Chapter IV: Part 4

You too, of course; we are both saved, both of us. Look here—he sends you back your promissory note. He writes that he regrets and apologises, that a happy turn in his life——Oh, what matter what he writes. We are saved, Nora! No one can harm you. Oh, Nora, Nora——; but first to get rid of this hateful thing. I’ll just see—— [_Glances at the I.O.U._] No, I will not look at it; the whole thing shall be nothing but a dream to me. [_Tears the I.O.U. and both letters in pieces. Throws them into the fire and watches them burn._] There! it’s gone!—He said that ever since Christmas Eve——Oh, Nora, they must have been three terrible days for you!

NORA.

I have fought a hard fight for the last three days.

HELMER.

And in your agony you saw no other outlet but——No; we won’t think of that horror. We will only rejoice and repeat—it’s over, all over! Don’t you hear, Nora? You don’t seem able to grasp it. Yes, it’s over. What is this set look on your face? Oh, my poor Nora, I understand; you cannot believe that I have forgiven you. But I have, Nora; I swear it. I have forgiven everything. I know that what you did was all for love of me.

NORA.

That is true.

HELMER.

You loved me as a wife should love her husband. It was only the means that, in your inexperience, you misjudged. But do you think I love you the less because you cannot do without guidance? No, no. Only lean on me; I will counsel you, and guide you. I should be no true man if this very womanly helplessness did not make you doubly dear in my eyes. You mustn’t dwell upon the hard things I said in my first moment of terror, when the world seemed to be tumbling about my ears. I have forgiven you, Nora—I swear I have forgiven you.

NORA.

I thank you for your forgiveness.

[_Goes out, to the right._

HELMER.

No, stay——! [_Looking through the doorway._] What are you going to do?

NORA.

[_Inside._] To take off my masquerade dress.

HELMER.

[_In the doorway._] Yes, do, dear. Try to calm down, and recover your balance, my scared little song-bird. You may rest secure. I have broad wings to shield you. [_Walking up and down near the door._] Oh, how lovely—how cosy our home is, Nora! Here you are safe; here I can shelter you like a hunted dove whom I have saved from the claws of the hawk. I shall soon bring your poor beating heart to rest; believe me, Nora, very soon. To-morrow all this will seem quite different—everything will be as before. I shall not need to tell you again that I forgive you; you will feel for yourself that it is true. How could you think I could find it in my heart to drive you away, or even so much as to reproach you? Oh, you don’t know a true man’s heart, Nora. There is some thing indescribably sweet and soothing to a man in having forgiven his wife—honestly forgiven her, from the bottom of his heart. She becomes his property in a double sense. She is as though born again; she has become, so to speak, at once his wife and his child. That is what you shall henceforth be to me, my bewildered, helpless darling. Don’t be troubled about anything, Nora; only open your heart to me, and I will be both will and conscience to you. [NORA _enters in everyday dress._] Why, what’s this? Not gone to bed? You have changed your dress?

NORA.

Yes, Torvald; now I have changed my dress.

HELMER.

But why now, so late——?

NORA.

I shall not sleep to-night.

HELMER.

But, Nora dear——

NORA.

[_Looking at her watch._] It’s not so late yet. Sit down, Torvald; you and I have much to say to each other. [_She sits at one side of the table._

HELMER.

Nora—what does this mean? Your cold, set face——

NORA.

Sit down. It will take some time. I have much to talk over with you.

[HELMER _sits at the other side of the table._

HELMER.

You alarm me, Nora. I don’t understand you.

NORA.

No, that is just it. You don’t understand me; and I have never understood you—till to-night. No, don’t interrupt. Only listen to what I say.—We must come to a final settlement, Torvald.

HELMER.

How do you mean?

NORA.

[_After a short silence._] Does not one thing strike you as we sit here?

HELMER.

What should strike me?

NORA.

We have been married eight years. Does it not strike you that this is the first time we two, you and I, man and wife, have talked together seriously?

HELMER.

Seriously! What do you call seriously?

NORA.

During eight whole years, and more—ever since the day we first met—we have never exchanged one serious word about serious things.

HELMER.

Was I always to trouble you with the cares you could not help me to bear?

NORA.

I am not talking of cares. I say that we have never yet set ourselves seriously to get to the bottom of anything.

HELMER.

Why, my dearest Nora, what have you to do with serious things?

NORA.

There we have it! You have never understood me.—I have had great injustice done me, Torvald; first by father, and then by you.

HELMER.

What! By your father and me?—By us, who have loved you more than all the world?

NORA

[_Shaking her head._] You have never loved me. You only thought it amusing to be in love with me.

HELMER.

Why, Nora, what a thing to say!

NORA.

Yes, it is so, Torvald. While I was at home with father, he used to tell me all his opinions, and I held the same opinions. If I had others I said nothing about them, because he wouldn’t have liked it. He used to call me his doll-child, and played with me as I played with my dolls. Then I came to live in your house——

HELMER.

What an expression to use about our marriage!

NORA.

[_Undisturbed._] I mean I passed from father’s hands into yours. You arranged everything according to your taste; and I got the same tastes as you; or I pretended to—I don’t know which—both ways, perhaps; sometimes one and sometimes the other. When I look back on it now, I seem to have been living here like a beggar, from hand to mouth. I lived by performing tricks for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and father have done me a great wrong. It is your fault that my life has come to nothing.

HELMER.

Why, Nora, how unreasonable and ungrateful you are! Have you not been happy here?

NORA.

No, never. I thought I was; but I never was.

HELMER.

Not—not happy!

NORA.

No; only merry. And you have always been so kind to me. But our house has been nothing but a play-room. Here I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I used to be papa’s doll-child. And the children, in their turn, have been my dolls. I thought it fun when you played with me, just as the children did when I played with them. That has been our marriage, Torvald.

HELMER.

There is some truth in what you say, exaggerated and overstrained though it be. But henceforth it shall be different. Play-time is over; now comes the time for education.

NORA.

Whose education? Mine, or the children’s?

HELMER.

Both, my dear Nora.

NORA.

Oh, Torvald, you are not the man to teach me to be a fit wife for you.

HELMER.

And you can say that?

NORA.

And I—how have I prepared myself to educate the children?

HELMER.

Nora!

NORA.

Did you not say yourself, a few minutes ago, you dared not trust them to me?

HELMER.

In the excitement of the moment! Why should you dwell upon that?

NORA.

No—you were perfectly right. That problem is beyond me. There is another to be solved first—I must try to educate myself. You are not the man to help me in that. I must set about it alone. And that is why I am leaving you.

HELMER.

[_Jumping up._] What—do you mean to say——?

NORA.

I must stand quite alone if I am ever to know myself and my surroundings; so I cannot stay with you.

HELMER.

Nora! Nora!

NORA.

I am going at once. I daresay Christina will take me in for to-night——

HELMER.

You are mad! I shall not allow it! I forbid it!

NORA.

It is of no use your forbidding me anything now. I shall take with me what belongs to me. From you I will accept nothing, either now or afterwards.

HELMER.

What madness this is!

NORA.

To-morrow I shall go home—I mean to what was my home. It will be easier for me to find some opening there.

HELMER.

Oh, in your blind inexperience——

NORA.

I must try to _gain_ experience, Torvald.

HELMER.

To forsake your home, your husband, and your children! And you don’t consider what the world will say.

NORA.

I can pay no heed to that. I only know that I must do it.

HELMER.

This is monstrous! Can you forsake your holiest duties in this way?

NORA.

What do you consider my holiest duties?

HELMER.

Do I need to tell you that? Your duties to your husband and your children.

NORA.

I have other duties equally sacred.

HELMER.

Impossible! What duties do you mean?

NORA.

My duties towards myself.

HELMER.

Before all else you are a wife and a mother.

NORA.

That I no longer believe. I believe that before all else I am a human being, just as much as you are—or at least that I should try to become one. I know that most people agree with you, Torvald, and that they say so in books. But henceforth I can’t be satisfied with what most people say, and what is in books. I must think things out for myself, and try to get clear about them.

HELMER.

Are you not clear about your place in your own home? Have you not an infallible guide in questions like these? Have you not religion?

NORA.

Oh, Torvald, I don’t really know what religion is.

HELMER.

What do you mean?

NORA.

I know nothing but what Pastor Hansen told me when I was confirmed. He explained that religion was this and that. When I get away from all this and stand alone, I will look into that matter too. I will see whether what he taught me is right, or, at any rate, whether it is right for me.

HELMER.

Oh, this is unheard of! And from so young a woman! But if religion cannot keep you right, let me appeal to your conscience—for I suppose you have some moral feeling? Or, answer me: perhaps you have none?

NORA.

Well, Torvald, it’s not easy to say. I really don’t know—I am all at sea about these things. I only know that I think quite differently from you about them. I hear, too, that the laws are different from what I thought; but I can’t believe that they can be right. It appears that a woman has no right to spare her dying father, or to save her husband’s life! I don’t believe that.

HELMER.

You talk like a child. You don’t understand the society in which you live.

NORA.

No, I do not. But now I shall try to learn. I must make up my mind which is right—society or I.

HELMER.

Nora, you are ill; you are feverish; I almost think you are out of your senses.

NORA.

I have never felt so much clearness and certainty as to-night.

HELMER.

You are clear and certain enough to forsake husband and children?

NORA.

Yes, I am.

HELMER.

Then there is only one explanation possible.

NORA.

What is that?

HELMER.

You no longer love me.

NORA.

No; that is just it.

HELMER.

Nora!—Can you say so!

NORA.

Oh, I’m so sorry, Torvald; for you’ve always been so kind to me. But I can’t help it. I do not love you any longer.

HELMER.

[_Mastering himself with difficulty._] Are you clear and certain on this point too?

NORA.

Yes, quite. That is why I will not stay here any longer.

HELMER.

And can you also make clear to me how I have forfeited your love?

NORA.

Yes, I can. It was this evening, when the miracle did not happen; for then I saw you were not the man I had imagined.

HELMER.

Explain yourself more clearly; I don’t understand.

NORA.

I have waited so patiently all these eight years; for of course I saw clearly enough that miracles don’t happen every day. When this crushing blow threatened me, I said to myself so confidently, “Now comes the miracle!” When Krogstad’s letter lay in the box, it never for a moment occurred to me that you would think of submitting to that man’s conditions. I was convinced that you would say to him, “Make it known to all the world”; and that then——

HELMER.

Well? When I had given my own wife’s name up to disgrace and shame——?

NORA.

Then I firmly believed that you would come forward, take everything upon yourself, and say, “I am the guilty one.”

HELMER.

Nora——!

NORA.

You mean I would never have accepted such a sacrifice? No, certainly not. But what would my assertions have been worth in opposition to yours?—_That_ was the miracle that I hoped for and dreaded. And it was to hinder _that_ that I wanted to die.

HELMER.

I would gladly work for you day and night, Nora—bear sorrow and want for your sake. But no man sacrifices his honour, even for one he loves.

NORA.

Millions of women have done so.

HELMER.

Oh, you think and talk like a silly child.

NORA.

Very likely. But you neither think nor talk like the man I can share my life with. When your terror was over—not for what threatened me, but for yourself—when there was nothing more to fear—then it seemed to you as though nothing had happened. I was your lark again, your doll, just as before—whom you would take twice as much care of in future, because she was so weak and fragile. [_Stands up._] Torvald—in that moment it burst upon me that I had been living here these eight years with a strange man, and had borne him three children.—Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I could tear myself to pieces!

HELMER.

[_Sadly._] I see it, I see it; an abyss has opened between us.—But, Nora, can it never be filled up?

NORA.

As I now am, I am no wife for you.

HELMER.

I have strength to become another man.

NORA.

Perhaps—when your doll is taken away from you.

HELMER.

To part—to part from you! No, Nora, no; I can’t grasp the thought.

NORA.

[_Going into room on the right._] The more reason for the thing to happen.

[_She comes back with out-door things and a small
travelling-bag, which she places on a chair._

HELMER.

Nora, Nora, not now! Wait till to-morrow.

NORA.

[_Putting on cloak._] I can’t spend the night in a strange man’s house.

HELMER.

But can we not live here, as brother and sister——?

NORA.

[_Fastening her hat._] You know very well that wouldn’t last long. [_Puts on the shawl._] Goodbye, Torvald. No, I won’t go to the children. I know they are in better hands than mine. As I now am, I can be nothing to them.

HELMER.

But some time, Nora—some time——?

NORA.

How can I tell? I have no idea what will become of me.

HELMER.

But you are my wife, now and always!

NORA.

Listen, Torvald—when a wife leaves her husband’s house, as I am doing, I have heard that in the eyes of the law he is free from all duties towards her. At any rate, I release you from all duties. You must not feel yourself bound, any more than I shall. There must be perfect freedom on both sides. There, I give you back your ring. Give me mine.

HELMER.

That too?

NORA.

That too.

HELMER.

Here it is.

NORA.

Very well. Now it is all over. I lay the keys here. The servants know about everything in the house—better than I do. To-morrow, when I have started, Christina will come to pack up the things I brought with me from home. I will have them sent after me.

HELMER.

All over! all over! Nora, will you never think of me again?

NORA.

Oh, I shall often think of you, and the children, and this house.

HELMER.

May I write to you, Nora?

NORA.

No—never. You must not.

HELMER.

But I must send you——

NORA.

Nothing, nothing.

HELMER.

I must help you if you need it.

NORA.

No, I say. I take nothing from strangers.

HELMER.

Nora—can I never be more than a stranger to you?

NORA.

[_Taking her travelling-bag._] Oh, Torvald, then the miracle of miracles would have to happen——

HELMER.

What is the miracle of miracles?

NORA.

Both of us would have to change so that——Oh, Torvald, I no longer believe in miracles.

HELMER.

But _I_ will believe. Tell me! We must so change that——?

NORA.

That communion between us shall be a marriage. Good-bye.

[_She goes out by the hall door._

HELMER.

[_Sinks into a chair by the door with his face in his hands._] Nora! Nora! [_He looks round and rises._] Empty. She is gone. [_A hope springs up in him._] Ah! The miracle of miracles——?!

[_From below is heard the reverberation of a heavy door
closing._

THE END

GHOSTS

(1881)

CHARACTERS.

MRS. HELEN ALVING, _widow of Captain Alving, late Chamberlain[10]
to the King_.
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._

-----

Footnote 10:

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.

GHOSTS:

A FAMILY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS.

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
work-table 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._

_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._

REGINA.

[_In a low voice._] What do you want? Stop where you are. You’re positively dripping.

ENGSTRAND.

It’s the Lord’s own rain, my girl.

REGINA.

It’s the devil’s rain, _I_ say.

ENGSTRAND.

Lord, how you talk, Regina. [_Limps a step or two forward into the room._] It’s just this as I wanted to say——

REGINA.

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

ENGSTRAND.

Asleep? In the middle of the day?

REGINA.

It’s no business of yours.

ENGSTRAND.

I was out on the loose last night——

REGINA.

I can quite believe that.

ENGSTRAND.

Yes, we’re weak vessels, we poor mortals, my girl——

REGINA.

So it seems.

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.

REGINA.

Very well; only be off now. I won’t stop here and have _rendezvous’s_[11] with you.

ENGSTRAND.

What do you say you won’t have?

REGINA.

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

ENGSTRAND.

[_Advances a step or two._] Blest if I go before I’ve had a talk with you. This afternoon I shall have finished my work at the school-house, and then I shall take to-night’s boat and be off home to the town.

REGINA.

[_Mutters._] Pleasant journey to you!

ENGSTRAND.

Thank you, my child. To-morrow the Orphanage is to be opened, and then there’ll be fine doings, no doubt, and plenty of intoxicating drink going, you know. And nobody shall say of Jacob Engstrand that he can’t keep out of temptation’s way.

REGINA.

Oh!

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

He’s coming to-day.

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

Oho! is that your game?

ENGSTRAND.

Is what my game?

REGINA.

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

ENGSTRAND.

Sh! sh! Are you crazy? Do _I_ want to fool Pastor Manders? Oh no! Pastor Manders has been far too good a friend to me for that. But I just wanted to say, you know—that I mean to be off home again to-night.

REGINA.

The sooner the better, say I.

ENGSTRAND.

Yes, but I want you with me, Regina.

REGINA.

[_Open-mouthed._] You want me——? What are you talking about?

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

[_Scornfully._] Never in this world shall you get me home with you.

ENGSTRAND.

Oh, we’ll see about that.

REGINA.

Yes, you may be sure we’ll see about it! Me, that have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving! Me, that am treated almost as a daughter here! Is it _me_ you want to go home with you?—to a house like yours? For shame!

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

[_Mutters without looking at him._] You’ve said often enough I was no concern of yours.

ENGSTRAND.

Pooh! Why should you bother about _that_——

REGINA.

Haven’t you many a time sworn at me and called me a——? _Fi donc!_

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

Oh, I remember very well what word you used.

ENGSTRAND.

Well, but that was only when I was a bit on, don’t you know? Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina.

REGINA.

Ugh!

ENGSTRAND.

And besides, it was when your mother was that aggravating—I _had_ to find something to twit 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.

REGINA.

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

ENGSTRAND.

[_With a twist of his shoulders._] Oh, of course! I’m to have the blame for everything.

REGINA.

[_Turns away; half aloud._] Ugh——! And that leg too!

ENGSTRAND.

What do you say, my child?

REGINA.

_Pied de mouton._

ENGSTRAND.

Is that English, eh?

REGINA.

Yes.

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

[_After a short silence._] What do you want with me in town?

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

Oh, don’t try on any nonsense like that with _me_! Why do you want me?

ENGSTRAND.

Well, let me tell you, I’ve been thinking of setting up in a new line of business.

REGINA.

[_Contemptuously._] You’ve tried that often enough, and much good you’ve done with it.

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

[_Stamps._] Stop your swearing!

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

Have you? That’s a good thing for you.

ENGSTRAND.

What can a man spend his ha’pence on here in this country hole?

REGINA.

Well, what then?

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

Pah!

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

And I was to——?

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

Oh, indeed!

ENGSTRAND.

But there must be a petticoat in the house; that’s as clear as daylight. For I want to have it a bit lively-like in the evenings, with singing and 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?

REGINA.

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

ENGSTRAND.

What do you mean by “there’s no saying”?

REGINA.

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

ENGSTRAND.

What with one thing and another, a matter of seven or eight hundred crowns.[12]

REGINA.

That’s not so bad.

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

Aren’t you thinking of giving me any?

ENGSTRAND.

No, I’m blest if I am!

REGINA.

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

ENGSTRAND.

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

REGINA.

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

ENGSTRAND.

No, a father’s guiding hand is what you want, Regina. Now, I’ve got my eye on a capital house in Little Harbour Street. They don’t want much ready-money; and it could be a sort of a Sailors’ Home, you know.

REGINA.

But I will _not_ live with you! I have nothing whatever to do with you. Be off!

ENGSTRAND.

You wouldn’t stop long with me, my girl. No such luck! If you knew how to play your cards, such a fine figure of a girl as you’ve grown in the last year or two——

REGINA.

Well?

ENGSTRAND.

You’d soon get hold of some mate—or maybe even a captain——

REGINA.

I won’t marry any one of that sort. Sailors have no _savoir vivre_.

ENGSTRAND.

What’s that they haven’t got?

REGINA.

I know what sailors are, I tell you. They’re not the sort of people 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.

REGINA.

[_Making for him._] Out you go!

ENGSTRAND.

[_Falling back._] Come, come! You’re not going to hit me, I hope.

REGINA.

Yes, if you begin talking about mother I shall hit you. Get away with you, I say! [_Drives him back towards the 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——?

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.

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.

[_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._

_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._

MANDERS.

Good-morning, Miss Engstrand.

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

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

REGINA.

[_Follows him._] It’s such blessëd weather for the country, sir.

MANDERS.

No doubt; you are quite right. We townspeople give too little thought to that.

[_He begins to take off his overcoat._

REGINA.

Oh, mayn’t I help you?—There! Why, how wet it is? I’ll just hang it up in the hall. And your umbrella, too—I’ll open it 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._

MANDERS.

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

REGINA.

Yes, thank you, sir.

MANDERS.

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

REGINA.

Yes, there’s plenty to do, of course.

MANDERS.

And Mrs. Alving is at home, I trust?

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

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

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

Quite strong and well, I hope?

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

Sh!—as quietly as you please.

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?

MANDERS.

Thanks, thanks, extremely so. [_Looks at her._] Do you know, Miss Engstrand, I positively believe you have grown since I last saw you.

REGINA.

Do you think so, sir? Mrs. Alving says I’ve filled out too.

MANDERS.

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

[_Short pause._

REGINA.

Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here?

MANDERS.

Thanks, thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child.—By-the-bye, Regina, my good girl, tell me: how is your father getting on out here?

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

He called upon me last time he was in town.

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

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

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

Your father is not a man of strong character, Miss Engstrand. He stands terribly in need of a guiding hand.

REGINA.

Oh, yes; I daresay he does.

MANDERS.

He requires 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.

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.

MANDERS.

But a daughter’s duty, my good girl——Of course, we should first have to get your mistress’s consent.

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

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

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

Why, my dear Regina——

REGINA.

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

MANDERS.

Yes, but my dear, good child——

REGINA.

Then I should be glad to go to town. It’s very lonely out here; you know yourself, sir, what it is to be alone in the world. And I can assure you I’m both quick and willing. Don’t you know of any such place for me, sir?

MANDERS.

I? No, certainly not.

REGINA.

But, dear, dear sir, do remember me if——

MANDERS.

[_Rising._] Yes, yes, certainly, Miss Engstrand.

REGINA.

For if I——

MANDERS.

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

REGINA.

I will, at once, sir. [_She goes out to the left._

MANDERS.

[_Paces the room two or three times, stands a moment in the background with his hands behind his back, and looks out over the garden. Then he returns to the table, takes up a book, and looks at the title-page; starts, and looks at several books._] Ha—indeed!

_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.

[_Holds out her hand._] Welcome, my dear Pastor.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Always punctual 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——

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?

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

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

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.

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.

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Yes, you may well say so. But there’s nothing of that sort to fear with him. I’m quite curious to see whether you know him again. He’ll be down presently; he’s upstairs just now, resting a little on the sofa. But do sit down, my dear Pastor.

MANDERS

Thank you. Are you quite at liberty——?

MRS. ALVING.

Certainly. [_She sits by the table._

MANDERS.

Very well. 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?

MRS. ALVING.

These books? They are books I am reading.

MANDERS.

Do you read this sort of literature?

MRS. ALVING.

Certainly I do.

MANDERS.

Do you feel better or happier for such reading?

MRS. ALVING.

I feel, so to speak, more secure.

MANDERS.

That is strange. How do 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.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

I do, indeed.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Yes, certainly; here as elsewhere.

MANDERS.

Well, I really must say——!

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

I have read enough _about_ these writings to disapprove of them.

MRS. ALVING.

Yes; but your own judgment——

MANDERS.

My dear Mrs. Alving, there are 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?

MRS. ALVING.

Well, well, I daresay you’re right there.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

But?

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.

MRS. ALVING.

Of course not; I quite 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.

MRS. ALVING.

Oh, yes; I quite admit 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?

MRS. ALVING.

The documents?

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.’”

MRS. ALVING.

[_Looks long at the paper._] So there it is.

MANDERS.

I have chosen the designation “Captain” rather than “Chamberlain.” “Captain” looks less pretentious.

MRS. ALVING.

Oh, yes; just as you think best.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Thank you; but please keep it—it will 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.

MRS. ALVING.

Certainly, my dear Pastor Manders. You are the best judge in 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.

MRS. ALVING.

And what is that?

MANDERS.

Shall the Orphanage buildings be insured or not?

MRS. ALVING.

Of course they must be insured.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

I have everything insured; buildings and movables and stock and 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.

MRS. ALVING.

Yes, but that’s no reason——

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

No, I should think not.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Well—the general feeling——

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

What do you mean by “really responsible people”?

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

There, you see! In town we have many such people. Think of all my colleague’s adherents! People would be only too ready to interpret our action as a sign that neither you nor I had the right faith in a Higher Providence.

MRS. ALVING.

But for your own part, 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.

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——

MRS. ALVING.

Oh, you mustn’t run the risk of that.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

Then you do not wish the Orphanage to be insured?

MRS. ALVING.

No. We will let it alone.

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?

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Do you think we can do otherwise?

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.

MRS. ALVING.

You, as a clergyman, certainly 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.

MRS. ALVING.

Let us hope so, Pastor Manders.

MANDERS.

Then we will let it take its chance?

MRS. ALVING.

Yes, certainly.

MANDERS.

Very well. So be it. [_Makes a note._] Then—no insurance.

MRS. ALVING.

It’s odd that you should just happen to mention the matter to-day——

MANDERS.

I have often thought of asking you about it——

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

You don’t say so!

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

Where Engstrand works?

MRS. ALVING.

Yes. They say he’s often very careless with matches.

MANDERS.

He has so 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.

MRS. ALVING.

Indeed! Who says so?

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Oh, yes; so long as he’s sober——

MANDERS.

Ah, that melancholy weakness! But he is often driven to it by his injured leg, he says. Last time he was in town I was really touched by him. He came and thanked me so warmly for having got him work here, so that he might be near Regina.

MRS. ALVING.

He doesn’t see much of _her_.

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Well, it may be so.

MANDERS.

He feels so acutely that he needs 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——

MRS. ALVING.

[_Rising hastily._] Regina!

MANDERS.

——you must not set yourself against it.

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Oh, I know very well what sort of a father he has been to her. No! She shall never go to him with _my_ goodwill.

MANDERS.

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

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.

_OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand, and smoking a
large meerschaum, enters by the door on the left; he stops
in the doorway._

OSWALD.

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

MANDERS.

[_Staring._] Ah——! How strange——!

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

I—I—can it really be——?

OSWALD.

Yes, it’s really the Prodigal Son, sir.

MANDERS.

[_Protesting._] My dear young friend——

OSWALD.

Well, then, the Lost Sheep Found.

MRS. ALVING.

Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so much opposed to his 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?

OSWALD.

What else should 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.

OSWALD.

Let us hope so.

MRS. ALVINO.

[_Beaming with delight._] I know one who has kept both his inner and his outer self unharmed. Just look at him, Mr. Manders.

OSWALD.

[_Moves restlessly about the room._] Yes, yes, my dear mother; let’s say no more about it.

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.

[_Up in the conservatory._] I haven’t been able to paint so much lately.

MRS. ALVING.

Even a painter needs a little rest now and then.

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.

Yes.—Mother, will dinner soon be ready?

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

And a taste for tobacco, too.

OSWALD.

I found my father’s pipe in my room——

MANDERS.

Aha—then that accounts for it!

MRS. ALVING.

For what?

MANDERS.

When Oswald appeared there, in the doorway, with the pipe in his mouth, I could have sworn I saw his father, large as life.

OSWALD.

No, really?

MRS. ALVING.

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

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

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

MRS. ALVING.

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

OSWALD.

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

MRS. ALVING.

You?

OSWALD.

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

MRS. ALVING.

Oh, you can’t recollect anything of those times.

OSWALD.

Yes, I recollect it distinctly. He took me on his knee, and gave me the pipe. “Smoke, boy,” he said; “smoke away, boy!” And I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was growing quite pale, and the perspiration stood in great drops on my forehead. Then he burst out laughing heartily——

MANDERS.

That was most extraordinary.

MRS. ALVING.

My dear friend, it’s only something Oswald has dreamt.

OSWALD.

No, mother, I assure you I didn’t dream it. For—don’t you remember _this_?—you came and carried me out into the nursery. Then I was sick, and I saw that you were crying.—Did father often play such practical jokes?

MANDERS.

In his youth he overflowed with 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.

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——

OSWALD.

It ought to, indeed.

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.

I could do no less for my father.

MRS. ALVING.

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

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.

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

MRS. ALVING.

[_Beaming._] Yes, isn’t it, dear?

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.

I did. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn’t _too_ early.

MRS. ALVING.

Oh, not at all. A healthy lad is all the better for it; especially when he’s an only child. He oughtn’t to hang on at home with his mother and father, and get spoilt.

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.

There I quite agree with you, 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.

OSWALD.

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

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.

So I have.

MANDERS.

And chiefly among the younger artists?

OSWALD.

Yes, certainly.

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.

There are many who cannot afford to marry, sir.

MANDERS.

Yes, that is just what I say.

OSWALD.

But they may have a home for all that. And several of them have, as a matter of fact; and very pleasant, well-ordered homes they are, too.

[MRS. ALVING _follows with breathless interest; nods, but says
nothing._

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.

OSWALD.

Yes; or with his children and his children’s mother.

MANDERS.

[_Starts; clasps his hands._] But, good heavens——

OSWALD.

Well?

MANDERS.

Lives with—his children’s mother!

OSWALD.

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

MANDERS.

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

OSWALD.