MRS. ALVING

  You?

  OSWALD

  Yes. I was quite small at the time. I recollect I came up to father’s room one evening when he was in great spirits.

  MRS. ALVING

  Oh, you can’t recollect anything of those times.

  OSWALD

  Yes, I recollect it distinctly. He took me on his knee, and gave me the pipe. “Smoke, boy,” he said; “smoke away, boy!” And I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was growing quite pale, and the perspiration stood in great drops on my forehead. Then he burst out laughing heartily——

  MANDERS

  That was most extraordinary.

  MRS. ALVING

  My dear friend, it’s only something Oswald has dreamt.

  OSWALD

  No, mother, I assure you I didn’t dream it. For—don’t you remember this?—you came and carried me out into the nursery. Then I was sick, and I saw that you were crying.—Did father often play such practical jokes?

  MANDERS

  In his youth he overflowed with the joy of life——

  OSWALD

  And yet he managed to do so much in the world; so much that was good and useful; although he died so early.

  MANDERS

  Yes, you have inherited the name of an energetic and admirable man, my dear Oswald Alving. No doubt it will be an incentive to you——

  OSWALD

  It ought to, indeed.

  MANDERS

  It was good of you to come home for the ceremony in his honour.

  OSWALD

  I could do no less for my father.

  MRS. ALVING

  And I am to keep him so long! That is the best of all.

  MANDERS

  You are going to pass the winter at home, I hear.

  OSWALD

  My stay is indefinite, sir.—But, ah! it is good to be at home!

  MRS. ALVING [Beaming.]

  Yes, isn’t it, dear?

  MANDERS [Looking sympathetically at him.]

  You went out into the world early, my dear Oswald.

  OSWALD

  I did. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn’t too early.

  MRS. ALVING

  Oh, not at all. A healthy lad is all the better for it; especially when he’s an only child. He oughtn’t to hang on at home with his mother and father, and get spoilt.

  MANDERS

  That is a very disputable point, Mrs. Alving. A child’s proper place is, and must be, the home of his father’s.

  OSWALD

  There I quite agree with you, Pastor Manders.

  MANDERS

  Only look at your own son—there is no reason why we should not say it in his presence—what has the consequence been for him? He is six or seven and twenty, and has never had the opportunity of learning what a well-ordered home really is.

  OSWALD

  I beg your pardon, Pastor; there you’re quite mistaken.

  MANDERS

  Indeed? I thought you had lived almost exclusively in artistic circles.

  OSWALD

  So I have.

  MANDERS

  And chiefly among the younger artists?

  OSWALD

  Yes, certainly.

  MANDERS

  But I thought few of those young fellows could afford to set up house and support a family.

  OSWALD

  There are many who cannot afford to marry, sir.

  MANDERS

  Yes, that is just what I say.

  OSWALD

  But they may have a home for all that. And several of them have,

  as a matter of fact; and very pleasant, well-ordered homes they

  are, too.

  [MRS. ALVING follows with breathless interest; nods, but says nothing.]

  MANDERS

  But I’m not talking of bachelors’ quarters. By a “home” I

  understand the home of a family, where a man lives with his wife

  and children.

  OSWALD

  Yes; or with his children and his children’s mother.

  MANDERS [Starts; clasps his hands.]

  But, good heavens——

  OSWALD

  Well?

  MANDERS

  Lives with—his children’s mother!

  OSWALD

  Yes. Would you have him turn his children’s mother out of doors?

  MANDERS

  Then it is illicit relations you are talking of! Irregular marriages, as people call them!

  OSWALD

  I have never noticed anything particularly irregular about the life these people lead.

  MANDERS

  But how is it possible that a—a young man or young woman with any decency of feeling can endure to live in that way?—in the eyes of all the world!

  OSWALD

  What are they to do? A poor young artist—a poor girl—marriage costs a great deal. What are they to do?

  MANDERS

  What are they to do? Let me tell you, Mr. Alving, what they ought to do. They ought to exercise self-restraint from the first; that is what they ought to do.

  OSWALD

  That doctrine will scarcely go down with warm-blooded young people who love each other.

  MRS. ALVING

  No, scarcely!

  MANDERS [Continuing.]

  How can the authorities tolerate such things! Allow them to go

  on in the light of day!

  [Confronting MRS. ALVING.]

  Had I not cause to be deeply concerned about your son? In

  circles where open immorality prevails, and has even a sort of

  recognised position——!

  OSWALD

  Let me tell you, sir, that I have been in the habit of spending nearly all my Sundays in one or two such irregular homes——

  MANDERS

  Sunday of all days!

  OSWALD

  Isn’t that the day to enjoy one’s self? Well, never have I heard an offensive word, and still less have I witnessed anything that could be called immoral. No; do you know when and where I have come across immorality in artistic circles?

  MANDERS

  No, thank heaven, I don’t!

  OSWALD

  Well, then, allow me to inform you. I have met with it when one or other of our pattern husbands and fathers has come to Paris to have a look round on his own account, and has done the artists the honour of visiting their humble haunts. They knew what was what. These gentlemen could tell us all about places and things we had never dreamt of.

  MANDERS

  What! Do you mean to say that respectable men from home here would——?

  OSWALD

  Have you never heard these respectable men, when they got home again, talking about the way in which immorality runs rampant abroad?

  MANDERS

  Yes, no doubt——

  MRS. ALVING

  I have too.

  OSWALD

  Well, you may take their word for it. They know what they are

  talking about!

  [Presses his hands to his head.]

  Oh! that that great, free, glorious life out there should be defiled

  in such a way!

  MRS. ALVING

  You mustn’t get excited, Oswald. It’s not good for you.

  OSWALD

  Yes; you’re quite right, mother. It’s bad for me, I know. You see, I’m wretchedly worn out. I shall go for a little turn before dinner. Excuse me, Pastor: I know you can’t take my point of view; but I couldn’t help speaking out. [He goes out by the second door to the right.]

  MRS. ALVING

  My poor boy!

  MANDERS

  You may well say so. Then this is what he has come to!

  [MRS. ALVING looks at him silently.]

  MANDERS [Walking up and down.]

  He called himself the Prodigal Son. Alas! alas!

  [MRS. ALVING continues looking at him.]

  MANDERS

  And what do you say to all this?

  MRS. ALVING

  I say that Oswald was right in every word.

  MANDERS [Stands still.]

  Right? Right! In such principles?

  MRS. ALVING

  Here, in my loneliness, I have come to the same way of thinking, Pastor Manders. But I have never dared to say anything. Well! now my boy shall speak for me.

  MANDERS

  You are greatly to be pitied, Mrs. Alving. But now I must speak seriously to you. And now it is no longer your business manager and adviser, your own and your husband’s early friend, who stands before you. It is the priest—the priest who stood before you in the moment of your life when you had gone farthest astray.

  MRS. ALVING

  And what has the priest to say to me?

  MANDERS

  I will first stir up your memory a little. The moment is well

  chosen. To-morrow will be the tenth anniversary of your

  husband’s death. To-morrow the memorial in his honour will be

  unveiled. To-morrow I shall have to speak to the whole

  assembled multitude. But to-day I will speak to you alone.

  MRS. ALVING

  Very well, Pastor Manders. Speak.

  MANDERS

  Do you remember that after less than a year of married life you stood on the verge of an abyss? That you forsook your house and home? That you fled from your husband? Yes, Mrs. Alving—fled, fled, and refused to return to him, however much he begged and prayed you?

  MRS. ALVING

  Have you forgotten how infinitely miserable I was in that first year?

  MANDERS

  It is the very mark of the spirit of rebellion to crave for happiness in this life. What right have we human beings to happiness? We have simply to do our duty, Mrs. Alving! And your duty was to hold firmly to the man you had once chosen, and to whom you were bound by the holiest ties.

  MRS. ALVING

  You know very well what sort of life Alving was leading—what excesses he was guilty of.

  MANDERS

  I know very well what rumours there were about him; and I am the last to approve the life he led in his young days, if report did not wrong him. But a wife is not appointed to be her husband’s judge. It was your duty to bear with humility the cross which a Higher Power had, in its wisdom, laid upon you. But instead of that you rebelliously throw away the cross, desert the backslider whom you should have supported, go and risk your good name and reputation, and—nearly succeed in ruining other people’s reputation into the bargain.

  MRS. ALVING

  Other people’s? One other person’s, you mean.

  MANDERS

  It was incredibly reckless of you to seek refuge with me.

  MRS. ALVING

  With our clergyman? With our intimate friend?

  MANDERS

  Just on that account. Yes, you may thank God that I possessed the necessary firmness; that I succeeded in dissuading you from your wild designs; and that it was vouchsafed me to lead you back to the path of duty, and home to your lawful husband.

  MRS. ALVING

  Yes, Pastor Manders, that was certainly your work.

  MANDERS

  I was but a poor instrument in a Higher Hand. And what a blessing has it not proved to you, all the days of your life, that I induced you to resume the yoke of duty and obedience! Did not everything happen as I foretold? Did not Alving turn his back on his errors, as a man should? Did he not live with you from that time, lovingly and blamelessly, all his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the whole district? And did he not help you to rise to his own level, so that you, little by little, became his assistant in all his undertakings? And a capital assistant, too—oh, I know, Mrs. Alving, that praise is due to you.—But now I come to the next great error in your life.

  MRS. ALVING

  What do you mean?

  MANDERS

  Just as you once disowned a wife’s duty, so you have since disowned a mother’s.

  MRS. ALVING

  Ah——!

  MANDERS

  You have been all your life under the dominion of a pestilent spirit of self-will. The whole bias of your mind has been towards insubordination and lawlessness. You have never known how to endure any bond. Everything that has weighed upon you in life you have cast away without care or conscience, like a burden you were free to throw off at will. It did not please you to be a wife any longer, and you left your husband. You found it troublesome to be a mother, and you sent your child forth among strangers.

  MRS. ALVING

  Yes, that is true. I did so.

  MANDERS

  And thus you have become a stranger to him.

  MRS. ALVING

  No! no! I am not.

  MANDERS

  Yes, you are; you must be. And in what state of mind has he

  returned to you? Bethink yourself well, Mrs.Alving. You sinned

  greatly against your husband;—that you recognise by raising

  yonder memorial to him. Recognise now, also, how you have

  sinned against your son—there may yet be time to lead him back

  from the paths of error. Turn back yourself, and save what may

  yet be saved in him. For

  [With uplifted forefinger]

  verily, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilt-laden mother!—This I have

  thought it my duty to say to you.

  [Silence.]

  MRS. ALVING [Slowly and with self-control.]

  You have now spoken out, Pastor Manders; and to-morrow you are to speak publicly in memory of my husband. I shall not speak to-morrow. But now I will speak frankly to you, as you have spoken to me.

  MANDERS

  To be sure; you will plead excuses for your conduct——

  MRS. ALVING

  No. I will only tell you a story.

  MANDERS

  Well——?

  MRS. ALVING

  All that you have just said about my husband and me, and our life

  after you had brought me back to the path of duty—as you

  called it—about all that you know nothing from personal obser

  vation. From that moment you, who had been our intimate

  friend, never set foot in our house again.

  MANDERS

  You and your husband left the town immediately after.

  MRS. ALVING

  Yes; and in my husband’s lifetime you never came to see us. It was business that forced you to visit me when you undertook the affairs of the Orphanage.

  MANDERS [Softly and hesitatingly.]

  Helen—if that is meant as a reproach, I would beg you to bear in mind——

  MRS. ALVING

  ——the regard you owed to your position, yes; and that I was a runaway wife. One can never be too cautious with such unprincipled creatures.

  MANDERS

  My dear—Mrs. Alving, you know that is an absurd exaggeration——

  MRS. ALVING

  Well well, suppose it is. My point is that your judgment as to my married life is founded upon nothing but common knowledge and report.

  MANDERS

  I admit that. What then?

  MRS. ALVING

  Well, then, Pastor Manders—I will tell you the truth. I have sworn to myself that one day you should know it—you alone!

  MANDERS

  What is the truth, then?

  MRS. ALVING

  The truth is that my husband died just as dissolute as he had lived all his days.

  MANDERS [Feeling after a chair.]

  What do you say?

  MRS. ALVING

  After nineteen years of marriage, as dissolute—in his desires at any rate—as he was before you married us.

  MANDERS

  And those—those wild oats—those irregularities—those excesses, if you like—you call “a dissolute life”?

  MRS. ALVING

  Our doctor used the expression.

  MANDERS

  I do not understand you.

  MRS. ALVING

  You need not.

  MANDERS

  It almost makes me dizzy. Your whole married life, the seeming union of all these years, was nothing more than a hidden abyss!

  MRS. ALVING

  Neither more nor less. Now you know it.

  MANDERS

  This is—this is inconceivable to me. I cannot grasp it! I cannot realise it! But how was it possible to——? How could such a state of things be kept secret?

  MRS. ALVING

  That has been my ceaseless struggle, day after day. After Oswald’s birth, I thought Alving seemed to be a little better. But it did not last long. And then I had to struggle twice as hard, fighting as though for life or death, so that nobody should know what sort of man my child’s father was. And you know what power Alving had of winning people’s hearts. Nobody seemed able to believe anything but good of him. He was one of those people whose life does not bite upon their reputation. But at last, Mr. Manders—for you must know the whole story—the most repulsive thing of all happened.