The room as before. All the doors stand open. The lamp is still burning on the table. It is dark outside, with only a faint red glow in the background to the left. MRS. ALVING, with a large shawl over her head, is standing in the greenhouse, gazing out. REGINA, also with a shawl about her, stands slightly behind her.
MRS. ALVING. Completely burned out—right to the ground.
REGINA. It’s burning still in the basement.
MRS. ALVING. Why Osvald doesn’t come up—? There’s nothing to save.
REGINA. Should I go down to him with his hat?
MRS. ALVING. He hasn’t even got his hat?
REGINA (pointing into the hall). No, it’s hanging in there.
MRS. ALVING. Oh, leave it be. He has to come up soon. I’ll look for him myself. (She goes into the garden.)
MANDERS (entering from the hall). Isn’t Mrs. Alving here?
REGINA. She just went into the garden.
MANDERS. This is the most frightful night I’ve ever experienced.
REGINA. Yes, it’s a terrible catastrophe, isn’t it, Pastor?
MANDERS. Oh, don’t speak of it! I can hardly think of it even.
REGINA. But how could it have happened—?
MANDERS. Don’t ask me, Miss Engstrand. How should I know? You’re not also going to—? Isn’t it enough that your father—?
REGINA. What about him?
MANDERS. He’s got me completely confused.
ENGSTRAND (entering from the hall). Pastor—!
MANDERS (turning away, appalled). Are you after me even here!
ENGSTRAND. Yes, God strike me dead, but I have to—! Good grief, what a mess this is, Pastor!
MANDERS (pacing back and forth). Dreadful, dreadful!
REGINA. What’s going on?
ENGSTRAND. Oh, it was on account of this here meeting, see? (In an undertone.) Now we’ve got the old bird snared, my girl. (Aloud.) And to think it’s all my fault that it’s Pastor Manders’ fault for something like this!
MANDERS. But I assure you, Engstrand—
ENGSTRAND. But there was nobody besides the pastor who messed around with the candles down there.
MANDERS (stopping). Yes, that’s what you say. But I absolutely cannot remember ever having a candle in my hand.
ENGSTRAND. And I saw so plainly how the pastor took that candle and pinched it out with his fingers and flicked the tip of the wick down into those shavings.
MANDERS. You saw me do that?
ENGSTRAND. Plain as day, I saw it.
MANDERS. I just don’t understand it. It’s never been a habit of mine to snuff a candle in my fingers.
ENGSTRAND. Yes, it did look pretty sloppy to me, all right. But could it really do that much damage, Pastor?
MANDERS (walking restlessly back and forth). Oh, don’t ask me.
ENGSTRAND (walking along with him). And then your Reverence hadn’t insured it either, had you?
MANDERS (keeps walking). No, no, no—you heard me.
ENGSTRAND (keeps following him). Not insured. And then to go straight over and set the whole works afire. Lord love us—what awful luck!
MANDERS (wiping the sweat from his brow). Yes, you can say that again, Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND. And to think it would happen to a charitable institution that was meant to serve the whole community, so to speak. The papers’ll handle you none too gently, Pastor, I can bet.
MANDERS. No, that’s just what I’ve been thinking about. That’s almost the worst part of the whole business—all these vicious attacks and innuendoes—! Oh, it’s too upsetting to think about!
MRS. ALVING (coming from the garden). I can’t pull him away from the embers.
MANDERS. Ah, you’re back, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING. So you got out of making your speech, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS. Oh, I would have been only too glad—
MRS. ALVING (her voice subdued). It’s best that it went like this. This orphanage was never made for anyone’s benefit.
MANDERS. You think it wasn’t?
MRS. ALVING. You think it was?
MANDERS. It was a frightful misfortune, in any case.
MRS. ALVING. Let’s discuss it purely as a business arrangement— Are you waiting for the pastor, Engstrand?
ENGSTRAND (by the hall door). Well, actually I was.
MRS. ALVING. Then sit down and rest a moment.
ENGSTRAND. Thanks. I can stand all right.
MRS. ALVING (to MANDERS.) I suppose you’ll be leaving by the steamer?
MANDERS. Yes. It goes an hour from now.
MRS. ALVING. Would you be so good as to take all the papers back with you. I don’t want to hear another word about this thing. I’ve got other matters to think about—
MANDERS. Mrs. Alving—
MRS. ALVING. I’ll shortly be sending you power of attorney to settle everything however you choose.
MANDERS. I’ll be only too glad to take care of it. Of course the original terms of the bequest will have to be changed completely now, I’m afraid.
MRS. ALVING. That’s understood.
MANDERS. Just offhand, it strikes me that I might arrange it so the Solvik property is made over to the parish. The land itself can hardly be written off as worthless; it can always be put to some use or other. And the interest on the balance of capital in the bank—I could probably apply that best to support some project or other that might be considered of benefit to the town.
MRS. ALVING. Whatever you wish. The whole thing’s utterly indifferent to me now.
ENGSTRAND. Think of my seaman’s home, Pastor!
MANDERS. Yes, definitely, that’s a possibility. Well, it will bear some investigation.
ENGSTRAND. The hell with investigating—oh, Jeez!
MANDERS (with a sigh). And then too, unfortunately I have no idea how long I’ll be able to handle these affairs—or if public opinion won’t force me to drop them. That depends entirely on the results of the inquest into the fire.
MRS. ALVING. What are you saying?
MANDERS. And those results aren’t predictable in advance.
ENGSTRAND (approaching him). Oh yes, they are! Because here’s old Jacob Engstrand, right beside you.
MANDERS. Yes, but—?
ENGSTRAND (lowering his voice). And Jacob Engstrand’s not the man to go back on a worthy benefactor in his hour of need, as the expression goes.
MANDERS. Yes, but my dear fellow—how can you—?
ENGSTRAND. Jacob Engstrand’s sort of like your guardian angel, Pastor, see?
MANDERS. No, no, that I absolutely cannot accept.
ENGSTRAND. Oh, it’s how it’s going to be, anyway. It’s not like somebody here hasn’t taken the blame for somebody else before, you know.
MANDERS. Jacob! (Grasps his hand.) You’re a rare individual. Well, you’re going to have every bit of help you need for your seaman’s home, you can count on that.
(ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but is overcome by emotion.)
MANDERS (slipping the strap of his traveling bag over his shoulder). Well, time to be off. We can travel together.
ENGSTRAND (by the dining-room door). Come along with me, wench! You’ll live soft as a yoke in an egg.
REGINA (tossing her head). Merci! (She goes out in the hall and fetches MANDERS’S overcoat and umbrella.)
MANDERS. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving. And may the spirit of law and order soon dwell again in this house.
MRS. ALVING. Good-bye, Manders. (She goes into the greenhouse as she notices OSVALD coming in through the garden door.)
ENGSTRAND (as he and REGINA help MANDERS on with his coat). Good-bye, my girl. And if you’re ever in any trouble, well, you know where to find Jacob Engstrand. (Quietly.) Little Harbor Street, hm—! (To MRS. ALVING and OSVALD.) And my house for wayfaring seamen—that’s going to be known as “Captain Alving’s Home,” yes. And if I get to run that house after my own devices, I think I can promise you it’ll be truly worthy of that great man’s memory, bless him.
MANDERS (in the doorway). Hm—hm! Come along, my dear Engstrand. Good-bye, good-bye!
(He and ENGSTRAND go out the hall door.)
OSVALD (going toward the table). What is this house he was speaking of?
MRS. ALVING. It’s some sort of home that he and the pastor want to establish.
OSVALD. It’ll burn up like all this here.
MRS. ALVING. Why do you say that?
OSVALD. Everything will burn. There’ll be nothing left in memory of Father. And here I’m burning up, too.
(REGINA stares perplexed at him.)
MRS. ALVING. Osvald! Poor boy, you shouldn’t have stayed down there so long.
OSVALD (sitting at the table). I guess you’re right.
MRS. ALVING. Let me dry your face, dear; you’re dripping wet.
OSVALD (gazing indifferently into space). Thank you, Mother.
MRS. ALVING. Aren’t you tired, Osvald? Perhaps you could sleep?
OSVALD (anxiously). No, no—not sleep! I never sleep; I only pretend to. (Dully.) That comes soon enough.
MRS. ALVING (looking worriedly at him). You know, dearest, you really are ill.
REGINA (tensely). Is Mr. Alving ill?
OSVALD (impulsively). And shut all the doors! This racking fear—!
MRS. ALVING. Shut them, Regina.
(REGINA shuts the doors and remains standing by the hall door. MRS. ALVING removes her shawl; REGINA does the same.)
MRS. ALVING (draws a chair over beside OSVALD and sits by him). There, now I’ll sit with you—
OSVALD. Yes, do that. And Regina must stay here too. I always want her close to me. You’ll give me your help, Regina—won’t you?
REGINA. I don’t understand—
MRS. ALVING. Help?
OSVALD. Yes—when it’s needed.
MRS. ALVING. Osvald, don’t you have your mother to give you help?
OSVALD. You? (Smiles.) No, Mother, that kind of help you’d never give me. (With a mournful laugh.) You! Ha, ha! (Looks soberly at her.) Although you’re the obvious choice. (Vehemently.) Regina, why are you so reserved toward me? Why can’t you call me Osvald?
REGINA (softly). I don’t think Mrs. Alving would like it.
MRS. ALVING. You’ll have every right to soon—so won’t you sit down with us here?
(After a moment, REGINA sits down with shy dignity at the other side of the table.)
And now, my poor, troubled boy, I’m going to take all this weight off your mind—
OSVALD. You, Mother?
MRS. ALVING. Everything you call the agony of remorse and self-reproach.
OSVALD. Do you think you can?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, Osvald, now I can. You were speaking earlier about the joy of life: and as you said those words, it was as if a new light had been shed over the whole of my life.
OSVALD (shaking his head). I don’t understand this.
MRS. ALVING. You should have known your father when he was just a young lieutenant. He had the joy of life, he did!
OSVALD. Yes, I know.
MRS. ALVING. It was like a holiday just to look at him. And all the energy, the unquenchable power that was in him!
OSVALD. Well—?
MRS. ALVING. And then, so full of that very joy, this child—because he was like a child then, really—had to make a life here in a mediocre town that had no joys to offer—only distractions. He had to get along here with no real goal in life—only a routine job to hold down. He never found any activity he could throw himself in heart and soul—only business affairs. He never had one single friend with the slightest sense of what the joy of life can mean—no one but drifters and drunkards—
OSVALD. Mother—!
MRS. ALVING. And finally the inevitable happened.
OSVALD. The inevitable?
MRS. ALVING. You said yourself, earlier this evening, what would happen to you if you stayed at home.
OSVALD. You’re saying that Father—?
MRS. ALVING. Your poor father never found any outlet for the overpowering joy of life that he had. And I’m afraid I couldn’t make his home very festive, either.
OSVALD. You, too?
MRS. ALVING. They’d drilled me so much in duty and things of that kind that I went on here all too long putting my faith in them. Everything resolved into duties—my duties, and his duties, and—I’m afraid I made this home unbearable for your poor father.
OSVALD. Why didn’t you ever write me any of this?
MRS. ALVING. I’ve never seen it before as anything I could mention to you—his son.
OSVALD. And how, then, did you see it?
MRS. ALVING (slowly). I only saw the one thing: that your father was a ravaged man before you were born.
OSVALD (with a strangled cry). Ah—! (He stands up and goes to the window.)
MRS. ALVING. And then day after day I had only one thought on my mind: that Regina in reality belonged here in this house—just as much as my own son.
OSVALD (wheeling about). Regina—!
REGINA (brought shaken to her feet, in a choked voice). I—!
MRS. ALVING. Yes, now you both know.
OSVALD. Regina!
REGINA (to herself). So that’s what she was.
MRS. ALVING. Your mother was decent in many ways, Regina.
REGINA. Yes, but she was that kind, all the same. Well, I sometimes thought so, but—then, Mrs. Alving, if you don’t mind, may I leave right away, at once?
MRS. ALVING. Do you really want to, Regina?
REGINA. Yes, of course I want to.
MRS. ALVING. Naturally you can do as you wish, but—
OSVALD (going over to REGINA). Leave now? But you belong here.
REGINA. Merci, Mr. Alving—yes, I guess I can call you Osvald now. But it’s certainly not the way I wanted to.
MRS. ALVING. Regina, I haven’t been straightforward with you—
REGINA. That’s putting it mild! If I’d known that Osvald was sick, why— And now that there isn’t a chance of anything serious between us— No, I really can’t stay out in the country and run myself ragged for invalids.
OSVALD. Not even for someone this close to you?
REGINA. Not on your life, I can’t! A poor girl’s only got her youth; she’d better use it—or else she’ll find herself barefoot at Christmas before she knows it. And I’ve got this joy of life too, Mrs. Alving—in me!
MRS. ALVING. Yes, I’m afraid so. Only don’t throw yourself away, Regina.
REGINA. Oh, things go as they go. If Osvald takes after his father, then I take after my mother, I guess. May I ask, Mrs. Alving, if Pastor Manders knows all this about me?
MRS. ALVING. Pastor Manders knows everything.
REGINA (busy putting on her shawl). Then I really better see if I can catch the boat out of here as quick as I can. The pastor’s so nice to deal with, and I definitely think I’ve got just as much right to some of that money as he does—that rotten carpenter.
MRS. ALVING. You’re quite welcome to it, Regina.
REGINA (looking sharply at her). You know, Mrs. Alving, you could have raised me as a gentleman’s daughter—and I would’ve been a lot better off. (Tossing her head.) But, hell—what’s the difference! (With a bitter glance at the unopened bottle.) I’ll get my champagne in society yet, just see if I don’t.
MRS. ALVING. If you ever need a home, Regina, you can come to me.
REGINA. No, thank you, ma’am. Pastor Manders’ll look out for me, all right. And if things really go wrong, I still know a house where I’ll do just fine.
MRS. ALVING. Where?
REGINA. In “Captain Alving’s Home.”
MRS. ALVING. Regina—I can see now—you’ll go to your ruin!
REGINA. Ahh, ffft! Adieu. (She curtsies and goes out the hall door.)
OSVALD (standing at the window, looking out). Has she gone?
OSVALD (murmuring to himself). I think it’s insane, all this.
MRS. ALVING (goes over behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders). Osvald, dear—has this disturbed you terribly?
OSVALD (turning his face toward her). All that about Father, you mean?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, about your poor father. I’m afraid it’s been too much of a shock for you.
OSVALD. Why do you think so? It came as quite a surprise, of course; but basically it can hardly make any difference to me.
MRS. ALVING (withdrawing her hands). No difference! That your father was so enormously unhappy!
OSVALD. Naturally I can feel sympathy for him as for any human being, but—
MRS. ALVING. Nothing more—for your own father—!
OSVALD (impatiently). Yes, Father—Father! I never knew a father. My only memory of him is that he once got me to vomit.
MRS. ALVING. That’s a dreadful thought! Surely a child ought to feel some love for his father, no matter what.
OSVALD. When that child has nothing to thank him for? Hasn’t even known him? Do you really hang on to that old superstition—you, so enlightened in everything else?
MRS. ALVING. And is that just a superstition—!
OSVALD. Yes, you must realize that, Mother. It’s one of these ideas that materialize in the world for a while, and then—
MRS. ALVING (with a shudder). Ghosts!
OSVALD (pacing the floor). Yes, you could very well call them ghosts.
MRS. ALVING (in an outcry). Osvald—you don’t love me either!
OSVALD. I know you, at least—
MRS. ALVING. Yes, I know—but is that all?
OSVALD. And I know how much you care for me, and I have to be grateful to you for that. And you can be especially useful to me, now that I’m ill.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, I can, Osvald, can’t I? Oh, I could almost bless this illness that forced you home to me, because it’s made me see you’re really not mine; you still have to be won.
OSVALD (impatiently). Yes, yes, yes, that’s all just a manner of speaking. You have to remember I’m a sick man, Mother. I can’t be concerned very much with others; I have enough just thinking about myself.
MRS. ALVING (softly). I’ll be patient and forebearing.
OSVALD. And cheerful, Mother!
MRS. ALVING. Yes, dearest, you’re right. (Going over to him.) Now have I taken away all your remorse and self-reproach?
OSVALD. Yes, you have. But who’ll take away the fear?
MRS. ALVING. The fear?
OSVALD (pacing about the room). Regina would have done it for the asking.
MRS. ALVING. I don’t understand. What is all this about fear—and Regina?
OSVALD. Is it very late, Mother?
MRS. ALVING. It’s nearly morning. (Looking out through the greenhouse.) There’s the first light of dawn already on the mountains. It’s going to be clear, Osvald! In a little while you’ll see the sun.
OSVALD. I look forward to that. Oh, there can be so much still to look forward to, and live for—!
MRS. ALVING. I’m sure there will be!
OSVALD. And even though I can’t work, I’ll—
MRS. ALVING. Oh, my dearest, you’ll find yourself working again so soon. Because now you won’t have these worrisome, depressing thoughts to brood on any longer.
OSVALD. Yes, it was good that you could rid me of all those fantasies of mine. And now, if I can only face this one thing more— (Sits down on the sofa.) Mother, we have to talk together—
MRS. ALVING. Yes, let’s. (She pushes an armchair over by the sofa and sits beside him.)
OSVALD. And meanwhile the sun will rise. And by then, you’ll know—and I won’t have this fear any longer.
MRS. ALVING. Tell me, what will I know?
OSVALD (not listening). Mother, didn’t you say earlier this evening that there wasn’t anything in the world you wouldn’t do for me if I asked you?
MRS. ALVING. Why, yes, of course!
OSVALD. And you meant it, Mother?
MRS. ALVING. That you can depend on. You’re my one and only boy; I have nothing else to live for but you.
OSVALD. All right, then listen. You have a strong, resilient mind, I know that. I want you to sit very quiet as I tell this.
MRS. ALVING. But what is it that’s so terrible—?
OSVALD. You mustn’t scream. Do you hear? Promise me that? We’re going to sit and speak of it quietly. Mother, promise me?
MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes, I promise—just tell me!
OSVALD. Well, then you’ve got to realize that all this about tiredness—and my incapacity for thinking in terms of my work—isn’t the real illness—
MRS. ALVING. What is the real illness?
OSVALD. The one that I inherited, the illness— (Points to his forehead and speaks very softly.)—that’s seated here.
MRS. ALVING (nearly speechless). Osvald! No—no!
OSVALD. Don’t scream; I can’t bear it. Yes, it sits in here and waits. And any day, at any time, it can strike.
MRS. ALVING. Oh, how horrible—!
OSVALD. Just stay calm. So, that’s how things are with me.
MRS. ALVING (springing to her feet). It’s not true, Osvald! It’s impossible! It can’t be!
OSVALD. I had one attack down there. It soon passed off—but when I found out how things stood with me, then this anxiety took hold, racking me like a cold fever; and with that, I started home here to you as fast as I could.
MRS. ALVING. So that’s the fear—!
OSVALD. Yes, I can’t tell you how excruciating it is. Oh, if it only had been some ordinary disease that would kill me— I’m not so afraid of dying, though I want to live as long as I can.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes, Osvald, you must!
OSVALD. But the thought of it is excruciating. To revert back to a helpless child again. To have to be fed, to have to be—oh, it’s unspeakable.
MRS. ALVING. My child has his mother to nurse him.
OSVALD (leaps up). No, never! That’s just what I won’t have! I can’t abide the thought of lying here like that for years—turning old and gray. And in the meantime you might die before me. (Sits in MRS. ALVING’S chair.) Because the doctor said it needn’t be fatal at once. He called it a kind of “softening of the brain”—some phrase like that. (Smiles sadly.) I think that expression sounds so nice. It always makes me think of cherry-red velvet draperies—something soft to stroke.
MRS. ALVING (screams). Osvald!
OSVALD (leaps up again and paces the floor). And now you’ve taken Regina away from me! If I’d only had her. She would have helped me out, I’m sure.
MRS. ALVING (going over to him). My dear boy, what do you mean? Is there any help in this world that I wouldn’t willingly give you?
OSVALD. After I’d recovered from the attack down there, the doctor told me that, when it struck again—and it would strike—there’d be no more hope.
MRS. ALVING. That he could be so heartless—
OSVALD. I demanded it of him. I told him I had certain arrangements to make. (With a shy smile.) And so I had. (Brings out a small box from his inner breast pocket.) Mother, you see this?
MRS. ALVING. What’s that?
OSVALD. Morphine pills.
MRS. ALVING (looks at him in horror). Osvald—my child!
OSVALD. I’ve saved up twelve of them—
MRS. ALVING (snatching at it). Give me the box, Osvald!
OSVALD. Not yet, Mother. (He returns the box to his pocket.)
MRS. ALVING. I can’t live through this!
OSVALD. You’ll have to. If I’d had Regina here now, I’d have told her what state I was in—and asked for her help with this one last thing. She’d have helped me, I’m positive of that.
MRS. ALVING. Never!
OSVALD. If this horrible thing struck me down, and she saw me lying there like an infant child, helpless, and beyond help, lost, hopeless—incurable—
MRS. ALVING. Regina never would have done that!
OSVALD. Yes, she would have. Regina was so wonderfully lighthearted. She soon would have gotten tired of tending an invalid like me.
MRS. ALVING. Then thank God Regina’s not here!
OSVALD. So now, Mother, you’ve got to give me that help.
MRS. ALVING (in a loud outcry). I!
OSVALD. What more obvious choice than you?
MRS. ALVING. I! Your mother!
OSVALD. Exactly the reason.
MRS. ALVING. I, who gave you life!
OSVALD. I never asked you for life. And what is this life you gave me? I don’t want it! You can take it back!
MRS. ALVING. Help! Help! (She runs out into the hall.)
OSVALD (right behind her). Don’t leave me! Where are you going?
MRS. ALVING (in the hall). To get the doctor, Osvald! Let me out!
OSVALD (also in the hall). You don’t leave. And no one comes in.
(The sound of a key turning in a lock.)
MRS. ALVING (coming in again). Osvald—Osvald—my child!
OSVALD (following her). Have you no mother-love for me at all—to see me suffer this unbearable fear!
MRS. ALVING (after a moment’s silence, controlling her voice). Here’s my hand on it.
OSVALD. Then you will—?
MRS. ALVING. If it becomes necessary. But it won’t be necessary. No, no, that’s simply impossible!
OSVALD. Well, that we can hope. And now let’s live together as long as we can. Thank you, Mother.
(He settles down in the armchair that MRS. ALVING had moved over to the sofa. The day is breaking; the lamp still burns on the table.)
MRS. ALVING. Now do you feel all right?
OSVALD. Yes.
MRS. ALVING (bending over him). What a fearful nightmare this has been for you, Osvald—but it was all a dream. Too much excitement—it hasn’t been good for you. But now you can have your rest, at home with your mother near, my own, my dearest boy. Anything you want you can have, just like when you were a little child. There now, the pain is over. You see how quickly it went. Oh, I knew it would— And look, Osvald, what a lovely day we’ll have. Bright sunlight. Now you really can see your home.
(She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. Sunrise. The glaciers and peaks in the background shine in the brilliant light of morning. With his back toward the distant view, OSVALD sits motionless in the armchair.)
OSVALD (abruptly). Mother, give me the sun.
MRS. ALVING (by the table, looks at him, startled). What did you say?
OSVALD (repeats in a dull monotone). The sun. The sun.
MRS. ALVING (moves over to him). Osvald, what’s the matter?
(OSVALD appears to crumple inwardly in the chair; all his muscles loosen; the expression leaves his face; and his eyes stare blankly.)
MRS. ALVING (shaking with fear). What is it? (In a shriek.) Osvald! What’s wrong! (Drops to her knees beside him and shakes him.) Osvald! Osvald! Look at me! Don’t you know me?
OSVALD (in the same monotone). The sun—the sun.
MRS. ALVING (springs to her feet in anguish, tears at her hair with both hands and screams). I can’t bear this! (Whispers as if paralyzed by fright.) I can’t bear it! Never! (Suddenly.) Where did he put them? (Her hand skims across his chest.) Here! (She shrinks back several steps and shrieks.) No, no, no!—Yes!—No, no! (She stands a few steps away from him, her fingers thrust into her hair, staring at him in speechless horror.)
OSVALD (sitting motionless, as before). The sun—the sun.