A large garden room, with a door in the left-hand wall, and two doors in the wall to the right. In the middle of the room a round table with chairs grouped about it; on the table lie books, magazines, and newspapers. In the left foreground, a window, and next to it a small sofa with a sewing table in front of it. In the background, the room is extended into a somewhat smaller greenhouse, whose walls are great panes of glass. From the right side of the greenhouse, a door leads into the garden. Through the glass walls a somber fjord landscape can be glimpsed, half hidden by the steady rain.
ENGSTRAND is standing by the garden door. His left leg is partly deformed; under his bootsole he has a wooden block. REGINA, with an empty garden syringe in her hand, is trying to keep him from entering.
REGINA (in a low voice). What do you want? Just stay where you are. Why, you’re dripping wet.
ENGSTRAND. It’s God’s own rain, my girl.
REGINA. The devil’s rain, it is!
ENGSTRAND. Jeez, how you talk, Regina. (Hobbles a few steps into the room.) But now, what I wanted to say—
REGINA. Stop stomping about with that foot, will you! The young master’s sleeping upstairs.
ENGSTRAND. Still sleeping? In broad daylight?
REGINA. That’s none of your business.
ENGSTRAND. I was out on a binge last night—
REGINA. I can imagine.
ENGSTRAND. Yes, because we mortals are weak, my girl—
REGINA. Yes, so we are.
ENGSTRAND. And temptations are manifold in this world, you see— But for all of that, I was on the job, so help me God, five thirty this morning early.
REGINA. All right now, get out of here. I’m not going to stand around, having a rendezvous with you.
ENGSTRAND. You’re not going to have any what?
REGINA. I’m not going to have anyone meeting you here. So—on your way.
ENGSTRAND (a few steps closer). Damned if I’ll go before I’ve had my say with you. This afternoon I’ll be done with my work down at the schoolhouse, and then I’ll rip right back to town by the night boat.
REGINA (mutters). Pleasant trip!
ENGSTRAND. Thank you, my girl. Tomorrow they’ll be dedicating the orphanage, and there’ll probably be all kinds of carrying-on here, with hard liquor, you know. And nobody’s going to say about Jacob Engstrand that he can’t put temptation behind him.
REGINA. Ha!
ENGSTRAND. Yes, because you know a lot of the best people’ll be here tomorrow. Pastor Manders is expected from town.
REGINA. He’s coming today.
ENGSTRAND. There, you see. And I’ll be damned if he’s going to get anything on me.
REGINA. Ah, so that’s it!
ENGSTRAND. What do you mean, that?
REGINA (looks knowingly at him). Just what are you out to trick him into this time?
ENGSTRAND. Shh, are you crazy? Would I trick the pastor into anything? Oh no, Pastor Manders, he’s been much too good to me for that. But it’s what I wanted to talk to you about, see—that I’ll be leaving for home then, tonight.
REGINA. The sooner the better.
ENGSTRAND. Yes, but I want you along with me, Regina.
REGINA (open-mouthed). You want me along—? What did you say?
ENGSTRAND. I’m saying I want you back home with me.
REGINA (scornfully). Back home with you? Never. Not a chance!
ENGSTRAND. Oh, we’ll see about that.
REGINA. Yes, you can bet we will, all right. I, who’ve been brought up by Mrs. Alving—? Been taken in like one of the family—? I should move back with you? To a house like that? Pah!
ENGSTRAND. What the devil is this? You trying to cross your own father, you slut?
REGINA (mutters, without looking at him). You’ve always said I had no part of you.
ENGSTRAND. Ahh, never mind about that—
REGINA. How many times haven’t you cursed me and called me a—fi donc!
ENGSTRAND. So help me God if I’ve ever used such a dirty word.
REGINA. Oh, I haven’t forgotten the word you used.
ENGSTRAND. Yes, but that was only when I had some drink in me—hm. Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina.
REGINA. Ugh!
ENGSTRAND. And when your mother got nasty, see—then I had to find something to needle her with. Always made herself so refined. (Mimics.) “Let go of me, Engstrand! Leave me be! I’ve been three years in service to Chamberlain Alving at Rosenvold!” (Laughs.) Jeez, that was something she never could forget—that the captain was made a chamberlain while she was in service there.
REGINA. Poor mother—you bullied the life out of her soon enough.
ENGSTRAND (with a shrug). Yes, that’s right; I get the blame for everything.
REGINA (in an undertone, as she turns away). Ugh—! And that leg.
ENGSTRAND. What did you say, my girl?
REGINA. Pied de mouton.
ENGSTRAND. What’s that—German?*
REGINA. Yes.
ENGSTRAND. Oh yes, you got some learning out here, and that’s going to come in handy now, Regina.
REGINA (after a short silence). And what was it you wanted with me in town?
ENGSTRAND. How can you ask what a father wants with his only child? Aren’t I a lonely, forsaken widower?
REGINA. Oh, don’t give me that garbage. Why do you want me in town?
ENGSTRAND. All right, I’ll tell you—I’ve been thinking of striking into something new.
REGINA (with a snort). You’ve done that so often, and it always goes wrong.
ENGSTRAND. Ah, but this time, Regina, you wait and see! Hell’s bells—!
REGINA (stamps her foot). Stop swearing!
ENGSTRAND. Sh, sh! Perfectly right you are, my girl! I only wanted to say—I’ve put by a nice piece of change out of the work on this new orphanage.
REGINA. Have you? Well, that’s good for you.
ENGSTRAND. Because what can you spend your money on here, out in the country?
REGINA. Well, so?
ENGSTRAND. Yes, so you see, I thought I might put the money into something that’d turn a profit. It was going to be a sort of hotel for seamen—
REGINA. Ugh-ah!
ENGSTRAND. A regular, first-class inn, you understand—not just any old pigsty for sailors. No, damn it all—it’s going to be for ship captains and mates and—and real fine people, you understand.
REGINA. And how do I—?
ENGSTRAND. You? You get to help, see. Just for the look of things, if you follow me. There wouldn’t be so damn much to do. You can have it just like you want it.
REGINA. I’ll bet!
ENGSTRAND. But there’ve got to be women on the premises, that’s clear as day. Because we want a little life in the evenings—singing and dancing and that sort of thing. You have to remember, these are wayfaring seamen on the ocean of life. (Comes nearer.) Now don’t be stupid and hold yourself back, Regina. What can you come to out here? What good can it do you, all this learning Mrs. Alving’s paid out for? You’re supposed to take care of the children, I hear, in the new orphanage. Is that anything for you, uh? Have you such a hunger to run yourself ragged for the sake of those filthy brats?
REGINA. No, if things go the way I want, then— And it could happen, all right. Yes, it could!
ENGSTRAND. What could?
REGINA. None of your business. Is it—quite a bit of money you made out here?
ENGSTRAND. Between this and that, I’d say up to seven, eight hundred crowns.
REGINA. That’s not so bad.
ENGSTRAND. It’s enough for a start, my girl.
REGINA. Don’t you think you might give me some of that money?
ENGSTRAND. No, I don’t think I might!
REGINA. Don’t you think you could send me at least some cloth for a dress?
ENGSTRAND. Just come with me into town, and you’ll have dresses to burn.
REGINA. Pah! I can do as well on my own, if I care to.
ENGSTRAND. No, but it goes better, Regina, with a father’s guiding hand. There’s a nice house I can get now in Little Harbor Street. They don’t want too much money down; and it could make some kind of seamen’s home, all right.
REGINA. But I don’t want to stay with you! I’ve got no business with you. Get out!
ENGSTRAND. You wouldn’t stay so damn long with me, girl. No such luck—if you know how to show off yourself. A wench as good-looking as you’ve turned out these last two years—
REGINA. Yes—?
ENGSTRAND. It wouldn’t be long before some ship’s officer—maybe even a captain—
REGINA. I’m not marrying any of those. Sailors don’t have any savoir-vivre.
ENGSTRAND. They don’t have any what?
REGINA. Let me tell you, I know about sailors. They aren’t any sort to marry.
ENGSTRAND. Then forget about getting married. That can pay just as well. (More confidentially.) Him—the Englishman—the one with the yacht—he gave three hundred dollars, he did—and she was no better looking than you.
REGINA (advancing on him). Get out of here!
ENGSTRAND (steps back). Easy now, you don’t want to hit me.
REGINA. Don’t I! Talk about Mother, and you’ll find out. Get out of here, I said! (She forces him back toward the garden door.) And no slamming doors; young Mr. Alving—
ENGSTRAND. Yes, he’s asleep. It’s something all right, how you worry about young Mr. Alving— (Dropping his voice.) Ho-ho! It just wouldn’t be that he—?
REGINA. Out of here, quick! You’re all mixed up! No not that way. There’s Pastor Manders coming. Down the kitchen stairs.
ENGSTRAND (moving to the right). All right, I’m going. But you talk with him that’s coming in. He’s the one who’ll tell you what a child owes her father. Because, after all, I am your father, you know. I can prove it in the parish register.
(He goes out by the farther door, which REGINA has opened, closing it after him. She hurriedly glances at herself in the mirror, fans herself with her handkerchief and straightens her collar, then busies herself with the flowers. PASTOR MANDERS, in an overcoat, carrying an umbrella along with a small traveling bag on a strap over his shoulder, comes through the garden door into the greenhouse.)
MANDERS. Good morning, Miss Engstrand.
REGINA (turning with a pleasantly surprised look). Why, Pastor Manders, good morning! The boat’s already come?
MANDERS. It just arrived. (Entering the room.) It’s certainly tedious weather we’ve been having these days.
REGINA (following him). It’s a godsend for the farmers, Pastor.
MANDERS. Yes, you’re quite right. That’s something we townspeople hardly think of. (He starts taking his overcoat off.)
REGINA. Oh, let me help you—that’s it. My, how wet it is! I’ll just hang it up in the hall. And the umbrella, too—I’ll leave it open to dry.
(She goes off with the things through the farther door on the right. MANDERS removes his traveling bag and sets it and his hat down on a chair, as REGINA returns.)
MANDERS. Ah, but it’s good to be indoors. So—everything’s going well out here?
REGINA. Yes, thank you.
MANDERS. But terribly busy, I suppose, getting ready for tomorrow?
REGINA. Oh yes, there’s plenty to do.
MANDERS. And, hopefully, Mrs. Alving’s at home?
REGINA. Why, of course. She just went upstairs to bring the young master some hot chocolate.
MANDERS. Yes, tell me—I heard down at the pier that Osvald was supposed to have come.
REGINA. He got in the day before yesterday. We hadn’t expected him before today.
MANDERS. In the best of health, I hope?
REGINA. Yes, just fine, thank you. But awfully tired after his trip. He came straight from Paris without a break—I mean, he went the whole route without changing trains. I think he’s sleeping a little now, so we should talk just a tiny bit softer.
MANDERS. Shh! We’ll be so quiet.
REGINA (as she moves an armchair up to the table). Please now, do sit down, Pastor, and make yourself comfortable. (He sits; she slips a footstool under his feet.) That’s it! Is that all right, Pastor?
MANDERS. Just perfect, thank you. (Regarding her.) You know, Miss Engstrand, I definitely think you’ve grown since I saw you last.
REGINA. Do you think so, Pastor? Mrs. Alving says that I’ve filled out, too.
MANDERS. Filled out—? Well, yes, maybe a little—but acceptably. (A short pause.)
REGINA. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you’re here?
MANDERS. Oh, thank you, there’s no hurry, my dear child—well, uh—but tell me now, Regina, how’s it been going for your father out here?
REGINA. Fairly well, Pastor, thank you.
MANDERS. He was in to see me when he was last in town.
REGINA. Really? He’s always so happy when he can talk with you.
MANDERS. And you make it your rule, of course, to look in on him daily.
REGINA. I? Oh, yes, of course—whenever I have some time—
MANDERS. Your father is not very strong in character, Miss Engstrand. He’s woefully in need of a guiding hand.
REGINA. Yes, I’m sure of that.
MANDERS. He needs to have someone around him that he can love, and whose judgment carries some weight. He confessed as much quite frankly when he was last up to see me.
REGINA. Yes, he said something like that to me. But I don’t know if Mrs. Alving could spare me—especially now, when we’ve got the new orphanage to manage. And then I’d be so awfully unhappy to leave Mrs. Alving—she’s always been so kind to me.
MANDERS. But, my dear girl, a daughter’s duty— Naturally, we’d first have to obtain Mrs. Alving’s consent.
REGINA. But I don’t know if it would do for me, at my age, to keep house for a single man.
MANDERS. What! But, my dear Miss Engstrand, this is your own father we’re speaking of!
REGINA. Yes, maybe so, but all the same—you see, if it were a good house, with a real gentleman—
MANDERS. But, my dear Regina—
REGINA. One I could care for and look up to, almost like a daughter—
MANDERS. Yes, but my dear child—
REGINA. Because I’d like so much to live in town. Out here it’s terribly lonely—and you know yourself, Pastor, what it is to stand alone in the world. And I think I can say that I’m both capable and willing. Mr. Manders, don’t you know of a place like that for me?
MANDERS. I? No, I don’t, for the life of me.
REGINA. But dear, dear Mr. Manders—you will think of me, in any case, if ever—
MANDERS (getting up). Yes, I’ll remember, Miss Engstrand.
REGINA. Yes, because if I—
MANDERS. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell Mrs. Alving I’ve come.
REGINA. I’ll go call her right away, Pastor.
(She goes out left. MANDERS paces back and forth in the room a couple of times, then stands for a moment at the far end of the room, hands behind his back, looking out into the garden. He then returns to the table, picks up a book and looks at the title page, starts, and inspects several others.)
MANDERS. Hm—aha! Well!
(MRS. ALVING comes in by the door, left. She is followed by REGINA, who immediately goes out by the nearer door to the right.)
MRS. ALVING (extending her hand). So good to see you, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS. Good morning, Mrs. Alving. Here I am, just as I promised.
MRS. ALVING. Always on the dot.
MANDERS. But you can imagine, it was touch and go for me, getting away. All those blessed boards and committees—
MRS. ALVING. All the more kind of you to come so promptly. Now we can get our business done before lunch. But where do you have your bags?
MANDERS (hurriedly). My things are down at the general store—I took a room there for tonight.
MRS. ALVING (repressing a smile). You can’t be persuaded even yet to spend the night here in my house?
MANDERS. No, no, really, thank you so much, but I’ll stay down there as usual. It’s so convenient to the boat.
MRS. ALVING. Well, you do as you wish. But I really thought instead that two old people like us—
MANDERS. Gracious me, the way you joke! Yes, of course you’re in rare spirits today. First the celebration tomorrow, and then you’ve got Osvald home.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, can you imagine how happy I am! It’s more than two years since he was home last. And then he’s promised to stay with me this whole winter.
MANDERS. No, has he really? That’s certainly a nice gesture for a son to make—because there must be other, quite different attractions to life in Rome and Paris, I’m sure.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, but he has his mother here at home, you see. Oh, that dear, blessed boy—he still has room in his heart for me!
MANDERS. It would really be tragic if distance and devotion to anything like art should dull his natural feelings.
MRS. ALVING. You’re perfectly right. But there’s no chance at all of that with him. Oh, I’m going to be so curious to see if you still recognize him. He’ll be down shortly; he’s just stretched out to rest a little on the sofa upstairs. But now, my dear Mr. Manders—do sit down.
MANDERS. Thank you. It is convenient, then—?
MRS. ALVING. Why, of course. (She sits at the table.)
MANDERS. Good. Then let’s have a look— (Goes over to the chair where his bag lies, takes out a sheaf of papers, sits at the opposite side of the table, and searches for a space to lay the papers out.) Now here, first, we have— (Breaks off.) Tell me, Mrs. Alving, where did these books come from?
MRS. ALVING. These books? I’m reading them.
MANDERS. You read this sort of thing?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, of course I do.
MANDERS. Do you feel you’ve grown any better or happier for this kind of reading?
MRS. ALVING. I think it makes me feel more secure.
MANDERS. That’s astonishing. What do you mean?
MRS. ALVING. Well, I find it clarifies and reinforces so many ideas I’ve been thinking out all to myself. Yes, that’s the strange part, Mr. Manders—there’s actually nothing really new in these books, nothing beyond what most people think and believe. It’s simply that most people don’t like to face these things, or what they imply.
MANDERS. Oh, my dear God! You don’t seriously consider that most people—?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, I certainly do.
MANDERS. Well, but not here in our society? Not among us?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, definitely—among us, too.
MANDERS. Well, I must say, really—!
MRS. ALVING. But what exactly do you object to in these books?
MANDERS. Object to? You surely don’t think I waste my time exploring that kind of publication?
MRS. ALVING. In other words, you know nothing of what you’re condemning?
MANDERS. I’ve read quite enough about these writings to disapprove of them.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, but your own opinion—
MANDERS. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many circumstances in life where one has to entrust oneself to others. That’s the condition of this world, and it’s all for the best. How else could society function?
MRS. ALVING. That’s true; maybe you’re right.
MANDERS. Besides, I wouldn’t deny that there’s a certain fascination about such writings. And I can’t blame you either for wanting to become acquainted with the intellectual currents that, I hear, are quite prevalent in the larger world—where you’ve let your son wander so long. But—
MRS. ALVING. But—?
MANDERS (dropping his voice). But one needn’t talk about it, Mrs. Alving. One doesn’t have to recount to all and sundry everything one reads and thinks within one’s own four walls.
MRS. ALVING. No, of course not. I agree.
MANDERS. Remember your obligations to the orphanage, which you decided to found at a time when your attitude toward things of the mind and spirit was so very different from now—at least as I see it.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, I admit it, completely. But it was about the orphanage—
MANDERS. It was about the orphanage we wanted to speak, yes. All the same—prudence, my dear Mrs. Alving! And now, let’s turn to business. (Opens a folder and takes out some papers.) You see these?
MRS. ALVING. The deeds?
MANDERS. The whole set—in perfect order. You can imagine it hasn’t been easy to get them in time. I actually had to apply some pressure. The authorities are almost painfully scrupulous when it comes to decisions. But here they are, in any case. (Leafing through the papers.) See, here’s the duly recorded conveyance of title of the Solvik farm, said property being part of the Rosenvold estate, together with all buildings newly erected thereon, including the schoolhouse, the staff residence, and the chapel. And here’s the official charter for the institution—and the by-laws governing its operation. You see— (Reads.) “Bylaws governing the Captain Alving Memorial Orphan’s Home.”
MRS. ALVING (looking at the papers for a long moment). So—there it is.
MANDERS. I chose “Captain” for the title, rather than “Court Chamberlain.” “Captain” seems less ostentatious.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, whatever you think.
MANDERS. And here you’ve got the bankbook showing interest on capital reserved to cover the running expenses of the orphanage.
MRS. ALVING. Thank you—but please, won’t you hold onto it, for convenience’ sake?
MANDERS. Yes, gladly. I think we can leave the money in the bank for a time. It’s true, the interest rate isn’t very attractive: four percent, with a six-month withdrawal notice. If we could come across a good mortgage later on—naturally, it would have to be a first mortgage, of unquestionable security—then we could reconsider the situation.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, dear Mr. Manders, you know best about all that.
MANDERS. Anyway, I’ll keep an eye out. But now there’s one more thing I’ve meant several times to ask you.
MRS. ALVING. And what’s that?
MANDERS. Should the orphanage be insured or not?
MRS. ALVING. Why, of course, it has to be insured.
MANDERS. Ah, not too fast, Mrs. Alving. Let’s study this question a bit.
MRS. ALVING. Everything I own is insured—buildings, furniture, crops, livestock.
MANDERS. Obviously, when it’s your own property. I do the same, naturally. But here, you see, it’s a very different matter. This orphanage is going to be, so to say, consecrated to a higher calling.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, but if—
MANDERS. From my personal standpoint, I wouldn’t find the slightest objection to insuring us against all eventualities—
MRS. ALVING. No, I wouldn’t either.
MANDERS. But how would that sit with the public opinion hereabouts? You know better than I.
MRS. ALVING. Public opinion, hm—
MANDERS. Is there any considerable segment of opinion—I mean, really important opinion—that might take offense?
MRS. ALVING. Well, what do you mean, exactly, by important opinion?
MANDERS. I was thinking mainly of people of such independent and influential position that one could hardly avoid giving their opinions a certain weight.
MRS. ALVING. There are a few like that here who might possibly take offense if—
MANDERS. There, you see! In town we have any number of them. The congregations of other churches, for example. It would be the easiest thing in the world for them to construe this as neither you nor I having adequate faith in Divine Providence.
MRS. ALVING. But, my dear Mr. Manders, as long as you know to your own satisfaction—
MANDERS. Yes, I know, I know—I have my own inner conviction, quite so. But the fact remains that we wouldn’t be able to counter a false and damaging impression—and that, in turn, could easily hamper the work of the orphanage.
MRS. ALVING. Well, if that’s the case, then—
MANDERS. Also, I can hardly ignore the difficult—I might just as well say, painful—position I’d probably be in myself. Among the best circles in town there’s a good deal of interest in the orphanage. After all, it’s partly being established to benefit the town as well, and hopefully it’s going to have a sizable effect in lowering our local public welfare taxes. But since I’ve been your adviser in this and made all the business arrangements, I’m afraid those bigots would concentrate all their fire on me—
MRS. ALVING. No, you shouldn’t be exposed to that.
MANDERS. Not to mention the charges that would doubtless be leveled against me in certain papers and magazines that—
MRS. ALVING. Enough, Mr. Manders; that settles it.
MANDERS. Then you won’t want the insurance?
MRS. ALVING. No, we’ll let that be.
MANDERS (leaning back in his chair). But now, if there should be an accident—one never knows, after all—would you be able to make good the losses?
MRS. ALVING. I can tell you right now, I absolutely wouldn’t.
MANDERS. Ah, but you know, Mrs. Alving—then it’s a grave responsibility we’re taking on.
MRS. ALVING. But what else do you see that we can do?
MANDERS. No, that’s just the thing: we can’t do anything else. We shouldn’t expose ourselves to unfavorable opinion; and we certainly have no right to stir dissension in the community.
MRS. ALVING. Especially you, as a clergyman.
MANDERS. And also I really do believe that we can depend on a project like this carrying some luck along with it—standing, so to say, under a special protection.
MRS. ALVING. Let’s hope so, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS. Then we’ll leave things as they are?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, of course.
MANDERS. Right. As you wish. (Jotting a note.) No insurance.
MRS. ALVING. It’s strange you happened to speak about this just today—
MANDERS. I’ve often thought to ask you about it—
MRS. ALVING. Because yesterday we nearly had a fire down there.
MANDERS. What!
MRS. ALVING. Well, there wasn’t anything to it, really. Some shavings caught fire in the carpenter shop.
MANDERS. Where Engstrand works?
MRS. ALVING. Yes. They say he’s often so careless with matches.
MANDERS. He has so much on his mind, that man—so many tribulations. Praise be to God, he’s now making a real effort to lead a blameless life, I hear.
MRS. ALVING. Oh? Who’s been saying that?
MANDERS. He’s assured me of it himself. And he’s a capable workman, too.
MRS. ALVING. Why, yes, as long as he’s sober—
MANDERS. Ah, that distressing weakness! But he tells me he frequently has to resort to it for the sake of his ailing leg. Last time he was in town, I really was quite moved by him. He stopped in and thanked me so sincerely for getting him this work out here, so he could be together with Regina.
MRS. ALVING. But he hardly ever sees her.
MANDERS. No, he speaks with her every day—he told me that himself.
MRS. ALVING. Yes—well, it’s possible.
MANDERS. He feels so positively that he needs someone there who can restrain him when temptation looms. That’s what’s so engaging about Jacob Engstrand, the way he comes to one so utterly helpless and accuses himself and admits his faults. Just this last time that he talked to me—Mrs. Alving, if it became a vital necessity for him to have Regina home with him again—
MRS. ALVING (rising impulsively). Regina!
MANDERS. Then you mustn’t set yourself against it.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, I’m decidedly set against it. And besides—Regina will have a position at the orphanage.
MANDERS. But remember, he is her father—
MRS. ALVING. I know all too well what kind of father he’s been to her. No, she’ll never have my blessings to go to him.
MANDERS (rising). But my dear Mrs. Alving, don’t take it so violently. It’s such a pity, the way you misjudge Engstrand. Really, it’s as if you were somehow afraid—
MRS. ALVING (more calmly). Never mind about that. I’ve taken Regina in here, and she’ll stay here with me. (Listens.) Shh, now! Dear Mr. Manders, let’s not talk of this anymore. (Her face radiating joy.) Hear that! Osvald’s coming downstairs. Now we’ll think only of him.
(OSVALD ALVING, wearing a light overcoat, hat in hand, and smoking a large meerschaum pipe, comes in through the door to the left.)
OSVALD (pausing in the doorway). Oh, I’m sorry—I thought you were in the study. (Comes in.) Good morning, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS (stares at him). Ah—! That’s amazing—!
MRS. ALVING. Yes, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders?
MANDERS. Well, I must say—no, but—is it really—?
OSVALD. Yes, really—the prodigal son, Pastor.
MANDERS. But my dear boy—
OSVALD. Well, the homecoming son, anyway.
MRS. ALVING. Osvald’s thinking of the time when you were so against his becoming a painter.
MANDERS. From our human viewpoint, you know, many a step looks doubtful that later turns out— (Shaking his hand.) Ah, welcome, welcome back! Imagine, my dear Osvald—may I still call you by your first name?
OSVALD. What else could you think of calling me?
MANDERS. Good. What I meant to say, my dear Osvald—was that you mustn’t suppose that I categorically condemn the artist’s life. I assume there are quite a few who keep their inner selves uncorrupted even in those circumstances.
OSVALD. Let’s hope so.
MRS. ALVING (beaming with pleasure). I know one who’s kept both his inner and outer selves incorruptible. You only have to look at him, Mr. Manders.
OSVALD (pacing about the room). Yes, all right, Mother dear—that’s enough.
MANDERS. Completely so—that’s undeniable. And you’ve already begun to make your name. You’re often mentioned in the papers—and most favorably, too. Though lately, I should say, there seems to be less.
OSVALD (near the greenhouse). I haven’t been painting so much lately.
MRS. ALVING. Even artists need a rest now and then.
MANDERS. That I can understand. A time to prepare oneself and gather strength for the great work to come.
OSVALD. Yes. Mother, are we eating soon?
MRS. ALVING. In just half an hour. He certainly has an appetite, thank goodness.
MANDERS. And likes his tobacco, too.
OSVALD. I found Father’s pipe upstairs in the bedroom—
MANDERS. Ah, that explains it!
MANDERS. When Osvald came through the door there with that pipe in his mouth, it was as if I saw his father in the flesh.
OSVALD. Really?
MRS. ALVING. Oh, how can you say that? Osvald takes after me.
MANDERS. Yes, but there’s a look around the corners of the mouth, something about the lips, that’s the very picture of Alving—especially now that he’s smoking.
MRS. ALVING. No, it’s nothing like him, not at all. To me, Osvald has more of a minister’s look about the mouth.
MANDERS. Yes. Yes, a number of my colleagues have a similar expression.
MRS. ALVING. But put the pipe down, dear. I don’t want smoking in this room.
OSVALD (sets the pipe down). All right. I only thought I’d try it because I’d once smoked it as a child.
MRS. ALVING. YOU?
OSVALD. Yes. I was very small then. And I remember going up to Father’s room one evening when he was in such a marvelous humor.
MRS. ALVING. Oh, you don’t remember anything from those years.
OSVALD. Oh yes, I distinctly remember him taking me on his knee and letting me smoke his pipe. “Smoke, boy,” he said, “smoke it for real!” And I smoked for all I was worth, till I felt myself go pale, and the great drops of sweat stood out on my forehead. Then he shook all over with laughter—
MANDERS. That’s most peculiar.
MRS. ALVING. I’m sure it’s just something that Osvald dreamed.
OSVALD. No, Mother, it was definitely no dream. Because—don’t you remember—then you came in and carried me off to the nursery. I was sick then, and I could see you were crying. Did Father often play such tricks?
MANDERS. When he was young he was always full of life—
OSVALD. And still he got so much accomplished—so much that was good and useful, for all that he died so early.
MANDERS. Yes, Osvald Alving—it’s a strong and worthy name you’ve inherited. Well, let’s hope it’ll inspire you—
OSVALD. It certainly ought to.
MANDERS. And it was good of you to come home for the ceremonies in his honor.
OSVALD. It’s the least I could do for Father.
MRS. ALVING. And that he’ll remain with me here so long—that’s the best of his goodness.
MANDERS. Yes, I hear you’re staying all winter.
OSVALD. I’ll be staying on indefinitely, Pastor. Oh, it’s wonderful to be home again!
MRS. ALVING (radiant). Yes, how true!
MANDERS (looks sympathetically at him). You were out in the world quite early, Osvald, weren’t you?
OSVALD. Yes. I wonder sometimes if it wasn’t too early.
MRS. ALVING. Nonsense! There’s nothing better for a healthy boy, especially when he’s an only child. He shouldn’t be kept home and coddled by his mother and father.
MANDERS. That’s a highly debatable proposition, Mrs. Alving. A child’s rightful place is and always will be his parental home.
OSVALD. I have to agree with Mr. Manders there.
MANDERS. Now take your own son, for instance. Yes, we can discuss this in front of him. What effect has this had on him? He’s grown to age twenty-six or -seven without any chance to experience a normal home life.
OSVALD. Excuse me, Mr. Manders—but you’re quite wrong about that.
MANDERS. Really? I thought you’d been moving almost entirely in artistic circles.
OSVALD. I have.
MANDERS. And mainly among the younger artists.
OSVALD. Yes.
MANDERS. But I thought most of those people hadn’t the means to start a family and make a home.
OSVALD. It’s true that a number of them haven’t the means to get married—
MANDERS. Well, that’s what I’m saying.
OSVALD. But they can still have a home life. And several of them do—one that’s quite normal and pleasant.
(MRS. ALVING, following attentively, nods but says nothing.)
MANDERS. But it’s not a bachelor life I’m talking about. By home life I mean a family home, where a man lives with his wife and his children.
OSVALD. Yes, or with his children and his children’s mother.
MANDERS (jolted, clasping his hands together). Merciful God—!
OSVALD. What—?
MANDERS. Lives together with—his children’s mother!
OSVALD. Well, would you rather have him abandon her?
MANDERS. But you’re talking about illicit relations! About plain, irresponsible free love!
OSVALD. I’ve never noticed anything particularly irresponsible about the way these people live.
MANDERS. But how is it possible that—that even moderately decent young men or women could accept living in that manner—before the eyes of the world!
OSVALD. But what else can they do? A poor young artist—a poor young girl—and marriage so expensive. What can they do?
MANDERS. What can they do? Well, Mr. Alving, I’ll tell you what they can do. They ought to keep each other at a distance right from the start—that’s what they ought to do!
OSVALD. You won’t get very far with that advice among warm-blooded young people in love.
MRS. ALVING. No, you certainly won’t!
MANDERS (persisting). And to think the authorities tolerate such things! That it’s allowed to go on openly. (To MRS. ALVING.) You see what good reason I’ve had to be concerned about your son. In circles where immorality is flaunted, and even seems to be prized—
OSVALD. Let me tell you something, Pastor. I’ve been a frequent Sunday guest in a couple of these so-called unconventional homes—
MANDERS. Sunday, no less!
OSVALD. Yes, the day of rest and relaxation—and yet I’ve never once heard an offensive word, nor have I ever witnessed anything that could be called immoral. But do you know when and where I have met immorality among artists?
MANDERS. No, thank God, I don’t!
OSVALD. Well, then let me tell you. I’ve met it when one or another of our exemplary husbands and fathers—on a trip away from home and out to see a little life—did the artists the honor of dropping in on them in their poor cafés. Then we had our ears opened wide. Those gentlemen could tell us about things and places we never dreamed existed.
MANDERS. What? Are you suggesting that respectable men from here at home would—?
OSVALD. Have you never—when these same respectable men came home from their trips—have you never heard them carrying on about the monstrous immorality abroad?
MANDERS. Why, of course—
MRS. ALVING. I have, too.
OSVALD. Well, you can trust their word for it—they’re experts, many of them. (Clasps his head.) Oh, that the beautiful freedom of that life—could be made so foul!
MRS. ALVING. You mustn’t provoke yourself, Osvald. It’s not good for you.
OSVALD. No, you’re right, Mother. It’s bad for my health. It’s this damnable fatigue, you know. Well, I’ll go for a little walk now before lunch. I’m sorry, Pastor. You can’t share my feelings about this—but it’s the way I see it. (He goes out through the farther door to the right.)
MRS. ALVING. My poor boy—!
MANDERS. Yes, you can well say that. How far he’s strayed! (MRS. ALVING looks at him, saying nothing. MANDERS paces up and down.) He called himself the prodigal son. Yes, it’s sad—sad! (MRS. ALVING continues to look at him.) And what do you say to all this?
MRS. ALVING. I say Osvald was right in every word that he said.
MANDERS (stops short). Right? Right! With such principles?
MRS. ALVING. Here in my solitude I’ve come to the same conclusions, Mr. Manders—though I’ve never dared breathe a word of it. All well and good—my boy can speak for me now.
MANDERS. You’re a woman much to be pitied, Mrs. Alving. Now I must talk seriously with you. It’s no longer as your business adviser, nor as your and your husband’s childhood friend, that I’m standing before you now—but as your priest, exactly as I once did at the most bewildered hour of your life.
MRS. ALVING. And what does my priest have to tell me?
MANDERS. First, let me call up some memories. It’s a suitable moment. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of your husband’s death; tomorrow the memorial will be unveiled in his honor; tomorrow I’ll be speaking to all those assembled—but today I want to speak to you alone.
MRS. ALVING. All right, Mr. Manders—speak!
MANDERS. Do you recall how, after barely a year of marriage, you stood on the very edge of the abyss? That you left house and home—deserted your husband—yes, Mrs. Alving, deserted, deserted, and refused to go back to him, for all that he begged and implored you to?
MRS. ALVING. Have you forgotten how unutterably miserable I was that first year?
MANDERS. But this is the very essence of the rebellious spirit, to crave happiness here in this life. What right have we human beings to happiness? No, we must do our duty, Mrs. Alving! And your duty was to stand by that man you once had chosen, and to whom you were joined by a sacred bond.
MRS. ALVING. You know well enough what kind of life Alving led in those days—and the appetites he indulged.
MANDERS. I know quite well the rumors that circulated about him; and to the extent that those rumors were true, I’d be the last to condone such conduct as his then. But a wife isn’t required to be her husband’s judge. It was your proper role to bear with a humble heart that cross that a higher will saw fit to lay upon you. But instead, you rebelliously cast away the cross, left the groping soul you should have aided, went off and risked your good name and reputation and—nearly ruined other reputations in the bargain.
MRS. ALVING. Other reputations? Just one, I think you mean.
MANDERS. It was exceedingly thoughtless of you to seek refuge with me.
MRS. ALVING. With our pastor? With an old, close friend?
MANDERS. Yes, for that very reason. You should thank Almighty God that I had the necessary inner strength—that I got you to drop your hysterical plans, and that it was given me to lead you back to the path of duty, and home to your lawful husband.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, Pastor Manders, that certainly was your doing.
MANDERS. I was only a humble instrument directed by a higher power. And that I bent your will to duty and obedience—hasn’t that grown as a great blessing, from that time on, in all the days of your life? Didn’t it go the way I foretold? Didn’t Alving turn away from his depravities, as a man must, and take up a loving and blameless life with you right to the end? Didn’t he become a benefactor of the community, and uplift you as well into his own sphere of activities to share them all? And how effectively you shared them, too—that I know, Mrs. Alving; I’ll give you that credit. But now I come to the next great mistake in your life.
MRS. ALVING. What do you mean?
MANDERS. Just as you once evaded the duties of a wife, you’ve since evaded those of a mother.
MRS. ALVING. Ah—!
MANDERS. All your life you’ve been governed by an incorrigible spirit of willfulness. Instinctively you’ve been drawn to all that’s undisciplined and lawless. You never can bear the least constraint. Everything that inconveniences your life you’ve carelessly and irresponsibly thrown aside—as if it were baggage you could leave behind if you chose. It didn’t agree with you to be a wife any longer, so you left your husband. You found it troublesome to be a mother, so you put your child out with strangers.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, it’s true—that’s what I did.
MANDERS. And for that same reason you’ve become a stranger to him.
MRS. ALVING. No, no, I’m not!
MANDERS. You are. You had to be! And what sort of son have you gotten back? Think well, Mrs. Alving. You were terribly unfair to your husband—you admit as much by raising this monument to him. Now admit as well how unfair you’ve been to your son; there may still be time to lead him back from the paths of error. Change your ways—and save what’s still left to be saved in him. For truly, Mrs. Alving—(With an admonishing forefinger.)—you’re profoundly guilty as a mother! I’ve considered it my duty to tell you this.
MRS. ALVING (deliberately, controlling herself). You’ve said your piece, Pastor; and tomorrow you’ll be speaking publicly in my husband’s memory. Tomorrow I’ll make no speeches; but now I want to say something to you, exactly as you’ve just spoken to me.
MANDERS. Naturally, you want to make excuses for your conduct—
MRS. ALVING. No. Only to tell a few facts.
MANDERS. Well—?
MRS. ALVING. All that you’ve been saying here about me and my husband and our life together—after, as you put it, you led me back to the path of duty—all this is something you don’t know the least thing about at firsthand. From that moment on, you, our dearest friend, never set foot in our house again.
MANDERS. But you and your husband moved out of town right after that.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, and you never came out here to see us while my husband was living. It was business that impelled you to visit me, since you were involved with the orphanage, too.
MANDERS (in a low, hesitant voice). Helene—if that’s meant as a reproach, then I ask you to consider—
MRS. ALVING. The respect you owed to your calling, yes. And I, after all, was a runaway wife. One can never be careful enough with such reckless women.
MANDERS. Dear—Mrs. Alving, that is a flagrant exaggeration—
MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes, all right, then forget that. I simply wanted to say that when you make judgments on my married life, you’re basing them on no more than common gossip.
MANDERS. Granted. Well, what of it?
MRS. ALVING. But now, Mr. Manders, now I’ll tell you the truth! I swore to myself that one day you were going to hear it—you alone.
MANDERS. And what, then, is the truth?
MRS. ALVING. The truth is—that my husband died just as dissolute as he’d lived every day of his life.
MANDERS (groping for a chair). What did you say?
MRS. ALVING. After nineteen years of marriage, just as dissolute—in his desires, in any case—as he was before you married us.
MANDERS. But these mistakes of his youth, these confusions—dissipations, if you want—you call them a dissolute life?
MRS. ALVING. It’s the phrase our doctor used.
MANDERS. I don’t understand you.
MRS. ALVING. You don’t have to.
MANDERS. It makes my head spin. You mean the whole of your marriage—all those many years together with your husband—were nothing more than a hollow mockery?
MRS. ALVING. Exactly. Now you know.
MANDERS. This—I find this so hard to believe. I can’t understand it! It doesn’t make sense! But how was it possible to—? How could it be kept a secret?
MRS. ALVING. That was the constant battle I had, day after day. When Osvald was born, I thought things might go better with Alving—but it didn’t last long. So then I had to redouble my efforts, fight with a vengeance so no one would know what kind of a man my child’s father was. And you know, of course, how charming Alving could be. No one thought anything but good of him. He was one of those people whose lives never detract from their reputations. But then, Mr. Manders—and this you also have to hear—then came the most sickening part of the whole business.
MANDERS. More sickening than what you’ve told me!
MRS. ALVING. I’d borne with him, even though I knew very well what was going on in secret away from this house. But when the infection came right within our own four walls—
MANDERS. You mean—here!
MRS. ALVING. Yes, here in our own house. In there—(Pointing to the nearer door on the right.)—in the dining room, that was where I first discovered it. I had something to get inside, and the door was ajar. I heard the maid come up from the garden with water for the plants—
MANDERS. And—?
MRS. ALVING. A moment later I heard Alving come in after her. I could hear him saying something to her. And then I heard— (With an abrupt laugh.) —oh, I can hear it still, as something both so shattering and so ludicrous—my own maid whispering: “Let go of me, Captain Alving! Leave me be!”
MANDERS. How terribly gross and thoughtless of him! Oh, but Mrs. Alving, it was no more than a moment’s thoughtlessness, believe me.
MRS. ALVING. I soon learned what to believe. The captain had his way with the girl—and that affair had its aftereffects, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS (as if stunned into stone). And all that in this house! In this house!
MRS. ALVING. I’ve endured a lot in this house to keep him home in the evenings—and nights, I had to become his drinking companion as he got sodden over his bottle, holed up in his room. There I had to sit alone with him, forcing myself through his jokes and toasts and all his maundering, abusive talk, and then fight him bare-handed to drag him into bed—
MANDERS (shaken). That you were able to bear all that!
MRS. ALVING. I had my little boy, and I bore it for him—at least until that final humiliation, when my own maid—! Then I swore to myself: that was the end! So I took charge of the house—complete charge—over him and everything else. Because now, you see, I had a weapon against him; he couldn’t let out a word of protest. It was then I sent Osvald away. He was going on seven and starting to notice things and ask questions, the way children do. All that was too much for me, Manders. I thought the child would be poisoned just breathing this polluted air. That’s why I sent him away. And now you can understand, too, why he never set foot in this house as long as his father lived. No one will know what that cost me.
MANDERS. What a trial your life has been!
MRS. ALVING. I could never have gotten through it if it hadn’t been for my work. And I have worked, I can tell you. All the additions to the property, all the improvements and technical innovations that Alving got fame and credit for—do you think those were his doing? He, sprawled all day on the sofa, reading old government journals! No, I can tell you as well; it was I who got him moving whenever he had his lucid moments; and it was I who had to pull the whole load when he fell back in his old wild ways or collapsed in groveling misery.
MANDERS. And for this man, you’re raising a monument!
MRS. ALVING. There’s the power of a bad conscience.
MANDERS. A bad—? What do you mean?
MRS. ALVING. It always seemed inevitable to me that the truth would have to come out someday and be believed. So the orphanage was meant to spike all the rumors and dispel the doubts.
MANDERS. Well, you’ve certainly accomplished that, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING. And I had still another reason. I didn’t want Osvald, my own son, to inherit the least little thing from his father.
MANDERS. Then it’s with Alving’s money that—?
MRS. ALVING. Yes. The sums I’ve contributed year after year to the orphanage add up to just the amount—I’ve figured it out exactly—just the amount that made Lieutenant Alving such a good catch at the time.
MANDERS. Then, if I understand you—
MRS. ALVING. It was my selling price. I don’t want that money passing into Osvald’s hands. Everything my son inherits will come from me, and no one else.
(OSVALD enters by the farther door to the right. He has left his hat and overcoat outside.)
MRS. ALVING (moving toward him). You back again, dear?
OSVALD. Yes. What can anyone do outside in this interminable rain? But I hear lunch is ready. That’s good news!
(REGINA enters from the dining room with a package.)
REGINA. A parcel just came for you, ma’am. (Handing it to her.)
MRS. ALVING (with a quick look at MANDERS). The choir music for tomorrow, most likely.
MANDERS. Hm—
REGINA. And lunch is served.
MRS. ALVING. Good. We’ll be along in a moment; I just want to— (Starts opening the package.)
REGINA (to OSVALD). Will Mr. Alving have red wine, or white?
OSVALD. Both, Miss Engstrand.
REGINA. Bien. Very good, Mr. Alving. (She goes into the dining room.)
OSVALD. I better help her uncork the bottles— (He follows her into the dining room, the door swinging half shut behind him.)
MRS. ALVING (who has unwrapped the package). Yes, quite so—it’s the choir music, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS (with folded hands). How I’ll ever be able to give my speech tomorrow with any conviction—!
MRS. ALVING. Oh, you’ll manage all right.
MANDERS (softly, so as not to be heard in the dining room). Yes, we musn’t stir up any scandal.
MRS. ALVING (in a quiet, firm voice). No. And then this long, horrible farce will be over. After tomorrow, it will really seem as if the dead had never lived in this house. There’ll be no one else here but my son and me.
(From the dining room comes the sound of a chair knocked over, along with REGINA’S voice in a sharp whisper.)
REGINA. Osvald! Are you crazy? Let me go!
MRS. ALVING (starting in terror). Ah—!
(She stares distractedly at the half-open door. OSVALD is heard to cough within and start humming. A bottle is uncorked.)
MANDERS (shaken). But what happened, Mrs. Alving? What was that?
MRS. ALVING (hoarsely). Ghosts. Those two from the greenhouse—have come back.
MANDERS. You mean—! Regina—? Is she—?
MRS. ALVING. Yes. Come. Not a word—!
(She grips PASTOR MANDERS’S arm and moves falteringly toward the dining room.)
* “English,” in the original, which loses meaning in an English translation.