The same room. A thick mist still veils the landscape. MANDERS and MRS. ALVING enter from the dining room.
MRS. ALVING. Why, you’re very welcome, Mr. Manders. (Speaking into the dining room.) Aren’t you joining us, Osvald?
OSVALD (from within). No, thanks; I think I’ll go out for a while.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, do that. It’s clearing a little now. (She shuts the dining room door, goes over to the hall door and calls.) Regina!
REGINA (from without). Yes, ma’am.
MRS. ALVING. Go down to the laundry room and help out with the decorations.
REGINA. Very good, ma’am.
(MRS. ALVING makes certain REGINA has gone, then shuts the door.)
MANDERS. You’re sure he can’t hear us in there?
MRS. ALVING. Not with the door closed. Anyway, he’s going out soon.
MANDERS. I’m still in a daze. I can’t understand how I ever managed to devour one morsel of that heavenly meal.
MRS. ALVING (pacing up and down, suppressing her anxiety). Nor I, either. But what’s to be done?
MANDERS. Yes, what’s to be done? Believe me, I just don’t know; I’m so utterly inexperienced in such matters.
MRS. ALVING. I’m convinced nothing serious has happened so far.
MANDERS. God forbid! But it’s still an unsavory business.
MRS. ALVING. It’s just a foolish fancy of Osvald’s, you can be sure of that.
MANDERS. Well, as I said, I’m not really up on these things; but it definitely seems to me—
MRS. ALVING. She’ll have to get out of this house. Immediately. That’s clear as day—
MANDERS. Yes, that’s obvious.
MRS. ALVING. But where? We can’t simply—
MANDERS. Where? Home to her father, of course.
MRS. ALVING. To whom, did you say?
MANDERS. To her—ah, but of course, Engstrand isn’t—! Good Lord, Mrs. Alving, how is this possible? You must be mistaken, really.
MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately, I’m not the least bit mistaken. Joanna had to confess everything to me—and Alving couldn’t deny it. There was nothing else to do, then, but have the whole thing hushed up.
MANDERS. Yes, that was essential.
MRS. ALVING. The girl was turned out at once and given a fairly sizable amount to keep quiet. She managed the rest for herself when she got back to town. She revived an old friendship with Engstrand—probably dropped a few hints, I would guess, about all the money she had—and spun him some tale of a foreigner on a yacht berthed here for the summer. So she and Engstrand were married straight off—well, you married them yourself.
MANDERS. But I don’t see how—? I distinctly remember when Engstrand came to arrange the wedding. He was so woefully penitent, accusing himself so bitterly of the casual ways he and his fiancée had allowed themselves.
MRS. ALVING. Well, naturally he had to take the blame himself.
MANDERS. But the hypocrisy of the man! And with me! I absolutely never would have believed that of Jacob Engstrand. Well, I’ll have to be very severe with him; he better be ready for that. And the immorality of such a marriage—all for money! How much did the girl get?
MRS. ALVING. Three hundred dollars.
MANDERS. Yes, can you imagine—to go and get married to a fallen woman for a paltry three hundred dollars!
MRS. ALVING. Then what’s your opinion of me, who let herself be married to a fallen man?
MANDERS. God of mercy, what are you saying? A fallen man!
MRS. ALVING. Do you think my husband was any better when I went with him to the altar than Joanna when Engstrand married her?
MANDERS. But—there’s a world of difference between you and her—
MRS. ALVING. Much less than a world, I think. There was a considerable difference in price—a paltry three hundred dollars, as against a whole fortune.
MANDERS. But there’s just no comparison here. After all, you’d listened to the counsels of your own heart, and those of your family.
MRS. ALVING (not looking at him). I thought you understood where I’d lost what you call my heart at the time.
MANDERS (withdrawn). If I’d understood any such thing, I would never have become a regular visitor in your husband’s house.
MRS. ALVING. Anyway, one thing is clear: I never really listened to myself.
MANDERS. Well, to your nearest of kin then, as it’s ordained you should: your mother and your two aunts.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, how true. The three of them wrote up my bill of sale. Oh, it’s amazing how neatly they figured it out, that it would be stark madness to turn down an offer like that. If Mother could come back and see me now, where all those splendors got me.
MANDERS. No one’s responsible for the outcome. At least there’s this to be said: your marriage was carried through with every respect for law and order.
MRS. ALVING (at the window). Yes, always law and order! I often think they’re the root of all our miseries on earth.
MANDERS. Mrs. Alving, that’s a sinful thought.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, perhaps it is. But I can’t stand it any longer, with all these webs of obligation. I can’t stand it! I’ve got to work my way out to freedom.
MANDERS. What do you mean by that?
MRS. ALVING (drumming on the windowpane). I never should have covered up Alving’s life. It was all I dared do then—not only for Osvald, but to spare myself. What a coward I was!
MANDERS. Coward?
MRS. ALVING. If people had known anything of what went on, they would have said: “Poor man, it’s no wonder he strays at times; his wife ran away, you know.”
MANDERS. And they could say that with some right, too.
MRS. ALVING (looking straight at him). If I were all I should have been, I would have taken Osvald aside and said: “Listen, my boy, your father was a degenerate human being—”
MANDERS. Good Lord—!
MRS. ALVING. Then I ought to have told him everything—word for word as I’ve told it to you.
MANDERS. I find you almost frightening, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING. I’m aware of that. Yes, I’m quite aware! I frighten myself by the thought. (Coming away from the window.) That’s the coward I am.
MANDERS. And you call it cowardice to do your bounden duty? Have you forgotten that a child should love and honor his father and mother?
MRS. ALVING. Oh, don’t let’s talk abstractions! Why don’t we ask, should Osvald love and honor Captain Alving?
MANDERS. Isn’t there something that tells you, as a mother, not to destroy your son’s ideals?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, but what of the truth—?
MANDERS. Yes, but what of his ideals—?
MRS. ALVING. Oh—ideals, ideals! If I only weren’t the coward I am!
MANDERS. Don’t demolish ideals, Mrs. Alving—that can have cruel repercussions. And especially now, with Osvald. He hasn’t too many ideals, sad to say—but as far as I can make out, his father is some sort of ideal to him.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, you’re right about that.
MANDERS. And the impressions he has you’ve instilled and nourished yourself, through your letters.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, I felt it was my duty and obligation—so year after year, I’ve gone on lying to my own child. Oh, what a coward—what a coward I’ve been!
MANDERS. You’ve built up a beautiful image in your son’s imagination—and that’s something you mustn’t take lightly.
MRS. ALVING. Hm—who knows how good that’s been, after all. But, in any case, I’m not going to have any trifling with Regina. He’s not going to get that poor girl in trouble.
MANDERS. Good God, that would be dreadful!
MRS. ALVING. If I knew he was serious about it, and that it would make him happy—
MRS. ALVING. But it wouldn’t work out. Regina just isn’t the type.
MANDERS. How so? What do you mean?
MRS. ALVING. If I weren’t such a wretched coward, then I’d say to him: “Marry her, or live any way you like—but just be honest together.”
MANDERS. Heavens above—! A legal marriage, no less! That would be barbarous—! It’s unheard of—!
MRS. ALVING. Unheard of, you say? Word of honor, Pastor Manders—haven’t you heard that, out here in the country, there are numbers of married couples who are just as closely related?
MANDERS. I really don’t understand you.
MRS. ALVING. Oh yes you do, very well.
MANDERS. Well, you mean cases where possibly they—? Yes, unfortunately family life isn’t always as pure as it ought to be, that’s true. But what you’re referring to is hardly ever known—at least, not conclusively. But here, instead—you, the mother, are willing to let your own—!
MRS. ALVING. But I’m not willing. I don’t want to encourage it for anything in the world—that’s just what I was saying.
MANDERS. No, because you’re a coward, as you put it. But if you weren’t a coward—! Almighty God—what a monstrous union!
MRS. ALVING. Well, as far as that goes, it’s been rumored that we’re all descended from a similar union. And who was it who thought up that arrangement, Pastor?
MANDERS. I will not discuss such questions with you, Mrs. Alving—because you’re not in the proper state of mind. But, that you can dare call it cowardice on your part—!
MRS. ALVING. You have to understand what I mean by that. I’m anxious and fearful because of the ghosts that haunt me, that I can’t get rid of.
MANDERS. Because of—what did you say?
MRS. ALVING. Ghosts. When I heard Regina and Osvald in there, it was as if I was seeing ghosts. But I almost believe we are ghosts, all of us, Pastor. It’s not only what we inherit from our fathers and mothers that keeps on returning in us. It’s all kinds of old dead doctrines and opinions and beliefs, that sort of thing. They aren’t alive in us; but they hang on all the same, and we can’t get rid of them. I just have to pick up a newspaper, and it’s as if I could see the ghosts slipping between the lines. They must be haunting our whole country, ghosts everywhere—so many and thick, they’re like grains of sand. And there we are, the lot of us, so miserably afraid of the light.
MANDERS. Ah! So this is the outgrowth of all your reading. Fine fruit, I must say! Oh, these disgusting, insidious freethinking books!
MRS. ALVING. My dear Mr. Manders, you’re wrong. It was you yourself who set me to thinking—and for that I’ll always be grateful.
MANDERS. I?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, when you made me give in to what you called duty and obligation; when you praised as right and proper what I rebelled against heart and soul as something loathsome—that’s when I started going over your teachings, seam by seam. I just wanted to pull out a single thread; but after I’d worked it loose, the whole design fell apart. And then I realized it was only basted.
MANDERS (quietly, with feeling). Is that all that was won by the hardest battle of my life?
MRS. ALVING. You mean your most shameful defeat.
MANDERS. It was the greatest victory I’ve known, Helene—victory over myself.
MRS. ALVING. It was a crime against us both.
MANDERS. That I entreated you by saying, “Woman, go home to your lawful husband,” when you came to me distracted, crying, “Here I am, take me!” Was that a crime?
MANDERS. We two don’t understand each other.
MRS. ALVING. Not anymore, at least.
MANDERS. Never—never, in even my most secret thoughts, have I seen you as anything but another man’s wife.
MRS. ALVING. You believe that?
MANDERS. Helene—!
MRS. ALVING. One forgets so easily.
MANDERS. I don’t. I’m the same as I always was.
MRS. ALVING (shifting her tone abruptly). Yes, yes, well—let’s stop talking about the old days. Now you’re up to your ears in boards and committees; and I go around here struggling with ghosts, inside me and outside both.
MANDERS. At least I can help you manage the outer ones. After all the disturbing things I’ve heard from you today, my conscience won’t suffer a defenseless young girl to remain in this house.
MRS. ALVING. It would be best, don’t you think, if we could see her established? I mean, decently married.
MANDERS. Undoubtedly. I’d say it’s desirable for her in every respect. Regina’s already at an age when—of course, I’m really no judge of these things, but—
MRS. ALVING. Regina matured quite early.
MANDERS. Yes, didn’t she, though? It’s my impression she was unusually well developed physically when I was preparing her for confirmation. But temporarily, in all events, she ought to go home, under her father’s supervision—ah, but of course, Engstrand isn’t—to think that he—that he could conceal the truth from me like that!
(There is a knock at the hall door.)
MRS. ALVING. Who can that be? Come in!
(ENGSTRAND, in his Sunday clothes, appears in the doorway.)
ENGSTRAND. I beg your pardon most humbly, but—
MRS. ALVING. Oh, it’s you, Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND. There were none of the maids about, so I made myself so bold as to give a knock.
MRS. ALVING. Well, all right, come in. You want to talk to me about something?
ENGSTRAND (coming in). No, thanks all the same. It was the pastor, actually, I wanted to have a little word with.
MANDERS (walking up and down). Oh, yes? You want to talk to me? Is that it?
ENGSTRAND. Yes, I’d be grateful no end—
MANDERS (stopping in front of him). Well, may I ask what this is about?
ENGSTRAND. See, it’s like this, Pastor; we’ve gotten paid off down there now—with all thanks to you, ma’am—and now we’ve finished everything up. And so I was thinking how nice and fitting it’d be if all us honest craftsmen who’ve been working together all this time—I was thinking, we ought to round things off with a little prayer meeting this evening.
MANDERS. A prayer meeting? Down at the orphanage?
ENGSTRAND. Yes. But of course if the pastor’s not agreeable, then—
MANDERS. Oh, it’s a splendid thought, but—hm—
ENGSTRAND. I’ve been holding a few evening prayers down there myself now and then—
MRS. ALVING. You have?
ENGSTRAND. Yes, now and then. Just a little meditation, so to speak. But then I’m a common, ordinary man, with no special gifts, God help me—and so I was thinking, since the pastor was out here—
MANDERS. Now look, Engstrand, first I have to ask you a question. Are you in a proper frame of mind for this kind of meeting? Do you feel your conscience is free and clear?
ENGSTRAND. Oh, Lord help us, Pastor, there’s no point going on talking about my conscience.
MANDERS. Ah, but it’s exactly what we are going to talk about. Well, what’s your answer?
ENGSTRAND. My conscience? Yes, that can be pretty nasty at times, it can.
MANDERS. Well, at least you’re owning up to it. Now will you tell me, without any subterfuge—just what is your relationship to Regina?
MRS. ALVING (quickly). Mr. Manders!
MANDERS (calming her). If you’ll leave it to me—
ENGSTRAND. To Regina! Jeez, you gave me a turn there! (Looking at MRS. ALVING.) There’s nothing wrong with Regina, is there?
MANDERS. We hope not. What I mean is, just exactly how are you related to her? You pass for her father, don’t you? Well?
ENGSTRAND (vaguely). Why—hm—you know, Pastor, this business with me and poor Joanna.
MANDERS. Stop bending the truth. Your late wife told Mrs. Alving everything before she left her service.
ENGSTRAND. But it’s supposed to—! She did that, really?
MANDERS. So your secret’s out, Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND. And after she swore on a stack of Bibles—!
MANDERS. She swore—!
ENGSTRAND. I mean, she gave me her word. But with such sincerity.
MANDERS. And all these years you’ve hidden the truth from me. From me, who put my absolute trust in you.
ENGSTRAND. Yes, I’m afraid that’s just what I’ve done.
MANDERS. Have I deserved this from you, Engstrand? Haven’t I always been ready to help you out in every way, so far as I possibly could? Answer! Haven’t I?
ENGSTRAND. There’s plenty of times things would’ve looked pretty bad for me, if it wasn’t for Pastor Manders.
MANDERS. And this is the way you pay me back. Get me to make false entries in the parish register, and for years after withhold information you owed as a matter of respect both to me and the plain truth. Your conduct has been unpardonable, Engstrand: and from now on we’re through with each other.
ENGSTRAND (with a sigh). Well, that’s it, I guess.
MANDERS. Yes. Because how can you ever justify yourself?
ENGSTRAND. But how could she go around shaming herself the more by talking about it? If you could just imagine, Pastor, yourself in the same trouble as poor Joanna—
MANDERS. I!
ENGSTRAND. Jeez now, I don’t mean the very same. But I mean, supposing you had something to be ashamed of in the eyes of the world, as they say. We menfolk oughtn’t to judge a poor woman too hard, Pastor.
MANDERS. But that’s not what I’m doing. It’s you that I blame.
ENGSTRAND. If I might ask your Reverence one tiny little question—?
MANDERS. Yes, go ahead.
ENGSTRAND. Isn’t it right and proper of a man that he raises up the fallen?
MANDERS. Why, of course.
ENGSTRAND. And isn’t a man obliged to keep his word of honor?
MANDERS. Certainly he is, but—
ENGSTRAND. At the time Joanna had her downfall at the hands of that Englishman—or maybe it was an American, or a Russian, or whatever—well, it was then she came back to town. Poor thing, she’d turned me down once or twice already; she only had eyes for the handsome ones, see—and I had this crook in my leg. Yes, you remember, Pastor, how I once took it on myself to go into a dance hall where common seamen were rioting in drink and dissipation, like they say. And when I tried to arouse them to seek out a better life—
MRS. ALVING (over by the window). Hm—
MANDERS. Yes, I know, Engstrand; those ruffians threw you downstairs. You’ve told me that before. Your disability does you great credit.
ENGSTRAND. I’m not priding myself on it, Pastor. But what I wanted to say was that then she came and confessed the whole thing to me, streaming down tears and gnashing her teeth. And I have to say, Pastor, it just about ripped the heart out of me to listen.
MANDERS. All of that, Engstrand. Well! Then what?
ENGSTRAND. Yes, so I said to her: that American, he’s beating over the seas of the world, he is. And you, Joanna, I said—you’ve had your downfall, and you’re a sinful, fallen creature. But Jacob Engstrand, I said, he stands on two stout legs—yes, I meant it like a manner of speaking, Pastor.
MANDERS. Yes, I quite understand. Go on.
ENGSTRAND. Well, so that’s how I raised her up and gave her an honorable marriage, so no one’d ever find out about her wild carrying-on with foreigners.
MANDERS. That was all quite commendable of you. What I cannot approve is that you could bring yourself to accept money—
ENGSTRAND. Money? I? Not a penny.
MANDERS (with an inquiring glance at MRS. ALVING). But—?
ENGSTRAND. Oh, yes—just a minute; now I remember. Joanna did have a little odd change, all right—but I wanted nothing of that. Faugh! I said: Mammon, that’s the wages of sin, it is. We’ll take that greasy gold—or banknotes, whatever it was—and heave it back into the American’s face, I said. But he was off and gone over the rolling sea, Pastor.
MANDERS. Was that it, my dear Engstrand?
ENGSTRAND. That’s right. So I and Joanna agreed that the money ought to be put toward the child’s bringing up, and that’s where it went; and I can give a true reckoning of every penny.
MANDERS. But that changes things substantially.
ENGSTRAND. That’s the way it worked out, Pastor. And I’ll be bold enough to say I’ve been a real father to Regina, as far as it lay in my power—for I have to admit, I’m only a poor, frail mortal.
MANDERS. There, there, Engstrand—
ENGSTRAND. But I will say that I brought up the child and looked after my poor, dear Joanna and made them a home, like the gospel says. But it never would have occurred to me to go up to Pastor Manders, priding myself and making much out of a good deed done in this world. No, when that sort of thing happens to Jacob Engstrand, he keeps it to himself, he does. Though it happens none too often, sorry to say. No, when I come to see Pastor Manders, then it’s all I can do just to talk out my sins and errors. Because to say what I said before—my conscience does turn pretty nasty at times.
MANDERS. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND. Oh, Jeez, Pastor—
MANDERS. No fuss now. (Grasping his hand.) There!
ENGSTRAND. And if I can dare to beg your pardon, Pastor, most humbly—
MANDERS. You? Quite the contrary, I’m the one who should beg your pardon—
ENGSTRAND. Oh, no, no!
MANDERS. Yes, definitely. And I do, with all my heart. Forgive me that I could so misjudge you. If only I could give you some sign of my sincere regret, and the goodwill I have toward you—
ENGSTRAND. You’d like that, Pastor?
MANDERS. It would please me no end.
ENGSTRAND. Because there’s a real good opportunity for that right now. With the bit of honest coin I’ve put aside from my work out here, I was thinking of founding a kind of seaman’s home back in town.
MRS. ALVING. You?
ENGSTRAND. Yes, it’d be sort of a refuge for the orphans of the sea, so to speak. Temptations are so manifold for a sailor when he comes wandering ashore. But in this house of mine he could live like under a father’s protection, that was my thought.
MANDERS. What do you say to that, Mrs. Alving?
ENGSTRAND. It’s not much I have to begin with, Lord knows; but if I could just take hold of a helping hand—
MANDERS. Yes, yes, we have to consider this further. Your project interests me enormously. But now, go on down and get things ready—and light some candles, to give it a ceremonial touch. And then we’ll have our devotional hour together, my dear Engstrand, for now I’m sure you’re in the right frame of mind.
ENGSTRAND. I really do think so, yes. So good-bye, Mrs. Alving, and thanks for everything. And take good care of Regina for me. (Brushes a tear from his eye.) Poor Joanna’s child—um, isn’t it amazing—but it’s just as if that girl had grown a part of my very heart. Yes, sir, and that’s a fact. (He bows and goes out.)
MANDERS. Well, what do you think of the man now, Mrs. Alving? That’s quite a different picture of things we got from him.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, quite so, indeed.
MANDERS. There you see how scrupulously careful one has to be about judging one’s fellowman. But it’s also a wonderful joy to discover one’s made a mistake. Well, what do you say?
MRS. ALVING. I say you are and you always will be a big baby, Manders.
MRS. ALVING (placing both hands on his shoulders). And I say I could easily wrap you up in a great, big hug.
MANDERS (pulling back quickly). Oh, bless you, no! What an impulse!
MRS. ALVING (with a smile). Oh, don’t be afraid of me.
MANDERS (by the table). You sometimes have the most outrageous way of expressing yourself. Now I first want to collect these documents together and put them in my bag. (Doing so.) There now. And so good-bye for the moment. Keep your eye on Osvald when he comes back. I’ll be looking in on you later.
(He takes his hat and goes out by the hall door. MRS. ALVING sighs, gazes a moment out of the window, straightens the room up a bit and starts into the dining room, then stops with a stifled cry in the doorway.)
MRS. ALVING. Osvald! Are you still at the table?
OSVALD (from the dining room). I’m just finishing my cigar.
MRS. ALVING. I thought you’d gone for a walk.
OSVALD. In such weather?
(The chink of a glass and decanter. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and settles down with her knitting on the sofa by the window.)
OSVALD. Wasn’t that Pastor Manders who left just now?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, he went down to the orphanage.
OSVALD. Hm.
(Again, the chink of glass and decanter.)
MRS. ALVING (with an anxious glance). Osvald dear, you ought to go easy with the liqueur. It’s strong.
OSVALD. It keeps the dampness out.
MRS. ALVING. Wouldn’t you rather come in here with me?
OSVALD. But I can’t smoke in there.
MRS. ALVING. Now you know a cigar is all right.
OSVALD. Oh, well, then I’ll come in. Just a tiny drop more—ah, there. (He enters, smoking his cigar, and shuts the door after him. Short silence.) Where’d the pastor go?
MRS. ALVING. I told you, he went down to the orphanage.
OSVALD. Oh yes, that’s right.
MRS. ALVING. You shouldn’t go on sitting at the table so long, Osvald.
OSVALD (holding his cigar behind his back). But I think it’s so cozy, Mother. (Patting and fondling her.) Imagine—what it is for me, coming home, to sit at my mother’s own table, in my mother’s room, and enjoy her delectable meals.
MRS. ALVING. My dear, dear boy!
OSVALD (somewhat impatiently, walking about and smoking). And what else am I going to do here? I can’t accomplish anything—
MRS. ALVING. Can’t you?
OSVALD. In all this murk? Not a glimmer of sunlight the whole day long? (Pacing about.) Oh, this—! This not being able to work—!
MRS. ALVING. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea for you to come home.
OSVALD. No, Mother, that was essential.
MRS. ALVING. Because I’d ten times rather give up the joy of having you home with me, if it meant that you—
OSVALD (stops by the table). Now tell me, Mother—is it really such a great joy for you to have me home?
MRS. ALVING. What a question to ask!
OSVALD (crumpling a newspaper). I should have thought it hardly mattered to you whether I was here or not.
MRS. ALVING. You have the heart to say that to your mother, Osvald?
OSVALD. But you lived without me very well before.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, I’ve lived without you—that’s true. (Silence. The twilight gradually deepens. OSVALD paces the floor, back and forth. He has set his cigar down.)
OSVALD (stops by MRS. ALVING). Do you mind if I sit beside you on the sofa?
MRS. ALVING (making room for him). Please sit down, dear.
OSVALD (sitting). There’s something I have to tell you, Mother.
MRS. ALVING (nervously). What?
OSVALD (staring ahead into space). Because I can’t go on bearing it any longer.
MRS. ALVING. Bearing what? What is it?
OSVALD (as before). I couldn’t bring myself to write you about it; and ever since I came home—
MRS. ALVING (gripping his arm). But, Osvald, what is it?
OSVALD. All yesterday and today I’ve been trying to drive these thoughts away—and free myself. But it doesn’t work.
MRS. ALVING (rising). You’ve got to speak out, Osvald!
OSVALD (drawing her down on the sofa again). Sit still, and I’ll try to tell you—I’ve been complaining so about my tiredness after the trip here—
MRS. ALVING. Yes? Well?
OSVALD. But that isn’t what’s wrong with me, not any ordinary tiredness—
MRS. ALVING (starts to rise). Osvald, you’re not ill!
OSVALD (draws her down again). Sit still, Mother. Just be calm about it. I’m not exactly ill—at least not ill in the ordinary sense. (Puts his hands to his head.) Mother, it’s my mind that’s broken down—out of control—I’ll never be able to work again! (Hands over his face, he throws himself down in her lap and bursts into deep sobs.)
MRS. ALVING (pale and trembling). Osvald! Look at me! No, no, it isn’t true.
OSVALD (looks up despairingly). Never able to work again! Never—never! It’s like a living death! Mother, can you imagine anything as horrible?
MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! How did this awful thing happen to you?
OSVALD (sitting up again). That’s just what I don’t understand. I can’t figure it out. I’ve never lived a wild life—not in any respect. You have to believe me, Mother—that’s something I’ve never done!
MRS. ALVING. I believe you, Osvald.
OSVALD. And yet it’s come on me—this horrible thing!
MRS. ALVING. Oh, but dearest, it’s going to be all right. It’s no more than nervous exhaustion, believe me.
OSVALD (heavily). That’s what I thought at first—but it’s not so.
MRS. ALVING. Tell me everything, right from the start.
OSVALD. Yes, I want to.
MRS. ALVING. When did you first notice anything?
OSVALD. It was just after my last visit home, and I’d returned to Paris. I began having such tremendous pains in my head—mostly toward the back, it seemed. It felt like a tight iron band squeezing me from my neck up—
MRS. ALVING. Go on.
OSVALD. At first I thought they were nothing more than the old, familiar headaches I’ve been bothered by ever since I was little.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes—
OSVALD. But I soon found out: that wasn’t it. I couldn’t work any longer. I wanted to start a new large painting, but it was as if all my talents had flown, and all my strength was paralyzed; I couldn’t focus any of my thoughts; everything swam—around and around. Oh, it was a terrifying state to be in! Finally I sent for a doctor—and through him I discovered the truth.
MRS. ALVING. What do you mean?
OSVALD. He was one of the foremost doctors down there. He had me describe exactly what I was feeling; and then he began asking me a whole lot of questions that didn’t seem to bear at all. I couldn’t grasp what he was after—
MRS. ALVING. So—?
OSVALD. At last he said: Right from your birth, your whole system has been more or less worm-eaten. The actual expression he used was vermoulu.
MRS. ALVING (anxiously). What did he mean by that?
OSVALD. I didn’t understand either, so I asked him to be more specific. And then that old cynic said— (Clenching his fist.) Oh—!
MRS. ALVING. What—?
OSVALD. He said: The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.
MRS. ALVING (slowly stands up). The sins of the fathers—!
OSVALD. I almost hit him in the face.
MRS. ALVING (moving across the room). The sins of the fathers—
OSVALD (smiles sadly). Yes, can you imagine? Of course I assured him that was absolutely out of the question. But do you think he gave way? No, he had his mind made up; and it was only when I brought out your letters and translated all the parts to him that dealt with Father—
MRS. ALVING. What then—?
OSVALD. Well, then naturally he had to admit he’d been on the wrong track; and that’s when I learned the truth—the incredible truth: that this beautiful, soul-stirring life with my young artist friends was something I should never have entered. It was too much for my strength. So—everything’s my own fault.
MRS. ALVING. Osvald, no! You mustn’t believe that!
OSVALD. There was no other way to explain it, he said. That’s the worst of it. The whole of my life ruined beyond repair—all because of my own carelessness. So much that I wanted to do in this world—I don’t dare think of it anymore—I’m not able to think of it. Oh, if I only could live my life over—and wipe out what I’ve done!
(He throws himself face down on the sofa. MRS. ALVING wrings her hands and walks silently back and forth, locked in inner struggle. After a moment, OSVALD looks up, propping himself on his elbows.)
OSVALD. If it had only been something inherited—something that wasn’t my fault. But this! In a shameful, mindless, trivial way, to have thrown away health, happiness, a world of possibility—my future, my life—!
MRS. ALVING. No, no, my own dearest—it can’t be! (Bending over him.) Things aren’t as desperate as you think.
OSVALD. Oh, you don’t know— (Leaps to his feet.) And then all the pain that I’m causing you, Mother! How often I could almost hope and wish you wouldn’t care for me so much.
MRS. ALVING. Oh, Osvald, my only boy! You’re all I have in this world, and all I care to have.
OSVALD (grasps both her hands and kisses them). Yes, yes, now I see. When I’m home I see it so well. And it’s part of what weighs on me— Anyway, now you know the whole story. And let’s not talk about it anymore today. I can’t bear thinking about it very long. (Walking about the room.) Give me something to drink, Mother!
MRS. ALVING. To drink? What do you want to drink now?
OSVALD. Oh, anything. You must have some cold punch in the house.
MRS. ALVING. Oh, but Osvald dear—!
OSVALD. Don’t refuse me that, Mother. Be good now! I’ve got to have something to drown all these gnawing thoughts. (Goes into the greenhouse.) And how—how dark it is here!
(MRS. ALVING goes over to the bell-pull, right, and rings.)
And this interminable rain. Week after week it can go on; whole months at a time. In all my visits home, I never once remember seeing the sun shine.
MRS. ALVING. Osvald—you’re thinking of leaving me!
OSVALD. Hm— (Sighs deeply.) I’m not thinking of anything. I can’t think of anything! (In a low tone.) I’ve given that up.
REGINA (entering from the dining room). You rang, ma’am?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, bring the lamp in.
REGINA. Right away, ma’am. It’s already lit. (Goes out.)
MRS. ALVING (going over to OSVALD). Osvald, don’t keep anything from me.
OSVALD. I won’t, Mother. (Moves to the table.) I’ve told you a lot, I think.
(REGINA comes in with the lamp and sets it on the table.)
MRS. ALVING. Yes, and Regina, you might bring us a half bottle of champagne.
REGINA. Yes, ma’am. (Goes out again.)
OSVALD (clasping MRS. ALVING about the neck). That’s the way it should be. I knew you wouldn’t let your boy go thirsty.
MRS. ALVING. Ah, my poor dear Osvald—how could I refuse you anything now?
OSVALD (buoyantly). Is that true, Mother? You mean it?
MRS. ALVING. Mean what—?
OSVALD. That you won’t refuse me anything?
MRS. ALVING. But Osvald dear—
OSVALD. Shh!
(REGINA returns with a half bottle of champagne and two glasses on a tray, which she sets down on the table.)
OSVALD. No, thanks, I’ll do it.
(REGINA goes out again.)
MRS. ALVING (seating herself at the table). What did you mean—that I shouldn’t refuse you?
OSVALD (busy opening the bottle). First a glass—maybe two.
(The cork pops; he fills one glass and is about to pour the second.)
MRS. ALVING (holds her hand over it). Thanks—not for me.
OSVALD. Well, for me then. (He drains the glass, refills it, drains it again, then sits down at the table.)
MRS. ALVING (expectantly). Well?
OSVALD (not looking at her). Say, tell me—I thought you and Mr. Manders looked so strange—hm, so quiet during lunch.
MRS. ALVING. You noticed that?
OSVALD. Yes. Hm—(A short silence.) Tell me, what do you think of Regina?
MRS. ALVING. What do I think?
OSVALD. Yes, isn’t she splendid?
MRS. ALVING. Osvald dear, you don’t know her as well as I do—
OSVALD. So—?
MRS. ALVING. It’s too bad Regina lived at home for so long. I should have taken her in earlier.
OSVALD. Yes, but she’s magnificent to look at, isn’t she, Mother?
MRS. ALVING. Regina has a good many serious flaws—
OSVALD. Oh, but what does that matter? (He drinks again.)
MRS. ALVING. Even so, I’m fond of her; and I’m responsible for her. I wouldn’t for the world want anything to hurt her.
OSVALD (springing to his feet). Mother, Regina’s my only hope!
MRS. ALVING (rising). What do you mean by that?
OSVALD. I can’t bear this anguish all by myself.
MRS. ALVING. But you have your mother to help you bear it, don’t you?
OSVALD. Yes, I thought so—and that’s why I came home to you. But it won’t work that way. I can see; it won’t work. I can’t make a life out here.
MRS. ALVING. Osvald!
OSVALD. I have to live differently, Mother. So I will have to leave you. I don’t want you to see all this.
MRS. ALVING. Oh, my miserable child! But, Osvald, when you’re sick as you are—
OSVALD. If it were only the illness, I’d stay with you, Mother—I would. For you’re my best friend in this world.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, it’s true; I am, aren’t I?
OSVALD (striding restlessly about). But it’s all the torment, agony, remorse—and the great deathly fear. Oh—this hideous fear!
MRS. ALVING (following him). Fear? What fear? What do you mean?
OSVALD. Oh, don’t ask me anymore about it. I don’t know. I can’t describe it to you.
(MRS. ALVING crosses to the bell-pull, right, and rings.)
OSVALD. What do you want?
MRS. ALVING. I want my boy to be happy, that’s what. He mustn’t go around brooding. (To REGINA, who has appeared at the door.) More champagne. A whole bottle.
(REGINA goes.)
MRS. ALVING. Don’t you think, in the country too, we know how to live?
OSVALD. Isn’t she magnificent-looking? The figure she has! And the glow of her health!
MRS. ALVING. Sit down, Osvald, and let’s have a quiet talk.
OSVALD (sits). You wouldn’t know this, Mother, but I have a wrong to make right with Regina.
MRS. ALVING. You!
OSVALD. Or a little indiscretion—you might call it. Quite innocent, actually. When I was home last—
MRS. ALVING. Yes?
OSVALD. She asked me so many times about Paris, and I told her bits and pieces about the life down there. And I remember that one day I chanced to say, “Wouldn’t you like to go there yourself?”
MRS. ALVING. Well?
OSVALD. I could see her blushing all shades of red, and then she said, “Yes, I’d very much like to.” “All right,” I said, “I expect that can be arranged”—or something like that.
MRS. ALVING. Oh?
OSVALD. Of course I forgot the whole thing completely; but then the day before yesterday I happened to ask her if she was glad I’d be staying so long at home this time—
MRS. ALVING. Yes?
OSVALD. And she gave me such a peculiar look and said, “But what about my trip to Paris?”
MRS. ALVING. Her trip!
OSVALD. And then I got it out of her that she’d taken the whole thing seriously, that she’d been thinking of me all this while, and that she’d even started to learn some French—
MRS. ALVING. So that’s why—
OSVALD. Mother—when I saw her there in front of me, that splendid girl, so alive with health and beauty—it was as if I’d never noticed her before—but now she was standing there as if her arms were simply waiting to take me in—
MRS. ALVING. Osvald!
OSVALD. Then it struck me that in her was my salvation, because I saw how the joy of life was in her.
MRS. ALVING (with a start). The joy of life—? Is there salvation in that?
REGINA (entering from the dining room with a bottle of champagne). I’m sorry for taking so long, but I had to go down in the cellar— (Sets the bottle down on the table.)
OSVALD. And get one more glass.
REGINA (looks at him in surprise). But Mrs. Alving has her glass.
OSVALD. Yes, but bring one for yourself, Regina.
(REGINA looks startled and flashes a quick, shy glance at MRS. ALVING.)
OSVALD. Well?
REGINA (her voice low and hesitant). Is that your wish, Mrs. Alving—?
MRS. ALVING. Get the glass, Regina.
(REGINA goes out into the dining room.)
OSVALD (his eyes following her). Can you see the way she walks? So firm and fearless.
MRS. ALVING. Osvald, this can’t happen—!
OSVALD. The thing is settled. You must see that. There’s no use denying it.
(REGINA returns with an empty glass in her hands.)
OSVALD. Sit down, Regina.
(REGINA looks uncertainly at MRS. ALVING.)
(REGINA sits on a chair by the dining-room door, still holding the empty glass in her hand.)
MRS. ALVING. What were you saying, Osvald, about the joy of life?
OSVALD. Yes, the joy of life, Mother—you don’t know much about that here at home. I never feel it here.
MRS. ALVING. Not even with me?
OSVALD. Not when I’m home. But how could you understand that?
MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes, yes. I think I’m beginning to understand—now.
OSVALD. That—and the joy of work. Yes, they’re really the same thing, basically. But no one understands that here, either.
MRS. ALVING. Maybe you’re right. Go on, I want to hear more of this.
OSVALD. I mean, here everyone’s brought up to believe that work is a curse and a punishment, and that life is a miserable thing that we’re best off to be out of as soon as possible.
MRS. ALVING. A vale of tears, yes. And we ingeniously manage to make it that.
OSVALD. But they won’t hear of such things down there. Nobody abroad believes in that sort of outlook anymore. Down there, simply to be alive in the world is held for a kind of miraculous bliss. Mother, have you noticed how everything I’ve painted is involved with this joy of life? Always and invariably, the joy of life. With light and sun and holiday scenes—and faces radiant with human content. That’s why I’m afraid to stay on at home with you.
MRS. ALVING. Afraid? What are you afraid of here with me?
OSVALD. I’m afraid that everything that’s most alive in me will degenerate into ugliness here.
MRS. ALVING (looking fixedly at him). Would that happen, do you think?
OSVALD. I’m sure it would. Live here the same as down there—and it still wouldn’t be the same life.
MRS. ALVING (who has been listening intently, rises, her eyes large and thoughtful). Now I see how it all fits together.
OSVALD. What do you see?
MRS. ALVING. I see it now, for the first time. And now I can speak.
OSVALD (getting up). I don’t understand you, Mother.
REGINA (who has also gotten up). Shouldn’t I go?
MRS. ALVING. No, stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my son, you have to know everything—and then you can choose. Osvald! Regina!
OSVALD. Quiet! The pastor—
MANDERS (entering by the hall door). Well, we’ve really had a heart-warming session together.
OSVALD. We also.
MANDERS. Engstrand needs help with his seaman’s home. Regina will have to move back and accommodate him—
REGINA. No, thank you, Pastor.
MANDERS (just noticing her). What—? Here—with a glass in your hand!
REGINA (hurriedly putting the glass down). Pardon—!
OSVALD. Regina’s leaving with me, Pastor.
MANDERS. Leaving—with you!
OSVALD. Yes, as my wife—if she wants that.
MANDERS. Merciful heavens—!
REGINA. It wasn’t my doing, Mr. Manders.
OSVALD. Or she’ll stay here if I stay.
REGINA (involuntarily). Here!
MANDERS. You petrify me, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING. Neither one nor the other will happen—because now I can speak out freely.
MANDERS. But you can’t do that! No, no, no!
MRS. ALVING. I both can and will. And without demolishing any ideals.
OSVALD. Mother, what is it you’re hiding from me?
REGINA (listening). Mrs. Alving! Listen! People are shouting out there. (She goes into the greenhouse and looks out.)
OSVALD (moving toward the window, left). What’s going on? What’s that light in the sky?
REGINA (cries out). The orphanage—it’s burning!
MRS. ALVING (hurrying to the window). Burning!
MANDERS. Burning? Impossible. I was just down there.
OSVALD. Where’s my hat? Oh, never mind—! Father’s orphanage—! (He runs out through the garden door.)
MRS. ALVING. My shawl, Regina! It’s all ablaze!
MANDERS. How awful! Mrs. Alving, this is God’s fiery judgment on a wayward house!
MRS. ALVING. Yes, no doubt. Come along, Regina.
(She and REGINA hurry out the hall door.)
MANDERS (clasping his hands together). And then—no insurance! (He follows them out.)