Chapter: (SCENE.--A large room looking upon a garden door in the left-hand wall,
 and two in the right. In the middle of the room, a round table with
 chairs set about it, and books, magazines and newspapers upon it. In
 the foreground on the left, a window, by which is a small sofa with a
 work-table in front of it. At the back the room opens into a
 conservatory rather smaller than the room. From the right-hand side of
 this, a door leads to the garden. Through the large panes of glass that
 form the outer wall of the conservatory, a gloomy fjord landscape can
 be discerned, half-obscured by steady rain.

 ENGSTRAND is standing close to the garden door. His left leg is
 slightly deformed, and he wears a boot with a clump of wood under the
 sole. REGINA, with an empty garden-syringe in her hand, is trying to
 prevent his coming in.)

Regina (below her breath). What is it you want? Stay where you are. The
rain is dripping off you.

Engstrand. God's good rain, my girl.

Regina. The Devil's own rain, that's what it is!

Engstrand. Lord, how you talk, Regina. (Takes a few limping steps
        forward.) What I wanted to tell you was this--

Regina. Don't clump about like that, stupid! The young master is lying
asleep upstairs.

Engstrand. Asleep still? In the middle of the day?

Regina. Well, it's no business of yours.

Engstrand. I was out on a spree last night--

Regina. I don't doubt it.

Engstrand. Yes, we are poor weak mortals, my girl--

Regina. We are indeed.

Engstrand. --and the temptations of the world are manifold, you
know--but, for all that, here I was at my work at half-past five this
morning.

Regina. Yes, yes, but make yourself scarce now. I am not going to stand
here as if I had a rendezvous with you.

Engstrand. As if you had a what?

Regina. I am not going to have anyone find you here; so now you know,
    and you can go.

    Engstrand (coming a few steps nearer). Not a bit of it! Not before we
    have had a little chat. This afternoon I shall have finished my job
    down at the school house, and I shall be off home to town by tonight's
    boat.

    Regina (mutters). Pleasant journey to you!

    Engstrand. Thanks, my girl. Tomorrow is the opening of the Orphanage,
    and I expect there will be a fine kick-up here and plenty of good
    strong drink, don't you know. And no one shall say of Jacob Engstrand
    that he can't hold off when temptation comes in his way.

    Regina. Oho!

    Engstrand. Yes, because there will be a lot of fine folk here tomorrow.
    Parson Manders is expected from town, too.

    Regina: What's more, he's coming today.

    Engstrand. There you are! And I'm going to be precious careful he
    doesn't have anything to say against me, do you see?

    Regina. Oh, that's your game, is it?

    Engstrand. What do you mean?

    Regina (with a significant look at him). What is it you want to humbug
    Mr. Manders out of this time?

    Engstrand. Sh! Sh! Are you crazy? Do you suppose I would want to humbug
    Mr. Manders? No, no--Mr. Manders has always been too kind a friend for
    me to do that. But what I wanted to talk to you about, was my going
    back home tonight.

    Regina. The sooner you go, the better I shall be pleased.

    Engstrand. Yes, only I want to take you with me, Regina.

    Regina (open-mouthed). You want to take me--? What did you say?

    Engstrand. I want to take you home with me, I said.

    Regina (contemptuously). You will never get me home with you.

    Engstrand. Ah, we shall see about that.

    Regina. Yes, you can be quite certain we shall see about that. I, who
    have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving?--I, who have been
    treated almost as if I were her own child?--do you suppose I am going
    home with you?--to such a house as yours? Not likely!

    Engstrand. What the devil do you mean? Are you setting yourself up
    against your father, you hussy?

    Regina (mutters, without looking at him). You have often told me I was
    none of yours.

    Engstrand. Bah!--why do you want to pay any attention to that?

    Regina. Haven't you many and many a time abused me and called me a --?
    For shame?

    Engstrand. I'll swear I never used such an ugly word.

    Regina. Oh, it doesn't matter what word you used.

    Engstrand. Besides, that was only when I was a bit fuddled...hm!
    Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina.

    Regina. Ugh!

    Engstrand. And it was when your mother was in a nasty temper. I had to
    find some way of getting my knife into her, my girl. She was always so
    precious gentile. (Mimicking her.) "Let go, Jacob! Let me be! Please to
    remember that I was three years with the Alvings at Rosenvold, and they
    were people who went to Court!" (Laughs.) Bless my soul, she never
    could forget that Captain Alving got a Court appointment while she was
    in service here.

    Regina. Poor mother--you worried her into her grave pretty soon.

    Engstrand (shrugging his shoulders). Of course, of course; I have got
    to take the blame for everything.

    Regina (beneath her breath, as she turns away). Ugh--that leg, too!

    Engstrand. What are you saying, my girl?

    Regina. Pied de mouton.

    Engstrand. Is that English?

    Regina. Yes.

    Engstrand. You have had a good education out here, and no mistake; and
    it may stand you in good stead now, Regina.

    Regina (after a short silence). And what was it you wanted me to come
    to town for?

    Engstrand. Need you ask why a father wants his only child? Ain't I a
    poor lonely widower?

    Regina. Oh, don't come to me with that tale. Why do you want me to go?

    Engstrand. Well, I must tell you I am thinking of taking up a new line
    now.

    Regina (whistles). You have tried that so often--but it has always
    proved a fool's errand.

    Engstrand. Ah, but this time you will just see, Regina! Strike me dead
    if--

    Regina (stamping her foot). Stop swearing!

    Engstrand. Sh! Sh!--you're quite right, my girl, quite right! What I
    wanted to say was only this, that I have put by a tidy penny out of
    what I have made by working at this new Orphanage up here.

    Regina. Have you? All the better for you.

    Engstrand. What is there for a man to spend his money on, out here in
    the country?

    Regina. Well, what then?

    Engstrand. Well, you see, I thought of putting the money into something
    that would pay. I thought of some kind of an eating-house for seafaring
    folk--

    Regina. Heavens!

    Engstrand. Oh, a high-class eating-house, of course--not a pigsty for
    common sailors. Damn it, no; it would be a place ships' captains and
    first mates would come to; really good sort of people, you know.

    Regina. And what should I--?

    Engstrand. You would help there: But only to make show, you know. You
    wouldn't find it hard work, I can promise you, my girl. You should do
    exactly as you liked.

    Regina. Oh, yes, quite so!

    Engstrand. But we must have some women in the house; that is as clear
    as daylight. Because in the evening we must make the place a little
    attractive--some singing and dancing, and that sort of thing. Remember
    they are seafolk--wayfarers on the waters of life! (Coming nearer to
            her.) Now don't be a fool and stand in your own way, Regina. What good
    are you going to do here? Will this education, that your mistress has
    paid for, be of any use? You are to look after the children in the new
    Home, I hear. Is that the sort of work for you? Are you so frightfully
    anxious to go and wear out your health and strength for the sake of
    these dirty brats?

    Regina. No, if things were to go as I want them to, then--. Well, it
    may happen; who knows? It may happen!

    Engstrand. What may happen?

    Regina. Never you mind. Is it much that you have put by, up here?

    Engstrand. Taking it all round, I should say about forty or fifty
    pounds.

    Regina. That's not so bad.

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

    Regina. Don't you mean to give me any of the money?

    Engstrand. No, I'm hanged if I do.

    Regina. Don't you mean to send me as much as a dress-length of stuff,
    just for once?

    Engstrand. Come and live in the town with me and you shall have plenty
    of dresses.

    Regina: Pooh!--I can get that much for myself, if I have a mind to.

    Engstrand. But it's far better to have a father's guiding hand, Regina.
    Just now I can get a nice house in Little Harbour Street. They don't
    want much money down for it--and we could make it like a sort of
    seamen's home, don't you know.

    Regina. But I have no intention of living with you! I'll have nothing
    whatever to do with you: So now, be off!

    Engstrand. You wouldn't be living with me long, my girl. No such
    luck--not if you knew how to play your cards. Such a fine wench as you
    have grown this last year or two...

    Regina. Well--?

    Engstrand. It wouldn't be very long before some first mate came
    along--or perhaps a captain.

    Regina. I don't mean to marry a man of that sort. Sailors have no
    savoir-vivre.

    Engstrand. What haven't they got?

    Regina. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They aren't the sort of
    people to marry.

    Engstrand. Well, don't bother about marrying them. You can make it pay
    just as well. (More confidentially.) That fellow--the Englishman--the
    one with the yacht--he gave seventy pounds, he did; and she wasn't a
    bit prettier than you.

    Regina (advancing towards him). Get out!

    Engstrand (stepping back). Here! here!--you're not going to hit me, I
    suppose?

    Regina. Yes! If you talk like that of mother, I will hit you. Get out,
    I tell. You! (Pushes him up to the garden door.) And don't bang the
    doors. Young Mr. Alving--

    Engstrand. Is asleep--I know. It's funny how anxious you are about
    young Mr. Alving. (In a lower tone.) Oho! is it possible that it is he
    that--?

    Regina. Get out, and be quick about it! Your wits are wandering, my
    good man. No, don't go that way; Mr. Manders is just coming along. Be
    off down the kitchen stairs.

    Engstrand (moving towards the right). Yes, yes--all right. But have a
    bit of a chat with him that's coming along. He's the chap to tell you
    what a child owes to its father. For I am your father, anyway, you
    know, I can prove it by the Register. (He goes out through the farther
            door which REGINA has opened. She shuts it after him, looks hastily at
            herself in the mirror, fans herself with her handkerchief and sets her
            collar straight; then busies herself with the flowers. MANDERS enters
            the conservatory through the garden door. He wears an overcoat, carries
            an umbrella, and has a small travelling-bag slung over his shoulder on
            a strap.)

    Manders. Good morning, Miss Engstrand.

    Regina (turning round with a look of pleased surprise), Oh, Mr.
    Manders, good morning. The boat is in, then?

    Manders. Just in. (Comes into the room.) It is most tiresome, this rain
    every day.

    Regina (following him in). It's a splendid rain for the farmers, Mr.
    Manders.

    Manders. Yes, you are quite right. We townfolk think so little about
that. (Begins to take off his overcoat.)

    Regina. Oh, let me help you. That's it. Why, how wet it is! I will hang
    it up in the hall. Give me your umbrella, too; I will leave it open, so
    that it will dry.

    (She goes out with the things by the farther door on the right. MANDERS
     lays his bag and his hat down on a chair. REGINA re-enters.)

    Manders. Ah, it's very pleasant to get indoors. Well, is everything
    going on well here?

    Regina. Yes, thanks.

    Manders. Properly busy, though, I expect, getting ready for tomorrow?

    Regina. Oh, yes, there is plenty to do.

    Manders. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I hope?

    Regina. Yes, she is. She has just gone upstairs to take the young
    master his chocolate.

    Manders. Tell me--I heard down at the pier that Oswald had come back.

    Regina. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect him
    until today.

    Manders. Strong and well, I hope?

    Regina. Yes, thank you, well enough. But dreadfully tired after his
    journey. He came straight from Paris without a stop--I mean, he came
    all the way without breaking his journey. I fancy he is having a sleep
    now, so we must talk a little bit more quietly, if you don't mind.

    Manders. All right, we will be very quiet.

    Regina (while she moves an armchair up to the table), Please sit down,
    Mr. Manders, and make yourself at home. (He sits down; she puts a
            footstool under his feet.) There! Is that comfortable?

    Manders. Thank you, thank you. That is most comfortable; (Looks at
            her.) I'll tell you what, Miss Engstrand, I certainly think you have
    grown since I saw you last.

    Regina. Do you think so? Mrs. Alving says, too--that I have developed.

    Manders. Developed? Well, perhaps a little--just suitably. (A short
            pause.)

    Regina. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here?

    Manders. Thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child. Now tell me, Regina
    my dear, how has your father been getting on here?

    Regina. Thank you, Mr. Manders, he is getting on pretty well.

    Manders. He came to see me the last time he was in town.

    Regina. Did he? He is always so glad when he can have a chat with you.

    Manders. And I suppose you have seen him pretty regularly every day?

    Regina. I? Oh, yes, I do--whenever I have time, that is to say.

    Manders. Your father has not a very strong character, Miss Engstrand.
    He sadly needs a guiding hand.

    Regina. Yes, I can quite believe that.

    Manders. He needs someone with him that he can cling to, someone whose
    judgment he can rely on. He acknowledged that freely himself, the last
    time he came up to see me.

    Regina. Yes, he has said something of the same sort to me. But I don't
    know whether Mrs. Alving could do without me--most of all just now,
    when we have the new Orphanage to see about. And I should be dreadfully
    unwilling to leave Mrs. Alving, too; she has always been so good to me.

    Manders. But a daughter's duty, my good child--. Naturally we should
    have to get your mistress' consent first.

    Regina. Still I don't know whether it would be quite the thing, at my
    age, to keep house for a single man.

    Manders. What! My dear Miss Engstrand, it is your own father we are
    speaking of!

    Regina. Yes, I dare say, but still--. Now, if it were in a good house
    and with a real gentleman--

    Manders. But, my dear Regina!

    Regina. --one whom I could feel an affection for, and really feel in
    the position of a daughter to...

    Manders. Come, come--my dear good child--

    Regina. I should like very much to live in town.  Out here it is
    terribly lonely; and you know yourself, Mr. Manders, what it is to be
    alone in the world. And, though I say it, I really am both capable and
    willing. Don't you know any place that would be suitable for me, Mr.
    Manders?

    Manders. I? No, indeed I don't.

    Regina. But, dear Mr. Manders--at any rate don't forget me, in case--

    Manders (getting up). No, I won't forget you, Miss Engstrand.

    Regina. Because, if I--

    Manders. Perhaps you will be so kind as to let Mrs. Alving know I am
    here?

    Regina. I will fetch her at once, Mr. Manders. (Goes out to the left.
            MANDERS walks up and down the room once or twice, stands for a moment
            at the farther end of the room with his hands behind his back and looks
            out into the garden. Then he comes back to the table, takes up a book
            and looks at the title page, gives a start, and looks at some of the
            others.)

    Manders. Hm!--Really!

    (MRS. ALVING comes in by the door on the left. She is followed by
     REGINA, who goes out again at once through the nearer door on the
     right.)

    Mrs. Alving (holding out her hand). I am very glad to see you, Mr.
    Manders.

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

    Mrs. Alving. Always punctual!

    Manders. Indeed, I was hard put to it to get away. What with vestry
    meetings and committees.

    Mrs. Alving. It was all the kinder of you to come in such good time; we
    can settle our business before dinner. But where is your luggage?

    Manders (quickly). My things are down at the village shop. I am going
    to sleep there tonight.

    Mrs. Alving (repressing a smile). Can't I really persuade you to stay
    the night here this time?

    Manders. No, no; many thanks all the same; I will put up there, as
    usual. It is so handy for getting on board the boat again.

    Mrs. Alving. Of course, you shall do as you please. But it seems to me
    quite another thing, now we are two old people--

    Manders. Ha! ha! You will have your joke! And it's natural you should
    be in high spirits today--first of all there is the great event
    tomorrow, and also you have got Oswald home.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, am I not a lucky woman! It is more than two years
    since he was home last, and he has promised to stay the whole winter
    with me.

    Manders, Has he, really? That is very nice and filial of him; because
    there must be many more attractions in his life in Rome or in Paris, I
    should think.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, but he has his mother here, you see. Bless the dear
    boy, he has got a corner in his heart for his mother still.

    Manders. Oh, it would be very sad if absence and preoccupation with
    such a thing as Art were to dull the natural affections.

    Mrs. Alving. It would, indeed. But there is no fear of that with him, I
    am glad to say. I am quite curious to see if you recognise him again.
    He will be down directly; he is just lying down for a little on the
    sofa upstairs. But do sit down, my dear friend.

    Manders. Thank you. You are sure I am not disturbing you?

Mrs. Alving. Of course not. (She sits down at the table.)

    Manders. Good. Then I will show you--. (He goes to the chair where his
            bag is lying and takes a packet of papers from it; then sits down at
            the opposite side of the table and looks for a clear space to put the
            papers down.) Now first of all, here is--(breaks off). Tell me, Mrs.
    Alving, what are these books doing here?

    Mrs. Alving. These books? I am reading them,

    Manders. Do you read this sort of thing?

    Mrs. Alving. Certainly I do.

    Manders. Do you feel any the better or the happier for reading books of
    this kind?

    Mrs. Alving. I think it makes me, as it were, more self-reliant.

    Manders. That is remarkable. But why?

    Mrs. Alving. Well, they give me an explanation or a confirmation of
    lots of different ideas that have come into my own mind. But what
    surprises me, Mr. Manders, is that, properly speaking, there is nothing
    at all new in these books. There is nothing more in them than what most
    people think and believe. The only thing is, that most people either
    take no account of it or won't admit it to themselves.

    Manders. But, good heavens, do you seriously think that most people--?

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed, I do.

    Manders. But not here in the country at any rate? Not here amongst
    people like ourselves?

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, amongst people like ourselves too.

    Manders. Well, really, I must say--!

    Mrs. Alving. But what is the particular objection that you have to
    these books?

    Manders. What objection? You surely don't suppose that I take any
    particular interest in such productions?

    Mrs. Alving. In fact, you don't know anything about what you are
    denouncing?

    Manders. I have read quite enough about these books to disapprove of
    them:

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, but your own opinion--

    Manders. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one
    has to rely on the opinion of others. That is the way in this world,
    and it is quite right that it should be so. What would become of
    society, otherwise?

    Mrs. Alving. Well, you may be right.

    Manders. Apart from that, naturally I don't deny that literature of
    this kind may have a considerable attraction. And I cannot blame you,
    either, for wishing to make yourself acquainted with the intellectual
    tendencies which I am told are at work in the wider world in which you
    have allowed your son to wander for so long but--

    Mrs. Alving. But--?

    Manders (lowering his voice). But one doesn't talk about it, Mrs.
    Alving. One certainly is not called upon to account to everyone for
    what one reads or thinks in the privacy of one's own room.

    Mrs. Alving. Certainly not. I quite agree with you.

    Manders. Just think of the consideration you owe to this Orphanage,
    which you decided to build at a time when your thoughts on such
    subjects were very different from what they are now--as far as I am
    able to judge.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, I freely admit that. But it was about the Orphanage...

    Manders. It was about the Orphanage we were going to talk; quite so.
    Well--walk warily, dear Mrs. Alving! And now let us turn to the
    business in hand. (Opens an envelope and takes out some papers.) You
    see these?

    Mrs. Alving. The deeds?

    Manders. Yes, the whole lot--and everything in order; I can tell you it
    has been no easy matter to get them in time. I had positively to put
    pressure on the authorities; they are almost painfully conscientious
    when it is a question of settling property. But here they are at last.
    (Turns over the papers.) Here is the deed of conveyance of that part of
    the Rosenvold estate known as the Solvik property, together with the
    buildings newly erected thereon--the school, the masters' houses and
    the chapel. And here is the legal sanction for the statutes of the
    institution. Here, you see--(reads) "Statutes for the Captain Alving
    Orphanage."

    Mrs. Alving (after a long look at the papers). That seems all in order.

    Manders. I thought "Captain" was the better title to use, rather than
    your husband's Court title of "Chamberlain." "Captain" seems less
    ostentatious.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes; just as you think best.

    Manders. And here is the certificate for the investment of the capital
    in the bank, the interest being earmarked for the current expenses of
    the Orphanage.

    Mrs. Alving. Many thanks; but I think it will be most convenient if you
    will kindly take charge of them.

    Manders. With pleasure. I think it will be best to leave the money in
    the bank for the present. The interest is not very high, it is true;
    four per cent at six months' call; later on, if we can find some good
    mortgage--of course it must be a first mortgage and on unexceptionable
    security--we can consider the matter further.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Manders, you know best about all
    that.

    Manders. I will keep my eye on it, anyway. But there is one thing in
    connection with it that I have often meant to ask you about.

    Mrs. Alving. What is that?

    Manders. Shall we insure the buildings, or not?

    Mrs. Alving. Of course we must insure them.

    Manders. Ah, but wait a moment, dear lady. Let us look into the matter
    a little more closely.

    Mrs. Alving. Everything of mine is insured--the house and its contents,
    my livestock--everything.

    Manders. Naturally. They are your own property. I do exactly the same,
    of course. But this, you see, is quite a different case. The Orphanage
    is, so to speak, dedicated to higher uses.

    Mrs. Alving. Certainly, but--

    Manders. As far as I am personally concerned, I can conscientiously say
    that I don't see the smallest objection to our insuring ourselves
    against all risks.

    Mrs. Alving. That is exactly what I think.

    Manders. But what about the opinion of the people hereabouts?

    Mrs. Alving. Their opinion--?

    Manders. Is there any considerable body of opinion here--opinion of
    some account, I mean--that might take exception to it?

    Mrs. Alving. What, exactly, do you mean by opinion of some account?

    Manders. Well, I was thinking particularly of persons of such
    independent and influential position that one could hardly refuse to
    attach weight to their opinion.

    Mrs. Alving. There are a certain number of such people here, who might
    perhaps take exception to it if we--

    Manders. That's just it, you see. In town there are lots of them. All
    my fellow-clergymen's congregations, for instance! It would be so
    extremely easy for them to interpret it as meaning that neither you nor
    I had a proper reliance on Divine protection.

    Mrs. Alving. But as far as you are concerned, my dear friend, you have
    at all events the consciousness that--

    Manders. Yes I know I know; my own mind is quite easy about it, it is
    true. But we should not be able to prevent a wrong and injurious
    interpretation of our action. And that sort of thing, moreover, might
    very easily end in exercising a hampering influence on the work of the
    Orphanage.

    Mrs. Alving. Oh, well, if that is likely to be the effect of it--

    Manders. Nor can I entirely overlook the difficult--indeed, I may say,
    painful--position I might possibly be placed in. In the best circles in
    town the matter of this Orphanage is attracting a great deal of
    attention. Indeed the Orphanage is to some extent built for the benefit
    of the town too, and it is to be hoped that it may result in the
    lowering of our poor-rate by a considerable amount. But as I have been
    your adviser in the matter and have taken charge of the business side
    of it, I should be afraid that it would be I that spiteful persons
    would attack first of all.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, you ought not to expose yourself to that.

    Manders. Not to mention the attacks that would undoubtedly be made upon
    me in certain newspapers and reviews.

    Mrs. Alving. Say no more about it, dear Mr. Manders; that quite decides
    it.

    Manders. Then you don't wish it to be insured?

    Mrs. Alving. No, we will give up the idea.

    Manders (leaning back in his chair). But suppose, now, that some
    accident happened?--one can never tell--would you be prepared to make
    good the damage?

    Mrs. Alving. No; I tell you quite plainly I would not do so under any
    circumstances.

    Manders. Still, you know, Mrs. Alving--after all, it is a serious
    responsibility that we are taking upon ourselves.

    Mrs. Alving. But do you think we can do otherwise?

    Manders. No, that's just it. We really can't do otherwise. We ought not
    to expose ourselves to a mistaken judgment; and we have no right to do
    anything that will scandalise the community.

    Mrs. Alving. You ought not to, as a clergyman, at any rate.

    Manders. And, what is more, I certainly think that we may count upon
    our enterprise being attended by good fortune--indeed, that it will be
    under a special protection.

    Mrs. Alving. Let us hope so, Mr. Manders.

    Manders. Then we will leave it alone?

    Mrs. Alving. Certainly.

    Manders. Very good. As you wish. (Makes a note.) No insurance, then.

    Mrs. Alving. It's a funny thing that you should just have happened to
    speak about that today--

    Manders. I have often meant to ask you about it.

    Mrs. Alving. --because yesterday we very nearly had a fire up there.

    Manders. Do you mean it!

    Mrs. Alving. Oh, as a matter of fact it was nothing of any consequence.
    Some shavings in the carpenter's shop caught fire.

    Manders. Where Engstrand works?

    Mrs. Alving. Yes. They say he is often so careless with matches.

    Manders. He has so many things on his mind, poor fellow--so many
    anxieties. Heaven be thanked, I am told he is really making an effort
    to live a blameless life.

    Mrs. Alving. Really? Who told you so?

    Manders. He assured me himself that it is so. He's good workman, too.

    Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes, when he is sober.

    Manders. Ah, that sad weakness of his! But the pain in his poor leg
    often drives him to it, he tells me. The last time he was in town, I
    was really quite touched by him. He came to my house and thanked me so
    gratefully for getting him work here, where he could have the chance of
    being with Regina.

    Mrs. Alving. He doesn't see very much of her.

    Manders. But he assured me that he saw her every day.

    Mrs. Alving. Oh well, perhaps he does.

    Manders. He feels so strongly that he needs someone who can keep a hold
    on him when temptations assail him. That is the most winning thing
    about Jacob Engstrand; he comes to one like a helpless child and
    accuses himself and confesses his frailty. The last time he came and
    had a talk with me... Suppose now, Mrs. Alving, that it were really a
    necessity of his existence to have Regina at home with him again--

    Mrs. Alving (standing up suddenly). Regina!

    Manders. --you ought not to set yourself against him.

    Mrs. Alving. Indeed, I set myself very definitely against that. And,
    besides, you know Regina is to have a post in the Orphanage.

    Manders. But consider, after all he is her father--

    Mrs. Alving. I know best what sort of a father he has been to her. No,
    she shall never go to him with my consent.

    Manders (getting up). My dear lady, don't judge so hastily. It is very
    sad how you misjudge poor Engstrand. One would really think you were
    afraid...

    Mrs. Alving (more calmly). That is not the question. I have taken
    Regina into my charge, and in my charge she remains. (Listens.) Hush,
    dear Mr. Manders, don't say any more about it. (Her face brightens with
            pleasure.) Listen! Oswald is coming downstairs. We will only think
    about him now.

    (OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand and smoking a big
     meerschaum pipe, comes in by the door on the left.)

    Oswald (standing in the doorway). Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought you
    were in the office. (Comes in.) Good morning, Mr. Manders.

    Manders (staring at him). Well! It's most extraordinary.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders?

    Manders. I-I-no, can it possibly be--?

    Oswald. Yes, it really is the prodigal son, Mr. Manders.

    Manders. Oh, my dear young friend--

    Oswald. Well, the son came home, then.

    Mrs. Alving. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so opposed to
    the idea of his being a painter.

    Manders. We are only fallible, and many steps seem to us hazardous at
    first, that afterwards--(grasps his hand). Welcome, welcome! Really, my
    dear Oswald--may I still call you Oswald?

    Oswald. What else would you think of calling me?

    Manders. Thank you. What I mean, my dear Oswald, is that you must not
    imagine that I have any unqualified disapproval of the artist's life. I
    admit that there are many who, even in that career, can keep the inner
    man free from harm.

    Oswald. Let us hope so.

    Mrs. Alving (beaming with pleasure). I know one who has kept both the
    inner and the outer man free from harm. Just take a look at him, Mr.
    Manders.

    Oswald (walks across the room). Yes, yes, mother dear, of course.

    Manders. Undoubtedly--no one can deny it. And I hear you have begun to
    make a name for yourself. I have often seen mention of you in the
    papers--and extremely favourable mention, too. Although, I must admit,
    lately I have not seen your name so often.

    Oswald (going towards the conservatory). I haven't done so much
    painting just lately.

    Mrs. Alving. An artist must take a rest sometimes, like other people.

    Manders. Of course, of course. At those times the artist is preparing
    and strengthening himself for a greater effort.

    Oswald. Yes. Mother, will dinner soon be ready?

    Mrs. Alving. In half an hour. He has a fine appetite, thank goodness.

    Manders. And a liking for tobacco too.

    Oswald. I found father's pipe in the room upstairs, and--

    Manders. Ah, that is what it was!

    Mrs. Alving. What?

    Manders. When Oswald came in at that door with the pipe in his mouth, I
    thought for the moment it was his father in the flesh.

    Oswald. Really?

    Mrs. Alving. How can you say so! Oswald takes after me.

    Manders. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of his
    mouth--something about the lips--that reminds me so exactly of Mr.
    Alving--especially when he smokes.

    Mrs. Alving. I don't think so at all. To my mind, Oswald has much more
    of a clergyman's mouth.

    Menders. Well, yes--a good many of my colleagues in the church have a
    similar expression.

    Mrs. Alving. But put your pipe down, my dear boy. I don't allow any
    smoking in here.

    Oswald (puts down his pipe). All right, I only wanted to try it,
    because I smoked it once when I was a child.

    Mrs. Alving. You?

    Oswald. Yes; it was when I was quite a little chap. And I can remember
    going upstairs to father's room one evening when he was in very good
    spirits.

    Mrs. Alving. Oh, you can't remember anything about those days.

    Oswald. Yes, I remember plainly that he took me on his knee and let me
    smoke his pipe. "Smoke, my boy," he said, "have a good smoke, boy!" And
    I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was turning quite pale and
    the perspiration was standing in great drops on my forehead. Then he
    laughed--such a hearty laugh.

    Manders. It was an extremely odd thing to do.

    Mrs. Alving. Dear Mr. Manders, Oswald only dreamt it.

    Oswald. No indeed, mother, it was no dream. Because--don't you
    remember--you came into the room and carried me off to the nursery,
    where I was sick, and I saw that you were crying. Did father often play
    such tricks?

    Manders. In his young days he was full of fun--

    Oswald. And, for all that, he did so much with his life--so much that
    was good and useful, I mean--short as his life was.

    Manders. Yes, my dear Oswald Alving, you have inherited the name of a
    man who undoubtedly was both energetic and worthy. Let us hope it will
    be a spur to your energies.

    Oswald. It ought to be, certainly.

    Manders. In any case it was nice of you to come home for the day that
    is to honour his memory.

    Oswald. I could do no less for my father.

    Mrs. Alving. And to let me keep him so long here--that's the nicest
    part of what he has done.

    Manders. Yes, I hear you are going to spend the winter at home.

    Oswald. I am here for an indefinite time, Mr. Manders.--Oh, it's good
    to be at home again!

    Mrs. Alving (beaming). Yes, isn't it?

    Manders (looking sympathetically at him). You went out into the world
    very young, my dear Oswald.

    Oswald. I did. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't too young.

    Mrs. Alving. Not a bit of it. It is the best thing for an active boy,
    and especially for an only child. It's a pity when they are kept at
    home with their parents and get spoiled.

    Manders. That is a very debatable question, Mrs. Alving. A child's own
    home is, and always must be, his proper place.

    Oswald. There I agree entirely with Mr. Manders.

    Manders. Take the case of your own son. Oh yes, we can talk about it
    before him. What has the result been in his case? He is six or seven
    and twenty, and has never yet had the opportunity of learning what a
    well-regulated home means.

    Oswald. Excuse me, Mr. Manders, you are quite wrong there.

    Manders. Indeed? I imagined that your life abroad had practically been
    spent entirely in artistic circles.

    Oswald. So it has.

    Manders. And chiefly amongst the younger artists.

    Oswald. Certainly.

    Manders. But I imagined that those gentry, as a rule, had not the means
    necessary for family life and the support of a home.

    Oswald. There are a considerable number of them who have not the means
    to marry, Mr. Manders.

    Manders. That is exactly my point.

    Oswald. But they can have a home of their own, all the same; a good
    many of them have. And they are very well-regulated and very
    comfortable homes, too.

    (MRS. ALVING, who has listened to him attentively, nods assent, but
     says nothing.)

    Manders. Oh, but I am not talking of bachelor establishments. By a home
    I mean family life--the life a man lives with his wife and children.

    Oswald. Exactly, or with his children and his children's mother.

    Manders (starts and clasps his hands). Good heavens!

    Oswald. What is the matter?

    Manders. Lives with-with-his children's mother.

    Oswald. Well, would you rather he should repudiate his children's
    mother?

    Manders. Then what you are speaking of are those unprincipled
    conditions known as irregular unions!

    Oswald. I have never noticed anything particularly unprincipled about
    these people's lives.

    Manders. But do you mean to say that it is possible for a man of any
    sort of bringing up, and a young woman, to reconcile themselves to such
    a way of living--and to make no secret of it, either!

    Oswald. What else are they to do? A poor artist, and a poor girl--it
    costs a good deal to get married. What else are they to do?

    Manders. What are they to do? Well, Mr. Alving, I will tell you what
    they ought to do. They ought to keep away from each other from the very
    beginning--that is what they ought to do!

    Oswald. That advice wouldn't have much effect upon hot-blooded young
    folk who are in love.

    Mrs. Alving. No, indeed it wouldn't.

    Manders (persistently). And to think that the authorities tolerate such
things! That they are allowed to go on, openly! (Turns to MRS. ALVING.)
    Had I so little reason, then, to be sadly concerned about your son? In
    circles where open immorality is rampant--where, one may say, it is
    honoured--

    Oswald. Let me tell you this, Mr. Manders. I have been a constant
    Sunday guest at one or two of these "irregular" households.

    Manders. On Sunday, too!

    Oswald. Yes, that is the day of leisure. But never have I heard one
    objectionable word there, still less have I ever seen anything that
    could be called immoral. No; but do you know when and where I have met
    with immorality in artists' circles?

    Manders. No, thank heaven, I don't!

    Oswald. Well, then, I shall have the pleasure of telling you. I have
    met with it when someone or other of your model husbands and fathers
    have come out there to have a bit of a look round on their own account,
    and have done the artists the honour of looking them up in their humble
    quarters. Then we had a chance of learning something, I can tell you.
    These gentlemen were able to instruct us about places and things that
    we had never so much as dreamt of.

    Manders. What? Do you want me to believe that honourable men when they
    get away from home will--

    Oswald. Have you never, when these same honourable men come home again,
    heard them deliver themselves on the subject of the prevalence of
    immorality abroad?

    Manders. Yes, of course, but--

    Mrs. Alving. I have heard them, too.

    Oswald. Well, you can take their word for it, unhesitatingly. Some of
    them are experts in the matter. (Putting his hands to his head.) To
    think that the glorious freedom of the beautiful life over there should
    be so besmirched!

    Mrs. Alving. You mustn't get too heated, Oswald; you gain nothing by
    that.

    Oswald. No, you are quite right, mother. Besides, it isn't good for me.
    It's because I am so infernally tired, you know. I will go out and take
    a turn before dinner. I beg your pardon, Mr. Manders. It is impossible
    for you to realise the feeling; but it takes me that way (Goes out by
            the farther door on the right.)

    Mrs. Alving. My poor boy!

    Manders. You may well say so. This is what it has brought him to! (MRS.
            ALVING looks at him, but does not speak.) He called himself the
    prodigal son. It's only too true, alas--only too true! (MRS. ALVING
            looks steadily at him.) And what do you say to all this?

    Mrs. Alving. I say that Oswald was right in every single word he said.

    Manders. Right? Right? To hold such principles as that?

    Mrs. Alving. In my loneliness here I have come to just the same
    opinions as he, Mr. Manders. But I have never presumed to venture upon
    such topics in conversation. Now there is no need; my boy shall speak
    for me.

    Manders. You deserve the deepest pity, Mrs. Alving. It is my duty to
    say an earnest word to you. It is no longer your businessman and
    adviser, no longer your old friend and your dead husband's old friend,
    that stands before you now. It is your priest that stands before you,
    just as he did once at the most critical moment of your life.

    Mrs. Alving. And what is it that my priest has to say to me?

    Manders. First of all I must stir your memory. The moment is well
    chosen. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of your husband's death;
    tomorrow the memorial to the departed will be unveiled; tomorrow I
    shall speak to the whole assembly that will be met together, But today
    I want to speak to you alone.

    Mrs. Alving, Very well, Mr. Manders, speak!

    Manders. Have you forgotten that after barely a year of married life
    you were standing at the very edge of a precipice?--that you forsook
    your house and home? that you ran away from your husband--yes, Mrs.
    Alving, ran away, ran away-=and refused to return to him in spite of
    his requests and entreaties?

    Mrs. Alving. Have you forgotten how unspeakably unhappy I was during
    that first year?

    Manders. To crave for happiness in this world is simply to be possessed
    by a spirit of revolt. What right have we to happiness? No! we must do
    our duty, Mrs. Alving. And your duty was to cleave to the man you had
    chosen and to whom you were bound by a sacred bond.

    Mrs. Alving. You know quite well what sort of a life my husband was
    living at that time--what excesses he was guilty of.

    Menders. I know only too well what rumour used to say of him; and I
    should be the last person to approve of his conduct as a young man,
    supposing that rumour spoke the truth. But it is not a wife's part to
    be her husband's judge. You should have considered it your bounden duty
    humbly to have borne the cross that a higher will had laid upon you.
    But, instead of that, you rebelliously cast off your cross, you
    deserted the man whose stumbling footsteps you should have supported,
    you did what was bound to imperil your good name and reputation, and
    came very near to imperilling the reputation of others into the bargain.

    Mrs. Alving. Of others? Of one other, you mean.

    Manders. It was the height of imprudence, your seeking refuge with me.

    Mrs. Alving. With our priest? With our intimate friend?

    Manders. All the more on that account; you should thank God that I
    possessed the necessary strength of mind--that I was able to turn you
    from your outrageous intention, and that it was vouchsafed to me to
    succeed in leading you back into the path of duty, and back to your
    lawful husband.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, Mr. Manders, that certainly was your doing.

    Manders. I was but the humble instrument of a higher power. And is it
    not true that my having been able to bring you again under the yoke of
    duty and obedience sowed the seeds of a rich blessing on all the rest
    of your life? Did things not turn out as I foretold to you? Did not
    your husband turn from straying in the wrong path, as a man should? Did
    he not, after that, live a life of love and good report with you all
    his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the neighbourhood? Did he
    not so raise you up to his level, so that by degree you became his
    fellow-worker in all his undertakings--and a noble fellow-worker, too.
    I know, Mrs. Alving; that praise I will give you. But now I come to the
    second serious false step in your life.

    Mrs. Alving. What do you mean?

    Manders, Just as once you forsook your duty as a wife, so, since then,
    you have forsaken your duty as a mother.

    Mrs. Alving. Oh--!

    Manders. You have been overmastered all your life by a disastrous
    spirit of willfulness. All your impulses have led you towards what is
    undisciplined and lawless. You have never been willing to submit to any
    restraint.  Anything in life that has seemed irksome to you, you have
    thrown aside recklessly and unscrupulously, as if it were a burden that
    you were free to rid yourself of if you would. It did not please you to
    be a wife any longer, and so you left your husband. Your duties as a
    mother were irksome to you, so you sent your child away among strangers.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true; I did that.

    Menders. And that is why you have become a stranger to him.

    Mrs. Alving. No, no, I am not that!

    Manders. You are; you must be. And what sort of a son is it that you
    have got back? Think over it seriously, Mrs. Alving. You erred
    grievously in your husband's case--you acknowledge as much, by erecting
    this memorial to him. Now you are bound to acknowledge how much you
    have erred in your son's case; possibly there may still be time to
    reclaim him from the path of wickedness. Turn over a new leaf, and set
    yourself to reform what there may still be that is capable of
    reformation in him. Because (with uplifted forefinger) in very truth,
    Mrs. Alving, you are a guilty mother!--That is what I have thought it
    my duty to say to you.

(A short silence.)

    Mrs. Alving (speaking slowly and with self-control). You have had your
    say, Mr. Manders, and tomorrow you will be making a public speech in
    memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But now I wish to
    speak to you for a little, just as you have been speaking to me.

    Manders. By all means; no doubt you wish to bring forward some excuses
    for your behaviour.

    Mrs. Alving. No. I only want to tell you something--

    Manders. Well?

    Mrs. Alving. In all that you said just now about me and my husband, and
    about our life together after you had, as you put it, led me back into
    the path of duty--there was nothing that you knew at first hand. From
    that moment you never again set foot in our house--you, who had been
    our daily companion before that.

    Manders. Remember that you and your husband moved out of town
    immediately afterwards.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, and you never once came out here to see us in my
    husband's lifetime. It was only the business in connection with the
    Orphanage that obliged you to come and see me.

    Manders (in a low and uncertain voice). Helen--if that is a reproach, I
    can only beg you to consider--

    Mrs. Alving. --the respect you owed by your calling?--yes. All the more
    as I was a wife who had tried to run away from her husband. One can
    never be too careful to have nothing to do with such reckless women.

    Manders. My dear--Mrs. Alving, you are exaggerating dreadfully.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,--very well. What I mean is this, that when you
    condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon than
    ordinary public opinion.

    Manders. I admit it. What then?

    Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you the
    truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day--you, and
    you only!

    Manders. And what may the truth be?

    Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as great a
    profligate as he had been all his life.

    Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying?

    Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as
    profligate--in his desires at all events--as he was before you married
    us.

    Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions--his
    irregularities--his excesses, if you like--as a profligate life!

    Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it.

    Manders. I don't understand what you mean.

    Mrs. Alving. It is not necessary that you should.

    Manders. It makes my brain reel. To think that your marriage--all the
    years of wedded life you spent with your husband--were nothing but a
    hidden abyss of misery.

    Mrs. Alving. That and nothing else. Now you know.

    Manders. This--this bewilders me. I can't understand it! I can't grasp
    it! How in the world was it possible? How could such a state of things
    remain concealed?

    Mrs. Alving. That was just what I had to fight for incessantly, day
    after day. When Oswald was born, I thought I saw a slight improvement.
    But it didn't last long. And after that I had to fight doubly
    hard--fight a desperate fight so that no one should know what sort of a
    man my child's father was. You know quite well what an attractive
    manner he had; it seemed as if people could believe nothing but good of
    him. He was one of those men whose mode of life seems to have no effect
    upon their reputations. But at last, Mr. Manders--you must hear this
    too--at last something happened more abominable than everything else.

    Manders. More abominable than what you have told me!

    Mrs. Alving. I had borne with it all, though I knew only too well what
    he indulged in in secret, when he was out of the house. But when it
    came to the point of the scandal coming within our four walls--

    Manders. Can you mean it! Here?

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, here, in our own home. It was in there (pointing to
            the nearer door on the right) in the dining-room that I got the first
    hint of it. I had something to do in there and the door was standing
    ajar. I heard our maid come up from the garden with water for the
    flowers in the conservatory.

    Manders. Well--?

    Mrs. Alving. Shortly afterwards I heard my husband come in too. I heard
    him say something to her in a low voice. And then I heard--(with a
            short laugh)--oh, it rings in my ears still, with its mixture of what
    was heartbreaking and what was so ridiculous--I heard my own servant
    whisper: "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!"

    Manders. What unseemly levity on his part! But surely nothing more than
    levity, Mrs. Alving, believe me.

    Mrs. Alving. I soon knew what to believe. My husband had his will of
    the girl--and that intimacy had consequences, Mr. Manders.

    Manders (as if turned to stone). And all that in this house! In this
    house!

    Mrs. Alving. I have suffered a good deal in this house. To keep him at
    home in the evening--and at night--I have had to play the part of boon
    companion in his secret drinking-bouts in his room up there. I have had
    to sit there alone with him, have had to hobnob and drink with him,
    have had to listen to his ribald senseless talk, have had to fight with
    brute force to get him to bed--

    Manders (trembling). And you were able to endure all this!

    Mrs. Alving. I had my little boy, and endured it for his sake. But when
    the crowning insult came--when my own servant--then I made up my mind
    that there should be an end of it. I took the upper hand in the house,
    absolutely--both with him and all the others. I had a weapon to use
    against him, you see; he didn't dare to speak. It was then that Oswald
    was sent away. He was about seven then, and was beginning to notice
    things and ask questions as children will. I could endure all that, my
    friend. It seemed to me that the child would be poisoned if he breathed
    the air of this polluted house. That was why I sent him away. And now
    you understand, too, why he never set foot here as long as his father
    was alive. No one knows what it meant to me.

    Manders. You have indeed had a pitiable experience.

    Mrs. Alving. I could never have gone through with it, if I had not had
    my work. Indeed, I can boast that I have worked. All the increase in
    the value of the property, all the improvements, all the useful
    arrangements that my husband got the honour and glory of--do you
    suppose that he troubled himself about any of them? He, who used to lie
    the whole day on the sofa reading old official lists! No, you may as
    well know that too. It was I that kept him up to the mark when he had
    his lucid intervals; it was I that had to bear the whole burden of it
    when he began his excesses again or took to whining about his miserable
    condition.

    Manders. And this is the man you are building a memorial to!

    Mrs. Alving. There you see the power of an uneasy conscience.

    Manders. An uneasy conscience? What do you mean?

    Mrs. Alving. I had always before me the fear that it was impossible
    that the truth should not come out and be believed. That is why the
    Orphanage is to exist, to silence all rumours and clear away all doubt.

    Manders. You certainly have not fallen short of the mark in that, Mrs.
    Alving.

    Mrs. Alving. I had another very good reason. I did not wish Oswald, my
    own son, to inherit a penny that belonged to his father.

    Manders. Then it is with Mr. Alving's property.

    Mrs. Alving. Yes. The sums of money that, year after year, I have given
    towards this Orphanage, make up the amount of property--I have reckoned
    it carefully--which in the old days made Lieutenant Alving a catch.

    Manders. I understand.

    Mrs. Alving. That was my purchase money. I don't wish it to pass into
    Oswald's hands. My son shall have everything from me, I am determined.

    (OSWALD comes in by the farther door on the right. He has left his hat
     and coat outside.)

    Mrs. Alving. Back again, my own dear boy?

    Oswald. Yes, what can one do outside in this everlasting rain? I hear
    dinner is nearly ready. That's good!

(REGINA comes in front the dining-room, carrying a parcel.)

    Regina. This parcel has come for you, ma'am. (Gives it to her.)

    Mrs. Alving (glancing at MANDERS). The ode to be sung tomorrow, I
    expect.

    Manders. Hm--!

    Regina. And dinner is ready.

    Mrs. Alving. Good. We will come in a moment. I will just--(begins to
            open the parcel).

    Regina (to OSWALD). Will you drink white or red wine, sir?

    Oswald. Both, Miss Engstrand.

Regina. Bien--very good, Mr. Alving. (Goes into the dining-room.)

    Oswald. I may as well help you to uncork it--. (Follows her into the
            dining-room, leaving the door ajar after him.)

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, I thought so. Here is the ode, Mr Manders.

    Manders (clasping his hands). How shall I ever have the courage
    tomorrow to speak the address that--

    Mrs. Alving. Oh, you will get through it.

    Manders (in a low voice, fearing to be heard in the dining room). Yes,
    we must raise no suspicions.

    Mrs. Alving (quietly but firmly). No; and then this long dreadful
    comedy will be at an end. After tomorrow, I shall feel as if my dead
    husband had never lived in this house. There will be no one else here
    then but my boy and his mother.

    (From the dining-room is heard the noise of a chair falling; then
     REGINA'S voice is heard in a loud whisper: Oswald! Are you mad? Let me
     go!)

    Mrs. Alving (starting in horror). Oh--!

    (She stares wildly at the half-open door. OSWALD is heard coughing and
     humming, then the sound of a bottle being uncorked.)

    Manders (in an agitated manner). What's the matter? What is it, Mrs.
    Alving?

    Mrs. Alving (hoarsely). Ghosts. The couple in the conservatory--over
    again.

    Manders. What are you saying! Regina--? Is SHE--!

    Mrs. Alving. Yes, Come. Not a word--!

    (Grips MANDERS by the arm and walks unsteadily with him into the
     dining-room.)

 Regina Engstrand, a young girl in service for Mrs. Alving, appears in the garden. She tries to prevent her father, Jacob Engstrand, from entering. The rain makes the old man even more disreputable looking than usual, and Regina makes it clear she is ashamed of his coarseness and vulgar appearance. Engstrand has come to ask Regina to live with him and work for him in his planned "seamen's home." He says he has saved enough money from doing carpentry work on the new orphanage to begin this enterprise and now that she has grown into "such a fine wench" she would be a valuable asset. He clearly implies that this seamen's home will be a high class brothel. Regina says she has her own plans for the future, especially since Oswald Alving has just returned from his studies in Paris. Pastor Manders enters after Engstrand has left. He talks with Regina about her father. Since Engstrand requires a strong influence to keep him from drinking, Manders suggests that Regina, out of filial duty, return to live with him and be "the guiding hand" in her father's life. Regina says she would rather seek a place in town as a governess. While the girl goes to fetch Mrs. Alving, Manders peruses some books on the table. He gives a start after reading the title page of one, and with increasing disapproval looks at some others. Cordially and affectionately, Mrs. Alving comes in to greet him. Politely inquiring after Oswald, Manders then asks who reads these books. Shocked to find they are hers, he wonders how such readings could contribute to her feeling of self-reliance, as she puts it, or how they can confirm her own impressions. What is objectionable about the books, she asks. "I have read quite enough about them to disapprove of them," he answers. "But your own opinion -- " she pursues. He talks as if to a child: My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one has to rely on the opinions of others. That is the way in the world, and it is quite right that it should be so. What would become of society otherwise? He now wishes to discuss their mutual business -- the Captain Alving Orphanage -- built by Mrs. Alving in honor of her late husband. Although she has left all the arrangements to Manders, he wants to ask whether they should insure the buildings. To her prompt "of course," he raises objections since the orphanage is dedicated to "higher causes." He points out that his fellow clergymen and their congregations might interpret the insurance to mean "that neither you nor I had a proper reliance on Divine protection." As Mrs. Alving's advisor he himself would be the first attacked by "spiteful persons" who would publicly slander him. She assures him that under these conditions she would not wish the buildings insured. Speaking of insurance, Mrs. Alving mentions that the building nearly caught fire yesterday from some burning shavings in the carpenter's shop. She says she has heard that Engstrand is often careless with matches. Manders makes excuses because the "poor fellow" has so many anxieties. "Heaven be thanked," he says, "I am told he is really making an effort to live a blameless life. Why he assured me so himself." Manders thinks it would be best for Engstrand if Regina returned to live with him, but Mrs. Alving's firm "No!" is definitive. Oswald appears, bearing so much likeness to his dead father that Manders is startled; Mrs. Alving quickly insists that her son takes after her. During their conversation, Oswald shocks the pastor by depicting the fidelity and beauty of family life among the common-law marriages of his fellow painters in Paris. Disapproving of artists in the first place, Manders sputters indignantly at such circles "where open immorality is rampant." He cannot understand how "the authorities would tolerate such things" and is even more dismayed when Mrs. Alving later declares that Oswald "was right in every single word he said." In her loneliness, she continues, she has come to the same conclusions as her son, that the married men of good social standing are capable of the greatest acts of immorality. It is his duty to speak now, but not just as a friend, Manders says, "it is your priest that stands before you just as he once did at the most critical moment of your life." He reminds her how she came to him after the first year of marriage, refusing to return to her husband. She softly reminds him that the first year was "unspeakably unhappy." To crave for happiness is simply to be "possessed by a spirit of revolt," he answers. Bound in marriage by a "sacred bond" her duty was "to cleave to the man you had chosen"; though a husband be profligate, a wife's duty is to bear the cross laid upon her shoulders by "a higher will," Manders continues. It was imprudent for her to have sought refuge with him at the time, and he is proud to have had the strength of character to lead her back "to the path of duty" and back to her husband. Having defaulted in her wifely duty, she also neglected her duty as a mother, Manders goes on. Because she sent Oswald to boarding schools all his life rather than educating him at home, the child has become a thorough profligate. "In very truth, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilty mother!" Manders exhorts. These conclusions are unjust, Mrs. Alving answers, for Manders knew nothing of her life from that moment on. He must know now "that my husband died just as great a profligate as he had been all his life." In fact, she tells him, a disease he contracted from his lifelong excesses caused his death. Manders gropes for a chair. To think that all the years of her wedded life were nothing but "a hidden abyss of misery" makes his brain reel. She says that her husband's scandalous conduct invaded the walls of this very house for she witnessed Alving's approaches to the servant Joanna. "My husband had his will of that girl," Mrs. Alving continues, "and that intimacy had consequences." Only later on does Manders discover that the "consequences" are Regina. Mrs. Alving goes on to describe how she sat up with her husband during his drinking bouts, being his companion so he would not leave the house to seek others. She had to listen to his ribald talk and then, with brute force, bring him to bed. She endured all this for Oswald's sake, sending him to boarding schools when he was old enough to ask questions. As long as his father was alive, Oswald never set foot in his home. Besides thoughts of her son, she also had her work to sustain her, Mrs. Alving tells Manders. Too besotted to be useful, her husband depended on her to keep him in touch with his work during his lucid intervals. She improved and arranged all his properties, and she is converting his share of the estate into the "Captain Alving Orphanage." By this gesture Mrs. Alving hopes to "silence all rumors and clear away all doubt" as to the truth of her husband's life. None of his father's estate shall pass on to Oswald; "my son shall have everything from me," she states. Grumbling at "this everlasting rain," Oswald returns from his walk. When Regina announces that dinner is ready, Oswald follows her into the dining room to uncork the wines. Meanwhile Manders and Mrs. Alving discuss the dedication ceremony for the opening of the orphanage tomorrow. She regards the occasion as the end of "this long dreadful comedy." After tomorrow she shall feel as if the dead husband had never lived here. Then "there will be no one else here but my boy and his mother," she declares. They hear a quiet scuffle from the next room, then Regina's whisper, "Oswald! Are you mad? Let me go!" Horror-struck, Mrs. Alving hoarsely whispers to Manders, "Ghosts. The couple in the conservatory -- over again." He is bewildered. Then knowledge dawns. "What are you saying! Regina -- ? Is she -- ?" His hostess nods helplessly. The curtain comes down.

