exactly what kind of life Alving was living—what kind of excesses he was involved in.

MANDERS. I know very well what rumours there were about him; and I am the last to approve the life he led in his young days, if report did not wrong him. But a wife is not appointed to 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 your good name and reputation, and—nearly succeed in ruining other people's reputation into the bargain.

MANDERS. I know very well what rumors there were about him, and I’m the last one to support the life he led in his youth, if the reports weren't exaggerating. But a wife isn't meant to be her husband's judge. You were supposed to handle the burden that a Higher Power wisely placed upon you with humility. Instead, you defiantly cast aside the burden, abandon the person you should have supported, go out and jeopardize your good name and reputation, and—almost succeed in ruining other people's reputations in the process.

MRS. ALVING. Other people's? One other person's, you mean.

MRS. ALVING. Other people's? You mean just one other person's.

MANDERS. It was incredibly reckless of you to seek refuge with me.

MANDERS. It was really reckless of you to come to me for help.

MRS. ALVING. With our clergyman? With our intimate friend?

MRS. ALVING. With our pastor? With our close friend?

MANDERS. Just on that account. 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.

MANDERS. Exactly for that reason. Yes, you should be grateful that I had the strength to talk you out of your reckless plans; that I was able to guide you back to your responsibilities, and home to your rightful husband.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, Pastor Manders, that was certainly your work.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, Pastor Manders, that was definitely your doing.

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 back on his errors, as a man should? Did he not live with you from that time, lovingly and blamelessly, all his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the whole district? And did he not help you to rise to his own level, so that you, little by little, became his assistant in all his undertakings? And a capital assistant, too—oh, I know, Mrs. Alving, that praise is due to you.—But now I come to the next great error in your life.

MANDERS. I was just a small part of a greater plan. And what a blessing it has been for you, throughout your life, that I encouraged you to take on the responsibilities of duty and obedience! Didn’t everything unfold just as I predicted? Didn’t Alving turn away from his mistakes, like any decent man should? Didn’t he live with you from that point on, with love and integrity, for the rest of his life? Didn't he become a benefactor to the entire community? And didn’t he help you rise to his level, so that you gradually became his partner in all his endeavors? And a great partner too—oh, I know, Mrs. Alving, that credit is yours. But now I need to address the next big mistake in your life.

MRS. ALVING. What do you mean?

MANDERS. Just as you once disowned a wife's duty, so you have since disowned a mother's.

MANDERS. Just like you once rejected a wife's responsibilities, you have also since rejected a mother's.

MRS. ALVING. Ah—!

MRS. ALVING. Oh—!

MANDERS. You have been all your life under the dominion of a pestilent spirit of self-will. The whole bias of your mind has been towards insubordination and lawlessness. You have never known how to endure any bond. Everything that has weighed upon you in life you have cast away without care or conscience, like a burden you were free to throw off at will. It did not please you to be a wife any longer, and you left your husband. You found it troublesome to be a mother, and you sent your child forth among strangers.

MANDERS. You've spent your whole life under the influence of a toxic need to do what you want. Your mindset has always leaned towards rebellion and chaos. You've never been able to accept any restrictions. Everything that has burdened you in life, you've discarded without a second thought, like a weight you were free to drop whenever you pleased. You grew tired of being a wife and walked away from your husband. You found being a mother too difficult, so you sent your child away to strangers.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true. I did so.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, that’s true. I did.

MANDERS. And thus you have become a stranger to him.

MANDERS. And now you've become a stranger to him.

MRS. ALVING. No! no! I am not.

MRS. ALVING. No! No! I'm not.

MANDERS. Yes, you are; you must be. And in what state of mind has he returned to you? Bethink yourself well, Mrs. Alving. You sinned greatly against your husband;—that you recognise by raising yonder memorial to him. Recognise now, also, how you have sinned against your son—there may yet be time to lead him back from the paths of error. Turn back yourself, and save what may yet be saved in him. For [With uplifted forefinger] verily, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilt-laden mother! This I have thought it my duty to say to you.

MANDERS. Yes, you are; you definitely must be. And what state of mind has he returned to you in? Think carefully, Mrs. Alving. You did wrong by your husband; you acknowledge that by putting up that memorial for him. Now recognize how you have also wronged your son—there might still be time to steer him away from a life of mistakes. Turn back yourself, and save what can still be saved in him. For [with an uplifted finger] truly, Mrs. Alving, you are a mother burdened with guilt! I felt it was my duty to tell you this.

[Silence.]

MRS. ALVING. [Slowly and with self-control.] You have now spoken out, Pastor Manders; and to-morrow you are to speak publicly in memory of my husband. I shall not speak to-morrow. But now I will speak frankly to you, as you have spoken to me.

MRS. ALVING. [Slowly and with self-control.] You’ve shared your thoughts, Pastor Manders; and tomorrow you’ll be speaking publicly in honor of my husband. I won’t be speaking tomorrow. But right now, I want to be honest with you, just as you have been with me.

MANDERS. To be sure; you will plead excuses for your conduct—

MANDERS. Of course; you'll make excuses for your behavior—

MRS. ALVING. No. I will only tell you a story.

MRS. ALVING. No. I’ll just share a story with you.

MANDERS. Well—?

MANDERS. So—?

MRS. ALVING. All that you have just said about my husband and me, and our life after you had brought me back to the path of duty—as you called it—about all that you know nothing from personal observation. From that moment you, who had been our intimate friend, never set foot in our house gain.

MRS. ALVING. Everything you just said about my husband and me, and our life after you helped me get back on the right path—as you called it—you know nothing about from personal experience. From that moment on, you, who had been our close friend, never stepped foot in our house again.

MANDERS. You and your husband left the town immediately after.

MANDERS. You and your husband left town right after that.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; and in my husband's lifetime you never came to see us. It was business that forced you to visit me when you undertook the affairs of the Orphanage.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; and during my husband's lifetime, you never came to see us. It was business that brought you to visit me when you took over the affairs of the Orphanage.

MANDERS. [Softly and hesitatingly.] Helen—if that is meant as a reproach, I would beg you to bear in mind—

MANDERS. [Softly and hesitantly.] Helen—if that's meant as a criticism, I would ask you to keep in mind—

MRS. ALVING.—the regard you owed to your position, yes; and that I was a runaway wife. One can never be too cautious with such unprincipled creatures.

MRS. ALVING.—the respect you had for your status, sure; and that I was an escapee wife. You can never be too careful with such shameless people.

MANDERS. My dear—Mrs. Alving, you know that is an absurd exaggeration—

MANDERS. My dear—Mrs. Alving, you know that's a ridiculous exaggeration—

MRS. ALVING. Well well, suppose it is. My point is that your judgment as to my married life is founded upon nothing but common knowledge and report.

MRS. ALVING. Well, suppose that's true. My point is that your opinion about my marriage is based solely on general knowledge and hearsay.

MANDERS. I admit that. What then?

MANDERS. I get that. So what?

MRS. ALVING. Well, then, Pastor Manders—I will tell you the truth. I have sworn to myself that one day you should know it—you alone!

MRS. ALVING. Well, then, Pastor Manders—I’m going to tell you the truth. I've promised myself that one day you would know it—you and no one else!

MANDERS. What is the truth, then?

MANDERS. So, what's the deal?

MRS. ALVING. The truth is that my husband died just as dissolute as he had lived all his days.

MRS. ALVING. The truth is that my husband died as reckless as he had lived his whole life.

MANDERS. [Feeling after a chair.] What do you say?

MANDERS. [Reaching for a chair.] What do you think?

MRS. ALVING. After nineteen years of marriage, as dissolute—in his desires at any rate—as he was before you married us.

MRS. ALVING. After nineteen years of marriage, he is just as reckless—in his desires at least—as he was before you married us.

MANDERS. And those-those wild oats—those irregularities—those excesses, if you like—you call "a dissolute life"?

MANDERS. And those wild oats—those irregularities—those excesses, if you prefer—you call "a dissolute life"?

MRS. ALVING. Our doctor used the expression.

MRS. ALVING. Our doctor used that term.

MANDERS. I do not understand you.

I don’t get you.

MRS. ALVING. You need not.

You don’t need to.

MANDERS. It almost makes me dizzy. Your whole married life, the seeming union of all these years, was nothing more than a hidden abyss!

MANDERS. It almost makes me dizzy. Your entire married life, the apparent connection of all these years, was nothing more than a concealed void!

MRS. ALVING. Neither more nor less. Now you know it.

MRS. ALVING. Exactly. Now you know.

MANDERS. This is—this is inconceivable to me. I cannot grasp it! I cannot realise it! But how was it possible to—? How could such a state of things be kept secret?

MANDERS. This is—this is unbelievable to me. I can't understand it! I can't wrap my head around it! But how was it possible to—? How could such a situation be kept a secret?

MRS. ALVING. That has been my ceaseless struggle, day after day. After Oswald's birth, I thought Alving seemed to be a little better. But it did not last long. And then I had to struggle twice as hard, fighting as though for life or death, so that nobody should know what sort of man my child's father was. And you know what power Alving had of winning people's hearts. Nobody seemed able to believe anything but good of him. He was one of those people whose life does not bite upon their reputation. But at last, Mr. Manders—for you must know the whole story—the most repulsive thing of all happened.

MRS. ALVING. That has been my constant struggle, day in and day out. After Oswald was born, I thought Alving seemed a bit better. But it didn’t last long. Then I had to fight even harder, battling as if it were a matter of life or death, so that no one would find out what kind of man my child's father really was. And you know how Alving had a way of winning people over. No one seemed able to believe anything bad about him. He was one of those people whose life didn’t affect their reputation. But finally, Mr. Manders—since you need to know the whole story—the most disgusting thing of all happened.

MANDERS. More repulsive than what you have told me?

MANDERS. More disgusting than what you've told me?

MRS. ALVING. I had gone on bearing with him, although I knew very well the secrets of his life out of doors. But when he brought the scandal within our own walls—

MRS. ALVING. I had continued to put up with him, even though I was fully aware of the secrets of his life outside. But when he brought the scandal into our own home—

MANDERS. Impossible! Here!

MANDERS. No way! Here!

MRS. ALVING. Yes; here in our own home. It was there [Pointing towards the first door on the right], in the dining-room, that I first came to know of it. I was busy with something in there, and the door was standing ajar. I heard our housemaid come up from the garden, with water for those flowers.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; right here in our home. It was there [Pointing towards the first door on the right], in the dining room, that I first learned about it. I was working on something in there, and the door was slightly open. I heard our housemaid coming up from the garden, carrying water for those flowers.

MANDERS. Well—?

MANDERS. So—?

MRS. ALVING. Soon after, I heard Alving come in too. I heard him say something softly to her. And then I heard—[With a short laugh]—oh! it still sounds in my ears, so hateful and yet so ludicrous—I heard my own servant-maid whisper, "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!"

MRS. ALVING. Shortly after, I heard Alving come in as well. I heard him say something softly to her. And then I heard—[With a short laugh]—oh! it still rings in my ears, so awful and yet so ridiculous—I heard my own maid whisper, "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!"

MANDERS. What unseemly levity on his part! But it cannot have been more than levity, Mrs. Alving; believe me, it cannot.

MANDERS. What inappropriate lightheartedness from him! But it must have been nothing more than that, Mrs. Alving; trust me, it really can’t be anything else.

MRS. ALVING. I soon knew what to believe. Mr. Alving had his way with the girl; and that connection had consequences, Mr. Manders.

MRS. ALVING. I quickly figured out what to believe. Mr. Alving had his way with the girl, and that relationship led to consequences, Mr. Manders.

MANDERS. [As though petrified.] Such things in this house—in this house!

MANDERS. [As if frozen.] Such things in this house—in this house!

MRS. ALVING. I had borne a great deal in this house. To keep him at home in the evenings, and at night, I had to make myself his boon companion in his secret orgies up in his room. There I have had to sit alone with him, to clink glasses and drink with him, and to listen to his ribald, silly talk. I have had to fight with him to get him dragged to bed—

MRS. ALVING. I’ve put up with a lot in this house. To keep him at home in the evenings and at night, I had to be his close companion during his secret parties in his room. I’ve had to sit alone with him, raise glasses and drink with him, and listen to his crude, silly chatter. I’ve had to struggle with him to get him to go to bed—

MANDERS. [Moved.] And you were able to bear all this!

MANDERS. [Moved.] And you managed to handle all of this!

MRS. ALVING. I had to bear it for my little boy's sake. But when the last insult was added; when my own servant-maid—; then I swore to myself: This shall come to an end! And so I took the reins into my own hand—the whole control—over him and everything else. For now I had a weapon against him, you see; he dared not oppose me. It was then I sent Oswald away from home. He was nearly seven years old, and was beginning to observe and ask questions, as children do. That I could not bear. It seemed to me the child must be poisoned by merely breathing the air of this polluted home. That was why I sent him away. And now you can see, too, why he was never allowed to set foot inside his home so long as his father lived. No one knows what that cost me.

MRS. ALVING. I had to put up with it for my little boy's sake. But when the last insult came; when my own maid... then I promised myself: This has to stop! So, I took control—over him and everything else. Because now I had a way to fight back, and he couldn't challenge me. That’s when I sent Oswald away. He was almost seven and starting to notice things and ask questions, like kids do. I couldn’t handle that. It felt like the child would be poisoned just by breathing the air of this toxic home. That’s why I sent him away. And now you can understand why he was never allowed to step foot back inside while his father was still alive. No one knows what that cost me.

MANDERS. You have indeed had a life of trial.

MANDERS. You've really had a tough life.

MRS. ALVING. I could never have borne it if I had not had my work. For I may truly say that I have worked! All the additions to the estate—all the improvements—all the labour-saving appliances, that Alving was so much praised for having introduced—do you suppose he had energy for anything of the sort?—he, who lay all day on the sofa, reading an old Court Guide! No; but I may tell you this too: when he had his better intervals, it was I who urged him on; it was I who had to drag the whole load when he relapsed into his evil ways, or sank into querulous wretchedness.

MRS. ALVING. I could never have managed if I hadn’t had my work. Because I can honestly say that I have worked! All the additions to the estate—all the improvements—all the labor-saving devices that everyone praised Alving for introducing—do you really think he had the energy to do any of that?—he, who spent all day on the sofa, reading an old Court Guide! No; but I can tell you this too: during his better moments, it was me who supported him; I had to carry the entire burden when he slipped back into his old habits or fell into miserable complaining.

MANDERS. And it is to this man that you raise a memorial?

MANDERS. So, you're putting up a memorial for this guy?

MRS. ALVING. There you see the power of an evil conscience.

MRS. ALVING. There you see the weight of a guilty conscience.

MANDERS. Evil—? What do you mean?

MANDERS. Evil—? What are you talking about?

MRS. ALVING. It always seemed to me impossible but that the truth must come out and be believed. So the Orphanage was to deaden all rumours and set every doubt at rest.

MRS. ALVING. It always seemed impossible to me that the truth wouldn't come out and be believed. So, the Orphanage was meant to silence all rumors and put every doubt to rest.

MANDERS. In that you have certainly not missed your aim, Mrs. Alving.

MANDERS. You definitely hit the nail on the head, Mrs. Alving.

MRS. ALVING. And besides, I had one other reason. I was determined that Oswald, my own boy, should inherit nothing whatever from his father.

MRS. ALVING. And also, I had one more reason. I was set on making sure that Oswald, my own son, would inherit nothing at all from his father.

MANDERS. Then it is Alving's fortune that—?

MANDERS. So, is it Alving's luck that—?

MRS. ALVING. Yes. The sums I have spent upon the Orphanage, year by year, make up the amount—I have reckoned it up precisely—the amount which made Lieutenant Alving "a good match" in his day.

MRS. ALVING. Yes. The money I've spent on the Orphanage, year after year, adds up to the total—I have calculated it exactly—the same amount that made Lieutenant Alving "a good match" back in his time.

MANDERS. I don't understand—

MANDERS. I don’t get it—

MRS. ALVING. It was my purchase-money. I do not choose that that money should pass into Oswald's hands. My son shall have everything from me—everything.

MRS. ALVING. It was my money for the purchase. I don’t want that money to go into Oswald's hands. My son will get everything from me—everything.

[OSWALD ALVING enters through the second door to the right; he has taken of his hat and overcoat in the hall.]

[OSWALD ALVING enters through the second door on the right; he has taken off his hat and overcoat in the hallway.]

MRS. ALVING. [Going towards him.] Are you back again already? My dear, dear boy!

MRS. ALVING. [Walking towards him.] Are you back already? My dear, sweet boy!

OSWALD. Yes. What can a fellow do out of doors in this eternal rain? But I hear dinner is ready. That's capital!

OSWALD. Yes. What can a guy do outside in this never-ending rain? But I hear dinner is ready. That's great!

REGINA. [With a parcel, from the dining-room.] A parcel has come for you, Mrs. Alving. [Hands it to her.]

REGINA. [With a package, from the dining room.] A package has arrived for you, Mrs. Alving. [Hands it to her.]

MRS. ALVING. [With a glance at MR. MANDERS.] No doubt copies of the ode for to-morrow's ceremony.

MRS. ALVING. [With a glance at MR. MANDERS.] I'm sure there are copies of the ode for tomorrow's ceremony.

MANDERS. H'm—

MANDERS. Hmm—

REGINA. And dinner is ready.

REGINA. Dinner's ready.

MRS. ALVING. Very well. We will come directly. I will just—[Begins to open the parcel.]

MRS. ALVING. Alright. We'll come right over. I just—[Starts to open the package.]

REGINA. [To OSWALD.] Would Mr. Alving like red or white wine?

REGINA. [To OSWALD.] Would Mr. Alving prefer red or white wine?

OSWALD. Both, if you please.

Sure, both please.

REGINA. Bien. Very well, sir. [She goes into the dining-room.]

REGINA. Alright. Very well, sir. [She goes into the dining room.]

OSWALD. I may as well help to uncork it. [He also goes into the dining room, the door of which swings half open behind him.]

OSWALD. I might as well help to open it. [He also goes into the dining room, the door of which swings half open behind him.]

MRS. ALVING. [Who has opened the parcel.] Yes, I thought so. Here is the Ceremonial Ode, Pastor Manders.

MRS. ALVING. [Who has opened the parcel.] Yes, I figured that. Here is the Ceremonial Ode, Pastor Manders.

MANDERS. [With folded hands.] With what countenance I am to deliver my discourse to-morrow—!

MANDERS. [With folded hands.] What expression am I supposed to have when I give my speech tomorrow—!

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you will get through it somehow.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you'll manage to get through it.

MANDERS. [Softly, so as not to be heard in the dining-room.] Yes; it would not do to provoke scandal.

MANDERS. [Softly, so as not to be heard in the dining room.] Yeah; it wouldn’t be wise to stir up any scandal.

MRS. ALVING. [Under her breath, but firmly.] No. But then this long, hateful comedy will be ended. From the day after to-morrow, I shall act in every way as though he who is dead had never lived in this house. There shall be no one here but my boy and his mother.

MRS. ALVING. [Under her breath, but firmly.] No. But then this long, hateful drama will be over. Starting the day after tomorrow, I will behave as if the one who is dead never lived in this house. It will just be my son and his mother here.

[From the dining-room comes the noise of a chair overturned, and at the same moment is heard:]

[From the dining room comes the sound of a chair being tipped over, and at the same moment is heard:]

REGINA. [Sharply, but in a whisper.] Oswald! take care! are you mad? Let me go!

REGINA. [Sharply, but in a whisper.] Oswald! Be careful! Are you crazy? Let me go!

MRS. ALVING. [Starts in terror.] Ah—!

MRS. ALVING. [Starts in fear.] Ah—!

[She stares wildly towards the half-open door. OSWALD is heard laughing and humming. A bottle is uncorked.]

[She stares intensely at the half-open door. OSWALD can be heard laughing and humming. A bottle is uncorked.]

MANDERS. [Agitated.] What can be the matter? What is it, Mrs. Alving?

MANDERS. [Agitated.] What's going on? What is it, Mrs. Alving?

MRS. ALVING. [Hoarsely.] Ghosts! The couple from the conservatory—risen again!

MRS. ALVING. [Hoarsely.] Ghosts! The couple from the conservatory—back again!

MANDERS. Is it possible! Regina—? Is she—?

MANDERS. Can it be true! Regina—? Is she—?

MRS. ALVING. Yes. Come. Not a word—!

[She seizes PASTOR MANDERS by the arm, and walks unsteadily towards the dining-room.]

[She grabs PASTOR MANDERS by the arm and walks unsteadily towards the dining room.]

ACT SECOND.

[The same room. The mist still lies heavy over the landscape.]

[MANDERS and MRS. ALVING enter from the dining-room.]

[MANDERS and MRS. ALVING enter from the dining room.]

MRS. ALVING. [Still in the doorway.] Velbekomme [Note: A phrase equivalent to the German Prosit die Mahlzeit—May good digestion wait on appetite.], Mr. Manders. [Turns back towards the dining-room.] Aren't you coming too, Oswald?

MRS. ALVING. [Still in the doorway.] Enjoy your meal, Mr. Manders. [Turns back towards the dining room.] Aren't you coming too, Oswald?

OSWALD. [From within.] No, thank you. I think I shall go out a little.

OSWALD. [From inside.] No, thanks. I think I'll step out for a bit.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, do. The weather seems a little brighter now. [She shuts the dining-room door, goes to the hall door, and calls:] Regina!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, go ahead. The weather seems a bit brighter now. [She shuts the dining-room door, goes to the hall door, and calls:] Regina!

REGINA. [Outside.] Yes, Mrs. Alving?

MRS. ALVING. Go down to the laundry, and help with the garlands.

MRS. ALVING. Go downstairs to the laundry and help with the decorations.

REGINA. Yes, Mrs. Alving.

[MRS. ALVING assures herself that REGINA goes; then shuts the door.]

[MRS. ALVING makes sure that REGINA leaves; then she shuts the door.]

MANDERS. I suppose he cannot overhear us in there?

MANDERS. I guess he can't hear us in there, right?

MRS. ALVING. Not when the door is shut. Besides, he's just going out.

MRS. ALVING. Not when the door is closed. Plus, he's just leaving.

MANDERS. I am still quite upset. I don't know how I could swallow a morsel of dinner.

MANDERS. I'm still pretty upset. I don't know how I could eat even a bite of dinner.

MRS. ALVING. [Controlling her nervousness, walks up and down.] Nor I. But what is to be done now?

MRS. ALVING. [Trying to manage her nerves, paces back and forth.] Neither do I. But what should we do now?

MANDERS. Yes; what is to be done? I am really quite at a loss. I am so utterly without experience in matters of this sort.

MANDERS. Yes; what should we do? I'm honestly at a loss. I have no experience with this kind of thing at all.

MRS. ALVING. I feel sure that, so far, no mischief has been done.

MRS. ALVING. I'm pretty sure that, up to this point, no harm has been done.

MANDERS. No; heaven forbid! But it is an unseemly state of things, nevertheless.

MANDERS. No way, that’s not happening! But it’s still a pretty inappropriate situation, after all.

MRS. ALVING. It is only an idle fancy on Oswald's part; you may be sure of that.

MRS. ALVING. It's just a passing thought from Oswald; you can be sure of that.

MANDERS. Well, as I say, I am not accustomed to affairs of the kind. But I should certainly think—

MANDERS. Well, like I said, I'm not used to situations like this. But I definitely think—

MRS. ALVING. Out of the house she must go, and that immediately. That is as clear as daylight—

MRS. ALVING. She has to leave the house, and it needs to happen right away. That’s as obvious as can be—

MANDERS. Yes, of course she must.

MANDERS. Yes, she definitely has to.

MRS. ALVING. But where to? It would not be right to—

MRS. ALVING. But where to? It wouldn't be right to—

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

MANDERS. Where to? Home to her dad, of course.

MRS. ALVING. To whom did you say?

MRS. ALVING. Who did you say?

MANDERS. To her—But then, Engstrand is not—? Good God, Mrs. Alving, it's impossible! You must be mistaken after all.

MANDERS. To her—But then, Engstrand isn't—? Oh my God, Mrs. Alving, that's impossible! You must be mistaken after all.

MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately there is no possibility of mistake. Johanna confessed everything to me; and Alving could not deny it. So there was nothing to be done but to get the matter hushed up.

MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately, there's no chance of misunderstanding. Johanna admitted everything to me, and Alving couldn’t deny it. So, there was nothing left to do but to cover it up.

MANDERS. No, you could do nothing else.

MANDERS. No, you couldn't do anything else.

MRS. ALVING. The girl left our service at once, and got a good sum of money to hold her tongue for the time. The rest she managed for herself when she got to town. She renewed her old acquaintance with Engstrand, no doubt let him see that she had money in her purse, and told him some tale about a foreigner who put in here with a yacht that summer. So she and Engstrand got married in hot haste. Why, you married them yourself.

MRS. ALVING. The girl left us immediately and received a good amount of money to keep quiet for a while. She took care of the rest when she got to the city. She reconnected with Engstrand, probably showed him that she had money, and spun some story about a foreigner who stopped here with a yacht that summer. So, she and Engstrand rushed into marriage. You were the one who married them yourself.

MANDERS. But then how to account for—? I recollect distinctly Engstrand coming to give notice of the marriage. He was quite overwhelmed with contrition, and bitterly reproached himself for the misbehaviour he and his sweetheart had been guilty of.

MANDERS. But then how do we explain—? I clearly remember Engstrand coming to announce the marriage. He was really filled with regret and harshly criticized himself for the wrongdoing he and his girlfriend had committed.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; of course he had to take the blame upon himself.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; of course he had to take the blame for it himself.

MANDERS. But such a piece of duplicity on his part! And towards me too! I never could have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall not fail to take him seriously to task; he may be sure of that.—And then the immorality of such a connection! For money—! How much did the girl receive?

MANDERS. But such a deceptive act on his part! And directed at me too! I never would have imagined that Jacob Engstrand could do that. I won't hesitate to confront him about it; he can count on that. —And then the unethics of such a relationship! All for money—! How much did the girl get?

MRS. ALVING. Three hundred dollars.

$300.

MANDERS. Just think of it—for a miserable three hundred dollars, to go and marry a fallen woman!

MANDERS. Just think about it—for a pathetic three hundred dollars, to go and marry a fallen woman!

MRS. ALVING. Then what have you to say of me? I went and married a fallen man.

MRS. ALVING. So what do you think of me? I chose to marry a flawed man.

MANDERS. Why—good heavens!—what are you talking about! A fallen man!

MANDERS. What on earth are you talking about? A fallen man!

MRS. ALVING. Do you think Alving was any purer when I went with him to the altar than Johanna was when Engstrand married her?

MRS. ALVING. Do you think Alving was any purer when I married him than Johanna was when Engstrand married her?

MANDERS. Well, but there is a world of difference between the two cases—

MANDERS. Well, but there’s a huge difference between the two cases—

MRS. ALVING. Not so much difference after all—except in the price:—a miserable three hundred dollars and a whole fortune.

MRS. ALVING. Not much difference after all—except in the price:—a measly three hundred dollars and a whole fortune.

MANDERS. How can you compare such absolutely dissimilar cases? You had taken counsel with your own heart and with your natural advisers.

MANDERS. How can you compare such completely different situations? You consulted your own feelings and your usual advisors.

MRS. ALVING. [Without looking at him.] I thought you understood where what you call my heart had strayed to at the time.

MRS. ALVING. [Without looking at him.] I thought you knew where what you call my heart had wandered to back then.

MANDERS. [Distantly.] Had I understood anything of the kind, I should not have been a daily guest in your husband's house.

MANDERS. [Distantly.] If I had understood anything like that, I wouldn't have been a regular guest at your husband's house.

MRS. ALVING. At any rate, the fact remains that with myself I took no counsel whatever.

MRS. ALVING. Regardless, the truth is that I didn’t seek any advice for myself at all.

MANDERS. Well then, with your nearest relatives—as your duty bade you—with your mother and your two aunts.

MANDERS. Alright then, with your closest family—just as you were supposed to—with your mom and your two aunts.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true. Those three cast up the account for me. Oh, it's marvellous how clearly they made out that it would be downright madness to refuse such an offer. If mother could only see me now, and know what all that grandeur has come to!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, that’s true. Those three laid it all out for me. Oh, it’s amazing how clearly they showed that it would be absolutely crazy to turn down such an offer. If only my mother could see me now and know what all that fancy stuff has turned into!

MANDERS. Nobody can be held responsible for the result. This, at least, remains clear: your marriage was in full accordance with law and order.

MANDERS. No one can be held accountable for the outcome. One thing is clear: your marriage was completely in line with the law and order.

MRS. ALVING. [At the window.] Oh, that perpetual law and order! I often think that is what does all the mischief in this world of ours.

MRS. ALVING. [At the window.] Oh, that endless law and order! I often think that’s what causes all the trouble in our world.

MANDERS. Mrs. Alving, that is a sinful way of talking.

MANDERS. Mrs. Alving, that's a wrong way to speak.

MRS. ALVING. Well, I can't help it; I must have done with all this constraint and insincerity. I can endure it no longer. I must work my way out to freedom.

MRS. ALVING. Well, I can’t help it; I need to be done with all this pressure and pretending. I can’t take it anymore. I have to find my way to freedom.

MANDERS. What do you mean by that?

MANDERS. What are you getting at?

MRS. ALVING. [Drumming on the window frame.] I ought never to have concealed the facts of Alving's life. But at that time I dared not do anything else—I was afraid, partly on my own account. I was such a coward.

MRS. ALVING. [Drumming on the window frame.] I should never have hidden the truth about Alving's life. But back then, I felt like I had no choice—I was scared, partly for myself. I was such a coward.

MANDERS. A coward?

MRS. ALVING. If people had come to know anything, they would have said—"Poor man! with a runaway wife, no wonder he kicks over the traces."

MRS. ALVING. If people really understood, they would have said—"Poor guy! With a wife who left him, no wonder he's lost control."

MANDERS. Such remarks might have been made with a certain show of right.

MANDERS. Those comments could have been made with some sense of justification.

MRS. ALVING. [Looking steadily at him.] If I were what I ought to be, I should go to Oswald and say, "Listen, my boy: your father led a vicious life—"

MRS. ALVING. [Looking steadily at him.] If I were who I should be, I would go to Oswald and say, "Listen, my boy: your father lived a corrupt life—"

MANDERS. Merciful heavens—!

MANDERS. Oh my goodness—!

MRS. ALVING.—and then I should tell him all I have told you—every word of it.

MRS. ALVING.—and then I would tell him everything I’ve told you—every single word of it.

MANDERS. You shock me unspeakably, Mrs. Alving.

MANDERS. You completely shock me, Mrs. Alving.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; I know that. I know that very well. I myself am shocked at the idea. [Goes away from the window.] I am such a coward.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; I know that. I know that very well. I'm honestly shocked by the thought. [Steps away from the window.] I’m such a coward.

MANDERS. You call it "cowardice" to do your plain duty? Have you forgotten that a son ought to love and honour his father and mother?

MANDERS. You think it's "cowardice" to do what you should? Have you forgotten that a son is supposed to love and respect his parents?

MRS. ALVING. Do not let us talk in such general terms. Let us ask: Ought Oswald to love and honour Chamberlain Alving?

MRS. ALVING. Let's not speak so generally. Let's ask: Should Oswald love and respect Chamberlain Alving?

MANDERS. Is there no voice in your mother's heart that forbids you to destroy your son's ideals?

MANDERS. Isn't there a voice in your mother's heart that tells you not to crush your son's dreams?

MRS. ALVING. But what about the truth?

MANDERS. But what about the ideals?

MRS. ALVING. Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward!

MRS. ALVING. Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I weren't such a coward!

MANDERS. Do not despise ideals, Mrs. Alving; they will avenge themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's case: he, unfortunately, seems to have few enough ideals as it is; but I can see that his father stands before him as an ideal.

MANDERS. Don't underestimate ideals, Mrs. Alving; they will come back to haunt you in a harsh way. Look at Oswald's situation: he, unfortunately, seems to have very few ideals left; but I can see that his father looms before him as an ideal.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true.

MRS. ALVING. Yeah, that's right.

MANDERS. And this habit of mind you have yourself implanted and fostered by your letters.

MANDERS. And this way of thinking is something you've created and encouraged with your letters.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; in my superstitious awe for duty and the proprieties, I lied to my boy, year after year. Oh, what a coward—what a coward I have been!

MRS. ALVING. Yes; out of my superstitious fear of duty and what’s proper, I lied to my son, year after year. Oh, what a coward—what a coward I have been!

MANDERS. You have established a happy illusion in your son's heart, Mrs. Alving; and assuredly you ought not to undervalue it.

MANDERS. You've created a nice illusion in your son's mind, Mrs. Alving, and you definitely shouldn't underestimate its value.

MRS. ALVING. H'm; who knows whether it is so happy after all—? But, at any rate, I will not have any tampering with Regina. He shall not go and wreck the poor girl's life.

MRS. ALVING. H'm; who knows if it’s really that happy after all—? But anyway, I won’t allow anyone to mess with Regina. He is not going to ruin the poor girl’s life.

MANDERS. No; good God—that would be terrible!

MANDERS. No; oh my God—that would be awful!

MRS. ALVING. If I knew he was in earnest, and that it would be for his happiness—

MRS. ALVING. If I knew he was serious, and that it would make him happy—

MANDERS. What? What then?

MANDERS. What? What's next?

MRS. ALVING. But it couldn't be; for unfortunately Regina is not the right sort of woman.

MRS. ALVING. But it can't be; because unfortunately, Regina isn't the right kind of woman.

MANDERS. Well, what then? What do you mean?

MANDERS. So, what now? What are you trying to say?

MRS. ALVING. If I weren't such a pitiful coward, I should say to him, "Marry her, or make what arrangement you please, only let us have nothing underhand about it."

MRS. ALVING. If I weren't such a pathetic coward, I would say to him, "Marry her, or figure out whatever arrangement you want, just let’s keep everything above board."

MANDERS. Merciful heavens, would you let them marry! Anything so dreadful—! so unheard of—

MANDERS. Good grief, are you really going to let them get married? Anything so awful—! So shocking—!

MRS. ALVING. Do you really mean "unheard of"? Frankly, Pastor Manders, do you suppose that throughout the country there are not plenty of married couples as closely akin as they?

MRS. ALVING. Do you really mean "unheard of"? Honestly, Pastor Manders, do you really think that there aren’t a lot of married couples in the country who are just as closely connected as they are?

MANDERS. I don't in the least understand you.

MANDERS. I don’t understand you at all.

MRS. ALVING. Oh yes, indeed you do.

MRS. ALVING. Oh yes, you really do.

MANDERS. Ah, you are thinking of the possibility that—Alas! yes, family life is certainly not always so pure as it ought to be. But in such a case as you point to, one can never know—at least with any certainty. Here, on the other hand—that you, a mother, can think of letting your son—

MANDERS. Ah, you're considering the idea that— unfortunately! yes, family life definitely isn't always as perfect as it should be. But in the situation you're referring to, it's impossible to know—at least not with any certainty. On the other hand, that you, as a mother, could think about allowing your son—

MRS. ALVING. But I cannot—I wouldn't for anything in the world; that is precisely what I am saying.

MRS. ALVING. But I can't—I wouldn't do it for anything; that's exactly what I'm trying to say.

MANDERS. No, because you are a "coward," as you put it. But if you were not a "coward," then—? Good God! a connection so shocking!

MANDERS. No, because you're a "coward," as you say. But if you weren't a "coward," then—? Good God! Such a shocking connection!

MRS. ALVING. So far as that goes, they say we are all sprung from connections of that sort. And who is it that arranged the world so, Pastor Manders?

MRS. ALVING. As far as that goes, people say we're all descended from connections like that. And who set the world up like this, Pastor Manders?

MANDERS. Questions of that kind I must decline to discuss with you, Mrs. Alving; you are far from being in the right frame of mind for them. But that you dare to call your scruples "cowardly"—!

MANDERS. I can't discuss questions like that with you, Mrs. Alving; you're not in the right mindset for it. But to think that you would call your scruples "cowardly"!

MRS. ALVING. Let me tell you what I mean. I am timid and faint-hearted because of the ghosts that hang about me, and that I can never quite shake off.

MRS. ALVING. Let me explain what I mean. I'm timid and faint-hearted because of the ghosts that linger around me, and I can never fully get rid of them.

MANDERS. What do you say hangs about you?

MANDERS. What do you think is following you around?

MRS. ALVING. Ghosts! When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it was as though ghosts rose up before me. But I almost think we are all of us ghosts, Pastor Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from our father and mother that "walks" in us. It is all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us all the same, and we cannot shake them off. Whenever I take up a newspaper, I seem to see ghosts gliding between the lines. There must be ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sands of the sea. And then we are, one and all, so pitifully afraid of the light.

MRS. ALVING. Ghosts! When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it felt like ghosts were rising up before me. But I almost think we're all ghosts, Pastor Manders. It's not just what we've inherited from our parents that "haunts" us. It's all kinds of dead ideas and lifeless old beliefs, and so on. They have no life, but they still cling to us, and we can't shake them off. Whenever I pick up a newspaper, it seems like I see ghosts gliding between the lines. There must be ghosts all over the country, as numerous as the sand on the beach. And then we are all so woefully afraid of the light.

MANDERS. Aha—here we have the fruits of your reading. And pretty fruits they are, upon my word! Oh, those horrible, revolutionary, free-thinking books!

MANDERS. Aha—here we have the results of your reading. And they’re quite something, I must say! Oh, those awful, revolutionary, free-thinking books!

MRS. ALVING. You are mistaken, my dear Pastor. It was you yourself who set me thinking; and I thank you for it with all my heart.

MRS. ALVING. You’re mistaken, my dear Pastor. It was you who got me thinking, and I truly appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.

MANDERS. I!

MRS. ALVING. Yes—when you forced me under the yoke of what you called duty and obligation; when you lauded as right and proper what my whole soul rebelled against as something loathsome. It was then that I began to look into the seams of your doctrines. I wanted only to pick at a single knot; but when I had got that undone, the whole thing ravelled out. And then I understood that it was all machine-sewn.

MRS. ALVING. Yes—when you pushed me into the constraints of what you deemed duty and obligation; when you praised as right and proper what my entire being revolted against as something disgusting. That was when I started to examine the flaws in your beliefs. I just wanted to pull at one thread; but once I got that loose, everything fell apart. And then I realized it was all stitched together by a machine.

MANDERS. [Softly, with emotion.] And was that the upshot of my life's hardest battle?

MANDERS. [Softly, with emotion.] And was that the outcome of my life's toughest fight?

MRS. ALVING. Call it rather your most pitiful defeat.

MRS. ALVING. Think of it as your most pathetic loss.

MANDERS. It was my greatest victory, Helen—the victory over myself.

MANDERS. It was my biggest victory, Helen—the victory over myself.

MRS. ALVING. It was a crime against us both.

MRS. ALVING. It was wrong for both of us.

MANDERS. When you went astray, and came to me crying, "Here I am; take me!" I commanded you, saying, "Woman, go home to your lawful husband." Was that a crime?

MANDERS. When you went off track and came to me saying, "Here I am; take me!" I told you, "Woman, go home to your rightful husband." Was that wrong?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, I think so.

MRS. ALVING. Yeah, I think so.

MANDERS. We two do not understand each other.

MANDERS. We don’t understand each other.

MRS. ALVING. Not now, at any rate.

MRS. ALVING. Not right now, anyway.

MANDERS. Never—never in my most secret thoughts have I regarded you otherwise than as another's wife.

MANDERS. Never—never in my most private thoughts have I seen you as anything other than someone else's wife.

MRS. ALVING. Oh—indeed?

MRS. ALVING. Oh—really?

MANDERS. Helen—!

MANDERS. Helen!

MRS. ALVING. People so easily forget their past selves.

MRS. ALVING. People quickly forget who they used to be.

MANDERS. I do not. I am what I always was.

MANDERS. I don’t. I am who I’ve always been.

MRS. ALVING. [Changing the subject.] Well well well; don't let us talk of old times any longer. You are now over head and ears in Boards and Committees, and I am fighting my battle with ghosts, both within me and without.

MRS. ALVING. [Changing the subject.] Alright, let’s not dwell on the past anymore. You’re now completely consumed by Boards and Committees, while I’m dealing with my own struggles with ghosts, both inside and outside myself.

MANDERS. Those without I shall help you to lay. After all the terrible things I have heard from you today, I cannot in conscience permit an unprotected girl to remain in your house.

MANDERS. I'll help you take care of those who aren't here. After all the awful things I've heard from you today, I can't in good conscience allow an unprotected girl to stay in your house.

MRS. ALVING. Don't you think the best plan would be to get her provided for?—I mean, by a good marriage.

MRS. ALVING. Don’t you think the best idea would be to set her up?—I mean, with a good marriage.

MANDERS. No doubt. I think it would be desirable for her in every respect. Regina is now at the age when—Of course I don't know much about these things, but—

MANDERS. No question about it. I believe it would be beneficial for her in every way. Regina is now at the age when—Of course, I’m not an expert on these matters, but—

MRS. ALVING. Regina matured very early.

MRS. ALVING. Regina grew up very quickly.

MANDERS. Yes, I thought so. I have an impression that she was remarkably well developed, physically, when I prepared her for confirmation. But in the meantime, she ought to be at home, under her father's eye—Ah! but Engstrand is not—That he—that he—could so hide the truth from me! [A knock at the door into the hall.]

MANDERS. Yeah, I thought so. I remember her being really well developed physically when I got her ready for confirmation. But in the meantime, she should be at home, under her father's watch—Ah! but Engstrand is not—That he—that he—could hide the truth from me like that! [A knock at the door into the hall.]

MRS. ALVING. Who can this be? Come in!

MRS. ALVING. Who is it? Come in!

ENGSTRAND. [In his Sunday clothes, in the doorway.] I humbly beg your pardon, but—

ENGSTRAND. [In his Sunday clothes, in the doorway.] I sincerely apologize, but—

MANDERS. Aha! H'm—

MANDERS. Aha! Hmm—

MRS. ALVING. Is that you, Engstrand?

ENGSTRAND.—there was none of the servants about, so I took the great liberty of just knocking.

ENGSTRAND.—there weren't any servants around, so I took the liberty of just knocking.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, very well. Come in. Do you want to speak to me?

MRS. ALVING. Oh, fine. Come in. Do you want to talk to me?

ENGSTRAND. [Comes in.] No, I'm obliged to you, ma'am; it was with his Reverence I wanted to have a word or two.

ENGSTRAND. [Enters.] No, I appreciate it, ma'am; I just wanted to have a quick chat with his Reverence.

MANDERS. [Walking up and down the room.] Ah—indeed! You want to speak to me, do you?

MANDERS. [Walking up and down the room.] Oh, really! You want to talk to me, huh?

ENGSTRAND. Yes, I'd like so terrible much to—

ENGSTRAND. Yes, I really want to—

MANDERS. [Stops in front of him.] Well; may I ask what you want?

MANDERS. [Stops in front of him.] So, can I ask what you need?

ENGSTRAND. Well, it was just this, your Reverence: we've been paid off down yonder—my grateful thanks to you, ma'am,—and now everything's finished, I've been thinking it would be but right and proper if we, that have been working so honestly together all this time—well, I was thinking we ought to end up with a little prayer-meeting to-night.

ENGSTRAND. Well, here's the thing, your Reverence: we've been settled up down there—my heartfelt thanks to you, ma'am—and now that everything's wrapped up, I've been thinking it would be nice and fitting if we, who've been working so hard together all this time—well, I thought we should have a little prayer meeting tonight.

MANDERS. A prayer-meeting? Down at the Orphanage?

MANDERS. A prayer meeting? At the orphanage?

ENGSTRAND. Oh, if your Reverence doesn't think it proper—

ENGSTRAND. Oh, if you don't think that's appropriate—

MANDERS. Oh yes, I do; but—h'm—

ENGSTRAND. I've been in the habit of offering up a little prayer in the evenings, myself—

ENGSTRAND. I've gotten into the habit of saying a little prayer in the evenings, myself—

MRS. ALVING. Have you?

Have you?

ENGSTRAND. Yes, every now and then just a little edification, in a manner of speaking. But I'm a poor, common man, and have little enough gift, God help me!—and so I thought, as the Reverend Mr. Manders happened to be here, I'd—

ENGSTRAND. Yeah, every now and then I get a little bit of insight, so to speak. But I'm just a regular guy and don’t have much to offer, God help me! So, I figured since Reverend Mr. Manders is here, I'd—

MANDERS. Well, you see, Engstrand, I have a question to put to you first. Are you in the right frame of mind for such a meeting! Do you feel your conscience clear and at ease?

MANDERS. Well, listen, Engstrand, I have a question for you first. Are you in the right mindset for this meeting? Do you feel your conscience is clear and at ease?

ENGSTRAND. Oh, God help us, your Reverence! we'd better not talk about conscience.

ENGSTRAND. Oh, God help us, your Honor! We’d better not discuss conscience.

MANDERS. Yes, that is just what we must talk about. What have you to answer?

MANDERS. Yes, that’s exactly what we need to discuss. What do you have to say?

ENGSTRAND. Why—a man's conscience—it can be bad enough now and then.

ENGSTRAND. Well, a man's conscience—it can be pretty rough sometimes.

MANDERS. Ah, you admit that. Then perhaps you will make a clean breast of it, and tell me—the real truth about Regina?

MANDERS. Ah, you admit that. Then maybe you'll come clean and tell me—the real truth about Regina?

MRS. ALVING. [Quickly.] Mr. Manders!

Mrs. Alving. [Quickly.] Mr. Manders!

MANDERS. [Reassuringly.] Please allow me—

MANDERS. [Reassuringly.] Let me—

ENGSTRAND. About Regina! Lord, what a turn you gave me! [Looks at MRS. ALVING.] There's nothing wrong about Regina, is there?

ENGSTRAND. About Regina! Wow, you really surprised me! [Looks at MRS. ALVING.] There's nothing wrong with Regina, right?

MANDERS. We will hope not. But I mean, what is the truth about you and Regina? You pass for her father, eh!

MANDERS. Let's hope not. But I mean, what's the real story between you and Regina? You’re pretending to be her father, right?

ENGSTRAND. [Uncertain.] Well—h'm—your Reverence knows all about me and poor Johanna.

ENGSTRAND. [Uncertain.] Well—hmm—you know all about me and poor Johanna.

MANDERS. Come now, no more prevarication! Your wife told Mrs. Alving the whole story before quitting her service.

MANDERS. Come on, enough with the excuses! Your wife told Mrs. Alving the whole story before she left her job.

ENGSTRAND. Well, then, may—! Now, did she really?

ENGSTRAND. Well, then, may—! Did she actually?

MANDERS. You see we know you now, Engstrand.

MANDERS. We know you now, Engstrand.

ENGSTRAND. And she swore and took her Bible oath—

ENGSTRAND. And she swore and took her oath on the Bible—

MANDERS. Did she take her Bible oath?

MANDERS. Did she take her oath on the Bible?

ENGSTRAND. No; she only swore; but she did it that solemn-like.

ENGSTRAND. No; she just swore, but she did it really seriously.

MANDERS. And you have hidden the truth from me all these years? Hidden it from me, who have trusted you without reserve, in everything.

MANDERS. So you've been hiding the truth from me all these years? Hiding it from me, the one who has trusted you completely in everything.

ENGSTRAND. Well, I can't deny it.

ENGSTRAND. Well, I can't deny that.

MANDERS. Have I deserved this of you, Engstrand? Have I not always been ready to help you in word and deed, so far as it lay in my power? Answer me. Have I not?

MANDERS. Have I earned this from you, Engstrand? Haven't I always been ready to help you with my words and actions, as much as I could? Answer me. Haven't I?

ENGSTRAND. It would have been a poor look-out for me many a time but for the Reverend Mr. Manders.

ENGSTRAND. I would have been in a tough spot many times if it weren't for the Reverend Mr. Manders.

MANDERS. And this is how you reward me! You cause me to enter falsehoods in the Church Register, and you withhold from me, year after year, the explanations you owed alike to me and to the truth. Your conduct has been wholly inexcusable, Engstrand; and from this time forward I have done with you!

MANDERS. And this is how you repay me! You make me put lies in the Church Register, and you keep from me, year after year, the clarifications you owe both to me and to the truth. Your behavior has been completely unacceptable, Engstrand; and from now on, I'm done with you!

ENGSTRAND. [With a sigh.] Yes! I suppose there's no help for it.

ENGSTRAND. [With a sigh.] Yeah! I guess there's nothing we can do about it.

MANDERS. How can you possibly justify yourself?

MANDERS. How can you defend yourself?

ENGSTRAND. Who could ever have thought she'd have gone and made bad worse by talking about it? Will your Reverence just fancy yourself in the same trouble as poor Johanna—

ENGSTRAND. Who would have thought she could make things worse by talking about it? Just picture yourself in the same situation as poor Johanna—

MANDERS. I!

ENGSTRAND. Lord bless you, I don't mean just exactly the same. But I mean, if your Reverence had anything to be ashamed of in the eyes of the world, as the saying goes. We menfolk oughtn't to judge a poor woman too hardly, your Reverence.

ENGSTRAND. Honestly, I don't mean exactly the same thing. But I mean, if you had anything to be ashamed of in front of others, like people say. We men shouldn't judge a poor woman too harshly, your Reverence.

MANDERS. I am not doing so. It is you I am reproaching.

MANDERS. I'm not doing that. It's you I'm blaming.

ENGSTRAND. Might I make so bold as to ask your Reverence a bit of a question?

ENGSTRAND. May I be bold enough to ask you a question, Your Reverence?

MANDERS. Yes, if you want to.

MANDERS. Sure, if that's what you want.

ENGSTRAND. Isn't it right and proper for a man to raise up the fallen?

ENGSTRAND. Isn't it fair and proper for someone to help those who have fallen?

MANDERS. Most certainly it is.

For sure it is.

ENGSTRAND. And isn't a man bound to keep his sacred word?

ENGSTRAND. Isn't a man supposed to keep his sacred word?

MANDERS. Why, of course he is; but—

MANDERS. Of course he is; but—

ENGSTRAND. When Johanna had got into trouble through that Englishman—or it might have been an American or a Russian, as they call them—well, you see, she came down into the town. Poor thing, she'd sent me about my business once or twice before: for she couldn't bear the sight of anything as wasn't handsome; and I'd got this damaged leg of mine. Your Reverence recollects how I ventured up into a dancing saloon, where seafaring men was carrying on with drink and devilry, as the saying goes. And then, when I was for giving them a bit of an admonition to lead a new life—

ENGSTRAND. When Johanna got mixed up with that English guy—or maybe it was an American or a Russian, as they call them—well, you see, she came down to the town. Poor thing, she had sent me on my way once or twice before because she couldn't stand the sight of anything that wasn't good-looking, and here I was with this messed-up leg of mine. Your Reverence remembers how I dared to go into a dance hall, where sailors were drinking and causing trouble, as the saying goes. And then, when I tried to give them a little advice about turning their lives around—

MRS. ALVING. [At the window.] H'm—

MRS. ALVING. [At the window.] Hmm—

MANDERS. I know all about that, Engstrand; the ruffians threw you downstairs. You have told me of the affair already. Your infirmity is an honour to you.

MANDERS. I know all about that, Engstrand; those thugs pushed you down the stairs. You've already told me about it. Your injury is a mark of honor for you.

ENGSTRAND. I'm not puffed up about it, your Reverence. But what I wanted to say was, that when she came and confessed all to me, with weeping and gnashing of teeth, I can tell your Reverence I was sore at heart to hear it.

ENGSTRAND. I'm not bragging about it, your Reverence. What I wanted to say is that when she came and told me everything, crying and really upset, I can honestly say it hurt me to hear it.

MANDERS. Were you indeed, Engstrand? Well, go on.

MANDERS. Were you really, Engstrand? Alright, continue.

ENGSTRAND. So I says to her, "The American, he's sailing about on the boundless sea. And as for you, Johanna," says I, "you've committed a grievous sin, and you're a fallen creature. But Jacob Engstrand," says I, "he's got two good legs to stand upon, he has—" You see, your Reverence, I was speaking figurative-like.

ENGSTRAND. So I said to her, "The American is out there sailing on the endless ocean. And as for you, Johanna," I said, "you've made a serious mistake, and you're lost. But Jacob Engstrand," I said, "he's got two good legs to stand on, he does—" You see, Your Reverence, I was speaking figuratively.

MANDERS. I understand quite well. Go on.

MANDERS. I get it. Go ahead.

ENGSTRAND. Well, that was how I raised her up and made an honest woman of her, so as folks shouldn't get to know how as she'd gone astray with foreigners.

ENGSTRAND. Well, that's how I raised her and made her an honest woman, so people wouldn't find out how she had gone off with foreigners.

MANDERS. In all that you acted very well. Only I cannot approve of your stooping to take money—

MANDERS. You did really well in everything you did. I just can't agree with you accepting money—

ENGSTRAND. Money? I? Not a farthing!

ENGSTRAND. Money? Me? Not a penny!

MANDERS. [Inquiringly to MRS. ALVING.] But—

MANDERS. [Curiously to MRS. ALVING.] But—

ENGSTRAND. Oh, wait a minute!—now I recollect. Johanna did have a trifle of money. But I would have nothing to do with that. "No," says I, "that's mammon; that's the wages of sin. This dirty gold—or notes, or whatever it was—we'll just flint, that back in the American's face," says I. But he was off and away, over the stormy sea, your Reverence.

ENGSTRAND. Oh, wait a minute!—now I remember. Johanna did have a bit of money. But I wanted nothing to do with it. "No," I said, "that's dirty money; that's the earnings of sin. This filthy cash—or whatever it was—we'll just shove that back in the American's face," I said. But he was gone, across the stormy sea, your Reverence.

MANDERS. Was he really, my good fellow?

MANDERS. Was he actually, my friend?

ENGSTRAND. He was indeed, sir. So Johanna and I, we agreed that the money should go to the child's education; and so it did, and I can account for every blessed farthing of it.

ENGSTRAND. He really was, sir. So Johanna and I decided that the money should go towards the child's education, and it did, and I can account for every single penny of it.

MANDERS. Why, this alters the case considerably.

MANDERS. Well, that changes things quite a bit.

ENGSTRAND. That's just how it stands, your Reverence. And I make so bold as to say as I've been an honest father to Regina, so far as my poor strength went; for I'm but a weak vessel, worse luck!

ENGSTRAND. That's just how it is, your Reverence. And I dare say I've been a decent father to Regina, as best as I could; for I'm just a weak man, unfortunately!

MANDERS. Well, well, my good fellow—

MANDERS. Well, well, my good man—

ENGSTRAND. All the same, I bear myself witness as I've brought up the child, and lived kindly with poor Johanna, and ruled over my own house, as the Scripture has it. But it couldn't never enter my head to go to your Reverence and puff myself up and boast because even the likes of me had done some good in the world. No, sir; when anything of that sort happens to Jacob Engstrand, he holds his tongue about it. It don't happen so terrible often, I daresay. And when I do come to see your Reverence, I find a mortal deal that's wicked and weak to talk about. For I said it before, and I says it again—a man's conscience isn't always as clean as it might be.

ENGSTRAND. Still, I stand as a witness to the fact that I’ve raised the child, treated poor Johanna kindly, and managed my own household, as the good book says. But it never even crossed my mind to come to you, Your Reverence, and brag about the little good I've done in this world. No, sir; when something like that happens to Jacob Engstrand, he keeps it to himself. It doesn’t happen too often, I can tell you that. And whenever I do come to see you, Your Reverence, I find plenty of wickedness and weakness to discuss. Because I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—a man's conscience isn’t always as clear as it should be.

MANDERS. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand.

ENGSTRAND. Oh, Lord! your Reverence—

ENGSTRAND. Oh, God! your Honor—

MANDERS. Come, no nonsense [wrings his hand]. There we are!

MANDERS. Come on, no jokes [wrings his hand]. There we go!

ENGSTRAND. And if I might humbly beg your Reverence's pardon—

ENGSTRAND. And if I could respectfully ask for your forgiveness—

MANDERS. You? On the contrary, it is I who ought to beg your pardon—

MANDERS. You? No, I should actually be the one to ask for your pardon—

ENGSTRAND. Lord, no, Sir!

ENGSTRAND. No way, Sir!

MANDERS. Yes, assuredly. And I do it with all my heart. Forgive me for misunderstanding you. I only wish I could give you some proof of my hearty regret, and of my good-will towards you—

MANDERS. Yes, definitely. And I really mean it. I'm sorry for misunderstanding you. I just wish I could show you how truly sorry I am and how much I care about you—

ENGSTRAND. Would your Reverence do it?

ENGSTRAND. Would you go for it?

MANDERS. With the greatest pleasure.

Sure thing!

ENGSTRAND. Well then, here's the very chance. With the bit of money I've saved here, I was thinking I might set up a Sailors' Home down in the town.

ENGSTRAND. Well then, this is the perfect opportunity. With the little money I've saved up, I was thinking of starting a Sailors' Home down in the town.

MRS. ALVING. You?

You?

ENGSTRAND. Yes; it might be a sort of Orphanage, too, in a manner of speaking. There's such a many temptations for seafaring folk ashore. But in this Home of mine, a man might feel like as he was under a father's eye, I was thinking.

ENGSTRAND. Yes; it could be a kind of orphanage, in a way. There are so many temptations for sailors on land. But in this place of mine, a person might feel like he's under a father's watchful eye, I was thinking.

MANDERS. What do you say to this, Mrs. Alving?

MANDERS. What do you think about this, Mrs. Alving?

ENGSTRAND. It isn't much as I've got to start with, Lord help me! But if I could only find a helping hand, why—

ENGSTRAND. It's not a lot to start with, God help me! But if I could just find a helping hand, then—

MANDERS. Yes, yes; we will look into the matter more closely. I entirely approve of your plan. But now, go before me and make everything ready, and get the candles lighted, so as to give the place an air of festivity. And then we will pass an edifying hour together, my good fellow; for now I quite believe you are in the right frame of mind.

MANDERS. Yes, yes; we'll examine this situation more closely. I fully support your plan. But now, please go ahead of me and prepare everything, and light the candles to create a festive atmosphere. Then we can enjoy an enlightening hour together, my good friend; I really do believe you're in the right mindset now.

ENGSTRAND. Yes, I trust I am. And so I'll say good-bye, ma'am, and thank you kindly; and take good care of Regina for me—[Wipes a tear from his eye]—poor Johanna's child. Well, it's a queer thing, now; but it's just like as if she'd growd into the very apple of my eye. It is, indeed. [He bows and goes out through the hall.]

ENGSTRAND. Yes, I believe I am. So I'll say goodbye, ma'am, and thank you very much; and please take good care of Regina for me—[Wipes a tear from his eye]—poor Johanna's child. It's strange, but it's just like she's become the very apple of my eye. It really is. [He bows and exits through the hall.]

MANDERS. Well, what do you say of that man now, Mrs. Alving? That was a very different account of matters, was it not?

MANDERS. So, what do you think of that man now, Mrs. Alving? That was a completely different story, wasn’t it?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, it certainly was.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, it definitely was.

MANDERS. It only shows how excessively careful one ought to be in judging one's fellow creatures. But what a heartfelt joy it is to ascertain that one has been mistaken! Don't you think so?

MANDERS. It just proves how important it is to be really careful when judging others. But what a genuine joy it is to realize that you were wrong! Don't you agree?

MRS. ALVING. I think you are, and will always be, a great baby, Manders.

MRS. ALVING. I think you are, and always will be, a big baby, Manders.

MANDERS. I?

MRS. ALVING. [Laying her two hands upon his shoulders.] And I say that I have half a mind to put my arms round your neck, and kiss you.

MRS. ALVING. [Laying her two hands on his shoulders.] And I’m saying that I’m seriously thinking about wrapping my arms around your neck and kissing you.

MANDERS. [Stepping hastily back.] No, no! God bless me! What an idea!

MANDERS. [Stepping back quickly.] No, no! Goodness! What a thought!

MRS. ALVING. [With a smile.] Oh, you needn't be afraid of me.

MRS. ALVING. [Smiling.] Oh, you don’t have to worry about me.

MANDERS. [By the table.] You have sometimes such an exaggerated way of expressing yourself. Now, let me just collect all the documents, and put them in my bag. [He does so.] There, that's all right. And now, good-bye for the present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I shall look in again later. [He takes his hat and goes out through the hall door.]

MANDERS. [By the table.] You have a tendency to express yourself in such an exaggerated way. Now, let me gather all the documents and put them in my bag. [He does so.] There, that's taken care of. And now, goodbye for now. Stay alert when Oswald comes back. I’ll drop by again later. [He takes his hat and leaves through the hall door.]

MRS. ALVING. [Sighs, looks for a moment out of the window, sets the room in order a little, and is about to go into the dining-room, but stops at the door with a half-suppressed cry.] Oswald, are you still at table?

MRS. ALVING. [Sighs, looks out the window for a moment, tidies up the room a bit, and is about to head into the dining room, but pauses at the door with a stifled cry.] Oswald, are you still at the table?

OSWALD. [In the dining room.] I'm only finishing my cigar.

OSWALD. [In the dining room.] I'm just finishing my cigar.

MRS. ALVING. I thought you had gone for a little walk.

MRS. ALVING. I thought you went for a quick walk.

OSWALD. In such weather as this?

OSWALD. In weather like this?

[A glass clinks. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open, and sits down with her knitting on the sofa by the window.]

[A glass clinks. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down with her knitting on the sofa by the window.]

OSWALD. Wasn't that Pastor Manders that went out just now?

OSWALD. Wasn't that Pastor Manders who just left?

MRS. ALVING. Yes; he went down to the Orphanage.

MRS. ALVING. Yeah; he went to the Orphanage.

OSWALD. H'm. [The glass and decanter clink again.]

OSWALD. Hmm. [The glass and decanter clink again.]

MRS. ALVING. [With a troubled glance.] Dear Oswald, you should take care of that liqueur. It is strong.

MRS. ALVING. [With a worried look.] Dear Oswald, you need to be careful with that liqueur. It's strong.

OSWALD. It keeps out the damp.

OSWALD. It keeps the moisture out.

MRS. ALVING. Wouldn't you rather come in here, to me?

MRS. ALVING. Wouldn't you prefer to come in here with me?

OSWALD. I mayn't smoke in there.

OSWALD. I can't smoke in there.

MRS. ALVING. You know quite well you may smoke cigars.

MRS. ALVING. You know very well that you can smoke cigars.

OSWALD. Oh, all right then; I'll come in. Just a tiny drop more first. There! [He comes into the room with his cigar, and shuts the door after him. A short silence.] Where has the pastor gone to?

OSWALD. Okay, fine; I'll come in. Just a little more first. There! [He enters the room with his cigar and closes the door behind him. A brief silence.] Where did the pastor go?

MRS. ALVING. I have just told you; he went down to the Orphanage.

MRS. ALVING. I just told you; he went to the Orphanage.

OSWALD. Oh, yes; so you did.

OSWALD. Oh, got it; you did.

MRS. ALVING. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald.

MRS. ALVING. You shouldn't stay at the table for so long, Oswald.

OSWALD. [Holding his cigar behind him.] But I find it so pleasant, mother. [Strokes and caresses her.] Just think what it is for me to come home and sit at mother's own table, in mother's room, and eat mother's delicious dishes.

OSWALD. [Holding his cigar behind him.] But I really enjoy it, mom. [Strokes and caresses her.] Just think about how nice it is for me to come home and sit at mom's table, in mom's room, and eat mom's amazing food.

MRS. ALVING. My dear, dear boy!

MRS. ALVING. My precious, sweet boy!

OSWALD. [Somewhat impatiently, walks about and smokes.] And what else can I do with myself here? I can't set to work at anything.

OSWALD. [A bit impatient, paces around and smokes.] So what else can I do here? I can't focus on anything.

MRS. ALVING. Why can't you?

MRS. ALVING. Why not?

OSWALD. In such weather as this? Without a single ray of sunshine the whole day? [Walks up the room.] Oh, not to be able to work—!

OSWALD. In weather like this? Without a single ray of sunshine all day? [Walks up the room.] Oh, not being able to work—!

MRS. ALVING. Perhaps it was not quite wise of you to come home?

MRS. ALVING. Maybe it wasn't the best idea for you to come home?

OSWALD. Oh, yes, mother; I had to.

OSWALD. Oh, yeah, mom; I had to.

MRS. ALVING. You know I would ten times rather forgo the joy of having you here, than let you—

MRS. ALVING. You know I would much rather give up the joy of having you here than let you—

OSWALD. [Stops beside the table.] Now just tell me, mother: does it really make you so very happy to have me home again?

OSWALD. [Stops beside the table.] Just tell me, Mom: are you really that happy to have me back home?

MRS. ALVING. Does it make me happy!

OSWALD. [Crumpling up a newspaper.] I should have thought it must be pretty much the same to you whether I was in existence or not.

OSWALD. [Crumpling up a newspaper.] I should have thought it wouldn’t make much difference to you whether I was around or not.

MRS. ALVING. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald?

MRS. ALVING. Do you really have the nerve to say that to your mother, Oswald?

OSWALD. But you've got on very well without me all this time.

OSWALD. But you've managed just fine without me all this time.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; I have got on without you. That is true.

MRS. ALVING. Yeah, I’ve managed without you. That’s true.

[A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces to and fro across the room. He has laid his cigar down.]

[A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces back and forth across the room. He has put his cigar down.]

OSWALD. [Stops beside MRS. ALVING.] Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside you?

OSWALD. [Stops beside MRS. ALVING.] Mom, can I sit on the sofa next to you?

MRS. ALVING. [Makes room for him.] Yes, do, my dear boy.

MRS. ALVING. [Makes room for him.] Yes, go ahead, my dear boy.

OSWALD. [Sits down.] There is something I must tell you, mother.

OSWALD. [Sits down.] I need to tell you something, Mom.

MRS. ALVING. [Anxiously.] Well?

MRS. ALVING. [Nervously.] So?

OSWALD. [Looks fixedly before him.] For I can't go on hiding it any longer.

OSWALD. [Stares straight ahead.] Because I can't keep hiding it anymore.

MRS. ALVING. Hiding what? What is it?

MRS. ALVING. Hiding what? What’s going on?

OSWALD. [As before.] I could never bring myself to write to you about it; and since I've come home—

MRS. ALVING. [Seizes him by the arm.] Oswald, what is the matter?

MRS. ALVING. [Grabs him by the arm.] Oswald, what's wrong?

OSWALD. Both yesterday and to-day I have tried to put the thoughts away from me—to cast them off; but it's no use.

OSWALD. Both yesterday and today I've tried to push the thoughts away—to shake them off; but it’s no use.

MRS. ALVING. [Rising.] Now you must tell me everything, Oswald!

MRS. ALVING. [Getting up.] Now you have to tell me everything, Oswald!

OSWALD. [Draws her down to the sofa again.] Sit still; and then I will try to tell you.—I complained of fatigue after my journey—

OSWALD. [Pulls her back down to the sofa.] Stay put; and then I’ll try to explain to you.—I mentioned feeling tired after my trip—

MRS. ALVING. Well? What then?

MRS. ALVING. So? What now?

OSWALD. But it isn't that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary fatigue—

OSWALD. But that's not what's wrong with me; it's not just regular fatigue—

MRS. ALVING. [Tries to jump up.] You are not ill, Oswald?

MRS. ALVING. [Tries to jump up.] You’re not sick, are you, Oswald?

OSWALD. [Draws her down again.] Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. I'm not downright ill, either; not what is commonly called "ill." [Clasps his hands above his head.] Mother, my mind is broken down—ruined—I shall never be able to work again! [With his hands before his face, he buries his head in her lap, and breaks into bitter sobbing.]

OSWALD. [Pulls her down again.] Stay still, Mom. Just relax. I'm not really sick, not in the usual sense. [Clasping his hands above his head.] Mom, my mind is falling apart—destroyed—I won’t be able to work again! [Hiding his face in her lap, he starts to cry uncontrollably.]

MRS. ALVING. [White and trembling.] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; it's not true.

MRS. ALVING. [Pale and shaking.] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; that’s not right.

OSWALD. [Looks up with despair in his eyes.] Never to be able to work again! Never!—never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so horrible?

OSWALD. [Looks up with despair in his eyes.] Never being able to work again! Never!—never! It’s like a living death! Mom, can you imagine anything so terrible?

MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! How has this horrible thing come upon you?

MRS. ALVING. My poor son! How did this terrible thing happen to you?

OSWALD. [Sitting upright again.] That's just what I cannot possibly grasp or understand. I have never led a dissipated life—never, in any respect. You mustn't believe that of me, mother! I've never done that.

OSWALD. [Sitting upright again.] That's exactly what I just can't understand. I've never lived a wild life—not at all. You can't believe that about me, Mom! I've never done that.

MRS. ALVING. I am sure you haven't, Oswald.

MRS. ALVING. I’m sure you haven’t, Oswald.

OSWALD. And yet this has come upon me just the same—this awful misfortune!

OSWALD. And yet this has happened to me anyway—this terrible misfortune!

MRS. ALVING. Oh, but it will pass over, my dear, blessed boy. It's nothing but over-work. Trust me, I am right.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, but it will blow over, my dear, wonderful boy. It’s just overworking yourself. Trust me, I know I'm right.

OSWALD. [Sadly.] I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so.

OSWALD. [Sadly.] I thought that too, at first; but it’s not true.

MRS. ALVING. Tell me everything, from beginning to end.

MRS. ALVING. Tell me everything, from start to finish.

OSWALD. Yes, I will.

OSWALD. Yeah, I will.

MRS. ALVING. When did you first notice it?

MRS. ALVING. When did you first see it?

OSWALD. It was directly after I had been home last time, and had got back to Paris again. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head—chiefly in the back of my head, they seemed to come. It was as though a tight iron ring was being screwed round my neck and upwards.

OSWALD. It was right after my last visit home, when I returned to Paris. I started to feel these intense pains in my head—mostly at the back—like a tight iron ring was being tightened around my neck and upwards.

MRS. ALVING. Well, and then?

MRS. ALVING. So, what's next?

OSWALD. At first I thought it was nothing but the ordinary headache I had been so plagued with while I was growing up—

OSWALD. At first, I thought it was just the usual headache I had dealt with while I was growing up—

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes—

MRS. ALVING. Yeah, yeah—

OSWALD. But it wasn't that. I soon found that out. I couldn't work any more. I wanted to begin upon a big new picture, but my powers seemed to fail me; all my strength was crippled; I could form no definite images; everything swam before me—whirling round and round. Oh, it was an awful state! At last I sent for a doctor—and from him I learned the truth.

OSWALD. But it wasn’t that. I quickly realized that. I couldn't work anymore. I wanted to start a big new project, but my abilities seemed to abandon me; all my energy was depleted; I couldn't create any clear images; everything blurred before me—spinning around and around. Oh, it was a terrible situation! Finally, I called for a doctor—and from him, I learned the truth.

MRS. ALVING. How do you mean?

MRS. ALVING. What do you mean?

OSWALD. He was one of the first doctors in Paris. I told him my symptoms; and then he set to work asking me a string of questions which I thought had nothing to do with the matter. I couldn't imagine what the man was after—

OSWALD. He was one of the first doctors in Paris. I told him my symptoms, and then he began asking me a bunch of questions that I thought were totally irrelevant. I couldn't figure out what the guy was getting at—

MRS. ALVING. Well?

Mrs. Alving. So?

OSWALD. At last he said: "There has been something worm-eaten in you from your birth." He used that very word—vermoulu.

OSWALD. Finally, he said: "There's been something rotten in you since you were born." He used that exact word—vermoulu.

MRS. ALVING. [Breathlessly.] What did he mean by that?

MRS. ALVING. [Out of breath.] What did he mean by that?

OSWALD. I didn't understand either, and begged him to explain himself more clearly. And then the old cynic said—[Clenching his fist] Oh—!

OSWALD. I didn't get it either, so I asked him to clarify. 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 upon the children."

OSWALD. He said, "The sins of the fathers fall on the children."

MRS. ALVING. [Rising slowly.] The sins of the fathers—!

MRS. ALVING. [Standing up slowly.] The sins of the fathers—!

OSWALD. I very nearly struck him in the face—

OSWALD. I almost punched him in the face—

MRS. ALVING. [Walks away across the room.] The sins of the fathers—

OSWALD. [Smiles sadly.] Yes; what do you think of that? Of course I assured him that such a thing was out of the question. But do you think he gave in? No, he stuck to it; and it was only when I produced your letters and translated the passages relating to father—

OSWALD. [Smiles sadly.] Yeah; what do you think about that? Of course, I told him that was totally out of the question. But do you think he backed down? No, he held his ground; and it was only when I showed him your letters and translated the parts about Dad—

MRS. ALVING. But then—?

OSWALD. Then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong track; and so I learned the truth—the incomprehensible truth! I ought not to have taken part with my comrades in that lighthearted, glorious life of theirs. It had been too much for my strength. So I had brought it upon myself!

OSWALD. Then he had to admit he was on the wrong path; and that’s when I discovered the truth—the unfathomable truth! I shouldn’t have joined my friends in their carefree, wonderful life. It was too much for me. So I brought this on myself!

MRS. ALVING. Oswald! No, no; do not believe it!

MRS. ALVING. Oswald! No, don’t believe that!

OSWALD. No other explanation was possible, he said. That's the awful part of it. Incurably ruined for life—by my own heedlessness! All that I meant to have done in the world—I never dare think of it again—I'm not able to think of it. Oh! if I could only live over again, and undo all I have done! [He buries his face in the sofa.]

OSWALD. There was no other explanation, he said. That's the terrible part. I'm ruined for life—because of my own carelessness! Everything I wanted to achieve in the world—I can't even bear to think about it again—I just can't. Oh! If only I could live my life over and undo everything I've done! [He buries his face in the sofa.]

MRS. ALVING. [Wrings her hands and walks, in silent struggle, backwards and forwards.]

MRS. ALVING. [Wringing her hands, she paces back and forth, silently battling with her thoughts.]

OSWALD. [After a while, looks up and remains resting upon his elbow.] If it had only been something inherited—something one wasn't responsible for! But this! To have thrown away so shamefully, thoughtlessly, recklessly, one's own happiness, one's own health, everything in the world—one's future, one's very life—!

OSWALD. [After a while, looks up and stays resting on his elbow.] If it had just been something passed down—something I couldn't control! But this! To have thrown away so shamefully, thoughtlessly, recklessly, my own happiness, my own health, everything in the world—my future, my very life—!

MRS. ALVING. No, no, my dear, darling boy; this is impossible! [Bends over him.] Things are not so desperate as you think.

MRS. ALVING. No, no, my dear, sweet boy; this is not going to happen! [Bends over him.] Things aren't as hopeless as you believe.

OSWALD. Oh, you don't know—[Springs up.] And then, mother, to cause you all this sorrow! Many a time I have almost wished and hoped that at bottom you didn't care so very much about me.

OSWALD. Oh, you have no idea—[Jumps up.] And then, Mom, to make you feel this way! There have been countless times I've almost wished and hoped that deep down, you didn't care that much about me.

MRS. ALVING. I, Oswald? My only boy! You are all I have in the world! The only thing I care about!

MRS. ALVING. I, Oswald? My only son! You are everything I have in the world! The only thing that matters to me!

OSWALD. [Seizes both her hands and kisses them.] Yes, yes, I see it. When I'm at home, I see it, of course; and that's almost the hardest part for me.—But now you know the whole story and now we won't talk any more about it to-day. I daren't think of it for long together. [Goes up the room.] Get me something to drink, mother.

OSWALD. [Grabs both her hands and kisses them.] Yes, yes, I get it. When I'm at home, I see it, obviously; and that's almost the toughest part for me.—But now you know the whole story and we won't talk about it anymore today. I can’t think about it for too long. [Heads up the room.] Get me something to drink, Mom.

MRS. ALVING. To drink? What do you want to drink now?

MRS. ALVING. To drink? What do you want to drink right now?

OSWALD. Oh, anything you like. You have some cold punch in the house.

OSWALD. Oh, whatever you want. You've got some cold punch at the house.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, but my dear Oswald—

OSWALD. Don't refuse me, mother. Do be kind, now! I must have something to wash down all these gnawing thoughts. [Goes into the conservatory.] And then—it's so dark here! [MRS. ALVING pulls a bell-rope on the right.] And this ceaseless rain! It may go on week after week, for months together. Never to get a glimpse of the sun! I can't recollect ever having seen the sun shine all the times I've been at home.

OSWALD. Please don’t turn me down, Mom. Just be nice, okay? I need something to help with all these nagging thoughts. [Goes into the conservatory.] And it’s so dark in here! [MRS. ALVING pulls a bell-rope on the right.] And this nonstop rain! It could keep going for weeks, or even months. Never a glimpse of the sun! I can’t remember ever seeing the sun shine during all the times I’ve been at home.

MRS. ALVING. Oswald—you are thinking of going away from me.

MRS. ALVING. Oswald—you’re considering leaving me.

OSWALD. H'm—[Drawing a heavy breath.]—I'm not thinking of anything. I cannot think of anything! [In a low voice.] I let thinking alone.

OSWALD. H'm—[Drawing a heavy breath.]—I'm not thinking about anything. I can't think of anything! [In a low voice.] I just stopped thinking.

REGINA. [From the dining-room.] Did you ring, ma'am?

REGINA. [From the dining room.] Did you call, ma'am?

MRS. ALVING. Yes; let us have the lamp in.

MRS. ALVING. Yes; let's bring in the lamp.

REGINA. Yes, ma'am. It's ready lighted. [Goes out.]

REGINA. Yes, ma'am. It's lit and ready. [Leaves.]

MRS. ALVING. [Goes across to OSWALD.] Oswald, be frank with me.

MRS. ALVING. [Walks over to OSWALD.] Oswald, please be honest with me.

OSWALD. Well, so I am, mother. [Goes to the table.] I think I have told you enough.

OSWALD. Yeah, that's right, mom. [Goes to the table.] I think I've shared enough with you.

[REGINA brings the lamp and sets it upon the table.]

[REGINA brings the lamp and sets it on the table.]

MRS. ALVING. Regina, you may bring us a small bottle of champagne.

MRS. ALVING. Regina, could you please get us a small bottle of champagne?

REGINA. Very well, ma'am. [Goes out.]

REGINA. Okay, ma'am. [Exits.]

OSWALD. [Puts his arm round MRS. ALVING's neck.] That's just what I wanted. I knew mother wouldn't let her boy go thirsty.

OSWALD. [Puts his arm around MRS. ALVING's neck.] That's exactly what I wanted. I knew mom wouldn't let her boy go thirsty.

MRS. ALVING. My own, poor, darling Oswald; how could I deny you anything now?

MRS. ALVING. My dear, sweet Oswald; how could I refuse you anything now?

OSWALD. [Eagerly.] Is that true, mother? Do you mean it?

OSWALD. [Eagerly.] Is that true, Mom? Do you really mean it?

MRS. ALVING. How? What?

MRS. ALVING. How? What’s happening?

OSWALD. That you couldn't deny me anything.

OSWALD. That you couldn't refuse me anything.

MRS. ALVING. My dear Oswald—

OSWALD. Hush!

OSWALD. Quiet!

REGINA. [Brings a tray with a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses, which she sets on the table.] Shall I open it?

REGINA. [Brings a tray with a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses, which she sets on the table.] Should I open it?

OSWALD. No, thanks. I will do it myself.

OSWALD. No, thanks. I'll handle it myself.

[REGINA goes out again.]

MRS. ALVING. [Sits down by the table.] What was it you meant—that I mustn't deny you?

MRS. ALVING. [Sits down at the table.] What did you mean when you said that I shouldn't deny you?

OSWALD. [Busy opening the bottle.] First let us have a glass—or two.

OSWALD. [Busy opening the bottle.] First, let’s have a glass—or two.

[The cork pops; he pours wine into one glass, and is about to pour it into the other.]

[The cork pops; he pours wine into one glass and is about to pour it into the other.]

MRS. ALVING. [Holding her hand over it.] Thanks; not for me.

OSWALD. Oh! won't you? Then I will!

OSWALD. Oh! You will? Then I definitely will!

[He empties the glass, fills, and empties it again; then he sits down by the table.]

[He finishes his drink, refills the glass, and then drinks it empty again; then he sits down at the table.]

MRS. ALVING. [In expectancy.] Well?

MRS. ALVING. [Anticipating.] Well?

OSWALD. [Without looking at her.] Tell me—I thought you and Pastor Manders seemed so odd—so quiet—at dinner to-day.

OSWALD. [Without looking at her.] Tell me—I thought you and Pastor Manders seemed really strange—so quiet—at dinner today.

MRS. ALVING. Did you notice it?

MRS. ALVING. Did you see that?

OSWALD. Yes. H'm—[After a short silence.] Tell me: what do you think of Regina?

OSWALD. Yeah. Hm—[After a brief pause.] Tell me: what do you think of Regina?

MRS. ALVING. What do I think?

OSWALD. Yes; isn't she splendid?

OSWALD. Yes; isn't she amazing?

MRS. ALVING. My dear Oswald, you don't know her as I do—

MRS. ALVING. My dear Oswald, you don’t know her like I do—

OSWALD. Well?

OSWALD. So?

MRS. ALVING. Regina, unfortunately, was allowed to stay at home too long. I ought to have taken her earlier into my house.

MRS. ALVING. Regina, unfortunately, was allowed to stay at home too long. I should have brought her into my house sooner.

OSWALD. Yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, mother? [He fills his glass.]

OSWALD. Yes, but isn't she amazing to look at, Mom? [He fills his glass.]

MRS. ALVING. Regina has many serious faults—

MRS. ALVING. Regina has a lot of serious flaws—

OSWALD. Oh, what does that matter? [He drinks again.]

OSWALD. Oh, what difference does that make? [He drinks again.]

MRS. ALVING. But I am fond of her, nevertheless, and I am responsible for her. I wouldn't for all the world have any harm happen to her.

MRS. ALVING. But I care about her, and I’m responsible for her. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her for anything in the world.

OSWALD. [Springs up.] Mother, Regina is my only salvation!

OSWALD. [Jumps up.] Mom, Regina is my only hope!

MRS. ALVING. [Rising.] What do you mean by that?

MRS. ALVING. [Standing up.] What do you mean by that?

OSWALD. I cannot go on bearing all this anguish of soul alone.

OSWALD. I can’t keep carrying this emotional pain all by myself.

MRS. ALVING. Have you not your mother to share it with you?

MRS. ALVING. Don't you have your mom to share it with you?

OSWALD. Yes; that's what I thought; and so I came home to you. But that will not do. I see it won't do. I cannot endure my life here.

OSWALD. Yeah; that's what I thought; and that's why I came back to you. But that's not enough. I can see that it's not enough. I can't stand my life here.

MRS. ALVING. Oswald!

Oswald!

OSWALD. I must live differently, mother. That is why I must leave you. I will not have you looking on at it.

OSWALD. I have to live differently, mom. That's why I need to leave you. I can't have you watching it.

MRS. ALVING. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, while you are so ill as this—

MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! But, Oswald, while you’re feeling this sick—

OSWALD. If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, mother, you may be sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world.

OSWALD. If it were just the illness, I would stay with you, mom, you can be sure of that; because you’re the best friend I have in the world.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, I really am, Oswald; aren't I?

OSWALD. [Wanders restlessly about.] But it's all the torment, the gnawing remorse—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh—that awful dread!

OSWALD. [Wanders restlessly about.] But it's all the torment, the gnawing remorse—and then, the overwhelming, crushing fear. Oh—that terrible fear!

MRS. ALVING. [Walking after him.] Dread? What dread? What do you mean?

MRS. ALVING. [Walking after him.] Fear? What fear? What are you talking about?

OSWALD. Oh, you mustn't ask me any more. I don't know. I can't describe it.

OSWALD. Oh, please don't ask me anymore. I really don't know. I can't explain it.

MRS. ALVING. [Goes over to the right and pulls the bell.]

MRS. ALVING. [Moves to the right and rings the bell.]

OSWALD. What is it you want?

OSWALD. What do you need?

MRS. ALVING. I want my boy to be happy—that is what I want. He sha'n't go on brooding over things. [To REGINA, who appears at the door:] More champagne—a large bottle. [REGINA goes.]

MRS. ALVING. I want my son to be happy—that's all I want. He shouldn't keep dwelling on things. [To REGINA, who appears at the door:] More champagne—a big bottle. [REGINA goes.]

OSWALD. Mother!

Mom!

MRS. ALVING. Do you think we don't know how to live here at home?

MRS. ALVING. Do you think we don’t know how to live here at home?

OSWALD. Isn't she splendid to look at? How beautifully she's built! And so thoroughly healthy!

OSWALD. Isn't she amazing to look at? She's so beautifully made! And totally healthy!

MRS. ALVING. [Sits by the table.] Sit down, Oswald; let us talk quietly together.

MRS. ALVING. [Sits by the table.] Sit down, Oswald; let's talk calmly together.

OSWALD. [Sits.] I daresay you don't know, mother, that I owe Regina some reparation.

OSWALD. [Sits.] I bet you don't know, Mom, that I owe Regina some kind of compensation.

MRS. ALVING. You!

You!

OSWALD. For a bit of thoughtlessness, or whatever you like to call it—very innocent, at any rate. When I was home last time—

OSWALD. For a moment of carelessness, or whatever you want to call it—very innocent, anyway. When I was home last time—

MRS. ALVING. Well?

MRS. ALVING. So?

OSWALD. She used often to ask me about Paris, and I used to tell her one thing and another. Then I recollect I happened to say to her one day, "Shouldn't you like to go there yourself?"

OSWALD. She often asked me about Paris, and I shared bits and pieces with her. Then I remember one day saying to her, "Wouldn't you like to go there yourself?"

MRS. ALVING. Well?

Mrs. Alving. So?

OSWALD. I saw her face flush, and then she said, "Yes, I should like it of all things." "Ah, well," I replied, "it might perhaps be managed"—or something like that.

OSWALD. I saw her face turn red, and then she said, "Yes, I would love that more than anything." "Oh, well," I replied, "it might be possible"—or something like that.

MRS. ALVING. And then?

Mrs. Alving. What then?

OSWALD. Of course I had forgotten all about it; but the day before yesterday I happened to ask her whether she was glad I was to stay at home so long—

OSWALD. Of course I completely forgot about that; but the day before yesterday, I happened to ask her if she was happy I was going to stay home for so long—

MRS. ALVING. Yes?

Yes?

OSWALD. And then she gave me such a strange look, and asked, "But what's to become of my trip to Paris?"

OSWALD. And then she gave me this really odd look and asked, "But what’s going to happen to my trip to Paris?"

MRS. ALVING. Her trip!

Mrs. Alving. Her journey!

OSWALD. And so it came out that she had taken the thing seriously; that she had been thinking of me the whole time, and had set to work to learn French—

OSWALD. And so it turned out that she had taken it seriously; that she had been thinking about me the entire time and had started learning French—

MRS. ALVING. So that was why—!

MRS. ALVING. So that's why—!

OSWALD. Mother—when I saw that fresh, lovely, splendid girl standing there before me—till then I had hardly noticed her—but when she stood there as though with open arms ready to receive me—

OSWALD. Mom—when I saw that beautiful, amazing girl standing right in front of me—I hadn't really paid much attention to her before—but when she stood there like she was ready to welcome me with open arms—

MRS. ALVING. Oswald!

Oswald!

OSWALD.—then it flashed upon me that in her lay my salvation; for I saw that she was full of the joy of life.

OSWALD.—then it struck me that my salvation depended on her; I realized that she was brimming with the joy of living.

MRS. ALVING. [Starts.] The joy of life? Can there be salvation in that?

MRS. ALVING. [Starts.] The joy of life? Can that really offer salvation?

REGINA. [From the dining room, with a bottle of champagne.] I'm sorry to have been so long, but I had to go to the cellar. [Places the bottle on the table.]

REGINA. [From the dining room, with a bottle of champagne.] I apologize for taking so long, but I had to go to the cellar. [Places the bottle on the table.]

OSWALD. And now bring another glass.

OSWALD. And now, get me another glass.

REGINA. [Looks at him in surprise.] There is Mrs. Alving's glass, Mr. Alving.

REGINA. [Looks at him in surprise.] That's Mrs. Alving's glass, Mr. Alving.

OSWALD. Yes, but bring one for yourself, Regina. [REGINA starts and gives a lightning-like side glance at MRS. ALVING.] Why do you wait?

OSWALD. Yeah, but bring one for yourself, Regina. [REGINA flinches and shoots a quick glance at MRS. ALVING.] Why are you just standing there?

REGINA. [Softly and hesitatingly.] Is it Mrs. Alving's wish?

REGINA. [Softly and hesitantly.] Is it Mrs. Alving's wish?

MRS. ALVING. Bring the glass, Regina.

[REGINA goes out into the dining-room.]

[REGINA goes out into the dining room.]

OSWALD. [Follows her with his eyes.] Have you noticed how she walks?—so firmly and lightly!

OSWALD. [Follows her with his eyes.] Have you seen how she walks?—so confidently and gracefully!

MRS. ALVING. This can never be, Oswald!

MRS. ALVING. That can never happen, Oswald!

OSWALD. It's a settled thing. Can't you see that? It's no use saying anything against it.

OSWALD. It's already decided. Can't you see that? There's no point in arguing about it.

[REGINA enters with an empty glass, which she keeps in her hand.]

[REGINA enters with an empty glass, which she holds in her hand.]

OSWALD. Sit down, Regina.

OSWALD. Take a seat, Regina.

[REGINA looks inquiringly at MRS. ALVING.]

[REGINA looks curiously at MRS. ALVING.]

MRS. ALVING. Sit down. [REGINA sits on a chair by the dining room door, still holding the empty glass in her hand.] Oswald—what were you saying about the joy of life?

OSWALD. Ah, the joy of life, mother—that's a thing you don't know much about in these parts. I have never felt it here.

OSWALD. Ah, the joy of life, mom—that's something you don't really know much about around here. I've never experienced it here.

MRS. ALVING. Not when you are with me?

MRS. ALVING. Not when you're with me?

OSWALD. Not when I'm at home. But you don't understand that.

OSWALD. Not when I'm at home. But you don't get that.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I think I almost understand it—now.

MRS. ALVING. Yeah, I think I kinda get it—now.

OSWALD. And then, too, the joy of work! At bottom, it's the same thing. But that, too, you know nothing about.

OSWALD. And then, there's the joy of work! Ultimately, it's the same thing. But you don't understand that either.

MRS. ALVING. Perhaps you are right. Tell me more about it, Oswald.

MRS. ALVING. Maybe you're right. Share more about it with me, Oswald.

OSWALD. I only mean that here people are brought up to believe that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is something miserable, something it would be best to have done with, the sooner the better.

OSWALD. I just mean that here, people are raised to think that work is a burden and a punishment for wrongdoing, and that life is something miserable, something it would be best to be done with as soon as possible.

MRS. ALVING. "A vale of tears," yes; and we certainly do our best to make it one.

MRS. ALVING. "A valley of tears," yeah; and we really do our best to make it one.

OSWALD. But in the great world people won't hear of such things. There, nobody really believes such doctrines any longer. There, you feel it a positive bliss and ecstasy merely to draw the breath of life. Mother, have you noticed that everything I have painted has turned upon the joy of life?—always, always upon the joy of life?—light and sunshine and glorious air and faces radiant with happiness. That is why I'm afraid of remaining at home with you.

OSWALD. But in the real world, people don’t talk about that kind of stuff. There, no one really believes those ideas anymore. You feel a pure bliss and ecstasy just by breathing. Mom, have you noticed that everything I’ve painted focuses on the joy of life?—always, always about the joy of life?—light and sunshine and fresh air and faces full of happiness. That’s why I'm worried about staying home with you.

MRS. ALVING. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me?

MRS. ALVING. Afraid? What are you scared of here, with me?

OSWALD. I'm afraid lest all my instincts should be warped into ugliness.

OSWALD. I'm worried that all my instincts will turn into something ugly.

MRS. ALVING. [Looks steadily at him.] Do you think that is what would happen?

MRS. ALVING. [Looks steadily at him.] Do you really think that’s what would happen?

OSWALD. I know it. You may live the same life here as there, and yet it won't be the same life.

OSWALD. I get it. You can live the same life here as you do there, and still, it won’t be the same life.

MRS. ALVING. [Who has been listening eagerly, rises, her eyes big with thought, and says:] Now I see the sequence of things.

MRS. ALVING. [Who has been listening intently, stands up, her eyes wide with thought, and says:] Now I understand how everything is connected.

OSWALD. What is it you see?

OSWALD. What do you see?

MRS. ALVING. I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak.

MRS. ALVING. I see it clearly for the first time. And now I can talk.

OSWALD. [Rising.] Mother, I don't understand you.

OSWALD. [Getting up.] Mom, I don't get you.

REGINA. [Who has also risen.] Perhaps I ought to go?

REGINA. [Who has also risen.] Maybe I should leave?

MRS. ALVING. No. Stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my boy, you shall know the whole truth. And then you can choose. Oswald! Regina!

MRS. ALVING. No. Stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my boy, you will know the whole truth. And then you can choose. Oswald! Regina!

OSWALD. Hush! The Pastor—

OSWALD. Shh! The Pastor—

MANDERS. [Enters by the hall door.] There! We have had a most edifying time down there.

MANDERS. [Enters through the hall door.] There! We had a really enlightening time down there.

OSWALD. So have we.

OSWALD. Us too.

MANDERS. We must stand by Engstrand and his Sailors' Home. Regina must go to him and help him—

MANDERS. We have to support Engstrand and his Sailors' Home. Regina needs to go to him and help him—

REGINA. No thank you, sir.

REGINA. No thanks, sir.

MANDERS. [Noticing her for the first time.] What—? You here? And with a glass in your hand!

MANDERS. [Noticing her for the first time.] What—? You here? And with a drink in your hand!

REGINA. [Hastily putting the glass down.] Pardon!

REGINA. [Quickly putting the glass down.] Excuse me!

OSWALD. Regina is going with me, Mr. Manders.

OSWALD. Regina is coming with me, Mr. Manders.

MANDERS. Going! With you!

MANDERS. I'm coming! Let's go!

OSWALD. Yes; as my wife—if she wishes it.

OSWALD. Yes; as my wife—if she wants to.

MANDERS. But, merciful God—!

MANDERS. But, oh my God—!

REGINA. I can't help it, sir.

OSWALD. Or she'll stay here, if I stay.

OSWALD. Or she'll stay here if I stay.

REGINA. [Involuntarily.] Here!

Here!

MANDERS. I am thunderstruck at your conduct, Mrs. Alving.

MANDERS. I'm shocked by your behavior, Mrs. Alving.

MRS. ALVING. They will do neither one thing nor the other; for now I can speak out plainly.

MRS. ALVING. They won't do either; now I can speak honestly.

MANDERS. You surely will not do that! No, no, no!

MANDERS. You can’t possibly do that! No, no, no!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, I can speak and I will. And no ideals shall suffer after all.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, I can speak, and I will. And no ideals will be harmed after all.

OSWALD. Mother—what is it you are hiding from me?

OSWALD. Mom—what are you hiding from me?

REGINA. [Listening.] Oh, ma'am, listen! Don't you hear shouts outside. [She goes into the conservatory and looks out.]

REGINA. [Listening.] Oh, ma'am, listen! Do you hear those shouts outside? [She goes into the conservatory and looks out.]

OSWALD. [At the window on the left.] What's going on? Where does that light come from?

OSWALD. [At the window on the left.] What's happening? Where's that light coming from?

REGINA. [Cries out.] The Orphanage is on fire!

REGINA. [Shouts.] The orphanage is on fire!

MRS. ALVING. [Rushing to the window.] On fire!

MRS. ALVING. [Rushing to the window.] It's on fire!

MANDERS. On fire! Impossible! I've just come from there.

MANDERS. On fire! No way! I just came from there.

OSWALD. Where's my hat? Oh, never mind it—Father's Orphanage—! [He rushes out through the garden door.]

OSWALD. Where's my hat? Oh, forget it—Father's Orphanage—! [He rushes out through the garden door.]

MRS. ALVING. My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in a blaze!

MRS. ALVING. My shawl, Regina! It’s a total disaster in here!

MANDERS. Terrible! Mrs. Alving, it is a judgment upon this abode of lawlessness.

MANDERS. This is terrible! Mrs. Alving, it's a judgment on this place of chaos.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, of course. Come, Regina. [She and REGINA hasten out through the hall.]

MRS. ALVING. Yes, of course. Come on, Regina. [She and REGINA hurry out through the hall.]

MANDERS. [Clasps his hands together.] And we left it uninsured! [He goes out the same way.]

MANDERS. [Clasping his hands together.] And we left it without insurance! [He exits the same way.]

ACT THIRD.

[The room as before. All the doors stand open. The lamp is still burning on the table. It is dark out of doors; there is only a faint glow from the conflagration in the background to the left.]

[The room is the same as before. All the doors are open. The lamp is still on the table. It’s dark outside; there’s just a faint glow from the fire in the background to the left.]

[MRS. ALVING, with a shawl over her head, stands in the conservatory, looking out. REGINA, also with a shawl on, stands a little behind her.]

[MRS. ALVING, wearing a shawl over her head, stands in the conservatory, looking out. REGINA, also wearing a shawl, stands a bit behind her.]

MRS. ALVING. The whole thing burnt!—burnt to the ground!

MRS. ALVING. Everything's gone!—burnt to the ground!

REGINA. The basement is still burning.

REGINA. The basement is still on fire.

MRS. ALVING. How is it Oswald doesn't come home? There's nothing to be saved.

MRS. ALVING. Why isn't Oswald home yet? There's nothing left to save.

REGINA. Should you like me to take down his hat to him?

REGINA. Would you like me to bring his hat down to him?

MRS. ALVING. Has he not even got his hat on?

MRS. ALVING. Doesn't he even have his hat on?

REGINA. [Pointing to the hall.] No; there it hangs.

REGINA. [Pointing to the hall.] No; it's hanging there.

MRS. ALVING. Let it be. He must come up now. I shall go and look for him myself. [She goes out through the garden door.]

MRS. ALVING. Let it be. He needs to come out now. I'll go look for him myself. [She goes out through the garden door.]

MANDERS. [Comes in from the hall.] Is not Mrs. Alving here?

MANDERS. [Enters from the hall.] Is Mrs. Alving not here?

REGINA. She has just gone down the garden.

REGINA. She just went down to the garden.

MANDERS. This is the most terrible night I ever went through.

MANDERS. This is the worst night I've ever experienced.

REGINA. Yes; isn't it a dreadful misfortune, sir?

REGINA. Yes; isn’t it a terrible misfortune, sir?

MANDERS. Oh, don't talk about it! I can hardly bear to think of it.

MANDERS. Oh, don't even mention it! I can barely stand to think about it.

REGINA. How can it have happened—?

REGINA. How could this have happened—?

MANDERS. Don't ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should I know? Do you, too—? Is it not enough that your father—?

MANDERS. Don't ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should I know? Do you, too—? Isn’t it enough that your father—?

REGINA. What about him?

REGINA. What about them?

MANDERS. Oh, he has driven me distracted—

MANDERS. Oh, he has made me crazy—

ENGSTRAND. [Enters through the hall.] Your Reverence—

ENGSTRAND. [Enters through the hall.] Your Grace—

MANDERS. [Turns round in terror.] Are you after me here, too?

MANDERS. [Turns around in fear.] Are you following me here, too?

ENGSTRAND. Yes, strike me dead, but I must—! Oh, Lord! what am I saying? But this is a terrible ugly business, your Reverence.

ENGSTRAND. Yes, go ahead and do me in, but I have to—! Oh, God! what am I saying? But this is a really awful situation, your Reverence.

MANDERS. [Walks to and fro.] Alas! alas!

MANDERS. [Walks back and forth.] Oh dear! Oh dear!

REGINA. What's the matter?

REGINA. What's wrong?

ENGSTRAND. Why, it all came of this here prayer-meeting, you see. [Softly.] The bird's limed, my girl. [Aloud.] And to think it should be my doing that such a thing should be his Reverence's doing!

ENGSTRAND. Well, it all started with that prayer meeting, you know. [Softly.] The bird's caught, my girl. [Aloud.] And to think it was my doing that made it happen in the first place!

MANDERS. But I assure you, Engstrand—

MANDERS. But I promise you, Engstrand—

ENGSTRAND. There wasn't another soul except your Reverence as ever laid a finger on the candles down there.

ENGSTRAND. There wasn't another person besides you, Your Reverence, who ever touched the candles down there.

MANDERS. [Stops.] So you declare. But I certainly cannot recollect that I ever had a candle in my hand.

MANDERS. [Stops.] That's what you say. But I honestly can't remember ever holding a candle.

ENGSTRAND. And I saw as clear as daylight how your Reverence took the candle and snuffed it with your fingers, and threw away the snuff among the shavings.

ENGSTRAND. And I saw clearly how you took the candle, pinched out the flame with your fingers, and tossed the snuff among the shavings.

MANDERS. And you stood and looked on?

MANDERS. So you just stood there and watched?

ENGSTRAND. Yes; I saw it as plain as a pike-staff, I did.

ENGSTRAND. Yeah; I saw it clearly, just like a pike-staff, I did.

MANDERS. It's quite beyond my comprehension. Besides, it has never been my habit to snuff candles with my fingers.

MANDERS. I really can’t understand it. Plus, I’ve never been the type to snuff out candles with my fingers.

ENGSTRAND. And terrible risky it looked, too, that it did! But is there such a deal of harm done after all, your Reverence?

ENGSTRAND. And it looked really risky, didn't it? But is there really that much damage done after all, your Reverence?

MANDERS. [Walks restlessly to and fro.] Oh, don't ask me!

MANDERS. [Paces back and forth nervously.] Oh, don't ask me!

ENGSTRAND. [Walks with him.] And your Reverence hadn't insured it, neither?

ENGSTRAND. [Walks with him.] So you didn't get it insured, did you?

MANDERS. [Continuing to walk up and down.] No, no, no; I have told you so.

MANDERS. [Continuing to pace.] No, no, no; I've already told you that.

ENGSTRAND. [Following him.] Not insured! And then to go straight away down and set light to the whole thing! Lord, Lord, what a misfortune!

ENGSTRAND. [Following him.] Not insured! And then to just go down and set the whole thing on fire! Oh no, what a disaster!

MANDERS. [Wipes the sweat from his forehead.] Ay, you may well say that, Engstrand.

MANDERS. [Wipes the sweat from his forehead.] Yeah, you could definitely say that, Engstrand.

ENGSTRAND. And to think that such a thing should happen to a benevolent Institution, that was to have been a blessing both to town and country, as the saying goes! The newspapers won't be for handling your Reverence very gently, I expect.

ENGSTRAND. And to think something like this could happen to a charitable institution that was meant to be a blessing for both the town and the countryside, as the saying goes! I doubt the newspapers will treat your Reverence very kindly, I expect.

MANDERS. No; that is just what I am thinking of. That is almost the worst of the whole matter. All the malignant attacks and imputations—! Oh, it makes me shudder to think of it!

MANDERS. No; that’s exactly what I’m thinking about. That’s nearly the worst part of it all. All the nasty attacks and accusations—! Oh, it makes me cringe just to think about it!

MRS. ALVING. [Comes in from the garden.] He is not to be persuaded to leave the fire.

MRS. ALVING. [Enters from the garden.] He won’t be convinced to leave the fire.

MANDERS. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Alving.

MRS. ALVING. So you have escaped your Inaugural Address, Pastor Manders.

MRS. ALVING. So you’ve avoided giving your Inaugural Address, Pastor Manders.

MANDERS. Oh, I should so gladly—

MANDERS. Oh, I would be so happy—

MRS. ALVING. [In an undertone.] It is all for the best. That Orphanage would have done no one any good.

MRS. ALVING. [In a low voice.] It's for the best. That orphanage wouldn't have helped anyone.

MANDERS. Do you think not?

MANDERS. Don't you think so?

MRS. ALVING. Do you think it would?

MRS. ALVING. Do you really think it would?

MANDERS. It is a terrible misfortune, all the same.

MANDERS. It's still a terrible misfortune.

MRS. ALVING. Let us speak of it plainly, as a matter of business.—Are you waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand?

MRS. ALVING. Let's talk about it straightforwardly, like a business matter. —Are you waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand?

ENGSTRAND. [At the hall door.] That's just what I'm a-doing of, ma'am.

ENGSTRAND. [At the hall door.] That's exactly what I'm doing, ma'am.

MRS. ALVING. Then sit down meanwhile.

MRS. ALVING. Then please take a seat for now.

ENGSTRAND. Thank you, ma'am; I'd as soon stand.

ENGSTRAND. Thank you, ma'am; I’d just as soon stand.

MRS. ALVING. [To MANDERS.] I suppose you are going by the steamer?

MRS. ALVING. [To MANDERS.] I guess you’re taking the ferry?

MANDERS. Yes; it starts in an hour.

MANDERS. Yeah, it starts in an hour.

MRS. ALVING. Then be so good as to take all the papers with you. I won't hear another word about this affair. I have other things to think of—

MRS. ALVING. Then please take all the papers with you. I don’t want to hear another word about this matter. I have other things to focus on—

MANDERS. Mrs. Alving—

MRS. ALVING. Later on I shall send you a Power of Attorney to settle everything as you please.

MRS. ALVING. Later, I’ll send you a Power of Attorney so you can handle everything as you want.

MANDERS. That I will very readily undertake. The original destination of the endowment must now be completely changed, alas!

MANDERS. I'll gladly take that on. Unfortunately, the original purpose of the endowment has to be completely changed now!

MRS. ALVING. Of course it must.

MRS. ALVING. It definitely has to.

MANDERS. I think, first of all, I shall arrange that the Solvik property shall pass to the parish. The land is by no means without value. It can always be turned to account for some purpose or other. And the interest of the money in the Bank I could, perhaps, best apply for the benefit of some undertaking of acknowledged value to the town.

MANDERS. First of all, I think I’ll make sure that the Solvik property goes to the parish. The land definitely has value. It can always be used for some purpose or another. And maybe I can best use the interest from the money in the bank for something that truly benefits the town.

MRS. ALVING. Do just as you please. The whole matter is now completely indifferent to me.

MRS. ALVING. Do whatever you want. The whole situation is now completely unimportant to me.

ENGSTRAND. Give a thought to my Sailors' Home, your Reverence.

ENGSTRAND. Consider my Sailors' Home, your Reverence.

MANDERS. Upon my word, that is not a bad suggestion. That must be considered.

MANDERS. Honestly, that’s a pretty good suggestion. We should think about that.

ENGSTRAND. Oh, devil take considering—Lord forgive me!

ENGSTRAND. Oh, forget thinking about it—Lord, forgive me!

MANDERS. [With a sigh.] And unfortunately I cannot tell how long I shall be able to retain control of these things—whether public opinion may not compel me to retire. It entirely depends upon the result of the official inquiry into the fire—

MANDERS. [With a sigh.] And unfortunately, I can’t say how long I’ll be able to keep control of these things—whether public opinion might force me to step down. It all depends on the outcome of the official investigation into the fire—

MRS. ALVING. What are you talking about?

MRS. ALVING. What are you saying?

MANDERS. And the result can by no means be foretold.

MANDERS. And we can't predict the outcome at all.

ENGSTRAND. [Comes close to him.] Ay, but it can though. For here stands old Jacob Engstrand.

ENGSTRAND. [Steps closer to him.] Yeah, but it can. Because here stands old Jacob Engstrand.

MANDERS. Well well, but—?

MANDERS. Well, well, but—?

ENGSTRAND. [More softy.] And Jacob Engstrand isn't the man to desert a noble benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying goes.

ENGSTRAND. [More softly.] And Jacob Engstrand isn't the kind of guy to abandon a generous benefactor in their time of need, as the saying goes.

MANDERS. Yes, but my good fellow—how—?

MANDERS. Yes, but my friend—how?

ENGSTRAND. Jacob Engstrand may be likened to a sort of a guardian angel, he may, your Reverence.

ENGSTRAND. Jacob Engstrand can be thought of as a kind of guardian angel, he can, your Reverence.

MANDERS. No, no; I really cannot accept that.

MANDERS. No, no; I really can't accept that.

ENGSTRAND. Oh, that'll be the way of it, all the same. I know a man as has taken others' sins upon himself before now, I do.

ENGSTRAND. Oh, that's how it will be, just the same. I know a guy who has taken on other people's sins before, I really do.

MANDERS. Jacob! [Wrings his hand.] Yours is a rare nature. Well, you shall be helped with your Sailors' Home. That you may rely upon. [ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but cannot for emotion.]

MANDERS. Jacob! [Wrings his hand.] You have a unique spirit. Rest assured, we'll support your Sailors' Home. You can count on that. [ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but is too emotional to speak.]

MANDERS. [Hangs his travelling-bag over his shoulder.] And now let us set out. We two will go together.

MANDERS. [Throws his travel bag over his shoulder.] Alright, let’s get going. We're heading out together.

ENGSTRAND. [At the dining-room door, softly to REGINA.] You come along too, my lass. You shall live as snug as the yolk in an egg.

ENGSTRAND. [At the dining-room door, softly to REGINA.] Come on, my girl. You’ll live as comfortably as the yolk in an egg.

REGINA. [Tosses her head.] Merci! [She goes out into the hall and fetches MANDERS' overcoat.]

REGINA. [Throws her head back.] Thanks! [She heads out to the hall and grabs MANDERS' overcoat.]

MANDERS. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! and may the spirit of Law and Order descend upon this house, and that quickly.

MANDERS. Goodbye, Mrs. Alving! May the spirit of Law and Order come to this house soon.

MRS. ALVING. Good-bye, Pastor Manders. [She goes up towards the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in through the garden door.]

MRS. ALVING. Goodbye, Pastor Manders. [She heads towards the conservatory as she sees OSWALD entering through the garden door.]

ENGSTRAND. [While he and REGINA help MANDERS to get his coat on.] Good-bye, my child. And if any trouble should come to you, you know where Jacob Engstrand is to be found. [Softly.] Little Harbour Street, h'm—! [To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD.] And the refuge for wandering mariners shall be called "Chamberlain Alving's Home," that it shall! And if so be as I'm spared to carry on that house in my own way, I make so bold as to promise that it shall be worthy of the Chamberlain's memory.

ENGSTRAND. [While he and REGINA help MANDERS put on his coat.] Goodbye, my child. And if you ever run into any trouble, you know where to find Jacob Engstrand. [Softly.] Little Harbour Street, huh—! [To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD.] And the refuge for lost sailors will be named "Chamberlain Alving's Home," it will! And if I'm lucky enough to run that place my own way, I confidently promise it’ll honor the Chamberlain’s memory.

MANDERS. [In the doorway.] H'm—h'm!—Come along, my dear Engstrand. Good-bye! Good-bye! [He and ENGSTRAND go out through the hall.]

MANDERS. [In the doorway.] H'm—h'm!—Come on, my dear Engstrand. Bye! Bye! [He and ENGSTRAND exit through the hall.]

OSWALD. [Goes towards the table.] What house was he talking about?

OSWALD. [Walks over to the table.] Which house was he mentioning?

MRS. ALVING. Oh, a kind of Home that he and Pastor Manders want to set up.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, a sort of home that he and Pastor Manders want to create.

OSWALD. It will burn down like the other.

OSWALD. It'll burn down like the others.

MRS. ALVING. What makes you think so?

MRS. ALVING. Why do you think that?

OSWALD. Everything will burn. All that recalls father's memory is doomed. Here am I, too, burning down. [REGINA starts and looks at him.]

OSWALD. Everything's going to burn. Everything that reminds me of Dad is cursed. Here I am, too, going down in flames. [REGINA starts and looks at him.]

MRS. ALVING. Oswald! You oughtn't to have remained so long down there, my poor boy.

MRS. ALVING. Oswald! You shouldn't have stayed down there so long, my poor boy.

OSWALD. [Sits down by the table.] I almost think you are right.

OSWALD. [Sits down by the table.] I kind of think you might be right.

MRS. ALVING. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are quite wet. [She dries his face with her pocket-handkerchief.]

MRS. ALVING. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you’re soaked. [She dries his face with her handkerchief.]

OSWALD. [Stares indifferently in front of him.] Thanks, mother.

OSWALD. [Stares blankly ahead.] Thanks, Mom.

MRS. ALVING. Are you not tired, Oswald? Should you like to sleep?

MRS. ALVING. Aren't you tired, Oswald? Do you want to sleep?

OSWALD. [Nervously.] No, no—not to sleep! I never sleep. I only pretend to. [Sadly.] That will come soon enough.

MRS. ALVING. [Looking sorrowfully at him.] Yes, you really are ill, my blessed boy.

MRS. ALVING. [Looking sadly at him.] Yes, you’re really sick, my dear boy.

REGINA. [Eagerly.] Is Mr. Alving ill?

REGINA. [Eagerly.] Is Mr. Alving sick?

OSWALD. [Impatiently.] Oh, do shut all the doors! This killing dread—

OSWALD. [Impatiently.] Oh, just close all the doors! This terrifying fear—

MRS. ALVING. Close the doors, Regina.

[REGINA shuts them and remains standing by the hall door. MRS. ALVING takes her shawl off: REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws a chair across to OSWALD'S, and sits by him.]

[REGINA shuts them and stays standing by the hall door. MRS. ALVING takes off her shawl: REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING pulls a chair over to OSWALD'S and sits beside him.]

MRS. ALVING. There now! I am going to sit beside you—

MRS. ALVING. There you go! I'm going to sit next to you—

OSWALD. Yes, do. And Regina shall stay here too. Regina shall be with me always. You will come to the rescue, Regina, won't you?

OSWALD. Yes, please do. And Regina will stay here too. Regina will always be with me. You will come to my rescue, Regina, won't you?

REGINA. I don't understand—

REGINA. I don’t get it—

MRS. ALVING. To the rescue?

Mrs. Alving. Here to help?

OSWALD. Yes—when the need comes.

OSWALD. Yes—when the time comes.

MRS. ALVING. Oswald, have you not your mother to come to the rescue?

MRS. ALVING. Oswald, can't you count on your mom to help you?

OSWALD. You? [Smiles.] No, mother; that rescue you will never bring me. [Laughs sadly.] You! ha ha! [Looks earnestly at her.] Though, after all, who ought to do it if not you? [Impetuously.] Why can't you say "thou" to me, Regina? [Note: "Sige du" = Fr. tutoyer] Why don't you call me "Oswald"?

OSWALD. You? [Smiles.] No, mom; that rescue will never come from you. [Laughs sadly.] You! Ha ha! [Looks earnestly at her.] But really, who else should do it if not you? [Impetuously.] Why can't you just say "you" to me, Regina? [Note: "Sige du" = Fr. tutoyer] Why don't you call me "Oswald"?

REGINA. [Softly.] I don't think Mrs. Alving would like it.

REGINA. [Softly.] I don't think Mrs. Alving would appreciate it.

MRS. ALVING. You shall have leave to, presently. And meanwhile sit over here beside us.

MRS. ALVING. You can do that soon. In the meantime, sit over here with us.

[REGINA seats herself demurely and hesitatingly at the other side of the table.]

[REGINA sits modestly and cautiously on the other side of the table.]

MRS. ALVING. And now, my poor suffering boy, I am going to take the burden off your mind—

MRS. ALVING. And now, my poor suffering boy, I’m going to lift the burden off your mind—

OSWALD. You, mother?

OSWALD. You, mom?

MRS. ALVING.—all the gnawing remorse and self-reproach you speak of.

MRS. ALVING.—all the constant guilt and self-blame you talk about.

OSWALD. And you think you can do that?

OSWALD. Do you really think you can pull that off?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you spoke of the joy of life; and at that word a new light burst for me over my life and everything connected with it.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, I can now, Oswald. A little while ago, you talked about the joy of life, and hearing that made me see my life and everything related to it in a completely new way.

OSWALD. [Shakes his head.] I don't understand you.

OSWALD. [Shakes his head.] I don't get you.

MRS. ALVING. You ought to have known your father when he was a young lieutenant. He was brimming over with the joy of life!

MRS. ALVING. You should have seen your father when he was a young lieutenant. He was full of life and happiness!

OSWALD. Yes, I know he was.

OSWALD. Yeah, I know he was.

MRS. ALVING. It was like a breezy day only to look at him. And what exuberant strength and vitality there was in him!

MRS. ALVING. Just looking at him was like experiencing a breezy day. And he had such amazing strength and vitality!

OSWALD. Well—?

OSWALD. So—?

MRS. ALVING. Well then, child of joy as he was—for he was like a child in those days—he had to live at home here in a half-grown town, which had no joys to offer him—only dissipations. He had no object in life—only an official position. He had no work into which he could throw himself heart and soul; he had only business. He had not a single comrade that could realise what the joy of life meant—only loungers and boon-companions—

MRS. ALVING. Well then, he was like a joyful child back then—he was so innocent—yet he had to spend his days in a small, underdeveloped town that offered him no real joys, just distractions. He didn’t have a purpose in life—only a job title. There was no passion for him to dive into wholeheartedly; he just had responsibilities. He didn’t have a single friend who could understand what true joy in life felt like—only idle folks and drinking buddies—

OSWALD. Mother—!

OSWALD. Mom—!

MRS. ALVING. So the inevitable happened.

MRS. ALVING. So, it finally happened.

OSWALD. The inevitable?

OSWALD. Is it inevitable?

MRS. ALVING. You told me yourself, this evening, what would become of you if you stayed at home.

MRS. ALVING. You told me yourself tonight what would happen to you if you stayed home.

OSWALD. Do you mean to say that father—?

OSWALD. Are you saying that Dad—?

MRS. ALVING. Your poor father found no outlet for the overpowering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no brightness into his home.

MRS. ALVING. Your poor father had no way to express the overwhelming joy of life that was within him. And I didn't bring any light into his home.

OSWALD. Not even you?

MRS. ALVING. They had taught me a great deal about duties and so forth, which I went on obstinately believing in. Everything was marked out into duties—into my duties, and his duties, and—I am afraid I made his home intolerable for your poor father, Oswald.

MRS. ALVING. They had taught me a lot about responsibilities and such, which I stubbornly kept believing in. Everything was divided into responsibilities—my responsibilities, his responsibilities, and—I’m afraid I made your poor father, Oswald, miserable at home.

OSWALD. Why have you never spoken of this in writing to me?

OSWALD. Why have you never written to me about this?

MRS. ALVING. I have never before seen it in such a light that I could speak of it to you, his son.

MRS. ALVING. I've never looked at it this way before, so I haven't been able to talk to you about it, his son.

OSWALD. In what light did you see it, then?

OSWALD. How did you see it, then?

MRS. ALVING. [Slowly.] I saw only this one thing: that your father was a broken-down man before you were born.

MRS. ALVING. [Slowly.] I only saw this one thing: that your father was already a shell of a man before you were born.

OSWALD. [Softly.] Ah—! [He rises and walks away to the window.]

OSWALD. [Softly.] Ah—! [He stands up and walks over to the window.]

MRS. ALVING. And then; day after day, I dwelt on the one thought that by rights Regina should be at home in this house—just like my own boy.

MRS. ALVING. And then, day after day, I focused on the one idea that Regina should really be at home in this house—just like my own son.

OSWALD. [Turning round quickly.] Regina—!

OSWALD. [Turning around quickly.] Regina—!

REGINA. [Springs up and asks, with bated breath.] I—?

REGINA. [Jumps up and asks, breathless.] I—?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, now you know it, both of you.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, now you both know.

OSWALD. Regina!

Regina!

REGINA. [To herself.] So mother was that kind of woman.

REGINA. [To herself.] So, Mom was that kind of woman.

MRS. ALVING. Your mother had many good qualities, Regina.

MRS. ALVING. Your mom had a lot of great qualities, Regina.

REGINA. Yes, but she was one of that sort, all the same. Oh, I've often suspected it; but—And now, if you please, ma'am, may I be allowed to go away at once?

REGINA. Yes, but she was still one of those people. Oh, I've often thought that; but—And now, if you don't mind, ma'am, could I please be allowed to leave right away?

MRS. ALVING. Do you really wish it, Regina?

MRS. ALVING. Do you really want that, Regina?

REGINA. Yes, indeed I do.

Absolutely, I do.

MRS. ALVING. Of course you can do as you like; but—

MRS. ALVING. You can do whatever you want; but—

OSWALD. [Goes towards REGINA.] Go away now? Your place is here.

OSWALD. [Moves closer to REGINA.] Should I leave now? You belong here.

REGINA. Merci, Mr. Alving!—or now, I suppose, I may say Oswald. But I can tell you this wasn't at all what I expected.

REGINA. Thanks, Mr. Alving!—or now, I guess I can call you Oswald. But I have to say, this definitely wasn't what I expected.

MRS. ALVING. Regina, I have not been frank with you—

MRS. ALVING. Regina, I haven't been honest with you—

REGINA. No, that you haven't indeed. If I'd known that Oswald was an invalid, why—And now, too, that it can never come to anything serious between us—I really can't stop out here in the country and wear myself out nursing sick people.

REGINA. No, you definitely haven't. If I'd known that Oswald was unwell, then—And now, too, since it can never lead to anything serious between us—I really can't stay out here in the countryside and exhaust myself taking care of sick people.

OSWALD. Not even one who is so near to you?

OSWALD. Not even someone who's that close to you?

REGINA. No, that I can't. A poor girl must make the best of her young days, or she'll be left out in the cold before she knows where she is. And I, too, have the joy of life in me, Mrs. Alving!

REGINA. No, I can't do that. A poor girl has to make the most of her youth, or she'll find herself left behind before she even realizes it. And I also have the joy of life within me, Mrs. Alving!

MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately, you leave. But don't throw yourself away, Regina.

MRS. ALVING. It's unfortunate that you're leaving. But please, don't waste your potential, Regina.

REGINA. Oh, what must be, must be. If Oswald takes after his father, I take after my mother, I daresay.—May I ask, ma'am, if Pastor Manders knows all this about me?

REGINA. Oh, whatever is meant to happen will happen. If Oswald is like his father, then I’m definitely like my mother, I might add.—Can I ask you, ma'am, if Pastor Manders knows all this about me?

MRS. ALVING. Pastor Manders knows all about it.

MRS. ALVING. Pastor Manders knows everything about it.

REGINA. [Busied in putting on her shawl.] Well then, I'd better make haste and get away by this steamer. The Pastor is such a nice man to deal with; and I certainly think I've as much right to a little of that money as he has—that brute of a carpenter.

REGINA. [Busy putting on her shawl.] Well then, I should hurry and catch this steamer. The Pastor is really easy to deal with, and I definitely think I have just as much right to some of that money as he does—that jerk of a carpenter.

MRS. ALVING. You are heartily welcome to it, Regina.

MRS. ALVING. You’re totally welcome to it, Regina.

REGINA. [Looks hard at her.] I think you might have brought me up as a gentleman's daughter, ma'am; it would have suited me better. [Tosses her head.] But pooh—what does it matter! [With a bitter side glance at the corked bottle.] I may come to drink champagne with gentlefolks yet.

REGINA. [Looks intently at her.] I think you should have raised me as a gentleman's daughter, ma'am; it would have suited me better. [Heads high.] But whatever—what does it matter! [With a bitter glance at the corked bottle.] I might end up drinking champagne with the upper class yet.

MRS. ALVING. And if you ever need a home, Regina, come to me.

MRS. ALVING. And if you ever need a place to stay, Regina, come to me.

REGINA. No, thank you, ma'am. Pastor Manders will look after me, I know. And if the worst comes to the worst, I know of one house where I've every right to a place.

REGINA. No, thank you, ma'am. Pastor Manders will take care of me, I know. And if it comes to the worst, I know a place where I have every right to stay.

MRS. ALVING. Where is that?

Mrs. Alving. Where's that?

REGINA. "Chamberlain Alving's Home."

REGINA. "Alving's Home."

MRS. ALVING. Regina—now I see it—you are going to your ruin.

MRS. ALVING. Regina—now I get it—you’re heading for your downfall.

REGINA. Oh, stuff! Good-bye. [She nods and goes out through the hall.]

REGINA. Oh, whatever! Bye. [She nods and exits through the hall.]

OSWALD. [Stands at the window and looks out.] Is she gone?

OSWALD. [Stands by the window and looks out.] Is she gone?

MRS. ALVING. Yes.

Yes.

OSWALD. [Murmuring aside to himself.] I think it was a mistake, this.

OSWALD. [Murmuring to himself.] I think this was a mistake.

MRS. ALVING. [Goes up behind him and lays her hands on his shoulders.] Oswald, my dear boy—has it shaken you very much?

MRS. ALVING. [Steps up behind him and puts her hands on his shoulders.] Oswald, my dear—has it affected you a lot?

OSWALD. [Turns his face towards her.] All that about father, do you mean?

OSWALD. [Turns his face towards her.] Are you talking about all that stuff with dad?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have been too much for you.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, about your troubled father. I'm really worried it might have been too much for you.

OSWALD. Why should you fancy that? Of course it came upon me as a great surprise; but it can make no real difference to me.

OSWALD. Why do you think that? It definitely caught me by surprise, but it doesn't really change anything for me.

MRS. ALVING. [Draws her hands away.] No difference! That your father was so infinitely unhappy!

MRS. ALVING. [Pulls her hands away.] No difference! That your father was so incredibly unhappy!

OSWALD. Of course I can pity him, as I would anybody else; but—

OSWALD. Of course I can feel sorry for him, just like I would for anyone else; but—

MRS. ALVING. Nothing more! Your own father!

MRS. ALVING. Nothing else! Your own dad!

OSWALD. [Impatiently.]Oh, "father,"—"father"! I never knew anything of father. I remember nothing about him, except that he once made me sick.

OSWALD. [Impatiently.] Oh, "father,"—"father"! I don’t know anything about him. The only thing I remember is that he once made me sick.

MRS. ALVING. This is terrible to think of! Ought not a son to love his father, whatever happens?

MRS. ALVING. This is awful to think about! Shouldn't a son love his father, no matter what?

OSWALD. When a son has nothing to thank his father for? has never known him? Do you really cling to that old superstition?—you who are so enlightened in other ways?

OSWALD. What thanks does a son owe his father when he has nothing to be grateful for? When he’s never even known him? Do you really hold onto that outdated belief?—you who are so enlightened in other respects?

MRS. ALVING. Can it be only a superstition—?

MRS. ALVING. Could it just be a superstition—?

OSWALD. Yes; surely you can see that, mother. It's one of those notions that are current in the world, and so—

OSWALD. Yes; you can definitely see that, mother. It's one of those ideas that are popular in the world, and so—

MRS. ALVING. [Deeply moved.] Ghosts!

MRS. ALVING. [Deeply moved.] Spirits!

OSWALD. [Crossing the room.] Yes; you may call them ghosts.

OSWALD. [Crossing the room.] Yeah; you can call them ghosts.

MRS. ALVING. [Wildly.] Oswald—then you don't love me, either!

MRS. ALVING. [Wildly.] Oswald—so you don't love me, either!

OSWALD. You I know, at any rate—

OSWALD. I know you, at least—

MRS. ALVING. Yes, you know me; but is that all!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, you know me; but is that everything?

OSWALD. And, of course, I know how fond you are of me, and I can't but be grateful to you. And then you can be so useful to me, now that I am ill.

OSWALD. And, of course, I know how much you care about me, and I can't help but be thankful to you. Plus, you can be really helpful to me now that I'm not well.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, cannot I, Oswald? Oh, I could almost bless the illness that has driven you home to me. For I see very plainly that you are not mine: I have to win you.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, can’t I, Oswald? Oh, I could almost be grateful for the illness that brought you back to me. Because I can see clearly that you’re not truly mine: I have to earn you.

OSWALD. [Impatiently.] Yes yes yes; all these are just so many phrases. You must remember that I am a sick man, mother. I can't be much taken up with other people; I have enough to do thinking about myself.

OSWALD. [Impatiently.] Yes, yes, yes; all of this is just a bunch of words. You need to remember that I'm not well, mom. I can't focus too much on others; I have plenty to deal with thinking about myself.

MRS. ALVING. [In a low voice.] I shall be patient and easily satisfied.

MRS. ALVING. [In a low voice.] I'll be patient and easily pleased.

OSWALD. And cheerful too, mother!

OSWALD. And happy too, mom!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. [Goes towards him.] Have I relieved you of all remorse and self-reproach now?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, my dear boy, you’re absolutely right. [Goes towards him.] Have I taken away all your guilt and self-blame now?

OSWALD. Yes, you have. But now who will relieve me of the dread?

OSWALD. Yes, you have. But now, who will free me from this fear?

MRS. ALVING. The dread?

Mrs. Alving. The fear?

OSWALD. [Walks across the room.] Regina could have been got to do it.

OSWALD. [Walks across the room.] Regina could have been made to do it.

MRS. ALVING. I don't understand you. What is this about dread—and Regina?

MRS. ALVING. I don’t get you. What’s this about fear—and Regina?

OSWALD. Is it very late, mother?

OSWALD. Is it really late, Mom?

MRS. ALVING. It is early morning. [She looks out through the conservatory.] The day is dawning over the mountains. And the weather is clearing, Oswald. In a little while you shall see the sun.

MRS. ALVING. It's early morning. [She looks out through the conservatory.] The day is breaking over the mountains. And the weather is clearing up, Oswald. Soon you'll see the sun.

OSWALD. I'm glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and live for—

OSWALD. I'm happy about that. Oh, I might still have plenty to be thankful for and reasons to live—

MRS. ALVING. I should think so, indeed!

MRS. ALVING. I definitely think so!

OSWALD. Even if I can't work—

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you'll soon be able to work again, my dear boy—now that you haven't got all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to brood over any longer.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you’ll be able to work again soon, my dear boy—now that you don’t have all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to worry about anymore.

OSWALD. Yes, I'm glad you were able to rid me of all those fancies. And when I've got over this one thing more—[Sits on the sofa.] Now we will have a little talk, mother—

OSWALD. Yeah, I'm really glad you helped me get rid of all those fantasies. And once I get past this one last thing—[Sits on the sofa.] Now let's have a little chat, Mom—

MRS. ALVING. Yes, let us. [She pushes an arm-chair towards the sofa, and sits down close to him.]

MRS. ALVING. Yeah, let’s do that. [She moves an armchair closer to the sofa and sits down next to him.]

OSWALD. And meantime the sun will be rising. And then you will know all. And then I shall not feel this dread any longer.

OSWALD. And in the meantime, the sun will be coming up. And then you'll understand everything. And then I won't have to feel this fear anymore.

MRS. ALVING. What is it that I am to know?

MRS. ALVING. What is it that I need to know?

OSWALD. [Not listening to her.] Mother, did you not say a little while ago, that there was nothing in the world you would not do for me, if I asked you?

OSWALD. [Not listening to her.] Mom, didn’t you say a little while ago that there’s nothing in the world you wouldn’t do for me if I asked?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I said so!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, I really did say that!

OSWALD. And you'll stick to it, mother?

OSWALD. Are you really going to stick with it, Mom?

MRS. ALVING. You may rely on that, my dear and only boy! I have nothing in the world to live for but you alone.

MRS. ALVING. You can count on that, my dear and only son! I have nothing in this world to live for except you.

OSWALD. Very well, then; now you shall hear—Mother, you have a strong, steadfast mind, I know. Now you're to sit quite still when you hear it.

OSWALD. Alright then; now you will listen—Mom, I know you have a strong, steady mind. Now, you need to stay completely still while you hear it.

MRS. ALVING. What dreadful thing can it be—?

MRS. ALVING. What terrible thing could it be—?

OSWALD. You're not to scream out. Do you hear? Do you promise me that? We will sit and talk about it quietly. Do you promise me, mother?

OSWALD. You’re not going to scream, okay? Do you understand? Promise me? We’ll sit and talk about it calmly. Promise me, Mom?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I promise. Only speak!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I promise. Just talk!

OSWALD. Well, you must know that all this fatigue—and my inability to think of work—all that is not the illness itself—

OSWALD. Well, you have to understand that all this tiredness—and my inability to focus on work—all of that isn't the illness itself—

MRS. ALVING. Then what is the illness itself?

MRS. ALVING. So what is the actual illness?

OSWALD. The disease I have as my birthright—[He points to his forehead and adds very softly]—is seated here.

OSWALD. The illness that I've inherited—[He points to his forehead and adds very softly]—is located here.

MRS. ALVING. [Almost voiceless.] Oswald! No—no!

MRS. ALVING. [Barely audible.] Oswald! No—no!

OSWALD. Don't scream. I can't bear it. Yes, mother, it is seated here waiting. And it may break out any day—at any moment.

OSWALD. Please don’t scream. I can’t handle it. Yes, mom, it’s sitting right here waiting. And it could erupt any day—at any moment.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, what horror—!

MRS. ALVING. Oh, how horrifying—!

OSWALD. Now, quiet, quiet. That is how it stands with me—

OSWALD. Okay, everyone, be quiet. That's how things are for me—

MRS. ALVING. [Springs up.] It's not true, Oswald! It's impossible! It cannot be so!

MRS. ALVING. [Springs up.] That’s not true, Oswald! It can't be! It just isn’t possible!

OSWALD. I have had one attack down there already. It was soon over. But when I came to know the state I had been in, then the dread descended upon me, raging and ravening; and so I set off home to you as fast as I could.

OSWALD. I already had one episode down there. It ended quickly. But when I realized what state I had been in, then the fear hit me, wild and consuming; so I rushed home to you as fast as I could.

MRS. ALVING. Then this is the dread—!

MRS. ALVING. So this is the horror—!

OSWALD. Yes—it's so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it had only been an ordinary mortal disease—! For I'm not so afraid of death—though I should like to live as long as I can.

OSWALD. Yes—it's really disgusting, you know. Oh, if it had only been just an ordinary illness—! I mean, I'm not that scared of dying—even though I'd like to live for as long as possible.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, Oswald, you really have to!

OSWALD. But this is so unutterably loathsome. To become a little baby again! To have to be fed! To have to—Oh, it's not to be spoken of!

OSWALD. But this is just so disgusting. To turn into a little baby again! To have to be fed! To have to—Oh, it’s too awful to even say!

MRS. ALVING. The child has his mother to nurse him.

MRS. ALVING. The child has his mother to take care of him.

OSWALD. [Springs up.] No, never that! That is just what I will not have. I can't endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many years—and get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and leave me. [Sits in MRS. ALVING'S chair.] For the doctor said it wouldn't necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the brain—or something like that. [Smiles sadly.] I think that expression sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry-coloured velvet—something soft and delicate to stroke.

OSWALD. [Springs up.] No, absolutely not! That’s exactly what I refuse to accept. I can't stand the thought of possibly lying like that for many years—growing old and grey. And in the meantime, you might die and leave me. [Sits in MRS. ALVING'S chair.] The doctor said it wouldn't necessarily be fatal right away. He referred to it as a sort of softening of the brain—or something like that. [Smiles sadly.] I think that phrase sounds so lovely. It always makes me think of cherry-colored velvet—something soft and delicate to touch.

MRS. ALVING. [Shrieks.] Oswald!

OSWALD. [Springs up and paces the room.] And now you have taken Regina from me. If I could only have had her! She would have come to the rescue, I know.

OSWALD. [Jumps up and walks around the room.] And now you’ve taken Regina away from me. If only I could have had her! I know she would have come to my rescue.

MRS. ALVING. [Goes to him.] What do you mean by that, my darling boy? Is there any help in the world that I would not give you?

MRS. ALVING. [Goes to him.] What do you mean by that, my dear boy? Is there any support in the world that I wouldn’t offer you?

OSWALD. When I got over my attack in Paris, the doctor told me that when it comes again—and it will come—there will be no more hope.

OSWALD. When I recovered from my episode in Paris, the doctor told me that when it happens again—and it will happen—there will be no more hope.

MRS. ALVING. He was heartless enough to—

MRS. ALVING. He was so heartless to—

OSWALD. I demanded it of him. I told him I had preparations to make—[He smiles cunningly.] And so I had. [He takes a little box from his inner breast pocket and opens it.] Mother, do you see this?

OSWALD. I asked him for it. I told him I had things to get ready—[He smiles slyly.] And I really did. [He takes a small box from his inner breast pocket and opens it.] Mom, do you see this?

MRS. ALVING. What is it?

Mrs. Alving: What's going on?

OSWALD. Morphia.

OSWALD. Morphine.

MRS. ALVING. [Looks at him horror-struck.] Oswald—my boy!

MRS. ALVING. [Looks at him in shock.] Oswald—my son!

OSWALD. I've scraped together twelve pilules—

OSWALD. I’ve got twelve pills—

MRS. ALVING. [Snatches at it.] Give me the box, Oswald.

MRS. ALVING. [Grabs at it.] Hand me the box, Oswald.

OSWALD. Not yet, mother. [He hides the box again in his pocket.]

OSWALD. Not yet, Mom. [He hides the box back in his pocket.]

MRS. ALVING. I shall never survive this!

MRS. ALVING. I can't handle this!

OSWALD. It must be survived. Now if I'd had Regina here, I should have told her how things stood with me—and begged her to come to the rescue at the last. She would have done it. I know she would.

OSWALD. It has to be endured. If I had Regina here, I would have told her how things were with me—and asked her to help me one last time. She would have done it. I know she would.

MRS. ALVING. Never!

Never!

OSWALD. When the horror had come upon me, and she saw me lying there helpless, like a little new-born baby, impotent, lost, hopeless—past all saving—

OSWALD. When the horror hit me, and she saw me lying there helpless, like a tiny newborn baby, powerless, lost, hopeless—beyond saving—

MRS. ALVING. Never in all the world would Regina have done this!

MRS. ALVING. Regina would never have done this!

OSWALD. Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly light-hearted. And she would soon have wearied of nursing an invalid like me.

OSWALD. Regina would have taken care of it. Regina was so wonderfully cheerful. And she would have quickly tired of looking after someone like me who was always sick.

MRS. ALVING. Then heaven be praised that Regina is not here.

MRS. ALVING. Thank goodness Regina isn't here.

OSWALD. Well then, it is you that must come to the rescue, mother.

OSWALD. Well then, it’s you who has to come to the rescue, Mom.

MRS. ALVING. [Shrieks aloud.] I!

MRS. ALVING. [Screams loudly.] I!

OSWALD. Who should do it if not you?

OSWALD. Who else is going to do it if not you?

MRS. ALVING. I! your mother!

MRS. ALVING. I! Your mom!

OSWALD. For that very reason.

OSWALD. For that exact reason.

MRS. ALVING. I, who gave you life!

MRS. ALVING. I, who brought you into this world!

OSWALD. I never asked you for life. And what sort of a life have you given me? I will not have it! You shall take it back again!

OSWALD. I never asked you for life. And what kind of life have you given me? I refuse to accept it! You can take it back!

MRS. ALVING. Help! Help! [She runs out into the hall.]

MRS. ALVING. Help! Help! [She runs out into the hallway.]

OSWALD. [Going after her.] Do not leave me! Where are you going?

OSWALD. [Following her.] Don’t leave me! Where are you going?

MRS. ALVING. [In the hall.] To fetch the doctor, Oswald! Let me pass!

MRS. ALVING. [In the hall.] Go get the doctor, Oswald! Let me through!

OSWALD. [Also outside.] You shall not go out. And no one shall come in. [The locking of a door is heard.]

OSWALD. [Also outside.] You can't go out. And no one is allowed to come in. [The sound of a door locking is heard.]

MRS. ALVING. [Comes in again.] Oswald! Oswald—my child!

MRS. ALVING. [Comes in again.] Oswald! Oswald—my dear!

OSWALD. [Follows her.] Have you a mother's heart for me—and yet can see me suffer from this unutterable dread?

OSWALD. [Follows her.] Do you have a mother's heart for me—and yet can watch me suffer from this unbearable fear?

MRS. ALVING. [After a moment's silence, commands herself, and says:] Here is my hand upon it.

MRS. ALVING. [After a moment of silence, gathers herself and says:] Here’s my hand on it.

OSWALD. Will you—?

MRS. ALVING. If it should ever be necessary. But it will never be necessary. No, no; it is impossible.

MRS. ALVING. If it ever becomes necessary. But it will never be necessary. No, no; that's impossible.

OSWALD. Well, let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. Thank you, mother. [He seats himself in the arm-chair which MRS. ALVING has moved to the sofa. Day is breaking. The lamp is still burning on the table.]

OSWALD. Well, let's hope so. And let's stick together for as long as we can. Thank you, Mom. [He sits down in the armchair that MRS. ALVING has moved to the sofa. Day is breaking. The lamp is still on the table.]

MRS. ALVING. [Drawing near cautiously.] Do you feel calm now?

MRS. ALVING. [Approaching carefully.] Do you feel okay now?

OSWALD. Yes.

OSWALD. Yeah.

MRS. ALVING. [Bending over him.] It has been a dreadful fancy of yours, Oswald—nothing but a fancy. All this excitement has been too much for you. But now you shall have a long rest; at home with your mother, my own blessëd boy. Everything you point to you shall have, just as when you were a little child.—There now. The crisis is over. You see how easily it passed! Oh, I was sure it would.—And do you see, Oswald, what a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine! Now you can really see your home. [She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. Sunrise. The glacier and the snow-peaks in the background glow in the morning light.]

MRS. ALVING. [Bending over him.] You've had such a terrible idea, Oswald—just a mere idea. All this excitement has been too much for you. But now you’re going to get a long rest; at home with your mother, my sweet boy. Whatever you want, you’ll get, just like when you were little.—There, there. The crisis is over. See how easily it all passed! Oh, I knew it would.—And look, Oswald, what a beautiful day we’re going to have! Bright sunshine! Now you can really see your home. [She goes to the table and turns off the lamp. Sunrise. The glacier and the snow-capped peaks in the background shine in the morning light.]

OSWALD. [Sits in the arm-chair with his back towards the landscape, without moving. Suddenly he says:] Mother, give me the sun.

OSWALD. [Sits in the armchair with his back to the landscape, not moving. Suddenly he says:] Mom, give me the sun.

MRS. ALVING. [By the table, starts and looks at him.] What do you say?

MRS. ALVING. [By the table, starts and looks at him.] What do you mean?

OSWALD. [Repeats, in a dull, toneless voice.] The sun. The sun.

OSWALD. [Repeats, in a flat, monotone voice.] The sun. The sun.

MRS. ALVING. [Goes to him.] Oswald, what is the matter with you?

MRS. ALVING. [Goes to him.] Oswald, what's wrong with you?

OSWALD. [Seems to shrink together to the chair; all his muscles relax; his face is expressionless, his eyes have a glassy stare.]

OSWALD. [Looks like he’s melting into the chair; all his muscles loosen up; his face shows no expression, his eyes have a blank, glassy look.]

MRS. ALVING. [Quivering with terror.] What is this? [Shrieks.] Oswald! what is the matter with you? [Falls on her knees beside him and shakes him.] Oswald! Oswald! look at me! Don't you know me?

MRS. ALVING. [Shaking with fear.] What’s going on? [Screams.] Oswald! What’s wrong with you? [Falls to her knees beside him and shakes him.] Oswald! Oswald! Look at me! Don’t you recognize me?

OSWALD. [Tonelessly as before.] The sun.—The sun.

OSWALD. [In the same flat tone as before.] The sun.—The sun.

MRS. ALVING. [Springs up in despair, entwines her hands in her hair and shrieks.] I cannot bear it! [Whispers, as though petrified]; I cannot bear it! Never! [Suddenly.] Where has he got them? [Fumbles hastily in his breast.] Here! [Shrinks back a few steps and screams:] No! No; no!—Yes!—No; no!

MRS. ALVING. [Jumps up in despair, runs her hands through her hair and screams.] I can’t take it! [Whispers, as if frozen]; I can’t take it! Never! [Suddenly.] Where did he get them? [Fumbles quickly in his chest.] Here! [Steps back a little and screams:] No! No; no!—Yes!—No; no!

[She stands a few steps away from him with her hands twisted in her hair, and stares at him in speechless horror.]

[She stands a few steps away from him with her hands tangled in her hair, staring at him in silent horror.]

GHOSTS

By Henrik Ibsen

Translated, with an Introduction, by William Archer

Contents

INTRODUCTION.

GHOSTS

A FAMILY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS.

ACT FIRST.

ACT SECOND.

[The same room. The mist still lies heavy over the landscape.]

ACT THIRD.