Chapter: (The same scene. The landscape is still obscured by Mist. MANDERS and
 MRS. ALVING come in from the dining-room.)

Mrs. Alving (calls into the dining-room from the doorway). Aren't you
coming in here, Oswald?

Oswald. No, thanks; I think I will go out for a bit.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, do; the weather is clearing a little. (She shuts the
        dining-room door, then goes to the hall door and calls.) Regina!

Regina (from without). Yes, ma'am?

Mrs. Alving. Go down into the laundry and help with the garlands.

Regina. Yes, ma'am.

(MRS. ALVING satisfies herself that she has gone, then shuts the door.)

    Manders. I suppose he can't hear us?

    Mrs. Alving. Not when the door is shut. Besides, he is going out.

    Manders. I am still quite bewildered. I don't know how I managed to
    swallow a mouthful of your excellent dinner.

    Mrs. Alving (walking up and down, and trying to control her agitation).
    Nor I. But, what are we to do?

    Manders. Yes, what are we to do? Upon my word I don't know; I am so
    completely unaccustomed to things of this kind.

    Mrs. Alving. I am convinced that nothing serious has happened yet.

    Manders. Heaven forbid! But it is most unseemly behaviour, for all that.

    Mrs. Alving. It is nothing more than a foolish jest of Oswald's, you
    may be sure.

    Manders. Well, of course, as I said, I am quite inexperienced in such
    matters; but it certainly seems to me--

    Mrs. Alving. Out of the house she shall go--and at once. That part of
    it is as clear as daylight--

    Manders. Yes, that is quite clear.

    Mrs. Alving. But where is she to go? We should not be justified in--

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

    Mrs. Alving. To whom, did you say?

    Manders. To her--. No, of course Engstrand isn't--. But, great heavens,
    Mrs. Alving, how is such a thing possible? You surely may have been
    mistaken, in spite of everything.

    Mrs. Alving. There was no chance of mistake, more's the pity. Joanna
    was obliged to confess it to me--and my husband couldn't deny it. So
    there was nothing else to do but to hush it up.

    Manders. No, that was the only thing to do.

    Mrs. Alving. The girl was sent away at once, and was given a tolerably
    liberal sum to hold her tongue. She looked after the rest herself when
    she got to town. She renewed an old acquaintance with the carpenter
    Engstrand; gave him a hint, I suppose, of how much money she had got,
    and told him some fairy tale about a foreigner who had been here in his
    yacht in the summer. So she and Engstrand were married in a great
    hurry. Why, you married them yourself!

    Manders. I can't understand it--, I remember clearly Engstrand's coming
    to arrange about the marriage. He was full of contrition, and accused
    himself bitterly for the light conduct he and his fiancee had been
    guilty of.

    Mrs. Alving. Of course he had to take the blame on himself.

    Manders. But the deceitfulness of it! And with me, too! I positively
    would not have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall most certainly
    give him a serious talking to. And the immorality of such a marriage!
    Simply for the sake of the money--! What sum was it that the girl had?

    Mrs. Alving. It was seventy pounds.

    Manders. Just think of it--for a paltry seventy pounds to let yourself
    be bound in marriage to a fallen woman!

    Mrs. Alving. What about myself, then?--I let myself be bound in
    marriage to a fallen man.

    Manders. Heaven forgive you! What are you saying? A fallen man?

    Mrs. Alving. Do you suppose my husband was any purer, when I went with
    him to the altar, than Joanna was when Engstrand agreed to marry her?

    Manders. The two cases are as different as day from night.

    Mrs. Alving. Not so very different, after all. It is true there was a
    great difference in the price paid, between a paltry seventy pounds and
    a whole fortune.

    Manders. How can you compare such totally different things! I presume
    you consulted your own heart--and your relations.

    Mrs. Alving (looking away from him). I thought you understood where
    what you call my heart had strayed to at that time.

    Manders (in a constrained voice). If I had understood anything of the
    kind, I would not have been a daily guest in your husband's house.

    Mrs. Alving. Well, at any rate this much is certain--I didn't consult
    myself in the matter at all.

    Manders. Still you consulted those nearest to you, as was only
    right--your mother, your two aunts.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true. The three of them settled the whole
    matter for me. It seems incredible to me now, how clearly they made out
    that it would be sheer folly to reject such an offer. If my mother
    could only see what all that fine prospect has led to!

    Manders. No one can be responsible for the result of it. Anyway there
    is this to be said, that the match was made in complete conformity with
    law and order.

    Mrs. Alving (going to the window). Oh, law and order! I often think it
    is that that is at the bottom of all the misery in the world.

    Manders. Mrs. Alving, it is very wicked of you to say that.

    Mrs. Alving. That may be so; but I don't attach importance to those
    obligations and considerations any longer. I cannot! I must struggle
    for my freedom.

    Manders. What do you mean?

    Mrs. Alving (taping on the window panes). I ought never to have
    concealed what sort of a life my husband led. But I had not the courage
    to do otherwise then--for my own sake, either. I was too much of a
    coward.

    Manders. A coward?

    Mrs. Alving. If others had known anything of what happened, they would
    have said: "Poor man, it is natural enough that he should go astray,
    when he has a wife that has run away from him."

    Manders. They would have had a certain amount of justification for
    saying so.

    Mrs. Alving (looking fixedly at him). If I had been the woman I ought,
    I would have taken Oswald into my confidence and said to him: "Listen,
    my son, your father was a dissolute man"--

    Manders. Miserable woman.

    Mrs. Alving. --and I would have told him all I have told you, from
    beginning to end.

    Manders. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs. Alving.

    Mrs. Alving. I know. I know quite well! I am shocked at myself when I
    think of it. (Comes away from the window.) I am coward enough for that.

    Manders. Can you call it cowardice that you simply did your duty? Have
    you forgotten that a child should love and honour his father and mother?

    Mrs. Alving. Don't let us talk in such general terms. Suppose we say:
    "Ought Oswald to love and honour Mr. Alving?"

    Manders. You are a mother--isn't there a voice in your heart that
    forbids you to shatter your son's ideals?

    Mrs. Alving. And what about the truth?

    Manders. What about his ideals?

    Mrs. Alving. Oh--ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward as I
    am!

    Manders. Do not spurn ideals, Mrs. Alving--they have a way of avenging
    themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's own case, now. He hasn't many ideals,
    more's the pity. But this much I have seen, that his father is
    something of an ideal to him.

    Mrs. Alving. You are right there.

    Manders. And his conception of his father is what you inspired and
    encouraged by your letters.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, I was swayed by duty and consideration for others;
    that was why I lied to my son, year in and year out. Oh, what a
    coward--what a coward I have been!

    Manders. You have built up a happy illusion in your son's mind, Mrs.
    Alving--and that is a thing you certainly ought not to undervalue.

    Mrs. Alving. Ah, who knows if that is such a desirable thing after
    all!--But anyway I don't intend to put up with any goings on with
    Regina. I am not going to let him get the poor girl into trouble.

    Manders. Good heavens, no--that would be a frightful thing!

    Mrs. Alving. If only I knew whether he meant it seriously, and whether
    it would mean happiness for him.

    Manders. In what way? I don't understand.

    Mrs. Alving. But that is impossible; Regina is not equal to it,
    unfortunately.

    Manders, I don't understand: What do you mean?

    Mrs. Alving. If I were not such a miserable coward, I would say to him:
    "Marry her, or make any arrangement you like with her--only let there
    be no deceit in the matter."

    Manders. Heaven forgive you! Are you actually suggesting anything so
    abominable, so unheard of, as a marriage between them!

    Mrs. Alving. Unheard of, do you call it? Tell me honestly, Mr. Manders,
    don't you suppose there are plenty of married couples out here in the
    country that are just as nearly related as they are?

    Manders. I am sure I don't understand you.

    Mrs. Alving. Indeed you do.

    Manders. I suppose you are thinking of cases where possibly--. It is
    only too true, unfortunately, that family life is not always as
    stainless as it should be. But as for the sort of thing you hint
    at--well, it's impossible to tell, at all events, with any certainty.
    Here on the other hand--for you, a mother, to be willing to allow your--

    Mrs. Alving. But I am not willing to allow it; I would not allow it for
    anything in the world; that is just what I was saying.

    Manders. No, because you are a coward, as you put it. But, supposing
    you were not a coward--! Great heavens--such a revolting union!

    Mrs. Alving. Well, for the matter of that, we are all descended from a
    union of that description, so we are told. And who was it that was
    responsible for this state of things, Mr. Manders?

    Manders. I can't discuss such questions with you, Mrs. Alving; you are
    by no means in the right frame of mind for that. But for you to dare to
    say that it is cowardly of you--!

    Mrs. Alving. I will tell you what I mean by that. I am frightened and
    timid, because I am obsessed by the presence of ghosts that I never can
    get rid of.

    Manders. The presence of what?

    Mrs. Alving. Ghosts. When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it was
    just like seeing ghosts before my eyes. I am half inclined to think we
    are all ghosts, Mr. Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from
    our fathers and mothers that exists again in us, but all sorts of old
    dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs and things of that kind.
    They are not actually alive in us; but there they are dormant, all the
    same, and we can never be rid of them. Whenever I take up a newspaper
    and read it, I fancy I see ghosts creeping between the lines. There
    must be ghosts all over the world. They must be as countless as the
    grains of the sands, it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of
    the light, all of us.

    Manders. Ah!--there we have the outcome of your reading. Fine fruit it
    has borne--this abominable, subversive, free-thinking literature!

    Mrs. Alving. You are wrong there, my friend. You are the one who made
    me begin to think; and I owe you my best thanks for it.

    Menders. I!

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, by forcing me to submit to what you called my duty
    and my obligations; by praising as right and lust what my whole soul
    revolted against, as it would against something abominable. That was
    what led me to examine your teachings critically. I only wanted to
    unravel one point in them; but as soon as I had got that unravelled,
    the whole fabric came to pieces. And then I realised that it was only
    machine-made.

    Manders (softly, and with emotion). Is that all I accomplished by the
    hardest struggle of my life?

    Mrs. Alving. Call it rather the most ignominious defeat of your life.

    Manders. It was the greatest victory of my life, Helen; victory over
    myself.

    Mrs. Alving. It was a wrong done to both of us.

    Manders. A wrong?--wrong for me to entreat you as a wife to go back to
    your lawful husband, when you came to me half distracted and crying:
    "Here I am, take me!" Was that a wrong?

    Mrs. Alving. I think it was.

    Menders. We two do not understand one another.

    Mrs. Alving. Not now, at all events.

    Manders. Never--even in my most secret thoughts--have I for a moment
    regarded you as anything but the wife of another.

    Mrs. Alving. Do you believe what you say?

    Manders. Helen--!

    Mrs. Alving. One so easily forgets one's own feelings. Manders. Not I.
    I am the same as I always was.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes--don't let us talk any more about the old days.
    You are buried up to your eyes now in committees and all sorts of
    business; and I am here, fighting with ghosts both without and within
    me.

    Manders. I can at all events help you to get the better of those
    without you. After all that I have been horrified to hear you from
    today, I cannot conscientiously allow a young defenceless girl to
    remain in your house.

    Mrs. Alving. Don't you think it would be best if we could get her
    settled?--by some suitable marriage, I mean.

    Manders. Undoubtedly. I think, in any case, it would have been
    desirable for her. Regina is at an age now that--well, I don't know
    much about these things, but--

    Mrs. Alving. Regina developed very early.

    Manders. Yes, didn't she. I fancy I remember thinking she was
    remarkably well developed, bodily, at the time I prepared her for
    Confirmation. But, for the time being, she must in any case go home.
    Under her father's care--no, but of course Engstrand is not. To think
    that he, of all men, could so conceal the truth from me! (A knock is
            heard at the hall door.)

    Mrs. Alving. Who can that be? Come in!

(ENGSTRAND, dressed in his Sunday clothes, appears in the doorway.)

    Engstrand. I humbly beg pardon, but--

    Manders. Aha! Hm!

    Mrs. Alving. Oh, it's you, Engstrand!

    Engstrand. There were none of the maids about, so I took the great
    liberty of knocking.

    Mrs. Alving. That's all right. Come in. Do you want to speak to me?

    Engstrand (coming in). No, thank you very much, ma'am. It was Mr.
    Menders I wanted to speak to for a moment.

    Manders (walking up and down). Hm!--do you. You want to speak to me, do
    you?

    Engstrand. Yes, sir, I wanted so very much to--

    Manders (stopping in front of him). Well, may I ask what it is you want?

    Engstrand. It's this way, Mr. Manders. We are being paid off now. And
    many thanks to you, Mrs. Alving. And now the work is quite finished, I
    thought it would be so nice and suitable if all of us, who have worked
    so honestly together all this time, were to finish up with a few
    prayers this evening.

    Manders. Prayers? Up at the Orphanage?

    Engstrand. Yes, sir, but if it isn't agreeable to you, then--

    Manders. Oh, certainly--but--hm!--

    Engstrand. I have made a practice of saying a few prayers there myself
    each evening.

    Mrs. Alving. Have you?

    Engstrand. Yes, ma'am, now--and then--just as a little edification, so
    to speak. But I am only a poor common man, and haven't rightly the
    gift, alas--and so I thought that as Mr. Manders happened to be here,
    perhaps--

    Manders. Look here, Engstrand! First of all I must ask you a question.
    Are you in a proper frame of mind for such a thing? Is your conscience
    free and untroubled?

    Engstrand. Heaven have mercy on me a sinner! My conscience isn't worth
    our speaking about, Mr. Manders.

    Manders. But it is just what we must speak about. What do you say to my
    question?

    Engstrand. My conscience? Well--it's uneasy sometimes, of course.

    Manders. Ah, you admit that at all events. Now will you tell me,
    without any concealment--what is your relationship to Regina?

    Mrs. Alving (hastily). Mr. Manders!

    Manders (calming her).--Leave it to me!

    Engstrand. With Regina? Good Lord, how you frightened me! (Looks at MRS
            ALVING.) There is nothing wrong with Regina, is there?

    Manders. Let us hope not. What I want to know is, what is your
    relationship to her? You pass as her father, don't you?

    Engstrand (unsteadily): Well--hm!--you know, sir, what happened between
                            me and my poor Joanna.

                            Manders. No more distortion of the truth! Your late wife made a full
                            confession to Mrs. Alving, before she left her service...

                            Engstrand. What!--do you mean to say--? Did she do that after all?

                            Manders. You see it has all come out, Engstrand.

                            Engstrand. Do you mean to say that she, who gave me her promise and
                            solemn oath--

                            Manders. Did she take an oath?

                            Engstrand. Well, no--she only gave me her word, but as seriously as a
                            woman could.

                            Manders. And all these years you have been hiding the truth from
                            me--from me, who have had such complete and absolute faith in you.

                            Engstrand. I am sorry to say I have, sir.

                            Manders. Did I deserve that from you, Engstrand? Haven't I been always
                            ready to help you in word and deed as far as lay in my power? Answer
                            me! Is it not so?

                            Engstrand. Indeed there's many a time I should have been very badly off
                            without you, sir.

                            Manders. And this is the way you repay me--by causing me to make false
                            entries in the church registers, and afterwards keeping back from me
                            for years the information which you owed it both to me and to your
                            sense of the truth to divulge. Your conduct has been absolutely
                            inexcusable, Engstrand, and from today everything is at an end between
                            us.

                            Engstrand (with a sigh). Yes, I can see that's what it means.

                            Manders. Yes, because how can you possibly justify what you did?

                            Engstrand. Was the poor girl to go and increase her load of shame by
                            talking about it? Just suppose, sir, for a moment that your reverence
                            was in the same predicament as my poor Joanna.

                            Manders. I!

                            Engstrand. Good Lord, sir, I don't mean the same predicament. I mean,
                            suppose there were something your reverence was ashamed of in the eyes
                            of the world, so to speak. We men ought not judge a poor woman too
                            hardly, Mr. Manders.

                            Manders. But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming.

                            Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small
                            question?

                            Manders. Ask away.

                            Engstrand. Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up the
                            fallen?

                            Manders. Of course it is.

                            Engstrand. And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honour?

                            Manders. Certainly he is; but--

                            Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this
                            Englishman--or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they call
                            'em--well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had refused me
                            once or twice before; she only had eyes for good-looking men in those
                            days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your reverence will remember how
                            I had ventured up into a dancing-saloon where seafaring men were
                            revelling in drunkenness and intoxication, as they say. And when I
                            tried to exhort them to turn from their evil ways--

                            Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem!

                            Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know--the rough brutes threw you
                            downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The affliction
                            to your leg is a credit to you.

                            Engstrand. I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence. But
                            what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided in me
                            with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it went to my
                            heart to hear her.

                            Manders. Did it, indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then?

                            Engstrand. Well, then I said to her: "The American is roaming about on
                            the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna," I said, "you have committed a
                            sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands Jacob Engstrand," I said,
                            "on two strong legs"--of course that was only speaking in a kind of
                            metaphor, as it were, your reverence.

                            Manders. I quite understand. Go on.

                            Engstrand. Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her my lawful
                            wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she had carried on with
                            the stranger.

                            Manders. That was all very kindly done. The only thing I cannot justify
                            was your bringing yourself to accept the money.

                            Engstrand. Money? I? Not a farthing.

                            Manders (to MRS. ALVING, in a questioning tare). But--

                            Engstrand. Ah, yes!--wait a bit; I remember now. Joanna did have a
                            trifle of money, you are quite right. But I didn't want to know
                            anything about that. "Fie," I said, "on the mammon of unrighteousness,
                            it's the price of your sin; as for this tainted gold"--or notes, or
                            whatever it was--"we will throw it back in the American's face," I
                            said. But he had gone away and disappeared on the stormy seas, your
                            reverence.

                            Manders. Was that how it was, my good fellow?

                            Engstrand. It was, sir. So then Joanna and I decided that the money
                            should go towards the child's bringing-up, and that's what became of
                            it; and I can give a faithful account of every single penny of it.

                            Manders. This alters the complexion of the affair very considerably.

                            Engstrand. That's how it was, your reverence. And I make bold to say
                            that I have been a good father to Regina--as far as was in my
                            power--for I am a poor erring mortal, alas!

                            Manders. There, there, my dear Engstrand.

                            Engstrand. Yes, I do make bold to say that I brought up the child, and
                            made my poor Joanna a loving and careful husband, as the Bible says we
                            ought. But it never occurred to me to go to your reverence and claim
                            credit for it or boast about it because I had done one good deed in
                            this world. No; when Jacob Engstrand does a thing like that, he holds
                            his tongue about it. Unfortunately it doesn't often happen, I know that
                            only too well. And whenever I do come to see your reverence, I never
                            seem to have anything but trouble and wickedness to talk about.
                            Because, as I said just now--and I say it again--conscience can be very
                            hard on us sometimes.

                            Manders. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand,

                            Engstrand. Oh, sir, I don't like--

                            Manders. No nonsense, (Grasps his hand.) That's it!

                            Engstrand. And may I make bold humbly to beg your reverence's pardon--

                            Manders. You? On the contrary it is for me to beg your pardon--

                            Engstrand. Oh no, sir.

                            Manders. Yes, certainly it is, and I do it with my whole heart. Forgive
                            me for having so much misjudged you. And I assure you that if I can do
                            anything for you to prove my sincere regret and my goodwill towards
                            you--

                            Engstrand. Do you mean it, sir?

                            Manders. It would give me the greatest pleasure.

                            Engstrand. As a matter of fact, sir, you could do it now. I am thinking
                            of using the honest money I have put away out of my wages up here, in
                            establishing a sort of Sailors' Home in the town.

                            Mrs. Alving. You?

                            Engstrand. Yes, to be a sort of Refuge, as it were, There are such
                            manifold temptations lying in wait for sailor men when they are roaming
                            about on shore. But my idea is that in this house of mine they should
                            have a sort of parental care looking after them.

                            Menders. What do you say to that, Mrs. Alving!

                            Engstrand. I haven't much to begin such a work with, I know; but Heaven
                            might prosper it, and if I found any helping hand stretched out to me,
                            then--

                            Manders. Quite so; we will talk over the matter further. Your project
                            attracts me enormously. But in the meantime go back to the Orphanage
                            and put everything tidy and light the lights, so that the occasion may
                            seem a little solemn. And then we will spend a little edifying time
                            together, my dear Engstrand, for now I am sure you are in a suitable
                            frame of mind.

                            Engstrand. I believe I am, sir, truly. Goodbye, then, Mrs. Alving, and
                            thank you for all your kindness; and take good care of Regina for me.
                            (Wipes a tear from his eye.) Poor Joanna's child--it is an
                            extraordinary thing, but she seems to have grown into my life and to
                            hold me by the heartstrings. That's how I feel about it, truly. (Bows,
                                    and goes out.)

                            Manders. Now then, what do you think of him, Mrs Alving! That was quite
                            another explanation that he gave us.

                            Mrs. Alving. It was, indeed.

                            Manders. There, you see how exceedingly careful we ought to be in
                            condemning our fellow-men. But at the same time it gives one genuine
                            pleasure to find that one was mistaken. Don't you think so?

                            Mrs. Alving. What I think is that you are, and always will remain, a
                            big baby, Mr. Manders.

                            Menders. I?

                            Mrs. Alving (laying her hands on his shoulders). And I think that I
                            should like very much to give you a good hug.

                            Manders (drawing beck hastily). No, no, good gracious! What an idea!

                            Mrs. Alving (with a smile). Oh, you needn't be afraid of me.

                            Manders (standing by the table). You choose such an extravagant way of
                            expressing yourself sometimes. Now I must get these papers together and
                            put them in my bag. (Does so.) That's it. And now goodbye, for the
                            present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I will come back
                            and see you again presently.

                            (He takes his hat and goes out by the hall door. MRS. ALVING sighs,
                             glances out of the window, puts one or two things tidy in the room and
                             turns to go into the dining-room. She stops in the doorway with a
                             stifled cry.)

                            Mrs. Alving. Oswald, are you still sitting at table!

                            Oswald (from the dining-room). I am only finishing my cigar.

                            Mrs. Alving. I thought you had gone out for a little turn.

                            Oswald (from within the room). In weather like this? (A glass is heard
                                    clinking. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down with her
                                    knitting on the couch by the window.) Wasn't that Mr. Manders that went
                            out just now?

                            Mrs. Alving. Yes, he has gone over to the Orphanage.

Oswald. Oh. (The clink of a bottle on a glass is heard again.)

    Mrs. Alving (with an uneasy expression.) Oswald, dear, you should be
    careful with that liqueur. It is strong.

    Oswald. It's a good protective against the damp.

    Mrs. Alving. Wouldn't you rather come in here?

    Oswald. You know you don't like smoking in there.

    Mrs. Alving. You may smoke a cigar in here, certainly.

    Oswald. All right; I will come in, then. Just one drop more. There!
    (Comes in, smoking a cigar, and shuts the door after him. A short
     silence.) Where has the parson gone?

    Mrs. Alving. I told you he had gone over to the Orphanage.

    Oswald. Oh, so you did.

    Mrs. Alving. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald,

    Oswald (holding his cigar behind his back). But it's so nice and cosy,
    mother dear. (Caresses her with one hand.) Think what it means to
    me--to have come home; to sit at my mother's own table, in my mother's
    own room, and to enjoy the charming meals she gives me.

    Mrs. Alving. My dear, dear boy!

    Oswald (a little impatiently, as he walks tip and down smoking.) And
    what else is there for me to do here? I have no occupation--

    Mrs. Alving. No occupation?

    Oswald. Not in this ghastly weather, when there isn't a blink of
    sunshine all day long. (Walks up and down the floor.) Not to be able to
    work, it's--!

    Mrs. Alving. I don't believe you were wise to come home.

    Oswald. Yes, mother; I had to.

    Mrs. Alving. Because I would ten times rather give up the happiness of
    having you with me, sooner than that you should--

    Oswald (standing still by the table). Tell me, mother--is it really
    such a great happiness for you to have me at home?

    Mrs. Alving. Can you ask?

    Oswald (crumpling up a newspaper). I should have thought it would have
    been pretty much the same to you whether I were here or away.

    Mrs. Alving. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald?

    Oswald. But you have been quite happy living without me so far.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, I have lived without you--that is true.

    (A silence. The dusk falls by degrees. OSWALD walks restlessly up and
     down. He has laid aside his cigar.) Oswald (stopping beside MRS.
         ALVING). Mother, may I sit on the couch beside you?

     Mrs. Alving. Of course, my dear boy.

     Oswald (sitting down). Now I must tell you something mother.

     Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What?

     Oswald (staring in front of him). I can't bear it any longer.

     Mrs. Alving. Bear what? What do you mean?

     Oswald (as before). I couldn't bring myself to write to you about it;
     and since I have been at home--

     Mrs. Alving (catching him by the arm). Oswald, what is it?

     Oswald. Both yesterday and today I have tried to push my thoughts away
     from me--to free myself from them. But I can't.

     Mrs. Alving (getting up). You must speak plainly, Oswald!

     Oswald (drawing her down to her seat again). Sit still, and I will try
     and tell you. I have made a great deal of the fatigue I felt after my
     journey--

     Mrs. Alving. Well, what of that?

     Oswald. But that isn't what is the matter. It is no ordinary fatigue--

     Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald!

     Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly.
     I am not exactly ill--not ill in the usual sense. (Takes his head in
             his hands.) Mother, it's my mind that has broken down--gone to
     pieces--I shall never be able to work anymore! (Buries his face in his
             hands and throws himself at her knees in an outburst of sobs.)

     Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it isn't
     true!

     Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be able to
     work anymore! Never--never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine
     anything so horrible!

     Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing happened?

     Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly
     understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must
     believe that of me, mother, I have never done that.

     Mrs. Alving. I haven't a doubt of it, Oswald.

     Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible disaster!

     Mrs. Alving. Oh, but it will all come right again, my dear precious
     boy. It is nothing but overwork. Believe me, that is so.

     Oswald (dully). I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so.

     Mrs. Alving. Tell me all about it.

     Oswald. Yes, I will.

     Mrs. Alving. When did you first feel anything?

     Oswald. It was just after I had been home last time and had got back to
     Paris. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head--mostly at the
     back, I think. It was as if a tight band of iron was pressing on me
     from my neck upwards.

     Mrs. Alving. And then?

     Oswald. At first I thought it was nothing but the headaches I always
     used to be so much troubled with while I was growing.

     Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes.

     Oswald. But it wasn't; I soon saw that. I couldn't work any longer. I
     would try and start some big new picture; but it seemed as if all my
     faculties had forsaken me, as if all my strengths were paralysed. I
     couldn't manage to collect my thoughts; my head seemed to
     swim--everything went round and round. It was a horrible feeling! At
     last I sent for a doctor--and from him I learned the truth.

     Mrs. Alving. In what way, do you mean?

     Oswald. He was one of the best doctors there. He made me describe what
     I felt, and then he began to ask me a whole heap of questions which
     seemed to me to have nothing to do with the matter. I couldn't see what
     he was driving at--

     Mrs. Alving. Well?

     Oswald. At last he said: "You have had the canker of disease in you
     practically from your birth"--the actual word he used was "vermoulu"...

     Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What did he mean by that? Oswald. I couldn't
     understand, either--and I asked him for a clearer explanation, And then
     the old cynic said--(clenching his fist). Oh!

     Mrs. Alving. What did he say?

     Oswald. He said: "The sins of the fathers are visited on the children."

     Mrs. Alving (getting up slowly). The sins of the fathers--!

     Oswald. I nearly struck him in the face.

     Mrs. Alving (walking across the room). The sins of the fathers--!

     Oswald (smiling sadly). Yes, just imagine! Naturally I assured him that
     what he thought was impossible. But do you think he paid any heed to
     me? No, he persisted in his opinion; and it was only when I got out
     your letters and translated to him all the passages that referred to my
     father--

     Mrs. Alving. Well, and then?

     Oswald. Well, then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong
     track; and then I learned the truth--the incomprehensible truth! I
     ought to have had nothing to do with the joyous happy life I had lived
     with my comrades. It had been too much for my strength. So it was my
     own fault!

     Mrs. Alving. No, no, Oswald! Don't believe that--

     Oswald. There was no other explanation of it possible, he said. That is
     the most horrible part of it. My whole life incurably ruined--just
     because of my own imprudence. All that I wanted to do in the world-=not
     to dare to think of it any more--not to be able to think of it! Oh! if
     only I could live my life over again--if only I could undo what I have
     done! (Throws himself on his face on the couch. MRS. ALVING wrings her
             hands, and walks up and down silently fighting with herself.)

     Oswald (looks up after a while, raising himself on his elbows). If only
     it had been something I had inherited--something I could not help. But,
     instead of that, to have disgracefully, stupidly, thoughtlessly thrown
     away one's happiness, one's health, everything in the world--one's
     future, one's life!

     Mrs. Alving. No, no, my darling boy; that is impossible! (Bending over
             him.) Things are not so desperate as you think.

     Oswald. Ah, you don't know--(Springs up.) And to think, mother, that I
     should bring all this sorrow upon you! Many a time I have almost wished
     and hoped that you really did not care so very much for me.

     Mrs. Alving. I, Oswald? My only son! All that I have in the world! The
     only thing I care about!

     Oswald (taking hold of her hands and kissing them). Yes, yes, I know
     that is so. When I am at home I know that is true. And that is one of
     the hardest parts of it to me. But now you know all about it; and now
     we won't talk anymore about it today. I can't stand thinking about it
     long at a time. (Walks across the room.) Let me have something to
     drink, mother!

     Mrs. Alving. To drink? What do you want?

     Oswald. Oh, anything you like. I suppose you have got some punch in the
     house.

     Mrs. Alving. Yes, but my dear Oswald--!

     Oswald. Don't tell me I mustn't, mother. Do be nice! I must have
     something to drown these gnawing thoughts. (Goes into the
             conservatory.) And how--how gloomy it is here! (MRS. ALVING rings the
                 bell.) And this incessant rain. It may go on week after week--a whole
             month. Never a ray of sunshine. I don't remember ever having seen the
             sunshine once when I have been at home.

             Mrs. Alving. Oswald--you are thinking of going away from me!

             Oswald. Hm!--(sighs deeply). I am not thinking about anything. I can't
             think about anything! (In a low voice.) I have to let that alone.

             Regina (coming from the dining-room). Did you ring, ma'am?

             Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us have the lamp in.

             Regina. In a moment, ma'am; it is all ready lit. (Goes out.)

             Mrs. Alving (going up to OSWALD). Oswald, don't keep anything back from
             me.

             Oswald. I don't, mother. (Goes to the table.) It seems to me I have
             told you a good lot.

(REGINA brings the lamp and puts it upon the table.)

    Mrs. Alving. Regina, you might bring us a small bottle of champagne.

    Regina. Yes, ma'am. (Goes out.)

    Oswald (taking hold of his mother's face). That's right; I knew my
    mother wouldn't let her son go thirsty.

    Mrs. Alving. My poor dear boy, how could I refuse you anything now?

    Oswald (eagerly). Is that true, mother? Do you mean it?

    Mrs. Alving. Mean what?

    Oswald. That you couldn't deny me anything?

    Mrs. Alving. My dear Oswald--

    Oswald. Hush!

    (REGINA brings in a tray with a small bottle of champagne and two
     glasses, which she puts on the table.)

    Regina. Shall I open the bottle?

Oswald. No, thank you, I will do it. (REGINA goes out.)

    Mrs. Alving (sitting clown at the table). What did you mean, when you
    asked if I could refuse you nothing?

    Oswald (busy opening the bottle). Let us have a glass first--or two.

(He draws the cork, fills one glass and is going to fill the other.)

    Mrs. Alving (holding her hand over the second glass) No, thanks--not
    for me.

    Oswald. Oh, well, for me then! (He empties his glass, fills it again
            and empties it; then sits down at the table.)

    Mrs. Alving (expectantly). Now, tell me.

    Oswald (without looking at her). Tell me this; I thought you and Mr.
    Manders seemed so strange--so quiet--at dinner.

    Mrs. Alving. Did you notice that?

    Oswald. Yes. Ahem! (After a short pause.) Tell me--what do you think of
    Regina?

    Mrs. Alving. What do I think of her?

    Oswald. Yes, isn't she splendid!

    Mrs. Alving. Dear Oswald, you don't know her as well as I do--

    Oswald. What of that?

    Mrs. Alving. Regina was too long at home, unfortunately. I ought to
    have taken her under my charge sooner.

    Oswald. Yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, mother? (Fills his
            glass,)

    Mrs. Alving. Regina has many serious faults--

Oswald. Yes, but what of that? (Drinks.)

    Mrs. Alving. But I am fond of her, all the same; and I have made myself
    responsible for her. I wouldn't for the world she should come to any
    harm.

    Oswald (jumping up). Mother, Regina is my only hope of salvation!

    Mrs. Alving (getting up). What do you mean?

    Oswald. I can't go on bearing all this agony of mind alone.

    Mrs. Alving, Haven't you your mother to help you to bear it?

    Oswald. Yes, I thought so; that was why I came home to you. But it is
    no use; I see that it isn't. I cannot spend my life here.

    Mrs. Alving. Oswald!

    Oswald. I must live a different sort of life, mother; so I shall have
    to go away from you, I don't want you watching it.

    Mrs. Alving. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, as long as you are ill like
    this--

    Oswald. If it was only a matter of feeling ill, I would stay with you,
    mother. You are the best friend I have in the world.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, I am that, Oswald, am I not?

    Oswald (walking restlessly about). But all this torment--the regret,
    the remorse--and the deadly fear. Oh--this horrible fear!

    Mrs. Alving (following him). Fear? Fear of what? What do you mean?

    Oswald. Oh, don't ask me any more about it. I don't know what it is. I
    can't put it into words. (MRS. ALVING crosses the room and rings the
            bell.) What do you want?

    Mrs. Alving. I want my boy to be happy, that's what I want. He mustn't
    brood over anything. (To REGINA, who has come to the door.) More
    champagne--a large bottle.

    Oswald. Mother!

    Mrs. Alving. Do you think we country people don't know how to live?

    Oswald. Isn't she splendid to look at? What a figure! And the picture
    of health!

    Mrs. Alving (sitting down at the table). Sit down, Oswald, and let us
    have a quiet talk.

    Oswald (sitting down). You don't know, mother, that I owe Regina a
    little reparation.

    Mrs. Alving. You!

    Oswald. Oh, it was only a little thoughtlessness--call it what you
    like. Something quite innocent, anyway. The last time I was home--

    Mrs. Alving. Yes?

    Oswald. --she used often to ask me questions about Paris, and I told
    her one thing and another about the life there. And I remember saying
    one day: "Wouldn't you like to go there yourself?"

    Mrs. Alving. Well?

    Oswald. I saw her blush, and she said: "Yes, I should like to very
    much." "All right." I said, "I daresay it might be managed"--or
    something of that sort.

    Mrs. Alving. And then?

    Oswald. I naturally had forgotten all about it; but the day before
    yesterday I happened to ask her if she was glad I was to be so long at
    home--

    Mrs. Alving. Well?

    Oswald. --and she looked so queerly at me, and asked: "But what is to
    become of my trip to Paris?"

    Mrs. Alving. Her trip!

    Oswald. And then I got it out of her that she had taken the thing
    seriously, and had been thinking about me all the time, and had set
    herself to learn French--

    Mrs. Alving. So that was why--

    Oswald. Mother--when I saw this fine, splendid, handsome girl standing
    there in front of me--I had never paid any attention to her before
    then--but now, when she stood there as if with open arms ready for me
    to take her to myself--

    Mrs. Alving. Oswald!

    Oswald. --then I realised that my salvation lay in her, for I saw the
    joy of life in her!

    Mrs. Alving (starting back). The joy of life--? Is there salvation in
    that?

    Regina (coming in from the dining-room with a bottle of champagne).
    Excuse me for being so long; but I had to go to the cellar. (Puts the
            bottle down on the table.)

    Oswald. Bring another glass, too.

    Regina (looking at him in astonishment). The mistress's glass is there,
    sir.

    Oswald. Yes, but fetch one for yourself, Regina (REGINA starts, and
            gives a quick shy glance at MRS. ALVING.) Well?

    Regina (in a low and hesitating voice). Do you wish me to, ma'am?

    Mrs. Alving. Fetch the glass, Regina. (REGINA goes into the
            dining-room.)

    Oswald (looking after her). Have you noticed how well she walks?--so
    firmly and confidently!

    Mrs. Alving. It cannot be, Oswald.

    Oswald. It is settled. You must see that. It is no use forbidding it.
(REGINA comes in with a glass, which she holds in her hand.) Sit down,
    Regina. (REGINA looks questioningly at MRS. ALVING.)

    Mrs. Alving. Sit down. (REGINA sits down on a chair near the
            dining-room door, still holding the glass in her hand.) Oswald, what
    was it you were saying about the joy of life?

    Oswald. Ah, mother--the joy of life! You don't know very much about
    that at home here. I shall never realise it here.

    Mrs. Alving. Not even when you are with me?

    Oswald. Never at home. But you can't understand that.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed I almost think I do understand you now.

    Oswald. That--and the joy of work. They are really the same thing at
    bottom. Put you don't know anything about that either.

    Mrs. Alving. Perhaps you are right. Tell me some more about it, Oswald.

    Oswald. Well, all I mean is that here people are brought up to believe
    that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is a state
    of wretchedness and that the sooner we can get out of it the better.

    Mrs. Alving. A vale of tears, yes.  And we quite conscientiously make
    it so.

    Oswald. But the people over there will have none of that. There is no
    one there who really believes doctrines of that kind any longer. Over
    there the mere fact of being alive is thought to be a matter for
    exultant happiness. Mother, have you noticed that everything I have
    painted has turned upon the joy of life?--always upon the joy of life,
    unfailingly. There is light there, and sunshine, and a holiday
    feeling--and people's faces beaming with happiness. That is why I am
    afraid to stay at home here with you.

    Mrs. Alving. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me?

    Oswald. I am afraid that all these feelings that are so strong in me
    would degenerate into something ugly here.

    Mrs. Alving (looking steadily at him). Do you think that is what would
    happen?

    Oswald. I am certain it would. Even if one lived the same life at home
    here, as over there--it would never really be the same life.

    Mrs. Alving (who has listened anxiously to him, gets up with a
            thoughtful expression and says:) Now I see clearly how it all happened.

    Oswald. What do you see?

    Mrs. Alving. I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak.

    Oswald (getting up). Mother, I don't understand you.

    Regina (who has got up also). Perhaps I had better go.

    Mrs. Alving. No, stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my son, you shall
    know the whole truth. Oswald! Regina!

    Oswald. Hush!--here is the parson.

(MANDERS comes in by the hall door.)

    Manders. Well, my friends, we have been spending an edifying time over
    there.

    Oswald. So have we.

    Manders. Engstrand must have help with his Sailors Home. Regina must go
    home with him and give him her assistance.

    Regina. No, thank you, Mr. Manders.

    Manders (perceiving her for the first time). What--? You in here? --and
    with a wineglass in your hand!

    Regina (putting down the glass hastily). I beg your pardon--!

    Oswald. Regina is going away with me, Mr. Manders.

    Manders. Going away! With you!

    Oswald. Yes, as my wife--if she insists on that.

    Manders. But, good heavens--!

    Regina. It is not my fault, Mr. Manders.

    Oswald. Or else she stays here if I stay.

    Regina (involuntarily). Here!

    Manders. I am amazed at you, Mrs. Alving.

    Mrs. Alving. Neither of those things will happen, for now I can speak
    openly.

    Manders. But you won't do that! No, no, no!

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, I can and I will. And without destroying anyone's
    ideals.

    Oswald. Mother, what is it that is being concealed from me?

    Regina (listening). Mrs. Alving! Listen! They are shouting outside.

(Goes into the conservatory and looks out.)

    Oswald (going to the window on the left). What can be the matter? Where
    does that glare come from?

    Regina (calls out). The Orphanage is on fire!

    Mrs. Alving (going to the window). On fire?

    Manders. On fire? Impossible. I was there just a moment ago.

    Oswald. Where is my hat? Oh, never mind that. Father's Orphanage--!

(Runs out through the garden door.)

    Mrs. Alving. My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in flames.

    Manders. How terrible! Mrs. Alving, that fire is a judgment on this
    house of sin!

    Mrs. Alving. Quite so. Come, Regina.

(She and REGINA hurry out.)

Manders (clasping his hands). And no insurance! (Follows them out.)

 The scene is unchanged, but now it has stopped raining and a mist obscures the outside landscape. With dinner finished, Oswald out for a walk, and Regina busy with the laundry, Mrs. Alving and Manders continue their conversation. She tells how she managed to hush up the scandal of Alving's conduct by providing Joanna with a handsome dowry and having her respectably married off to Jacob Engstrand. Manders is shocked that the carpenter lied to him by confessing of his "light behavior" with Joanna and so deceived the pastor to perform the ceremony. How could a man, "for a paltry seventy pounds" allow himself to be bound in marriage "to a fallen woman." Mrs. Alving points out that she was married to a "fallen man," but Manders says the two cases are as different as night and day. Yes, his hostess agrees, there was a great difference in the price paid, "between a paltry seventy pounds and a whole fortune"; besides, her family arranged the marriage, for she was in love with someone else at the time. To answer her meaningful glance, Manders weakly concludes that at least the match was made "in complete conformity with law and order." I often think that law and order are "at the bottom of all the misery in the world," retorts Mrs. Alving. She regrets her lifelong cowardice. Were she not such a coward in the name of law and order, she says, "I would have told Oswald all I have told you, from beginning to end." Manders points out that she taught her son to idealize his father and as a mother she must feel forbidden to shatter his illusions. "And what about the truth?" asks Mrs. Alving. "What about his ideals?" responds Manders, underlining Ibsen's basic equation that "ideals" equal "lies". Although Mrs. Alving wishes to quickly find a post for Regina before Oswald gets her in trouble, she regrets her cowardice. To prevent further deceit she should rather encourage the marriage or any other arrangement, she tells the pastor. Manders is shocked that she can suggest a relationship based on incest; as to her so-called cowardice, he denies there was any better way to tell Oswald of his father. By being a coward, Mrs. Alving explains, she succumbs to ghosts: I am frightened and timid because I am obsessed by the presence of ghosts that I never can get rid of . . . When I heard Regina and Oswald in there it was just like seeing ghosts before my eyes. I am half inclined to think we are all ghosts, Mr. Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from our fathers and mothers that exists again in us, but all sorts of old dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs and things of that kind. They are not actually alive in us, but there they are dormant all the same, and we can never be rid of them. Whenever I take up a newspaper and read it I fancy I see ghosts creeping between the lines. There must be ghosts all over the world. They must be countless as the grains of the sands, it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of the light, all of us. Manders blames these strange ideas on her reading -- this "subversive, free-thinking literature" -- but she says her ideas come from suffering what Manders himself praised "as right and just what my whole soul revolted against as it would against something abominable." You think it was wrong for me to entreat you as a wife to return to your lawful husband "when you came to me half distracted and crying, "Here I am, take me!'" asks the pastor. "I think it was," she answers. Manders declares he can no longer allow a young girl to remain in her house and Regina must go home to her father's care. At this moment there is a knock at the door. Engstrand enters, respectfully requesting the reverend to lead "all of us who have worked so honestly together" on the orphanage building in some concluding prayers. Closely questioning Engstrand about his marriage and other matters, Manders offers the carpenter a chance to explain what must "lie so heavy" on his conscience. The old man makes a fine show of piousness and sensitive feelings as he tells his story. Manders, with tears in his eyes at his flawless life, offers Engstrand a strong handshake of faith and friendship. The pastor, turning to his hostess, asks if she doesn't think that we must be "exceedingly careful" before "condemning our fellow men." "What I think is that you are, and always will remain, a big baby, Mr. Manders," she answers, and thinks that "I should like to give you a big hug!" Hurriedly, the pastor goes out to conduct the prayer meeting. Discovering Oswald in the dining room, Mrs. Alving sits down with him for a chat. Her son complains that, besides being constantly tired, the lack of sunshine prevents him from painting. This is no ordinary fatigue, he tells his mother, but it is part of a sickness a Paris doctor diagnosed for him. He was told he had this "canker of disease" since his birth. Oswald continues that "the old cynic said, 'The sins of the fathers are visited on the children.'" To prove that his father lived a dutiful, virtuous life, the boy read some of his mother's letters to the doctor. As Mrs. Alving softly repeats, "The sins of the fathers!" Oswald confesses of a single instance of "imprudence" that must have infected him. He despairs that he threw his life away for a brief pleasure and asks his mother for something to drink to drown "these gnawing thoughts." Regina brings in a lamp and fetches champagne. "I can't go on bearing this agony of mind alone," Oswald tells his mother. He would like to take Regina with him and leave home. Because she has "the joy of life in her" Regina will be his salvation. "The joy of life?" asks Mrs. Alving with a start, "Is there salvation in that?" Regina brings more wine and Oswald asks her to fetch a glass for herself. At her mistress' nod, the girl obeys and takes a seat at the table. Mrs. Alving wants to know more about the "joy of life." People here at home are taught to consider work as a curse and punishment for sin and that life is a state of wretchedness, Oswald explains. No one believes that in Paris, where "the mere fact of being alive is thought to be a matter for exultant happiness. There is light there and sunshine and a holiday feeling," he says. Oswald says he must leave home. If not, "all these feelings that are so strong in me would degenerate into something ugly here," he tells his mother. She regards him steadily for a moment. Now, for the first time, she murmurs, "I see clearly how it all happened. And now I can speak." She is about to tell Oswald and Regina the truth when Manders suddenly enters, cheerful from having spent an "edifying time" at the prayer meeting. He says he has decided that Engstrand needs help with the sailors' home and Regina must go and live with him. "Regina is going away with me," Oswald states, and Manders turns to Mrs. Alving in bewilderment. "That will not happen either," she declares, and despite the pastor's pleading is about to speak openly. At this moment they hear shouting outside and through the conservatory windows they see a red glare. The orphanage is ablaze. "Mrs. Alving, that fire is a judgment on this house of sin!" cries Manders. As they all rush out to the orphanage, he is left wringing his hands. "And no insurance," he moans, and then follows them.

