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Title: The Collected Works of Henrik Ibsen, Vol. 7 (of 11)
Author: Ibsen, Henrik
Language: English
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THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN
VOLUME VII
A DOLL’S HOUSE
GHOSTS
THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN
_Copyright Edition. Complete in 11 Volumes._
_Crown 8vo, price 4s. each._
=ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY=
=WILLIAM ARCHER=
Vol. I. Lady Inger, The Feast at Solhoug, Love’s
Comedy
Vol. II. The Vikings, The Pretenders
Vol. III. Brand
Vol. IV. Peer Gynt
Vol. V. Emperor and Galilean (2 parts)
Vol. VI. The League of Youth, Pillars of Society
Vol. VII. A Doll’s House, Ghosts
Vol. VIII. An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck
Vol. IX. Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea
Vol. X. Hedda Gabler, The Master Builder
Vol. XI. Little Eyolf, John Gabriel Borkman, When
We Dead Awaken
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN.
21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.
THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN
COPYRIGHT EDITION
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VOLUME VII
A DOLL’S HOUSE
GHOSTS
WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY
WILLIAM ARCHER
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: title page]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1909
_Collected Edition first printed 1906_
_Second Impression 1909_
_Copyright 1906 by William Heinemann_
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION TO “A DOLL’S HOUSE” vii
INTRODUCTION TO “GHOSTS” xvii
“A DOLL’S HOUSE” 1
_Translated by_ WILLIAM ARCHER
“GHOSTS” 157
_Translated by_ WILLIAM ARCHER
A DOLL’S HOUSE.
INTRODUCTION.
On June 27, 1879, Ibsen wrote from Rome to Marcus Grönvold: “It is now
rather hot in Rome, so in about a week we are going to Amalfi, which,
being close to the sea, is cooler, and offers opportunity for bathing. I
intend to complete there a new dramatic work on which I am now engaged.”
From Amalfi, on September 20, he wrote to John Paulsen: “A new dramatic
work, which I have just completed, has occupied so much of my time
during these last months that I have had absolutely none to spare for
answering letters.” This “new dramatic work” was _Et Dukkehjem_, which
was published in Copenhagen, December 4, 1879. Dr. George Brandes has
given some account of the episode in real life which suggested to Ibsen
the plot of this play; but the real Nora, it appears, committed forgery,
not to save her husband’s life, but to redecorate her house. The impulse
received from this incident must have been trifling. It is much more to
the purpose to remember that the character and situation of Nora had
been clearly foreshadowed, ten years earlier, in the figure of Selma in
_The League of Youth_.
It is with _A Doll’s House_ that Ibsen enters upon his kingdom as a
world-poet. He had done greater work in the past, and he was to do
greater work in the future; but this was the play which was destined to
carry his name beyond the limits of Scandinavia, and even of Germany, to
the remotest regions of civilisation. Here the Fates were not altogether
kind to him. The fact that for many years he was known to thousands of
people solely as the author of _A Doll’s House_, and its successor,
_Ghosts_, was largely responsible for the extravagant misconceptions of
his genius and character which prevailed during the last decade of the
nineteenth century, and are not yet entirely extinct. In these plays he
seemed to be delivering a direct assault on marriage, from the
standpoint of feminine individualism; wherefore he was taken to be a
preacher and pamphleteer rather than a poet. In these plays, and in
these only, he made physical disease a considerable factor in the
action; whence it was concluded that he had a morbid predilection for
“nauseous” subjects. In these plays he laid special and perhaps
disproportionate stress on the influence of heredity; whence he was
believed to be possessed by a monomania on the point. In these plays,
finally, he was trying to act the essentially uncongenial part of the
prosaic realist. The effort broke down at many points, and the poet
reasserted himself; but these flaws in the prosaic texture were regarded
as mere bewildering errors and eccentricities. In short, he was
introduced to the world at large through two plays which showed his
power, indeed, almost in perfection, but left the higher and subtler
qualities of his genius for the most part unrepresented. Hence the
grotesquely distorted vision of him which for so long haunted the minds
even of intelligent people. Hence, for example, the amazing opinion,
given forth as a truism by more than one critic of great ability, that
the author of _Peer Gynt_ was devoid of humour.
Within a little more than a fortnight of its publication _A Doll’s
House_ was presented at the Royal Theatre, Copenhagen, where Fru
Hennings, as Nora, made the great success of her career. The play was
soon being acted, as well as read, all over Scandinavia. Nora’s
startling “declaration of independence” afforded such an inexhaustible
theme for heated discussion, that at last it had to be formally barred
at social gatherings, just as, in Paris twenty years later, the Dreyfus
Case was proclaimed a prohibited topic. The popularity of _Pillars of
Society_ in Germany had paved the way for its successor, which spread
far and wide over the German stage in the spring of 1880, and has ever
since held its place in the repertory of the leading theatres. As his
works were at that time wholly unprotected in Germany, Ibsen could not
prevent managers from altering the end of the play to suit their taste
and fancy. He was thus driven, under protest, to write an alternative
ending, in which, at the last moment, the thought of her children
restrained Nora from leaving home. He preferred, as he said, “to commit
the outrage himself, rather than leave his work to the tender mercies of
adapters.” The patched-up ending soon dropped out of use and out of
memory. Ibsen’s own account of the matter will be found in his
_Correspondence_, Letter 142.
It took ten years for the play to pass beyond the limits of Scandinavia
and Germany. Madame Modjeska, it is true, presented a version of it in
Louisville, Kentucky, in 1883, but it attracted no attention. In the
following year Messrs. Henry Arthur Jones and Henry Herman produced at
the Prince of Wales’s Theatre, London, a play entitled _Breaking a
Butterfly_, which was described as being “founded on Ibsen’s _Norah_”
but bore only a remote resemblance to the original. In this production
Mr. Beerbohm Tree took the part of Dunkley, a melodramatic villain who
filled the place of Krogstad. In 1885, again, an adventurous amateur
club gave a quaint performance of Miss Lord’s translation of the play at
a hall in Argyle Street, London. Not until June 7, 1889, was a _A Doll’s
House_ competently, and even brilliantly, presented to the English
public, by Mr. Charles Charrington and Miss Janet Achurch, at the
Novelty Theatre, London, afterwards re-named the Great Queen Street
Theatre. It was this production that really made Ibsen known to the
English-speaking peoples. In other words, it marked his second great
stride towards world-wide, as distinct from merely national, renown—if
we reckon as the first stride the success of _Pillars of Society_ in
Germany. Mr. and Mrs. Charrington took _A Doll’s House_ with them on a
long Australian tour; Miss Beatrice Cameron (Mrs. Richard Mansfield) was
encouraged by the success of the London production to present the play
in New York, whence it soon spread to other American cities; while in
London itself it was frequently revived and vehemently discussed. The
Ibsen controversy, indeed, did not break out in its full virulence until
1891, when _Ghosts_ and _Hedda Gabler_ were produced in London; but from
the date of the Novelty production onwards, Ibsen was generally
recognised as a potent factor in the intellectual and artistic life of
the day.
A French adaptation of _Et Dukkehjem_ was produced in Brussels in March
1889, but attracted little attention. Not until 1894 was the play
introduced to the Parisian public, at the Gymnase, with Madame Réjane as
Nora. This actress has since played the part frequently, not only in
Paris but in London and in America. In Italian the play was first
produced in 1889, and soon passed into the repertory of Eleonora Duse,
who appeared as Nora in London in 1893. Few heroines in modern drama
have been played by so many actresses of the first rank. To those
already enumerated must be added Hedwig Niemann-Raabe and Agnes Sorma in
Germany, and Minnie Maddern-Fiske in America; and, even so, the list is
far from complete. There is probably no country in the world, possessing
a theatre on the European model, in which _A Doll’s House_ has not been
more or less frequently acted.
Undoubtedly the great attraction of the part of Nora to the average
actress was the tarantella scene. This was a theatrical effect, of an
obvious, unmistakable kind. It might have been—though I am not aware
that it ever actually was—made the subject of a picture-poster. But
this, as it seems to me, was Ibsen’s last concession to the ideal of
technique which he had acquired, in the old Bergen days, from his French
masters. I have elsewhere[1] analysed _A Doll’s House_ at some length,
from the technical point of view, suggesting that it marks a distinct,
and one might almost say a sudden, revolution in the poet’s
understanding of the methods and aims of his art. There is pretty good
reason to suppose, as it seems to me, that he altered the plan of the
play while it was actually in process of composition. He seems
originally to have schemed a “happy ending,” like that of _The League of
Youth_ or _Pillars of Society_. No doubt it is convenient, even for the
purposes of the play as it stands, that all fear of hostile action on
Krogstad’s part should be dissipated before Nora and Helmer settle down
to their final explanation; but is the convenience sufficiently great to
account for the invention, to that end alone, of Mrs. Linden’s relation
to, and influence over, Krogstad? I very much question it. I think the
“happy ending” which is actually reached when Krogstad returns the
forged document was, in Ibsen’s original conception, intended to be
equivalent to the stopping of the _Indian Girl_, and the return of Olaf,
in _Pillars of Society_—that is to say, it was to be the end of the
drama properly so called, and the rest was to be a more or less
conventional winding-up, a confession of faults on both sides,
accompanied by mutual congratulations on the blowing-over of the
threatened storm. This is the end which, as we see, every one expected:
the end which adapters, in Germany, England, and elsewhere, insisted on
giving to the play. There was just a shade of excuse for these
gentlemen, inasmuch as the poet himself seemed to have elaborately
prepared the way for them; and I suggest that the fact of his having
done so shows that the play, in embryo, passed through the phase of
technical development represented by _Pillars of Society_—the phase to
which its amenders would have forced it to return. Ibsen, on the other
hand, when he proceeded from planning in outline to creation in detail,
found his characters outgrow his plot. When the action, in the
theatrical sense, was over, they were only on the threshold of the
essential drama; and in that drama, compressed into the final scene of
the play, Ibsen found his true power and his true mission.
How impossible, in his subsequent work, would be such figures as Mrs.
Linden, the confidant, and Krogstad, the villain! They are not quite the
ordinary confidant and villain, for Ibsen is always Ibsen, and his power
of vitalisation is extraordinary. Yet we clearly feel them to belong to
a different order of art from that of his later plays. How impossible,
too, in the poet’s after years, would have been the little tricks of
ironic coincidence and picturesque contrast which abound in _A Doll’s
House_! The festal atmosphere of the whole play, the Christmas-tree, the
tarantella, the masquerade ball, with its distant sounds of music—all
the shimmer and tinsel of the background against which Nora’s
soul-torture and Rank’s despair are thrown into relief belong to the
system of external, artificial antithesis beloved by romantic
playwrights from Lope de Vega onward, and carried to its limit by Victor
Hugo. The same artificiality is apparent in minor details. “Oh, what a
wonderful thing it is to live to be happy!” cries Nora, and instantly
“The hall-door bell rings” and Krogstad’s shadow falls across the
threshold. So, too, for his second entrance, an elaborate effect of
contrast is arranged, between Nora’s gleeful romp with her children and
the sinister figure which stands unannounced in their midst. It would be
too much to call these things absolutely unnatural, but the very
precision of the coincidence is eloquent of pre-arrangement. At any
rate, they belong to an order of effects which in future Ibsen
sedulously eschews. The one apparent exception to this rule which I can
remember occurs in _The Master Builder_, where Solness’s remark,
“Presently the younger generation will come knocking at my door,” gives
the cue for Hilda’s knock and entrance. But here an interesting
distinction is to be noted. Throughout _The Master Builder_ the poet
subtly indicates the operation of mysterious, unseen agencies—the
“helpers and servers” of whom Solness speaks, as well as the Power with
which he held converse at the crisis in his life—guiding, or at any rate
tampering with, the destinies of the characters. This being so, it is
evident that the effect of pre-arrangement produced by Hilda’s appearing
exactly on the given cue was deliberately aimed at. Like so many other
details in the play, it might be a mere coincidence, or it might be a
result of inscrutable design—we were purposely left in doubt. But the
suggestion of pre-arrangement which helped to create the atmosphere of
the _The Master Builder_ was wholly out of place in _A Doll’s House_. In
the later play it was a subtle stroke of art; in the earlier it was the
effect of imperfectly dissembled artifice.
My conjecture of an actual modification of Ibsen’s design during the
progress of the play may possibly be mistaken. There can be no doubt, on
the other hand, that Ibsen’s full originality first reveals itself in
the latter half of the third act. This is proved by the very protests,
nay, the actual rebellion, which the last scene called forth. Up to that
point he had been doing, approximately, what theatrical orthodoxy
demanded of him. But when Nora, having put off her masquerade dress,
returned to make up her account with Helmer, and with marriage as Helmer
understood it, the poet flew in the face of orthodoxy, and its
professors cried out in bewilderment and wrath. But it was just at this
point that, in practice, the real grip and thrill of the drama were
found to come in. The tarantella scene never, in my experience—and I
have seen five or six great actresses in the part—produced an effect in
any degree commensurate with the effort involved. But when Nora and
Helmer faced each other, one on each side of the table, and set to work
to ravel out the skein of their illusions, then one felt oneself face to
face with a new thing in drama—an order of experience, at once
intellectual and emotional, not hitherto attained in the theatre. This
every one felt, I think, who was in any way accessible to that order of
experience. For my own part, I shall never forget how surprised I was on
first seeing the play, to find this scene, in its naked simplicity, far
more exciting and moving than all the artfully-arranged situations of
the earlier acts. To the same effect, from another point of view, we
have the testimony of Fru Hennings, the first actress who ever played
the part of Nora. In an interview published soon after Ibsen’s death,
she spoke of the delight it was to her, in her youth, to embody the Nora
of the first and second acts, the “lark,” the “squirrel,” the
irresponsible, butterfly Nora. “When I now play the part,” she went on,
“the first acts leave me indifferent. Not until the third act am I
really interested—but then, intensely.” To call the first and second
acts positively uninteresting would of course be a gross exaggeration.
What one really means is that their workmanship is still a little
derivative and immature, and that not until the third act does the poet
reveal the full originality and individuality of his genius.
GHOSTS.
INTRODUCTION.
The winter of 1879-80 Ibsen spent in Munich, and the greater part of the
summer of 1880 at Berchtesgaden. November 1880 saw him back in Rome, and
he passed the summer of 1881 at Sorrento. There, fourteen years earlier,
he had written the last acts of _Peer Gynt_; there he now wrote, or at
any rate completed, _Gengangere_. It was published in December 1881,
after he had returned to Rome. On December 22 he wrote to Ludwig
Passarge, one of his German translators, “My new play has now appeared,
and has occasioned a terrible uproar in the Scandinavian press; every
day I receive letters and newspaper articles decrying or praising it....
I consider it utterly impossible that any German theatre will accept the
play at present. I hardly believe that they will dare to play it in the
Scandinavian countries for some time to come.” How rightly he judged we
shall see anon.
In the newspapers there was far more obloquy than praise. Two men,
however, stood by him from the first: Björnson, from whom he had been
practically estranged ever since _The League of Youth_, and George
Brandes. The latter published an article in which he declared (I quote
from memory) that the play might or might not be Ibsen’s greatest work,
but that it was certainly his noblest deed. It was, doubtless, in
acknowledgment of this article that Ibsen wrote to Brandes on January 3,
1882: “Yesterday I had the great pleasure of receiving your brilliantly
clear and so warmly appreciative review of _Ghosts_.... All who read
your article must, it seems to me, have their eyes opened to what I
meant by my new book—assuming, that is, that they have any _wish_ to
see. For I cannot get rid of the impression that a very large number of
the false interpretations which have appeared in the newspapers are the
work of people who know better. In Norway, however, I am willing to
believe that the stultification has in most cases been unintentional;
and the reason is not far to seek. In that country a great many of the
critics are theologians, more or less disguised; and these gentlemen
are, as a rule, quite unable to write rationally about creative
literature. That enfeeblement of judgment which, at least in the case of
the average man, is an inevitable consequence of prolonged occupation
with theological studies, betrays itself more especially in the judging
of human character, human actions, and human motives. Practical business
judgment, on the other hand, does not suffer so much from studies of
this order. Therefore the reverend gentlemen are very often excellent
members of local boards; but they are unquestionably our worst critics.”
This passage is interesting as showing clearly the point of view from
which Ibsen conceived the character of Manders. In the next paragraph of
the same letter he discusses the attitude of “the so-called Liberal
press”; but as the paragraph contains the germ of _An Enemy of the
People_, it may most fittingly be quoted in the introduction to that
play.
Three days later (January 6) Ibsen wrote to Schandorph, the Danish
novelist: “I was quite prepared for the hubbub. If certain of our
Scandinavian reviewers have no talent for anything else, they have an
unquestionable talent for thoroughly misunderstanding and
misinterpreting those authors whose books they undertake to judge....
They endeavour to make me responsible for the opinions which certain of
the personages of my drama express. And yet there is not in the whole
book a single opinion, a single utterance, which can be laid to the
account of the author. I took good care to avoid this. The very method,
the order of technique which imposes its form upon the play, forbids the
author to appear in the speeches of his characters. My object was to
make the reader feel that he was going through a piece of real
experience; and nothing could more effectually prevent such an
impression than the intrusion of the author’s private opinions into the
dialogue. Do they imagine at home that I am so inexpert in the theory of
drama as not to know this? Of course I know it, and act accordingly. In
no other play that I have written is the author so external to the
action, so entirely absent from it, as in this last one.”
“They say,” he continued, “that the book preaches Nihilism. Not at all.
It is not concerned to preach anything whatsoever. It merely points to
the ferment of Nihilism going on under the surface, at home as
elsewhere. A Pastor Manders will always goad one or other Mrs. Alving to
revolt. And just because she is a woman, she will, when once she has
begun, go to the utmost extremes.”
Towards the end of January Ibsen wrote from Rome to Olaf Skavlan: “These
last weeks have brought me a wealth of experiences, lessons, and
discoveries. I, of course, foresaw that my new play would call forth a
howl from the camp of the stagnationists; and for this I care no more
than for the barking of a pack of chained dogs. But the pusillanimity
which I have observed among the so-called Liberals has given me cause
for reflection. The very day after my play was published the _Dagblad_
rushed out a hurriedly-written article, evidently designed to purge
itself of all suspicion of complicity in my work. This was entirely
unnecessary. I myself am responsible for what I write, I and no one
else. I cannot possibly embarrass any party, for to no party do I
belong. I stand like a solitary franc-tireur at the outposts, and fight
for my own hand. The only man in Norway who has stood up freely,
frankly, and courageously for me is Björnson. It is just like him. He
has in truth a great, kingly soul, and I shall never forget his action
in this matter.”
One more quotation completes the history of these stirring January days,
as written by Ibsen himself. It occurs in a letter to a Danish
journalist, Otto Borchsenius. “It may well be,” the poet writes, “that
the play is in several respects rather daring. But it seemed to me that
the time had come for moving some boundary-posts. And this was an
undertaking for which a man of the older generation, like myself, was
better fitted than the many younger authors who might desire to do
something of the kind. I was prepared for a storm; but such storms one
must not shrink from encountering. That would be cowardice.”
It happened that, just in these days, the present writer had frequent
opportunities of conversing with Ibsen, and of hearing from his own lips
almost all the views expressed in the above extracts. He was especially
emphatic, I remember, in protesting against the notion that the opinions
expressed by Mrs. Alving or Oswald were to be attributed to himself. He
insisted, on the contrary, that Mrs. Alving’s views were merely typical
of the moral chaos inevitably produced by re-action from the narrow
conventionalism represented by Manders.
With one consent, the leading theatres of the three Scandinavian
capitals declined to have anything to do with the play. It was more than
eighteen months old before it found its way to the stage at all. In
August 1883 it was acted for the first time at Helsingborg, Sweden, by a
travelling company under the direction of an eminent Swedish actor,
August Lindberg, who himself played Oswald. He took it on tour round the
principal cities of Scandinavia, playing it, among the rest, at a minor
theatre in Christiania. It happened that the boards of the Christiania
Theatre were at the same time occupied by a French farce; and public
demonstrations of protest were made against the managerial policy which
gave _Tête de Linotte_ the preference over _Gengangere_. Gradually the
prejudice against the play broke down. Already in the autumn of 1883 it
was produced at the Royal (Dramatiska) Theatre in Stockholm. When the
new National Theatre was opened in Christiania in 1899, _Gengangere_
found an early place in its repertory; and even the Royal Theatre in
Copenhagen has since opened its doors to the tragedy.
Not until April 1886 was _Gespenster_ acted in Germany, and then only at
a private performance, at the Stadttheater, Augsburg, the poet himself
being present. In the following winter it was acted at the famous Court
Theatre at Meiningen, again in the presence of the poet. The first
(private) performance in Berlin took place on January 9, 1887, at the
Residenz Theater; and when the Freie Bühne, founded on the model of the
Paris Théâtre Libre, began its operations two years later (September 29,
1889), _Gespenster_ was the first play that it produced. The Freie Bühne
gave the initial impulse to the whole modern movement which has given
Germany a new dramatic literature; and the leaders of the movement,
whether authors or critics, were one and all ardent disciples of Ibsen,
who regarded _Gespenster_ as his typical masterpiece. In Germany, then,
the play certainly did, in Ibsen’s own words, “move some
boundary-posts.” The Prussian censorship, presently withdrew its veto,
and on November 27, 1894, the two leading literary theatres of Berlin,
the Deutsches Theater and the Lessing Theater, gave simultaneous
performances of the tragedy. Everywhere in Germany and Austria it is now
freely performed; but it is naturally one of the least popular of
Ibsen’s plays.
It was with _Les Revenants_ that Ibsen made his first appearance on the
French stage. The play was produced by the Théâtre Libre (at the Théâtre
des Menus-Plaisirs) on May 29, 1890. Here, again, it became the
watchword of the new school of authors and critics, and aroused a good
deal of opposition among the old school. But the most hostile French
criticisms were moderation itself compared with the torrents of abuse
which were poured upon _Ghosts_ by the journalists of London when, on
March 13, 1891, the Independent Theatre, under the direction of Mr. J.
T. Grein, gave a private performance of the play at the Royalty Theatre,
Soho. I have elsewhere[2] placed upon record some of the amazing feats
of vituperation achieved of the critics, and will not here recall them.
It is sufficient to say that if the play had been a tenth part as
nauseous as the epithets hurled at it and its author, the Censor’s veto
would have been amply justified. That veto is still (1906) in force.
England enjoys the proud distinction of being the one country in the
world where _Ghosts_ may not be publicly acted.
In the United States, the first performance of the play in English took
place at the Berkeley Lyceum, New York City, on January 5, 1894. The
production was described by Mr. W. D. Howells as “a great theatrical
event—the very greatest I have ever known.” Other leading men of letters
were equally impressed by it. Five years later, a second production took
place at the Carnegie Lyceum; and an adventurous manager has even taken
the play on tour in the United States. The Italian version of the
tragedy, _Gli Spettri_, has ever since 1892 taken a prominent place in
the repertory of the great actors Zaccone and Novelli, who have acted
it, not only throughout Italy, but in Austria, Germany, Russia, Spain,
and South America.
In an interview, published immediately after Ibsen’s death, Björnstjerne
Björnson, questioned as to what he held to be his brother-poet’s
greatest work, replied, without a moment’s hesitation, _Gengangere_.
This dictum can scarcely, I think, be accepted without some
qualification. Even confining our attention to the modern plays, and
leaving out of comparison _The Pretenders_, _Brand_, and _Peer Gynt_, we
can scarcely call _Ghosts_ Ibsen’s richest or most human play, and
certainly not his profoundest or most poetical. If some omnipotent
Censorship decreed the annihilation of all his works save one, few
people, I imagine, would vote that that one should be _Ghosts_. Even if
half a dozen works were to be saved from the wreck, I doubt whether I,
for my part, would include _Ghosts_ in the list. It is, in my judgment,
a little bare, hard, austere. It is the first work in which Ibsen
applies his new technical method—evolved, as I have suggested, during
the composition of _A Doll’s House_—and he applies it with something of
fanaticism. He is under the sway of a prosaic ideal—confessed in the
phrase, “My object was to make the reader feel that he was going through
a piece of real experience”—and he is putting some constraint upon the
poet within him. The action moves a little stiffly, and all in one
rhythm. It lacks variety and suppleness. Moreover, the play affords some
slight excuse for the criticism which persists in regarding Ibsen as a
preacher rather than as a creator—an author who cares more for ideas and
doctrines than for human beings. Though Mrs. Alving, Engstrand and
Regina are rounded and breathing characters, it cannot be denied that
Manders strikes one as a clerical type rather than an individual, while
even Oswald might not quite unfairly be described as simply and solely
his father’s son, an object-lesson in heredity. We cannot be said to
know him, individually and intimately, as we know Helmer or Stockmann,
Hialmar Ekdal or Gregers Werle. Then, again, there are one or two
curious flaws in the play. The question whether Oswald’s “case” is one
which actually presents itself in the medical books seems to me of very
trifling moment. It is typically true, even if it be not true in detail.
The suddenness of the catastrophe may possibly be exaggerated, its
premonitions and even its essential nature may be misdescribed. On the
other hand, I conceive it probable that the poet had documents to found
upon, which may be unknown to his critics. I have never taken any pains
to satisfy myself upon the point, which seems to me quite immaterial.
There is not the slightest doubt that the life-history of a Captain
Alving may, and often does, entail upon posterity consequences quite as
tragic as those which ensue in Oswald’s case, and far more
wide-spreading. That being so, the artistic justification of the poets
presentment of the case is certainly not dependent on its absolute
scientific accuracy. The flaws above alluded to are of another nature.
One of them is the prominence given to the fact that the Asylum is
uninsured. No doubt there is some symbolical purport in the
circumstance; but I cannot think that it is either sufficiently clear or
sufficiently important to justify the emphasis thrown upon it at the end
of the second act. Another dubious point is Oswald’s argument in the
first act as to the expensiveness of marriage as compared with free
union. Since the parties to free union, as he describes it, accept all
the responsibilities of marriage, and only pretermit the ceremony, the
difference of expense, one would suppose, must be neither more nor less
than the actual marriage fee. I have never seen this remark of Oswald’s
adequately explained, either as a matter of economic fact, or as a trait
of character. Another blemish, of somewhat greater moment, is the
inconceivable facility with which, in the third act, Manders suffers
himself to be victimised by Engstrand. All these little things, taken
together, detract, as it seems to me, from the artistic completeness of
the play, and impair its claim to rank as the poet’s masterpiece. Even
in prose drama, his greatest and most consummate achievements were yet
to come.
Must we, then, wholly dissent from Björnson’s judgment? I think not. In
a historical, if not in an æsthetic, sense, _Ghosts_ may well rank as
Ibsen’s greatest work. It was the play which first gave the full measure
of his technical and spiritual originality and daring. It has done far
more than any other of his plays to “move boundary-posts.” It has
advanced the frontiers of dramatic art and implanted new ideals, both
technical and intellectual, in the minds of a whole generation of
playwrights. It ranks with _Hernani_ and _La Dame aux Camélias_ among
the epoch-making plays of the nineteenth century, while in point of
essential originality it towers above them. We cannot, I think, get
nearer to the truth than George Brandes did in the above-quoted phrase
from his first notice of the play, describing it as not, perhaps, the
poet’s greatest work, but certainly his noblest deed. In another essay,
Brandes has pointed to it, with equal justice, as marking Ibsen’s final
breach with his early—one might almost say his hereditary—romanticism.
He here becomes, at last, “the most modern of the moderns.” “This, I am
convinced,” says the Danish critic, “is his imperishable glory, and will
give lasting life to his works.”
W. A.
A DOLL’S HOUSE
CHARACTERS.
TORVALD HELMER.
NORA, _his wife_.
DOCTOR RANK.
MRS. LINDEN.[3]
NILS KROGSTAD.
THE HELMERS’ THREE CHILDREN.
ANNA,[4] _their nurse_.
A MAID-SERVANT (ELLEN).
A PORTER.
_The action passes in Helmer’s house (a flat) in Christiania._
-----
Footnote 1:
_Fortnightly Review_, July 1906.
Footnote 2:
See “The Mausoleum of Ibsen,” _Fortnightly Review_, August 1893. See
also Mr. Bernard Shaw’s _Quintessence of Ibsenism_, p. 89, and my
introduction to _Ghosts_ in the single-volume edition (Walter Scott).
Footnote 3:
In the original “Fru Linde.”
Footnote 4:
In the original “Anne-Marie.”
A DOLL’S HOUSE.
--------------
ACT FIRST.
_A room, comfortably and tastefully, but not expensively, furnished. In
the back, on the right, a door leads to the hall; on the left
another door leads to HELMER’S study. Between the two doors a
pianoforte. In the middle of the left wall a door, and nearer the
front a window. Near the window a round table with arm-chairs and
a small sofa. In the right wall, somewhat to the back, a door, and
against the same wall, further forward, a porcelain stove; in
front of it a couple of arm-chairs and a rocking-chair. Between
the stove and the side-door a small table. Engravings on the
walls. A what-not with china and bric-à-brac. A small bookcase
filled with handsomely bound books. Carpet. A fire in the stove.
It is a winter day._
_A bell rings in the hall outside. Presently the outer door of the flat
is heard to open. Then NORA enters, humming gaily. She is in
outdoor dress, and carries several parcels, which she lays on the
right-hand table. She leaves the door into the hall open, and a
PORTER is seen outside, carrying a Christmas-tree and a basket,
which he gives to the MAID-SERVANT who has opened the door._
NORA.
Hide the Christmas-tree carefully, Ellen; the children must on no
account see it before this evening, when it’s lighted up. [_To the_
PORTER, _taking out her purse._] How much?
PORTER.
Fifty öre.[5]
NORA.
There is a crown. No, keep the change.
[_The_ PORTER _thanks her and goes._ NORA _shuts the door. She
continues smiling in quiet glee as she takes off her outdoor
things. Taking from her pocket a bag of macaroons, she eats
one or two. Then she goes on tip-toe to her husband’s door
and listens._
NORA.
Yes; he is at home.
[_She begins humming again, crossing to the table on the right._
HELMER.
[_In his room._] Is that my lark twittering there?
NORA.
[_Busy opening some of her parcels._] Yes, it is.
HELMER.
Is it the squirrel frisking around?
NORA.
Yes!
HELMER.
When did the squirrel get home?
NORA.
Just this minute. [_Hides the bag of macaroons in her pocket and wipes
her mouth._] Come here, Torvald, and see what I’ve been buying.
HELMER.
Don’t interrupt me. [_A little later he opens the door and looks in, pen
in hand._] Buying, did you say? What! All that? Has my little
spendthrift been making the money fly again?
NORA.
Why, Torvald, surely we can afford to launch out a little now. It’s the
first Christmas we haven’t had to pinch.
HELMER.
Come come; we can’t afford to squander money.
NORA.
Oh yes, Torvald, do let us squander a little, now—just the least little
bit! You know you’ll soon be earning heaps of money.
HELMER.
Yes, from New Year’s Day. But there’s a whole quarter before my first
salary is due.
NORA.
Never mind; we can borrow in the meantime.
HELMER.
Nora! [_He goes up to her and takes her playfully by the ear._] Still my
little featherbrain! Supposing I borrowed a thousand crowns to-day, and
you made ducks and drakes of them during Christmas week, and then on New
Year’s Eve a tile blew off the roof and knocked my brains out——
NORA.
[_Laying her hand on his mouth._] Hush! How can you talk so horridly?
HELMER.
But supposing it were to happen—what then?
NORA.
If anything so dreadful happened, it would be all the same to me whether
I was in debt or not.
HELMER.
But what about the creditors?
NORA.
They! Who cares for _them_? They’re only strangers.
HELMER.
Nora, Nora! What a _woman_ you are! But seriously, Nora, you know my
principles on these points. No debts! No borrowing! Home life ceases to
be free and beautiful as soon as it is founded on borrowing and debt. We
two have held out bravely till now, and we are not going to give in at
the last.
NORA.
[_Going to the fireplace._] Very well—as you please, Torvald.
HELMER.
[_Following her._] Come come; my little lark mustn’t droop her wings
like that. What? Is my squirrel in the sulks? [_Takes out his purse._]
Nora, what do you think I have here?
NORA.
[_Turning round quickly._] Money!
HELMER.
There! [_Gives her some notes._] Of course I know all sorts of things
are wanted at Christmas.
NORA.
[_Counting._] Ten, twenty, thirty, forty. Oh, thank you, thank you,
Torvald! This will go a long way.
HELMER.
I should hope so.
NORA.
Yes, indeed; a long way! But come here, and let me show you all I’ve
been buying. And so cheap! Look, here’s a new suit for Ivar, and a
little sword. Here are a horse and a trumpet for Bob. And here are a
doll and a cradle for Emmy. They’re only common; but they’re good enough
for her to pull to pieces. And dress-stuffs and kerchiefs for the
servants. I ought to have got something better for old Anna.
HELMER.
And what’s in that other parcel?
NORA.
[_Crying out._] No, Torvald, you’re not to see that until this evening!
HELMER.
Oh! Ah! But now tell me, you little spendthrift, have you thought of
anything for yourself?
NORA.
For myself! Oh, I don’t want anything.
HELMER.
Nonsense! Just tell me something sensible you would like to have.
NORA.
No, really I don’t know of anything——Well, listen, Torvald——
HELMER.
Well?
NORA.
[_Playing with his coat-buttons, without looking him in the face._] If
you really want to give me something, you might, you know—you might——
HELMER.
Well? Out with it!
NORA.
[_Quickly._] You might give me money, Torvald. Only just what you think
you can spare; then I can buy something with it later on.
HELMER.
But, Nora——
NORA.
Oh, please do, dear Torvald, please do! I should hang the money in
lovely gilt paper on the Christmas-tree. Wouldn’t that be fun?
HELMER.
What do they call the birds that are always making the money fly?
NORA.
Yes, I know—spendthrifts,[6] of course. But please do as I ask you,
Torvald. Then I shall have time to think what I want most. Isn’t that
very sensible, now?
HELMER.
[_Smiling._] Certainly; that is to say, if you really kept the money I
gave you, and really spent it on something for yourself. But it all goes
in housekeeping, and for all manner of useless things, and then I have
to pay up again.
NORA.
But, Torvald——
HELMER.
Can you deny it, Nora dear? [_He puts his arm round her._] It’s a sweet
little lark, but it gets through a lot of money. No one would believe
how much it costs a man to keep such a little bird as you.
NORA.
For shame! How can you say so? Why, I save as much as ever I can.
HELMER.
[_Laughing._] Very true—as much as you can—but that’s precisely nothing.
NORA.
[_Hums and smiles with covert glee._] H’m! If you only knew, Torvald,
what expenses we larks and squirrels have.
HELMER.
You’re a strange little being! Just like your father—always on the
look-out for all the money you can lay your hands on; but the moment you
have it, it seems to slip through your fingers; you never know what
becomes of it. Well, one must take you as you are. It’s in the blood.
Yes, Nora, that sort of thing is hereditary.
NORA.
I wish I had inherited many of papa’s qualities.
HELMER.
And I don’t wish you anything but just what you are—my own, sweet little
song-bird. But I say—it strikes me you look so—so—what shall I call
it?—so suspicious to-day——
NORA.
Do I?
HELMER.
You do, indeed. Look me full in the face.
NORA.
[_Looking at him._] Well?
HELMER.
[_Threatening with his finger._] Hasn’t the little sweet-tooth been
playing pranks to-day?
NORA.
No; how can you think such a thing!
HELMER.
Didn’t she just look in at the confectioner’s?
NORA.
No, Torvald; really——
HELMER.
Not to sip a little jelly?
NORA.
No; certainly not.
HELMER.
Hasn’t she even nibbled a macaroon or two?
NORA.
No, Torvald, indeed, indeed!
HELMER.
Well, well, well; of course I’m only joking.
NORA.
[_Goes to the table on the right._] I shouldn’t think of doing what you
disapprove of.
HELMER.
No, I’m sure of that; and, besides, you’ve given me your word——[_Going
towards her._] Well, keep your little Christmas secrets to yourself,
Nora darling. The Christmas-tree will bring them all to light, I
daresay.
NORA.
Have you remembered to invite Doctor Rank?
HELMER.
No. But it’s not necessary; he’ll come as a matter of course. Besides, I
shall ask him when he looks in to-day. I’ve ordered some capital wine.
Nora, you can’t think how I look forward to this evening.
NORA.
And I too. How the children will enjoy themselves, Torvald!
HELMER.
Ah, it’s glorious to feel that one has an assured position and ample
means. Isn’t it delightful to think of?
NORA.
Oh, it’s wonderful!
HELMER.
Do you remember last Christmas? For three whole weeks beforehand you
shut yourself up every evening till long past midnight to make flowers
for the Christmas-tree, and all sorts of other marvels that were to have
astonished us. I was never so bored in my life.
NORA.
I didn’t bore myself at all.
HELMER.
[_Smiling._] But it came to little enough in the end, Nora.
NORA.
Oh, are you going to tease me about that again? How could I help the cat
getting in and pulling it all to pieces?
HELMER.
To be sure you couldn’t, my poor little Nora. You did your best to give
us all pleasure, and that’s the main point. But, all the same, it’s a
good thing the hard times are over.
NORA.
Oh, isn’t it wonderful?
HELMER.
Now I needn’t sit here boring myself all alone; and you needn’t tire
your blessed eyes and your delicate little fingers——
NORA.
[_Clapping her hands._] No, I needn’t, need I, Torvald? Oh, how
wonderful it is to think of! [_Takes his arm._] And now I’ll tell you
how I think we ought to manage, Torvald. As soon as Christmas is
over—-[_The hall-door bell rings._] Oh, there’s a ring! [_Arranging the
room._] That’s somebody come to call. How tiresome!
HELMER.
I’m “not at home” to callers; remember that.
ELLEN.
[_In the doorway._] A lady to see you, ma’am.
NORA.
Show her in.
ELLEN.
[_To_ HELMER.] And the doctor has just come, sir.
HELMER.
Has he gone into my study?
ELLEN.
Yes, sir.
[HELMER _goes into his study._ ELLEN _ushers in_ MRS. LINDEN,
_in travelling costume, and goes out, closing the door._
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Embarrassed and hesitating._] How do you do, Nora?
NORA.
[_Doubtfully._] How do you do?
MRS. LINDEN.
I see you don’t recognise me.
NORA.
No, I don’t think—oh yes!—I believe——[_Suddenly brightening._] What,
Christina! Is it really you?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; really I!
NORA.
Christina! And to think I didn’t know you! But how could I——[_More
softly._] How changed you are, Christina!
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, no doubt. In nine or ten years——
NORA.
Is it really so long since we met? Yes, so it is. Oh, the last eight
years have been a happy time, I can tell you. And now you have come to
town? All that long journey in mid-winter! How brave of you!
MRS. LINDEN.
I arrived by this morning’s steamer.
NORA.
To have a merry Christmas, of course. Oh, how delightful! Yes, we _will_
have a merry Christmas. Do take your things off. Aren’t you frozen?
[_Helping her._] There; now we’ll sit cosily by the fire. No, you take
the arm-chair; I shall sit in this rocking-chair. [_Seizes her hands._]
Yes, now I can see the dear old face again. It was only at the first
glance——But you’re a little paler, Christina—and perhaps a little
thinner.
MRS. LINDEN.
And much, much older, Nora.
NORA.
Yes, perhaps a little older—not much—ever so little. [_She suddenly
checks herself; seriously._] Oh, what a thoughtless wretch I am! Here I
sit chattering on, and——Dear, dear Christina, can you forgive me!
MRS. LINDEN.
What do you mean, Nora?
NORA.
[_Softly._] Poor Christina! I forgot: you are a widow.
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; my husband died three years ago.
NORA.
I know, I know; I saw it in the papers. Oh, believe me, Christina, I did
mean to write to you; but I kept putting it off, and something always
came in the way.
MRS. LINDEN.
I can quite understand that, Nora dear.
NORA.
No, Christina; it was horrid of me. Oh, you poor darling! how much you
must have gone through!—And he left you nothing?
MRS. LINDEN.
Nothing.
NORA.
And no children?
MRS. LINDEN.
None.
NORA.
Nothing, nothing at all?
MRS. LINDEN.
Not even a sorrow or a longing to dwell upon.
NORA.
[_Looking at her incredulously._] My dear Christina, how is that
possible?
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Smiling sadly and stroking her hair._] Oh, it happens so sometimes,
Nora.
NORA.
So utterly alone! How dreadful that must be! I have three of the
loveliest children. I can’t show them to you just now; they’re out with
their nurse. But now you must tell me everything.
MRS. LINDEN.
No, no; I want you to tell me——
NORA.
No, you must begin; I won’t be egotistical to-day. To-day I’ll think
only of you. Oh! but I must tell you one thing—perhaps you’ve heard of
our great stroke of fortune?
MRS. LINDEN.
No. What is it?
NORA.
Only think! my husband has been made manager of the Joint Stock Bank.
MRS. LINDEN.
Your husband! Oh, how fortunate!
NORA.
Yes; isn’t it? A lawyer’s position is so uncertain, you see, especially
when he won’t touch any business that’s the least bit—shady, as of
course Torvald never would; and there I quite agree with him. Oh! you
can imagine how glad we are. He is to enter on his new position at the
New Year, and then he’ll have a large salary, and percentages. In future
we shall be able to live quite differently—just as we please, in fact.
Oh, Christina, I feel so lighthearted and happy! It’s delightful to have
lots of money, and no need to worry about things, isn’t it?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; at any rate it must be delightful to have what you need.
NORA.
No, not only what you need, but heaps of money—_heaps_!
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Smiling._] Nora, Nora, haven’t you learnt reason yet? In our
schooldays you were a shocking little spendthrift.
NORA.
[_Quietly smiling._] Yes; that’s what Torvald says I am still. [_Holding
up her forefinger._] But “Nora, Nora” is not so silly as you all think.
Oh! I haven’t had the chance to be much of a spendthrift. We have both
had to work.
MRS. LINDEN.
You too?
NORA.
Yes, light fancy work: crochet, and embroidery, and things of that sort;
[_Carelessly_] and other work too. You know, of course, that Torvald
left the Government service when we were married. He had little chance
of promotion, and of course he required to make more money. But in the
first year after our marriage he overworked himself terribly. He had to
undertake all sorts of extra work, you know, and to slave early and
late. He couldn’t stand it, and fell dangerously ill. Then the doctors
declared he must go to the South.
MRS. LINDEN.
You spent a whole year in Italy, didn’t you?
NORA.
Yes, we did. It wasn’t easy to manage, I can tell you. It was just after
Ivar’s birth. But of course we had to go. Oh, it was a wonderful,
delicious journey! And it saved Torvald’s life. But it cost a frightful
lot of money, Christina.
MRS. LINDEN.
So I should think.
NORA.
Twelve hundred dollars! Four thousand eight hundred crowns![7] Isn’t
that a lot of money?
MRS. LINDEN.
How lucky you had the money to spend!
NORA.
We got it from father, you must know.
MRS. LINDEN.
Ah, I see. He died just about that time, didn’t he?
NORA.
Yes, Christina, just then. And only think! I couldn’t go and nurse him!
I was expecting little Ivar’s birth daily; and then I had my poor sick
Torvald to attend to. Dear, kind old father! I never saw him again,
Christina. Oh! that’s the hardest thing I have had to bear since my
marriage.
MRS. LINDEN.
I know how fond you were of him. But then you went to Italy?
NORA.
Yes; you see, we had the money, and the doctors said we must lose no
time. We started a month later.
MRS. LINDEN.
And your husband came back completely cured.
NORA.
Sound as a bell.
MRS. LINDEN.
But—the doctor?
NORA.
What do you mean?
MRS. LINDEN.
I thought as I came in your servant announced the doctor——
NORA.
Oh, yes; Doctor Rank. But he doesn’t come professionally. He is our best
friend, and never lets a day pass without looking in. No, Torvald hasn’t
had an hour’s illness since that time. And the children are so healthy
and well, and so am I. [_Jumps up and claps her hands._] Oh, Christina,
Christina, what a wonderful thing it is to live and to be happy!—Oh, but
it’s really too horrid of me! Here am I talking about nothing but my own
concerns. [_Seats herself upon a footstool close to CHRISTINA, and lays
her arms on her friend’s lap._] Oh, don’t be angry with me! Now tell me,
is it really true that you didn’t love your husband? What made you marry
him, then?
MRS. LINDEN.
My mother was still alive, you see, bedridden and helpless; and then I
had my two younger brothers to think of. I didn’t think it would be
right for me to refuse him.
NORA.
Perhaps it wouldn’t have been. I suppose he was rich then?
MRS. LINDEN.
Very well off, I believe. But his business was uncertain. It fell to
pieces at his death, and there was nothing left.
NORA.
And then——?
MRS. LINDEN.
Then I had to fight my way by keeping a shop, a little school, anything
I could turn my hand to. The last three years have been one long
struggle for me. But now it is over, Nora. My poor mother no longer
needs me; she is at rest. And the boys are in business, and can look
after themselves.
NORA.
How free your life must feel!
MRS. LINDEN.
No, Nora; only inexpressibly empty. No one to live for! [_Stands up
restlessly._] That’s why I could not bear to stay any longer in that
out-of-the way corner. Here it must be easier to find something to take
one up—to occupy one’s thoughts. If I could only get some settled
employment—some office work.
NORA.
But, Christina, that’s such drudgery, and you look worn out already. It
would be ever so much better for you to go to some watering-place and
rest.
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Going to the window._] I have no father to give me the money, Nora.
NORA.
[_Rising._] Oh, don’t be vexed with me.
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Going to her._] My dear Nora, don’t you be vexed with me. The worst of
a position like mine is that it makes one so bitter. You have no one to
work for, yet you have to be always on the strain. You must live; and so
you become selfish. When I heard of the happy change in your
fortunes—can you believe it?—I was glad for my own sake more than for
yours.
NORA.
How do you mean? Ah, I see! You think Torvald can perhaps do something
for you.
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; I thought so.
NORA.
And so he shall, Christina. Just you leave it all to me. I shall lead up
to it beautifully!—I shall think of some delightful plan to put him in a
good humour! Oh, I should so love to help you.
MRS. LINDEN.
How good of you, Nora, to stand by me so warmly! Doubly good in you, who
know so little of the troubles and burdens of life.
NORA.
I? I know so little of——?
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Smiling._] Oh, well—a little fancy-work, and so forth.—You’re a child,
Nora.
NORA.
[_Tosses her head and paces the room._] Oh, come, you mustn’t be so
patronising!
MRS. LINDEN.
No?
NORA.
You’re like the rest. You all think I’m fit for nothing really serious——
MRS. LINDEN.
Well, well——
NORA.
You think I’ve had no troubles in this weary world.
MRS. LINDEN.
My dear Nora, you’ve just told me all your troubles.
NORA.
Pooh—those trifles! [_Softly._] I haven’t told you the great thing.
MRS. LINDEN.
The great thing? What do you mean?
NORA.
I know you look down upon me, Christina; but you have no right to. You
are proud of having worked so hard and so long for your mother.
MRS. LINDEN.
I am sure I don’t look down upon any one; but it’s true I am both proud
and glad when I remember that I was able to keep my mother’s last days
free from care.
NORA.
And you’re proud to think of what you have done for your brothers, too.
MRS. LINDEN.
Have I not the right to be?
NORA.
Yes indeed. But now let me tell you, Christina—I, too, have something to
be proud and glad of.
MRS. LINDEN.
I don’t doubt it. But what do you mean?
NORA.
Hush! Not so loud. Only think, if Torvald were to hear! He mustn’t—not
for worlds! No one must know about it, Christina—no one but you.
MRS. LINDEN.
Why, what can it be?
NORA.
Come over here. [_Draws her down beside her on the sofa._] Yes,
Christina—I, too, have something to be proud and glad of. I saved
Torvald’s life.
MRS. LINDEN.
Saved his life? How?
NORA.
I told you about our going to Italy. Torvald would have died but for
that.
MRS. LINDEN.
Well—and your father gave you the money.
NORA.
[_Smiling._] Yes, so Torvald and every one believes; but——
MRS. LINDEN.
But——?
NORA.
Papa didn’t give us one penny. It was _I_ that found the money.
MRS. LINDEN.
You? All that money?
NORA.
Twelve hundred dollars. Four thousand eight hundred crowns. What do you
say to that?
MRS. LINDEN.
My dear Nora, how did you manage it? Did you win it in the lottery?
NORA.
[_Contemptuously_] In the lottery? Pooh! Any one could have done _that_!
MRS. LINDEN.
Then wherever did you get it from?
NORA.
[_Hums and smiles mysteriously._] H’m; tra-la-la-la!
MRS. LINDEN.
Of course you couldn’t borrow it.
NORA.
No? Why not?
MRS. LINDEN.
Why, a wife can’t borrow without her husband’s consent.
NORA.
[_Tossing her head._] Oh! when the wife has some idea of business, and
knows how to set about things——
MRS. LINDEN.
But, Nora, I don’t understand——
NORA.
Well, you needn’t. I never said I borrowed the money. There are many
ways I may have got it.
[_Throws herself back on the sofa._] I may have got it from some
admirer. When one is so—attractive as I am——
MRS. LINDEN.
You’re too silly, Nora.
NORA.
Now I’m sure you’re dying of curiosity, Christina——
MRS. LINDEN.
Listen to me, Nora dear: haven’t you been a little rash?
NORA.
[_Sitting upright again._] Is it rash to save one’s husband’s life?
MRS. LINDEN.
I think it was rash of you, without his knowledge——
NORA.
But it would have been fatal for him to know! Can’t you understand that?
He wasn’t even to suspect how ill he was. The doctors came to me
privately and told me his life was in danger—that nothing could save him
but a winter in the South. Do you think I didn’t try diplomacy first? I
told him how I longed to have a trip abroad, like other young wives; I
wept and prayed; I said he ought to think of my condition, and not to
thwart me; and then I hinted that he could borrow the money. But then,
Christina, he got almost angry. He said I was frivolous, and that it was
his duty as a husband not to yield to my whims and fancies—so he called
them. Very well, thought I, but saved you must be; and then I found the
way to do it.
MRS. LINDEN.
And did your husband never learn from your father that the money was not
from him?
NORA.
No; never. Papa died at that very time. I meant to have told him all
about it, and begged him to say nothing. But he was so ill—unhappily, it
wasn’t necessary.
MRS. LINDEN.
And you have never confessed to your husband?
NORA.
Good heavens! What can you be thinking of? _Tell him_, when he has such
a loathing of debt! And besides—how painful and humiliating it would be
for Torvald, with his manly self-respect, to know that he owed anything
to me! It would utterly upset the relation between us; our beautiful,
happy home would never again be what it is.
MRS. LINDEN.
Will you never tell him?
NORA.
[_Thoughtfully, half-smiling._] Yes, some time perhaps—many, many years
hence, when I’m—not so pretty. You mustn’t laugh at me! Of course I mean
when Torvald is not so much in love with me as he is now; when it
doesn’t amuse him any longer to see me dancing about, and dressing up
and acting. Then it might be well to have something in reserve.
[_Breaking off._] Nonsense! nonsense! That time will never come. Now,
what do you say to my grand secret, Christina? Am I fit for nothing now?
You may believe it has cost me a lot of anxiety. It has been no joke to
meet my engagements punctually. You must know, Christina, that in
business there are things called instalments, and quarterly interest,
that are terribly hard to provide for. So I’ve had to pinch a little
here and there, wherever I could. I couldn’t save much out of the
housekeeping, for of course Torvald had to live well. And I couldn’t let
the children go about badly dressed; all I got for them, I spent on
them, the blessed darlings!
MRS. LINDEN.
Poor Nora! So it had to come out of your own pocket-money.
NORA.
Yes, of course. After all, the whole thing was my doing. When Torvald
gave me money for clothes, and so on, I never spent more than half of
it; I always bought the simplest and cheapest things. It’s a mercy that
everything suits me so well—Torvald never had any suspicions. But it was
often very hard, Christina dear. For it’s nice to be beautifully
dressed—now, isn’t it?
MRS. LINDEN.
Indeed it is.
NORA.
Well, and besides that, I made money in other ways. Last winter I was so
lucky—I got a heap of copying to do. I shut myself up every evening and
wrote far into the night. Oh, sometimes I was so tired, so tired. And
yet it was splendid to work in that way and earn money. I almost felt as
if I was a man.
MRS. LINDEN.
Then how much have you been able to pay off?
NORA.
Well, I can’t precisely say. It’s difficult to keep that sort of
business clear. I only know that I’ve paid everything I could scrape
together. Sometimes I really didn’t know where to turn. [_Smiles._] Then
I used to sit here and pretend that a rich old gentleman was in love
with me——
MRS. LINDEN.
What! What gentleman?
NORA.
Oh, nobody!—that he was dead now, and that when his will was opened,
there stood in large letters: “Pay over at once everything of which I
die possessed to that charming person, Mrs. Nora Helmer.”
MRS. LINDEN.
But, my dear Nora—what gentleman do you mean?
NORA.
Oh dear, can’t you understand? There wasn’t any old gentleman: it was
only what I used to dream and dream when I was at my wits’ end for
money. But it doesn’t matter now—the tiresome old creature may stay
where he is for me. I care nothing for him or his will; for now my
troubles are over. [_Springing up._] Oh, Christina, how glorious it is
to think of! Free from all anxiety! Free, quite free. To be able to play
and romp about with the children; to have things tasteful and pretty in
the house, exactly as Torvald likes it! And then the spring will soon be
here, with the great blue sky. Perhaps then we shall have a little
holiday. Perhaps I shall see the sea again. Oh, what a wonderful thing
it is to live and to be happy!
[_The hall-door bell rings._
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Rising._] There’s a ring. Perhaps I had better go.
NORA.
No; do stay. No one will come here. It’s sure to be some one for
Torvald.
ELLEN.
[_In the doorway._] If you please, ma’am, there’s a gentleman to speak
to Mr. Helmer.
NORA.
Who is the gentleman?
KROGSTAD.
[_In the doorway._] It is I, Mrs. Helmer.
[MRS. LINDEN _starts and turns away to the window._
NORA.
[_Goes a step towards him, anxiously, speaking low._] You? What is it?
What do you want with my husband?
KROGSTAD.
Bank business—in a way. I hold a small post in the Joint Stock Bank, and
your husband is to be our new chief, I hear.
NORA.
Then it is——?
KROGSTAD.
Only tiresome business, Mrs. Helmer; nothing more.
NORA.
Then will you please go to his study.
[KROGSTAD _goes. She bows indifferently while she closes the
door into the hall. Then she goes to the stove and looks to
the fire._
MRS. LINDEN.
Nora—who was that man?
NORA.
A Mr. Krogstad—a lawyer.
MRS. LINDEN.
Then it was really he?
NORA.
Do you know him?
MRS. LINDEN.
I used to know him—many years ago. He was in a lawyer’s office in our
town.
NORA.
Yes, so he was.
MRS. LINDEN.
How he has changed!
NORA.
I believe his marriage was unhappy.
MRS. LINDEN.
And he is a widower now?
NORA.
With a lot of children. There! Now it will burn up.
[_She closes the stove, and pushes the rocking-chair a little
aside._
MRS. LINDEN.
His business is not of the most creditable, they say?
NORA.
Isn’t it? I daresay not. I don’t know. But don’t let us think of
business—it’s so tiresome.
_DR. RANK comes out of HELMER’S room._
RANK.
[_Still in the doorway._] No, no; I’m in your way. I shall go and have a
chat with your wife. [_Shuts the door and sees_ MRS. LINDEN.] Oh, I beg
your pardon. I’m in the way here too.
NORA.
No, not in the least. [_Introduces them._] Doctor Rank—Mrs. Linden.
RANK.
Oh, indeed; I’ve often heard Mrs. Linden’s name; I think I passed you on
the stairs as I came up.
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; I go so very slowly. Stairs try me so much.
RANK.
Ah—you are not very strong?
MRS. LINDEN.
Only overworked.
RANK.
Nothing more? Then no doubt you’ve come to town to find rest in a round
of dissipation?
MRS. LINDEN.
I have come to look for employment.
RANK.
Is that an approved remedy for overwork?
MRS. LINDEN.
One must live, Doctor Rank.
RANK.
Yes, that seems to be the general opinion.
NORA.
Come, Doctor Rank—you want to live yourself.
RANK.
To be sure I do. However wretched I may be, I want to drag on as long as
possible. All my patients, too, have the same mania. And it’s the same
with people whose complaint is moral. At this very moment Helmer is
talking to just such a moral incurable——
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Softly._] Ah!
NORA.
Whom do you mean?
RANK.
Oh, a fellow named Krogstad, a man you know nothing about—corrupt to the
very core of his character. But even he began by announcing, as a matter
of vast importance, that he must live.
NORA.
Indeed? And what did he want with Torvald?
RANK.
I haven’t an idea; I only gathered that it was some bank business.
NORA.
I didn’t know that Krog—that this Mr. Krogstad had anything to do with
the Bank?
RANK.
Yes. He has got some sort of place there. [_To_ MRS. LINDEN.] I don’t
know whether, in your part of the country, you have people who go
grubbing and sniffing around in search of moral rottenness—and then,
when they have found a “case,” don’t rest till they have got their man
into some good position, where they can keep a watch upon him. Men with
a clean bill of health they leave out in the cold.
MRS. LINDEN.
Well, I suppose the—delicate characters require most care.
RANK.
[_Shrugs his shoulders._] There we have it! It’s that notion that makes
society a hospital.
[NORA, _deep in her own thoughts, breaks into half-stifled
laughter and claps her hands._
RANK.
Why do you laugh at that? Have you any idea what “society” is?
NORA.
What do I care for your tiresome society? I was laughing at something
else—something excessively amusing. Tell me, Doctor Rank, are all the
employees at the Bank dependent on Torvald now?
RANK.
Is that what strikes you as excessively amusing?
NORA.
[_Smiles and hums._] Never mind, never mind! [_Walks about the room._]
Yes, it is funny to think that we—that Torvald has such power over so
many people. [_Takes the bag from her pocket._] Doctor Rank, will you
have a macaroon?
RANK.
What!—macaroons! I thought they were contraband here.
NORA.
Yes; but Christina brought me these.
Mrs. Linden.
What! I——?
NORA.
Oh, well! Don’t be frightened. You couldn’t possibly know that Torvald
had forbidden them. The fact is, he’s afraid of me spoiling my teeth.
But, oh bother, just for once!—That’s for you, Doctor Rank! [_Puts a
macaroon into his mouth._] And you too, Christina. And I’ll have one
while we’re about it—only a tiny one, or at most two. [_Walks about
again._] Oh dear, I am happy! There’s only one thing in the world I
really want.
RANK.
Well; what’s that?
NORA.
There’s something I should so like to say—in Torvald’s hearing.
RANK.
Then why don’t you say it?
NORA.
Because I daren’t, it’s so ugly.
MRS. LINDEN.
Ugly?
RANK.
In that case you’d better not. But to us you might——What is it you would
so like to say in Helmer’s hearing?
NORA.
I should so love to say “Damn it all!”[8]
RANK.
Are you out of your mind?
MRS. LINDEN.
Good gracious, Nora——!
RANK
Say it—there he is!
NORA.
[_Hides the macaroons._] Hush—sh—sh
_HELMER comes out of his room, hat in hand, with his overcoat on his
arm._
NORA.
[_Going to him._] Well, Torvald dear, have you got rid of him?
HELMER.
Yes; he has just gone.
NORA.
Let me introduce you—this is Christina, who has come to town——
HELMER.
Christina? Pardon me, I don’t know——
NORA.
Mrs. Linden, Torvald dear—Christina Linden.
HELMER.
[_To_ MRS. LINDEN.] Indeed! A school-friend of my wife’s, no doubt?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; we knew each other as girls.
NORA.
And only think! she has taken this long journey on purpose to speak to
you.
HELMER.
To speak to me!
MRS. LINDEN.
Well, not quite——
NORA.
You see, Christina is tremendously clever at office-work, and she’s so
anxious to work under a first-rate man of business in order to learn
still more——
HELMER.
[_To_ MRS. LINDEN.] Very sensible indeed.
NORA.
And when she heard you were appointed manager—it was telegraphed, you
know—she started off at once, and——Torvald, dear, for my sake, you must
do something for Christina. Now can’t you?
HELMER.
It’s not impossible. I presume Mrs. Linden is a widow?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes.
HELMER.
And you have already had some experience of business?
MRS. LINDEN.
A good deal.
HELMER.
Well, then, it’s very likely I may be able to find a place for you.
NORA.
[_Clapping her hands._] There now! There now!
HELMER.
You have come at a fortunate moment, Mrs. Linden.
MRS. LINDEN.
Oh, how can I thank you——?
HELMER.
[_Smiling._] There is no occasion. [_Puts on his overcoat._] But for the
present you must excuse me——
RANK.
Wait; I am going with you.
[_Fetches his fur coat from the hall and warms it at the fire._
NORA.
Don’t be long, Torvald dear.
HELMER.
Only an hour; not more.
NORA.
Are you going too, Christina?
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Putting on her walking things._] Yes; I must set about looking for
lodgings.
HELMER.
Then perhaps we can go together?
NORA.
[_Helping her._] What a pity we haven’t a spare room for you; but it’s
impossible——
MRS. LINDEN.
I shouldn’t think of troubling you. Good-bye, dear Nora, and thank you
for all your kindness.
NORA.
Good-bye for the present. Of course you’ll come back this evening. And
you, too, Doctor Rank. What! If you’re well enough? Of course you’ll be
well enough. Only wrap up warmly. [_They go out, talking, into the hall.
Outside on the stairs are heard children’s voices._] There they are!
There they are! [_She runs to the outer door and opens it. The nurse
ANNA, enters the hall with the children._] Come in! Come in! [_Stoops
down and kisses the children._] Oh, my sweet darlings! Do you see them,
Christina? Aren’t they lovely?
RANK.
Don’t let us stand here chattering in the draught.
HELMER.
Come, Mrs. Linden; only mothers can stand such a temperature.
[DR. RANK, HELMER, _and_ MRS. LINDEN _go down the stairs;_ ANNA
_enters the room with the children;_ NORA _also, shutting
the door._
NORA.
How fresh and bright you look! And what red cheeks you’ve got! Like
apples and roses. [_The children chatter to her during what follows._]
Have you had great fun? That’s splendid! Oh, really! You’ve been giving
Emmy and Bob a ride on your sledge!—both at once, only think! Why,
you’re quite a man, Ivar. Oh, give her to me a little, Anna. My sweet
little dolly! [_Takes the smallest from the nurse and dances with her._]
Yes, yes; mother will dance with Bob too. What! Did you have a game of
snowballs? Oh, I wish I’d been there. No; leave them, Anna; I’ll take
their things off. Oh, yes, let me do it; it’s such fun. Go to the
nursery; you look frozen. You’ll find some hot coffee on the stove.
[_The_ NURSE _goes into the room on the left._ NORA _takes off
the children’s things and throws them down anywhere, while
the children talk all together._
Really! A big dog ran after you? But he didn’t bite you? No; dogs don’t
bite dear little dolly children. Don’t peep into those parcels, Ivar.
What is it? Wouldn’t you like to know? Take care—it’ll bite! What? Shall
we have a game? What shall we play at? Hide-and-seek? Yes, let’s play
hide-and-seek. Bob shall hide first. Am I to? Yes, let me hide first.
[_She and the children play, with laughter and shouting, in the
room and the adjacent one to the right. At last_ NORA _hides
under the table; the children come rushing in, look for her,
but cannot find her, hear her half-choked laughter, rush to
the table, lift up the cover and see her. Loud shouts. She
creeps out, as though to frighten them. Fresh shouts.
Meanwhile there has been a knock at the door leading into
the hall. No one has heard it. Now the door is half opened
and_ KROGSTAD _appears. He waits a little; the game is
renewed._
KROGSTAD.
I beg your pardon, Mrs. Helmer——
NORA.
[_With a suppressed cry, turns round and half jumps up._] Ah! What do
you want?
KROGSTAD.
Excuse me; the outer door was ajar—somebody must have forgotten to shut
it——
NORA.
[_Standing up._] My husband is not at home, Mr. Krogstad.
KROGSTAD.
I know it.
NORA.
Then what do you want here?
KROGSTAD.
To say a few words to you.
NORA.
To me? [_To the children, softly._] Go in to Anna. What? No, the strange
man won’t hurt mamma. When he’s gone we’ll go on playing. [_She leads
the children into the left-hand room, and shuts the door behind them.
Uneasy, in suspense._] It is to me you wish to speak?
KROGSTAD.
Yes, to you.
NORA.
To-day? But it’s not the first yet——
KROGSTAD.
No, to-day is Christmas Eve. It will depend upon yourself whether you
have a merry Christmas.
NORA.
What do you want? I’m not ready to-day——
KROGSTAD.
Never mind that just now. I have come about another matter. You have a
minute to spare?
NORA.
Oh, yes, I suppose so; although——
KROGSTAD.
Good. I was sitting in the restaurant opposite, and I saw your husband
go down the street——
NORA.
Well?
KROGSTAD.
——with a lady
NORA.
What then?
KROGSTAD.
May I ask if the lady was a Mrs. Linden?
NORA.
Yes.
KROGSTAD.
Who has just come to town?
NORA.
Yes. To-day.
KROGSTAD.
I believe she is an intimate friend of yours?
NORA.
Certainly. But I don’t understand——
KROGSTAD.
I used to know her too.
NORA.
I know you did.
KROGSTAD.
Ah! You know all about it. I thought as much. Now, frankly, is Mrs.
Linden to have a place in the Bank?
NORA.
How dare you catechise me in this way, Mr. Krogstad—you, a subordinate
of my husband’s? But since you ask, you shall know. Yes, Mrs. Linden is
to be employed. And it is I who recommended her, Mr. Krogstad. Now you
know.
KROGSTAD.
Then my guess was right.
NORA.
[_Walking up and down._] You see one has a wee bit of influence, after
all. It doesn’t follow because one’s only a woman——When people are in a
subordinate position, Mr. Krogstad, they ought really to be careful how
they offend anybody who—h’m——
KROGSTAD.
——who has influence?
NORA.
Exactly.
KROGSTAD.
[_Taking another tone._] Mrs. Helmer, will you have the kindness to
employ your influence on my behalf?
NORA.
What? How do you mean?
KROGSTAD.
Will you be so good as to see that I retain my subordinate position in
the Bank?
NORA.
What do you mean? Who wants to take it from you?
KROGSTAD.
Oh, you needn’t pretend ignorance. I can very well understand that it
cannot be pleasant for your friend to meet me; and I can also understand
now for whose sake I am to be hounded out.
NORA.
But I assure you——
KROGSTAD.
Come come now, once for all: there is time yet, and I advise you to use
your influence to prevent it.
NORA.
But, Mr. Krogstad, I have no influence—absolutely none.
KROGSTAD.
None? I thought you said a moment ago——
NORA.
Of course not in that sense. I! How can you imagine that I should have
any such influence over my husband?
KROGSTAD.
Oh, I know your husband from our college days. I don’t think he is any
more inflexible than other husbands.
NORA.
If you talk disrespectfully of my husband, I must request you to leave
the house.
KROGSTAD.
You are bold, madam.
NORA.
I am afraid of you no longer. When New Year’s Day is over, I shall soon
be out of the whole business.
KROGSTAD.
[_Controlling himself._] Listen to me, Mrs. Helmer. If need be, I shall
fight as though for my life to keep my little place in the Bank.
NORA.
Yes, so it seems.
KROGSTAD.
It’s not only for the salary: that is what I care least about. It’s
something else——Well, I had better make a clean breast of it. Of course
you know, like every one else, that some years ago I—got into trouble.
NORA.
I think I’ve heard something of the sort.
KROGSTAD.
The matter never came into court; but from that moment all paths were
barred to me. Then I took up the business you know about. I had to turn
my hand to something; and I don’t think I’ve been one of the worst. But
now I must get clear of it all. My sons are growing up; for their sake I
must try to recover my character as well as I can. This place in the
Bank was the first step; and now your husband wants to kick me off the
ladder, back into the mire.
NORA.
But I assure you, Mr. Krogstad, I haven’t the least power to help you.
KROGSTAD.
That is because you have not the will; but I can compel you.
NORA.
You won’t tell my husband that I owe you money?
KROGSTAD.
H’m; suppose I were to?
NORA.
It would be shameful of you. [_With tears in her voice._] The secret
that is my joy and my pride—that he should learn it in such an ugly,
coarse way—and from you. It would involve me in all sorts of
unpleasantness——
KROGSTAD.
Only unpleasantness.
NORA.
[_Hotly._] But just do it. It’s you that will come off worst, for then
my husband will see what a bad man you are, and then you certainly won’t
keep your place.
KROGSTAD.
I asked whether it was only domestic unpleasantness you feared?
NORA.
If my husband gets to know about it, he will of course pay you off at
once, and then we shall have nothing more to do with you.
KROGSTAD.
[_Coming a pace nearer._] Listen, Mrs. Helmer: either your memory is
defective, or you don’t know much about business. I must make the
position a little clearer to you.
NORA.
How so?
KROGSTAD.
When your husband was ill, you came to me to borrow twelve hundred
dollars.
NORA.
I knew of nobody else.
KROGSTAD.
I promised to find you the money——
NORA.
And you did find it.
KROGSTAD.
I promised to find you the money, on certain conditions. You were so
much taken up at the time about your husband’s illness, and so eager to
have the wherewithal for your journey, that you probably did not give
much thought to the details. Allow me to remind you of them. I promised
to find you the amount in exchange for a note of hand, which I drew up.
NORA.
Yes, and I signed it.
KROGSTAD.
Quite right. But then I added a few lines, making your father security
for the debt. Your father was to sign this.
NORA.
Was to——? He did sign it!
KROGSTAD.
I had left the date blank. That is to say, your father was himself to
date his signature. Do you recollect that?
NORA.
Yes, I believe——
KROGSTAD.
Then I gave you the paper to send to your father, by post. Is not that
so?
NORA.
Yes.
KROGSTAD.
And of course you did so at once; for within five or six days you
brought me back the document with your father’s signature; and I handed
you the money.
NORA.
Well? Have I not made my payments punctually?
KROGSTAD.
Fairly—yes. But to return to the point: You were in great trouble at the
time, Mrs. Helmer.
NORA.
I was indeed!
KROGSTAD.
Your father was very ill, I believe?
NORA.
He was on his death-bed.
KROGSTAD.
And died soon after?
NORA.
Yes.
KROGSTAD.
Tell me, Mrs. Helmer: do you happen to recollect the day of his death?
The day of the month, I mean?
NORA.
Father died on the 29th of September.
KROGSTAD.
Quite correct. I have made inquiries. And here comes in the remarkable
point—[_Produces a paper_] which I cannot explain.
NORA.
What remarkable point? I don’t know——
KROGSTAD.
The remarkable point, madam, that your father signed this paper three
days after his death!
NORA.
What! I don’t understand——
KROGSTAD.
Your father died on the 29th of September. But look here: he has dated
his signature October 2nd! Is not that remarkable, Mrs. Helmer? [NORA
_is silent._] Can you explain it? [NORA _continues silent._] It is
noteworthy, too, that the words “October 2nd” and the year are not in
your father’s handwriting, but in one which I believe I know. Well, this
may be explained; your father may have forgotten to date his signature,
and somebody may have added the date at random, before the fact of your
father’s death was known. There is nothing wrong in that. Everything
depends on the signature. Of course it is genuine, Mrs. Helmer? It was
really your father himself who wrote his name here?
NORA.
[_After a short silence, throws her head back and looks defiantly at
him._] No, it was not. _I_ wrote father’s name.
KROGSTAD.
Ah!—Are you aware, madam, that that is a dangerous admission?
NORA.
How so? You will soon get your money.
KROGSTAD.
May I ask you one more question? Why did you not send the paper to your
father?
NORA.
It was impossible. Father was ill. If I had asked him for his signature,
I should have had to tell him why I wanted the money; but he was so ill
I really could not tell him that my husband’s life was in danger. It was
impossible.
KROGSTAD.
Then it would have been better to have given up your tour.
NORA.
No, I couldn’t do that; my husband’s life depended on that journey. I
couldn’t give it up.
KROGSTAD.
And did it never occur to you that you were playing me false?
NORA.
That was nothing to me. I didn’t care in the least about you. I couldn’t
endure you for all the cruel difficulties you made, although you knew
how ill my husband was.
KROGSTAD.
Mrs. Helmer, you evidently do not realise what you have been guilty of.
But I can assure you it was nothing more and nothing worse that made me
an outcast from society.
NORA.
You! You want me to believe that you did a brave thing to save your
wife’s life?
KROGSTAD.
The law takes no account of motives.
NORA.
Then it must be a very bad law.
KROGSTAD.
Bad or not, if I produce this document in court, you will be condemned
according to law.
NORA.
I don’t believe that. Do you mean to tell me that a daughter has no
right to spare her dying father trouble and anxiety?—that a wife has no
right to save her husband’s life? I don’t know much about the law, but
I’m sure you’ll find, somewhere or another, that that is allowed. And
you don’t know that—you, a lawyer! You must be a bad one, Mr. Krogstad.
KROGSTAD.
Possibly. But business—such business as ours—I do understand. You
believe that? Very well; now do as you please. But this I may tell you,
that if I am flung into the gutter a second time, you shall keep me
company.
[_Bows and goes out through hall._
NORA.
[_Stands a while thinking, then tosses her head._] Oh nonsense! He wants
to frighten me. I’m not so foolish as that. [_Begins folding the
children’s_ _clothes. Pauses._] But——? No, it’s impossible! Why, I did
it for love!
CHILDREN.
[_At the door, left._] Mamma, the strange man has gone now.
NORA.
Yes, yes, I know. But don’t tell any one about the strange man. Do you
hear? Not even papa!
CHILDREN.
No, mamma; and now will you play with us again?
NORA.
No, no; not now.
CHILDREN.
Oh, do, mamma; you know you promised.
NORA.
Yes, but I can’t just now. Run to the nursery; I have so much to do. Run
along, run along, and be good, my darlings! [_She pushes them gently
into the inner room, and closes the door behind them. Sits on the sofa,
embroiders a few stitches, but soon pauses._] No! [_Throws down the
work, rises, goes to the hall door and calls out._] Ellen, bring in the
Christmas-tree! [_Goes to table, left, and opens the drawer; again
pauses._] No, it’s quite impossible!
ELLEN.
[_With Christmas-tree._] Where shall I stand it, ma’am?
NORA.
There, in the middle of the room.
ELLEN.
Shall I bring in anything else?
NORA.
No, thank you, I have all I want.
[ELLEN, _having put down the tree, goes out._
NORA.
[_Busy dressing the tree._] There must be a candle here—and flowers
there.—That horrible man! Nonsense, nonsense! there’s nothing to be
afraid of. The Christmas-tree shall be beautiful. I’ll do everything to
please you, Torvald; I’ll sing and dance, and——
_Enter HELMER by the hall door, with a bundle of documents._
NORA.
Oh! You’re back already?
HELMER.
Yes. Has anybody been here?
NORA.
Here? No.
HELMER.
That’s odd. I saw Krogstad come out of the house.
NORA.
Did you? Oh, yes, by-the-bye, he was here for a minute.
HELMER.
Nora, I can see by your manner that he has been begging you to put in a
good word for him.
NORA.
Yes.
HELMER.
And you were to do it as if of your own accord? You were to say nothing
to me of his having been here. Didn’t he suggest that too?
NORA.
Yes, Torvald; but——
HELMER.
Nora, Nora! And you could condescend to that! To speak to such a man, to
make him a promise! And then to tell me an untruth about it!
NORA.
An untruth!
HELMER.
Didn’t you say that nobody had been here? [_Threatens with his finger._]
My little bird must never do that again! A song-bird must sing clear and
true; no false notes. [_Puts his arm round her._] That’s so, isn’t it?
Yes, I was sure of it. [_Lets her go._] And now we’ll say no more about
it. [_Sits down before the fire._] Oh, how cosy and quiet it is here!
[_Glances into his documents._
NORA.
[_Busy with the tree, after a short silence._] Torvald!
HELMER.
Yes.
NORA.
I’m looking forward so much to the Stenborgs’ fancy ball the day after
to-morrow.
HELMER.
And I’m on tenterhooks to see what surprise you have in store for me.
NORA.
Oh, it’s too tiresome!
HELMER.
What is?
NORA.
I can’t think of anything good. Everything seems so foolish and
meaningless.
HELMER.
Has little Nora made that discovery?
NORA.
[_Behind his chair, with her arms on the back._] Are you very busy,
Torvald?
HELMER.
Well——
NORA.
What papers are those?
HELMER.
Bank business.
NORA.
Already!
HELMER.
I have got the retiring manager to let me make some necessary changes in
the staff and the organization. I can do this during Christmas week. I
want to have everything straight by the New Year.
NORA.
Then that’s why that poor Krogstad——
HELMER.
H’m.
NORA.
[_Still leaning over the chair-back and slowly stroking his hair._] If
you hadn’t been so very busy, I should have asked you a great, great
favour, Torvald.
HELMER.
What can it be? Out with it.
NORA.
Nobody has such perfect taste as you; and I should so love to look well
at the fancy ball. Torvald, dear, couldn’t you take me in hand, and
settle what I’m to be, and arrange my costume for me?
HELMER.
Aha! So my wilful little woman is at a loss, and making signals of
distress.
NORA.
Yes, please, Torvald. I can’t get on without your help.
HELMER.
Well, well, I’ll think it over, and we’ll soon hit upon something.
NORA.
Oh, how good that is of you! [_Goes to the tree again; pause._] How well
the red flowers show.—Tell me, was it anything so very dreadful this
Krogstad got into trouble about?
HELMER.
Forgery, that’s all. Don’t you know what that means?
NORA.
Mayn’t he have been driven to it by need?
HELMER.
Yes; or, like so many others, he may have done it in pure heedlessness.
I am not so hard-hearted as to condemn a man absolutely for a single
fault.
NORA.
No, surely not, Torvald!
HELMER.
Many a man can retrieve his character, if he owns his crime and takes
the punishment.
NORA.
Punishment——?
HELMER.
But Krogstad didn’t do that. He evaded the law by means of tricks and
subterfuges; and that is what has morally ruined him.
NORA.
Do you think that——?
HELMER.
Just think how a man with a thing of that sort on his conscience must be
always lying and canting and shamming. Think of the mask he must wear
even towards those who stand nearest him—towards his own wife and
children. The effect on the children—that’s the most terrible part of
it, Nora.
NORA.
Why?
HELMER.
Because in such an atmosphere of lies home life is poisoned and
contaminated in every fibre. Every breath the children draw contains
some germ of evil.
NORA.
[_Closer behind him._] Are you sure of that?
HELMER.
As a lawyer, my dear, I have seen it often enough. Nearly all cases of
early corruption may be traced to lying mothers.
NORA.
Why—mothers?
HELMER.
It generally comes from the mother’s side; but of course the father’s
influence may act in the same way. Every lawyer knows it too well. And
here has this Krogstad been poisoning his own children for years past by
a life of lies and hypocrisy—that is why I call him morally ruined.
[_Holds out both hands to her._] So my sweet little Nora must promise
not to plead his cause. Shake hands upon it. Come, come, what’s this?
Give me your hand. That’s right. Then it’s a bargain. I assure you it
would have been impossible for me to work with him. It gives me a
positive sense of physical discomfort to come in contact with such
people.
[NORA _draws her hand away, and moves to the other side of the
Christmas-tree._
NORA.
How warm it is here. And I have so much to do.
HELMER.
[_Rises and gathers up his papers._] Yes, and I must try to get some of
these papers looked through before dinner. And I shall think over your
costume too. Perhaps I may even find something to hang in gilt paper on
the Christmas-tree. [_Lays his hand on her head._] My precious little
song-bird!
[_He goes into his room and shuts the door._
NORA.
[Softly, after a pause.] It can’t be. It’s impossible. It must be
impossible!
ANNA.
[_At the door, left._] T
NORA.
No, no, no; don’t let them come to me! Keep them with you, Anna.
ANNA.
Very well, ma’am.
[_Shuts the door._
NORA.
[_Pale with terror._] Corrupt my children!—Poison my home! [_Short
pause. She throws back her head._] It’s not true! It can never, never be
true!
-----
Footnote 5:
About sixpence. There are 100 öre in a krone or crown, which is worth
thirteenpence halfpenny.
Footnote 6:
“Spillefugl,” literally “playbird,” means a gambler.
Footnote 7:
The dollar (4_s._ 6_d._) was the old unit of currency in Norway. The
crown was substituted for it shortly before the date of this play.
Footnote 8:
“Död og pine,” literally “death and torture”; but by usage a
comparatively mild oath.
ACT SECOND
_The same room. In the corner, beside the piano, stands the
Christmas-tree, stripped, and with the candles burnt out.
NORA’S outdoor things lie on the sofa._
_NORA, alone, is walking about restlessly. At last she stops
by the sofa, and takes up her cloak._
NORA.
[_Dropping the cloak._] There’s somebody coming! [_Goes to the hall door
and listens._] Nobody; of course nobody will come to-day, Christmas-day;
nor to-morrow either. But perhaps——[_Opens the door and looks out._]—No,
nothing in the letter-box; quite empty. [_Comes forward._] Stuff and
nonsense! Of course he won’t really do anything. Such a thing couldn’t
happen. It’s impossible! Why, I have three little children.
_ANNA enters from the left, with a large cardboard box._
ANNA.
I’ve found the box with the fancy dress at last.
NORA.
Thanks; put it down on the table.
ANNA.
[_Does so._] But I’m afraid it’s very much out of order.
NORA.
Oh, I wish I could tear it into a hundred thousand pieces!
ANNA.
Oh, no. It can easily be put to rights—just a little patience.
NORA.
I shall go and get Mrs. Linden to help me.
ANNA.
Going out again? In such weather as this! You’ll catch cold, ma’am, and
be ill.
NORA.
Worse things might happen.—What are the children doing?
ANNA.
They’re playing with their Christmas presents, poor little dears; but——
NORA.
Do they often ask for me?
ANNA.
You see they’ve been so used to having their mamma with them.
NORA.
Yes; but, Anna, I can’t have them so much with me in future.
ANNA.
Well, little children get used to anything.
NORA.
Do you think they do? Do you believe they would forget their mother if
she went quite away?
ANNA.
Gracious me! Quite away?
NORA.
Tell me, Anna—I’ve so often wondered about it—how could you bring
yourself to give your child up to strangers?
ANNA.
I had to when I came to nurse my little Miss Nora.
NORA.
But how could you make up your mind to it?
ANNA.
When I had the chance of such a good place? A poor girl who’s been in
trouble must take what comes. That wicked man did nothing for me.
NORA.
But your daughter must have forgotten you.
ANNA.
Oh, no, ma’am, that she hasn’t. She wrote to me both when she was
confirmed and when she was married.
NORA.
[_Embracing her._] Dear old Anna—you were a good mother to me when I was
little.
ANNA.
My poor little Nora had no mother but me.
NORA.
And if my little ones had nobody else, I’m sure you would——Nonsense,
nonsense! [_Opens the box._] Go in to the children. Now I must——You’ll
see how lovely I shall be to-morrow.
ANNA.
I’m sure there will be no one at the ball so lovely as my Miss Nora.
[_She goes into the room on the left._
NORA.
[_Takes the costume out of the box, but soon throws it down again._] Oh,
if I dared go out. If only nobody would come. If only nothing would
happen here in the meantime. Rubbish; nobody is coming. Only not to
think. What a delicious muff! Beautiful gloves, beautiful gloves! To
forget—to forget! One, two, three, four, five, six——[_With a scream._]
Ah, there they come.
[_Goes towards the door, then stands irresolute._
_MRS. LINDEN enters from the hall, where she has taken off her
things._
NORA.
Oh, it’s you, Christina. There’s nobody else there? I’m so glad you have
come.
MRS. LINDEN.
I hear you called at my lodgings.
NORA.
Yes, I was just passing. There’s something you _must_ help me with. Let
us sit here on the sofa—so. To-morrow evening there’s to be a fancy ball
at Consul Stenborg’s overhead, and Torvald wants me to appear as a
Neapolitan fisher-girl, and dance the tarantella; I learned it at Capri.
MRS. LINDEN.
I see—quite a performance.
NORA.
Yes, Torvald wishes it. Look, this is the costume; Torvald had it made
for me in Italy. But now it’s all so torn, I don’t know——
MRS. LINDEN.
Oh, we shall soon set that to rights. It’s only the trimming that has
come loose here and there. Have you a needle and thread? Ah, here’s the
very thing.
NORA.
Oh, how kind of you.
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Sewing._] So you’re to be in costume to-morrow, Nora? I’ll tell you
what—I shall come in for a moment to see you in all your glory. But I’ve
quite forgotten to thank you for the pleasant evening yesterday.
NORA.
[_Rises and walks across the room._] Oh, yesterday, it didn’t seem so
pleasant as usual.—You should have come to town a little sooner,
Christina.—Torvald has certainly the art of making home bright and
beautiful.
MRS. LINDEN.
You too, I should think, or you wouldn’t be your father’s daughter. But
tell me—is Doctor Rank always so depressed as he was last evening?
NORA.
No, yesterday it was particularly noticeable. You see, he suffers from a
dreadful illness. He has spinal consumption, poor fellow. They say his
father was a horrible man, who kept mistresses and all sorts of
things—so the son has been sickly from his childhood, you understand.
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Lets her sewing fall into her lap._] Why, my darling Nora, how do you
come to know such things?
NORA.
[_Moving about the room._] Oh, when one has three children, one
sometimes has visits from women who are half—half doctors—and they talk
of one thing and another.
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Goes on sewing; a short pause._] Does Doctor Rank come here every day?
NORA.
Every day of his life. He has been Torvald’s most intimate friend from
boyhood, and he’s a good friend of mine too. Doctor Rank is quite one of
the family.
MRS. LINDEN.
But tell me—is he quite sincere? I mean, isn’t he rather given to
flattering people?
NORA.
No, quite the contrary. Why should you think so?
MRS. LINDEN.
When you introduced us yesterday he said he had often heard my name; but
I noticed afterwards that your husband had no notion who I was. How
could Doctor Rank——?
NORA.
He was quite right, Christina. You see, Torvald loves me so
indescribably, he wants to have me all to himself, as he says. When we
were first married he was almost jealous if I even mentioned any of my
old friends at home; so naturally I gave up doing it. But I often talk
of the old times to Doctor Rank, for he likes to hear about them.
MRS. LINDEN.
Listen to me, Nora! You are still a child in many ways. I am older than
you, and have had more experience. I’ll tell you something. You ought to
get clear of all this with Dr. Rank.
NORA.
Get clear of what?
MRS. LINDEN.
The whole affair, I should say. You were talking yesterday of a rich
admirer who was to find you money——
NORA.
Yes, one who never existed, worse luck. What then?
MRS. LINDEN.
Has Doctor Rank money?
NORA.
Yes, he has.
MRS. LINDEN.
And nobody to provide for?
NORA.
Nobody. But——?
MRS. LINDEN.
And he comes here every day?
NORA.
Yes, I told you so.
MRS. LINDEN.
I should have thought he would have had better taste.
NORA.
I don’t understand you a bit.
MRS. LINDEN.
Don’t pretend, Nora. Do you suppose I can’t guess who lent you the
twelve hundred dollars?
NORA.
Are you out of your senses? How can you think such a thing? A friend who
comes here every day! Why, the position would be unbearable!
MRS. LINDEN.
Then it really is not he?
NORA.
No, I assure you. It never for a moment occurred to me——Besides, at that
time he had nothing to lend; he came into his property afterwards.
MRS. LINDEN.
Well, I believe that was lucky for you, Nora dear.
NORA.
No, really, it would never have struck me to ask Dr. Rank——And yet, I’m
certain that if I did——
MRS. LINDEN.
But of course you never would.
NORA.
Of course not. It’s inconceivable that it should ever be necessary. But
I’m quite sure that if I spoke to Doctor Rank——
MRS. LINDEN.
Behind your husband’s back?
NORA.
I must get clear of the other thing; that’s behind his back too. I
_must_ get clear of that.
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, yes, I told you so yesterday; but——
NORA.
[_Walking up and down._] A man can manage these things much better than
a woman.
MRS. LINDEN.
One’s own husband, yes.
NORA.
Nonsense. [_Stands still._] When everything is paid, one gets back the
paper.
MRS. LINDEN.
Of course.
NORA.
And can tear it into a hundred thousand pieces, and burn it up, the
nasty, filthy thing!
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Looks at her fixedly, lays down her work, and rises slowly._] Nora,
you are hiding something from me.
NORA.
Can you see it in my face?
MRS. LINDEN.
Something has happened since yesterday morning. Nora, what is it?
NORA.
[_Going towards her._] Christina——! [_Listens._] Hush! There’s Torvald
coming home. Do you mind going into the nursery for the present? Torvald
can’t bear to see dressmaking going on. Get Anna to help you.
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Gathers some of the things together._] Very well; but I shan’t go away
until you have told me all about it.
[_She goes out to the left, as_ HELMER _enters from the hall._
NORA.
[_Runs to meet him._] Oh, how I’ve been longing for you to come, Torvald
dear!
HELMER.
Was that the dressmaker——?
NORA.
No, Christina. She’s helping me with my costume. You’ll see how nice I
shall look.
HELMER.
Yes, wasn’t that a happy thought of mine?
NORA.
Splendid! But isn’t it good of me, too, to have given in to you about
the tarantella?
HELMER.
[_Takes her under the chin._] Good of you! To give in to your own
husband? Well well, you little madcap, I know you don’t mean it. But I
won’t disturb you. I daresay you want to be “trying on.”
NORA.
And you are going to work, I suppose?
HELMER.
Yes. [_Shows her a bundle of papers._] Look here. I’ve just come from
the Bank——
[_Goes towards his room._
NORA.
Torvald.
HELMER.
[_Stopping._] Yes?
NORA.
If your little squirrel were to beg you for something so prettily——
HELMER.
Well?
NORA.
Would you do it?
HELMER.
I must know first what it is.
NORA.
The squirrel would skip about and play all sorts of tricks if you would
only be nice and kind.
HELMER.
Come, then, out with it.
NORA.
Your lark would twitter from morning till night——
HELMER
Oh, that she does in any case.
NORA.
I’ll be an elf and dance in the moonlight for you, Torvald.
HELMER.
Nora—you can’t mean what you were hinting at this morning?
NORA.
[_Coming nearer._] Yes, Torvald, I beg and implore you!
HELMER.
Have you really the courage to begin that again?
NORA.
Yes, yes; for my sake, you _must_ let Krogstad keep his place in the
Bank.
HELMER.
My dear Nora, it’s his place I intend for Mrs. Linden.
NORA.
Yes, that’s so good of you. But instead of Krogstad, you could dismiss
some other clerk.
HELMER.
Why, this is incredible obstinacy! Because you have thoughtlessly
promised to put in a word for him, I am to——!
NORA.
It’s not that, Torvald. It’s for your own sake. This man writes for the
most scurrilous newspapers; you said so yourself. He can do you no end
of harm. I’m so terribly afraid of him——
HELMER.
Ah, I understand; it’s old recollections that are frightening you.
NORA.
What do you mean?
HELMER.
Of course you’re thinking of your father.
NORA.
Yes—yes, of course. Only think of the shameful slanders wicked people
used to write about father. I believe they would have got him dismissed
if you hadn’t been sent to look into the thing, and been kind to him,
and helped him.
HELMER.
My little Nora, between your father and me there is all the difference
in the world. Your father was not altogether unimpeachable. I am; and I
hope to remain so.
NORA.
Oh, no one knows what wicked men may hit upon. We could live so quietly
and happily now, in our cosy, peaceful home, you and I and the children,
Torvald! That’s why I beg and implore you——
HELMER.
And it is just by pleading his cause that you make it impossible for me
to keep him. It’s already known at the Bank that I intend to dismiss
Krogstad. If it were now reported that the new manager let himself be
turned round his wife’s little finger——
NORA.
What then?
HELMER.
Oh, nothing, so long as a wilful woman can have her way——! I am to make
myself a laughing-stock to the whole staff, and set people saying that I
am open to all sorts of outside influence? Take my word for it, I should
soon feel the consequences. And besides—there is one thing that makes
Krogstad impossible for me to work with——
NORA.
What thing?
HELMER.
I could perhaps have overlooked his moral failings at a pinch——
NORA.
Yes, couldn’t you, Torvald?
HELMER.
And I hear he is good at his work. But the fact is, he was a college
chum of mine—there was one of those rash friendships between us that
one so often repents of later. I may as well confess it at once—he
calls me by my Christian name;[9] and he is tactless enough to do it
even when others are present. He delights in putting on airs of
familiarity—Torvald here, Torvald there! I assure you it’s most
painful to me. He would make my position at the Bank perfectly
unendurable.
NORA.
Torvald, surely you’re not serious?
HELMER.
No? Why not?
NORA.
That’s such a petty reason.
HELMER.
What! Petty! Do you consider me petty!
NORA.
No, on the contrary, Torvald dear; and that’s just why——
HELMER.
Never mind; you call my motives petty; then I must be petty too. Petty!
Very well!—Now we’ll put an end to this, once for all. [_Goes to the
door into the hall and calls._] Ellen!
NORA.
What do you want?
HELMER.
[_Searching among his papers._] To settle the thing. [ELLEN _enters._]
Here; take this letter; give it to a messenger. See that he takes it at
once. The address is on it. Here’s the money.
ELLEN.
Very well, sir.
[_Goes with the letter._
HELMER.
[_Putting his papers together._] There, Madam Obstinacy.
NORA.
[_Breathless._] Torvald—what was in the letter?
HELMER.
Krogstad’s dismissal.
NORA.
Call it back again, Torvald! There’s still time. Oh, Torvald, call it
back again! For my sake, for your own, for the children’s sake! Do you
hear, Torvald? Do it! You don’t know what that letter may bring upon us
all.
HELMER.
Too late.
NORA.
Yes, too late.
HELMER.
My dear Nora, I forgive your anxiety, though it’s anything but
flattering to me. Why should you suppose that _I_ would be afraid of a
wretched scribbler’s spite? But I forgive you all the same, for it’s a
proof of your great love for me. [_Takes her in his arms._] That’s as it
should be, my own dear Nora. Let what will happen—when it comes to the
pinch, I shall have strength and courage enough. You shall see: my
shoulders are broad enough to bear the whole burden.
NORA.
[_Terror-struck._] What do you mean by that?
HELMER.
The whole burden, I say——
NORA.
[_With decision._] That you shall never, never do!
HELMER.
Very well; then we’ll share it, Nora, as man and wife. That is how it
should be. [_Petting her._] Are you satisfied now? Come, come, come,
don’t look like a scared dove. It’s all nothing—foolish fancies.—Now you
ought to play the tarantella through and practise with the tambourine. I
shall sit in my inner room and shut both doors, so that I shall hear
nothing. You can make as much noise as you please. [_Turns round in
doorway._] And when Rank comes, just tell him where I’m to be found.
[_He nods to her, and goes with his papers into his room,
closing the door._
NORA.
[_Bewildered with terror, stands as though rooted to the ground, and
whispers._] He would do it. Yes, he would do it. He would do it, in
spite of all the world.—No, never that, never, never! Anything rather
than that! Oh, for some way of escape! What shall I do——! [_Hall bell
rings._] Doctor Rank——!—Anything, anything, rather than——!
[NORA _draws her hands over her face, pulls herself together,
goes to the door and opens it._ RANK _stands outside hanging
up his fur coat. During what follows it begins to grow
dark._
NORA.
Good afternoon, Doctor Rank. I knew you by your ring. But you mustn’t go
to Torvald now. I believe he’s busy.
RANK.
And you?
[_Enters and closes the door._
NORA.
Oh, you know very well, I have always time for you.
RANK.
Thank you. I shall avail myself of your kindness as long as I can.
NORA.
What do you mean? As long as you can?
RANK.
Yes. Does _that_ frighten you?
NORA.
I think it’s an odd expression. Do you expect anything to happen?
RANK.
Something I have long been prepared for; but I didn’t think it would
come so soon.
NORA.
[_Catching at his arm._] What have you discovered? Doctor Rank, you must
tell me!
RANK.
[_Sitting down by the stove._] I am running down hill. There’s no help
for it.
NORA.
[_Draws a long breath of relief._] It’s _you_——?
RANK.
Who else should it be?—Why lie to one’s self? I am the most wretched of
all my patients, Mrs. Helmer. In these last days I have been auditing my
life-account—bankrupt! Perhaps before a month is over, I shall lie
rotting in the churchyard.
NORA.
Oh! What an ugly way to talk.
RANK.
The thing itself is so confoundedly ugly, you see. But the worst of it
is, so many other ugly things have to be gone through first. There is
only one last investigation to be made, and when that is over I shall
know pretty certainly when the break-up will begin. There’s one thing I
want to say to you: Helmer’s delicate nature shrinks so from all that is
horrible: I will not have him in my sick-room——
NORA.
But, Doctor Rank——
RANK.
I won’t have him, I say—not on any account! I shall lock my door against
him.—As soon as I am quite certain of the worst, I shall send you my
visiting-card with a black cross on it; and then you will know that the
final horror has begun.
NORA.
Why, you’re perfectly unreasonable to-day; and I did so want you to be
in a really good humour.
RANK.
With death staring me in the face?—And to suffer thus for another’s sin!
Where’s the justice of it? And in one way or another you can trace in
every family some such inexorable retribution——
NORA.
[_Stopping her ears._] Nonsense, nonsense! Now cheer up!
RANK.
Well, after all, the whole thing’s only worth laughing at. My poor
innocent spine must do penance for my father’s wild oats.
NORA.
[_At table, left._] I suppose he was too fond of asparagus and
Strasbourg pâté, wasn’t he?
RANK.
Yes; and truffles.
NORA.
Yes, truffles, to be sure. And oysters, I believe?
RANK.
Yes, oysters; oysters, of course.
NORA.
And then all the port and champagne! It’s sad that all these good things
should attack the spine.
RANK.
Especially when the luckless spine attacked never had any good of them.
NORA.
Ah, yes, that’s the worst of it.
RANK.
[_Looks at her searchingly._] H’m——
NORA.
[_A moment later._] Why did you smile?
RANK.
No; it was you that laughed.
NORA.
No; it was you that smiled, Dr. Rank.
RANK.
[_Standing up._] I see you’re deeper than I thought.
NORA.
I’m in such a crazy mood to-day.
RANK.
So it seems.
NORA.
[_With her hands on his shoulders._] Dear, dear Doctor Rank, death shall
not take you away from Torvald and me.
RANK.
Oh, you’ll easily get over the loss. The absent are soon forgotten.
NORA.
[_Looks at him anxiously._] Do you think so?
RANK.
People make fresh ties, and then——
NORA.
Who make fresh ties?
RANK.
You and Helmer will, when I am gone. You yourself are taking time by the
forelock, it seems to me. What was that Mrs. Linden doing here
yesterday?
NORA.
Oh!—you’re surely not jealous of poor Christina?
RANK.
Yes, I am. She will be my successor in this house. When I am out of the
way, this woman will perhaps——
NORA.
Hush! Not so loud! She’s in there.
RANK.
To-day as well? You see!
NORA.
Only to put my costume in order—dear me, how unreasonable you are!
[_Sits on sofa._] Now do be good, Doctor Rank! To-morrow you shall see
how beautifully I shall dance; and then you may fancy that I’m doing it
all to please you—and of course Torvald as well. [_Takes various things
out of box._] Doctor Rank, sit down here, and I’ll show you something.
RANK.
[_Sitting._] What is it?
NORA.
Look here! Look!
RANK.
Silk stockings.
NORA.
Flesh-coloured. Aren’t they lovely? It’s so dark here now; but
to-morrow——No, no, no; you must only look at the feet. Oh, well, I
suppose you may look at the rest too.
RANK.
H’m——
NORA.
What are you looking so critical about? Do you think they won’t fit me?
RANK.
I can’t possibly give any competent opinion on that point.
NORA.
[_Looking at him a moment._] For shame! [_Hits him lightly on the ear
with the stockings._] Take that.
[_Rolls them up again._
RANK.
And what other wonders am I to see?
NORA.
You sha’n’t see anything more; for you don’t behave nicely.
[_She hums a little and searches among the things._
RANK.
[_After a short silence._] When I sit here gossiping with you, I can’t
imagine—I simply cannot conceive—what would have become of me if I had
never entered this house.
NORA.
[_Smiling._] Yes, I think you do feel at home with us.
RANK.
[_More softly—looking straight before him._] And now to have to leave it
all——
NORA.
Nonsense. You sha’n’t leave us.
RANK.
[_In the same tone._] And not to be able to leave behind the slightest
token of gratitude; scarcely even a passing regret—nothing but an empty
place, that can be filled by the first comer.
NORA.
And if I were to ask you for——? No——
RANK.
For what?
NORA.
For a great proof of your friendship.
RANK.
Yes—yes?
NORA.
I mean—for a very, very great service——
RANK.
Would you really, for once, make me so happy?
NORA.
Oh, you don’t know what it is.
RANK.
Then tell me.
NORA.
No, I really can’t, Doctor Rank. It’s far, far too much—not only a
service, but help and advice besides——
RANK.
So much the better. I can’t think what you can mean. But go on. Don’t
you trust me?
NORA.
As I trust no one else. I know you are my best and truest friend. So I
will tell you. Well then, Doctor Rank, there is something you must help
me to prevent. You know how deeply, how wonderfully Torvald loves me; he
wouldn’t hesitate a moment to give his very life for my sake.
RANK.
[_Bending towards her._] Nora—do you think he is the only one who——?
NORA.
[_With a slight start._] Who——?
RANK.
Who would gladly give his life for you?
NORA.
[_Sadly._] Oh!
RANK.
I have sworn that you shall know it before I—go. I shall never find a
better opportunity.—Yes, Nora, now I have told you; and now you know
that you can trust me as you can no one else.
NORA.
[_Standing up; simply and calmly._] Let me pass, please.
RANK.
[_Makes way for her, but remains sitting._] Nora——
NORA.
[_In the doorway._] Ellen, bring the lamp. [_Crosses to the stove._] Oh
dear, Doctor Rank, that was too bad of you.
RANK.
[_Rising._] That I have loved you as deeply as—any one else? Was that
too bad of me?
NORA.
No, but that you should have told me so. It was so unnecessary——
RANK.
What do you mean? Did you know——?
[ELLEN _enters with the lamp; sets it on the table and goes out
again._
RANK.
Nora—Mrs. Helmer—I ask you, did you know?
NORA.
Oh, how can I tell what I knew or didn’t know? I really can’t say——How
could you be so clumsy, Doctor Rank? It was all so nice!
RANK.
Well, at any rate, you know now that I am at your service, body and
soul. And now, go on.
NORA.
[_Looking at him._] Go on—now?
RANK.
I beg you to tell me what you want.
NORA.
I can tell you nothing now.
RANK.
Yes, yes! You mustn’t punish me in that way. Let me do for you whatever
a man can.
NORA.
You can do nothing for me now.—Besides, I really want no help. You shall
see it was only my fancy. Yes, it must be so. Of course! [_Sits in the
rocking-chair, looks at him and smiles._] You are a nice person, Doctor
Rank! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, now that the lamp is on the table?
RANK.
No; not exactly. But perhaps I ought to go—for ever.
NORA.
No, indeed you mustn’t. Of course you must come and go as you’ve always
done. You know very well that Torvald can’t do without you.
RANK.
Yes, but you?
NORA.
Oh, you know I always like to have you here.
RANK.
That is just what led me astray. You are a riddle to me. It has often
seemed to me as if you liked being with me almost as much as being with
Helmer.
NORA.
Yes; don’t you see? There are people one loves, and others one likes to
talk to.
RANK.
Yes—there’s something in that.
NORA.
When I was a girl, of course I loved papa best. But it always delighted
me to steal into the servants’ room. In the first place they never
lectured me, and in the second it was such fun to hear them talk.
RANK.
Ah, I see; then it’s their place I have taken?
NORA.
[_Jumps up and hurries towards him._] Oh, my dear Doctor Rank, I don’t
mean that. But you understand, with Torvald it’s the same as with papa——
_ELLEN enters from the hall._
ELLEN.
Please, ma’am—— [_Whispers to_ NORA, _and gives her a card._]
NORA.
[_Glancing at card._] Ah! [_Puts it in her pocket._
RANK.
Anything wrong?
NORA.
No, no, not in the least. It’s only—it’s my new costume——
RANK.
Your costume. Why, it’s there.
NORA.
Oh, that one, yes. But this is another that—I have ordered it—Torvald
mustn’t know——
RANK.
Aha! So that’s the great secret.
NORA.
Yes, of course. Please go to him; he’s in the inner room. Do keep him
while I——
RANK.
Don’t be alarmed; he sha’n’t escape.
[_Goes into_ HELMER’S _room._
NORA.
[_To_ ELLEN.] Is he waiting in the kitchen?
ELLEN.
Yes, he came up the back stair——
NORA.
Didn’t you tell him I was engaged?
ELLEN.
Yes, but it was no use.
NORA.
He won’t go away?
ELLEN.
No, ma’am, not until he has spoken to you.
NORA.
Then let him come in; but quietly. And, Ellen—say nothing about it; it’s
a surprise for my husband.
ELLEN.
Oh, yes, ma’am, I understand. [_She goes out._
NORA.
It is coming! The dreadful thing is coming, after all. No, no, no, it
can never be; it shall not!
[_She goes to_ HELMER’S _door and slips the bolt._ ELLEN _opens
the hall door for_ KROGSTAD, _and shuts it after him. He
wears a travelling-coat, high boots, and a fur cap._
NORA.
[_Goes towards him._] Speak softly; my husband is at home.
KROGSTAD.
All right. That’s nothing to me.
NORA.
What do you want?
KROGSTAD.
A little information.
NORA.
Be quick, then. What is it?
KROGSTAD.
You know I have got my dismissal.
NORA.
I couldn’t prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I fought for you to the last, but
it was of no use.
KROGSTAD.
Does your husband care for you so little? He knows what I can bring upon
you, and yet he dares——
NORA.
How could you think I should tell him?
KROGSTAD.
Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t think it. It wasn’t like my friend
Torvald Helmer to show so much courage——
NORA.
Mr. Krogstad, be good enough to speak respectfully of my husband.
KROGSTAD.
Certainly, with all due respect. But since you are so anxious to keep
the matter secret, I suppose you are a little clearer than yesterday as
to what you have done.
NORA.
Clearer than you could ever make me.
KROGSTAD.
Yes, such a bad lawyer as I——
NORA.
What is it you want?
KROGSTAD.
Only to see how you are getting on, Mrs. Helmer. I’ve been thinking
about you all day. Even a mere money-lender, a gutter-journalist, a—in
short, a creature like me—has a little bit of what people call feeling.
NORA.
Then show it; think of my little children.
KROGSTAD.
Did you and your husband think of mine? But enough of that. I only
wanted to tell you that you needn’t take this matter too seriously. I
shall not lodge any information, for the present.
NORA.
No, surely not. I knew you wouldn’t.
KROGSTAD.
The whole thing can be settled quite amicably. Nobody need know. It can
remain among us three.
NORA.
My husband must never know.
KROGSTAD.
How can you prevent it? Can you pay off the balance?
NORA.
No, not at once.
KROGSTAD.
Or have you any means of raising the money in the next few days?
NORA.
None—that I will make use of.
KROGSTAD.
And if you had, it would not help you now. If you offered me ever so
much money down, you should not get back your I.O.U.
NORA.
Tell me what you want to do with it.
KROGSTAD.
I only want to keep it—to have it in my possession. No outsider shall
hear anything of it. So, if you have any desperate scheme in your head——
NORA.
What if I have?
KROGSTAD.
If you should think of leaving your husband and children——
NORA.
What if I do?
KROGSTAD.
Or if you should think of—something worse——
NORA.
How do you know that?
KROGSTAD.
Put all that out of your head.
NORA.
How did you know what I had in my mind?
KROGSTAD.
Most of us think of _that_ at first. I thought of it, too; but I hadn’t
the courage——
NORA.
[_Tonelessly._] Nor I.
KROGSTAD.
[_Relieved._] No, one hasn’t. You haven’t the courage either, have you?
NORA.
I haven’t, I haven’t.
KROGSTAD.
Besides, it would be very foolish.—Just one domestic storm, and it’s all
over. I have a letter in my pocket for your husband——
NORA.
Telling him everything?
KROGSTAD.
Sparing you as much as possible.
NORA.
[_Quickly._] He must never read that letter. Tear it up. I will manage
to get the money somehow——
KROGSTAD.
Pardon me, Mrs. Helmer, but I believe I told you——
NORA.
Oh, I’m not talking about the money I owe you. Tell me how much you
demand from my husband—I will get it.
KROGSTAD.
I demand no money from your husband.
NORA.
What do you demand then?
KROGSTAD.
I will tell you. I want to regain my footing in the world. I want to
rise; and your husband shall help me to do it. For the last eighteen
months my record has been spotless; I have been in bitter need all the
time; but I was content to fight my way up, step by step. Now, I’ve been
thrust down again, and I will not be satisfied with merely being
reinstated as a matter of grace. I want to rise, I tell you. I must get
into the Bank again, in a higher position than before. Your husband
shall create a place on purpose for me——
NORA.
He will never do that!
KROGSTAD.
He will do it; I know him—he won’t dare to show fight! And when he and I
are together there, you shall soon see! Before a year is out I shall be
the manager’s right hand. It won’t be Torvald Helmer, but Nils Krogstad,
that manages the Joint Stock Bank.
NORA.
That shall never be.
KROGSTAD.
Perhaps you will——?
NORA.
Now I have the courage for it.
KROGSTAD.
Oh, you don’t frighten me! A sensitive, petted creature like you——
NORA.
You shall see, you shall see!
KROGSTAD.
Under the ice, perhaps? Down into the cold, black water? And next spring
to come up again, ugly, hairless, unrecognisable——
NORA.
You can’t terrify me.
KROGSTAD.
Nor you me. People don’t do that sort of thing, Mrs. Helmer. And, after
all, what would be the use of it? I have your husband in my pocket, all
the same.
NORA.
Afterwards? When I am no longer——?
KROGSTAD.
You forget, your reputation remains in my hands! [NORA _stands
speechless and looks at him._] Well, now you are prepared. Do nothing
foolish. As soon as Helmer has received my letter, I shall expect to
hear from him. And remember that it is your husband himself who has
forced me back again into such paths. That I will never forgive him.
Good-bye, Mrs. Helmer.
[_Goes out through the hall._ NORA _hurries to the door, opens
it a little, and listens._
NORA.
He’s going. He’s not putting the letter into the box. No, no, it would
be impossible! [_Opens the door further and further._] What’s that. He’s
standing still; not going down stairs. Has he changed his mind? Is he——?
[_A letter falls into the box._ KROGSTAD’S _footsteps are heard
gradually receding down the stair._ NORA _utters a suppressed shriek,
and rushes forward towards the sofa-table; pause._] In the letter-box!
[_Slips shrinkingly up to the hall door._] There it lies.—Torvald,
Torvald—now we are lost!
_MRS. LINDEN enters from the left with the costume._
MRS. LINDEN.
There, I think it’s all right now. Shall we just try it on?
NORA.
[_Hoarsely and softly._] Christina, come here.
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Throws down the dress on the sofa._] What’s the matter? You look quite
distracted.
NORA.
Come here. Do you see that letter? There, see—through the glass of the
letter-box.
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, yes, I see it.
NORA.
That letter is from Krogstad——
MRS. LINDEN.
Nora—it was Krogstad who lent you the money?
NORA.
Yes; and now Torvald will know everything.
MRS. LINDEN.
Believe me, Nora, it’s the best thing for both of you.
NORA.
You don’t know all yet. I have forged a name——
MRS. LINDEN.
Good heavens!
NORA.
Now, listen to me, Christina; you shall bear me witness——
MRS. LINDEN.
How “witness”? What am I to——?
NORA.
If I should go out of my mind—it might easily happen——
MRS. LINDEN.
Nora!
NORA.
Or if anything else should happen to me—so that I couldn’t be here——!
MRS. LINDEN.
Nora, Nora, you’re quite beside yourself!
NORA.
In case any one wanted to take it all upon himself—the whole blame—you
understand——
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, yes; but how can you think——?
NORA.
You shall bear witness that it’s not true, Christina. I’m not out of my
mind at all; I know quite well what I’m saying; and I tell you nobody
else knew anything about it; I did the whole thing, I myself. Remember
that.
MRS. LINDEN.
I shall remember. But I don’t understand what you mean——
NORA.
Oh, how should you? It’s the miracle coming to pass.
MRS. LINDEN.
The miracle?
NORA.
Yes, the miracle. But it’s so terrible, Christina; it mustn’t happen for
all the world.
MRS. LINDEN.
I shall go straight to Krogstad and talk to him.
NORA.
Don’t; he’ll do you some harm.
MRS. LINDEN.
Once he would have done anything for me.
NORA.
He?
MRS. LINDEN.
Where does he live?
NORA.
Oh, how can I tell——? Yes—— [_Feels in_ _her pocket._] Here’s his card.
But the letter, the letter——!
HELMER.
[_Knocking outside._] Nora!
NORA.
[_Shrieks in terror._] Oh, what is it? What do you want?
HELMER.
Well, well, don’t be frightened. We’re not coming in; you’ve bolted the
door. Are you trying on your dress?
NORA.
Yes, yes, I’m trying it on. It suits me so well, Torvald.
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Who has read the card._] Why, he lives close by here.
NORA.
Yes, but it’s no use now. We are lost. The letter is there in the box.
MRS. LINDEN.
And your husband has the key?
NORA.
Always.
MRS. LINDEN
Krogstad must demand his letter back, unread. He must find some
pretext——
NORA.
But this is the very time when Torvald generally——
MRS. LINDEN.
Prevent him. Keep him occupied. I shall come back as quickly as I can.
[_She goes out hastily by the hall door._
NORA.
[_Opens_ HELMER’S _door and peeps in._] Torvald!
HELMER.
Well, may one come into one’s own room again at last? Come, Rank, we’ll
have a look—— [_In the doorway._] But how’s this?
NORA.
What, Torvald dear?
HELMER.
Rank led me to expect a grand transformation.
RANK.
[_In the doorway._] So I understood. I suppose I was mistaken.
NORA.
No, no one shall see me in my glory till to-morrow evening.
HELMER.
Why, Nora dear, you look so tired. Have you been practising too hard?
NORA.
No, I haven’t practised at all yet.
HELMER.
But you’ll have to——
NORA.
Oh yes, I must, I must! But, Torvald, I can’t get on at all without your
help. I’ve forgotten everything.
HELMER.
Oh, we shall soon freshen it up again.
NORA.
Yes, do help me, Torvald. You must promise me——Oh, I’m so nervous about
it. Before so many people——This evening you must give yourself up
entirely to me. You mustn’t do a stroke of work; you mustn’t even touch
a pen. Do promise, Torvald dear!
HELMER.
I promise. All this evening I shall be your slave. Little helpless
thing——! But, by-the-bye, I must just—— [_Going to hall door._
NORA.
What do you want there?
HELMER.
Only to see if there are any letters.
NORA.
No, no, don’t do that, Torvald.
HELMER.
Why not?
NORA.
Torvald, I beg you not to. There are none there.
HELMER.
Let me just see. [_Is going._
[NORA, _at the piano, plays the first bars of the tarantella._
HELMER.
[_At the door, stops._] Aha!
NORA.
I can’t dance to-morrow if I don’t rehearse with you first.
HELMER.
[_Going to her._] Are you really so nervous, dear Nora?
NORA.
Yes, dreadfully! Let me rehearse at once. We have time before dinner.
Oh, do sit down and play for me, Torvald dear; direct me and put me
right, as you used to do.
HELMER.
With all the pleasure in life, since you wish it.
[_Sits at piano._
[NORA _matches the tambourine out of the box, and hurriedly
drapes herself in a long parti-coloured shawl; then, with a
bound, stands in the middle of the floor._
NORA.
Now play for me! Now I’ll dance!
[HELMER _plays and_ NORA _dances._ RANK _stands at the piano
behind_ HELMER _and looks on._
HELMER.
[_Playing._] Slower! Slower!
NORA.
Can’t do it slower!
HELMER.
Not so violently, Nora.
NORA.
I must! I must!
HELMER.
[_Stops._] No, no, Nora—that will never do.
NORA.
[_Laughs and swings her tambourine._] Didn’t I tell you so!
RANK.
Let me play for her.
HELMER.
[_Rising._] Yes, do—then I can direct her better.
[RANK _sits down to the piano and plays;_ NORA _dances more and
more wildly._ HELMER _stands by the stove and addresses
frequent corrections to her; she seems not to hear. Her hair
breaks loose, and falls over her shoulders. She does not
notice it, but goes on dancing._ MRS. LINDEN _enters and
stands spellbound in the doorway._
MRS. LINDEN.
Ah——!
NORA.
[_Dancing._] We’re having such fun here, Christina!
HELMER.
Why, Nora dear, you’re dancing as if it were a matter of life and death.
NORA.
So it is.
HELMER.
Rank, stop! This is the merest madness. Stop, I say!
[RANK _stops playing, and_ NORA _comes to a sudden standstill._
HELMER.
[_Going towards her._] I couldn’t have believed it. You’ve positively
forgotten all I taught you.
NORA.
[_Throws the tambourine away._] You see for yourself.
HELMER.
You really do want teaching.
NORA.
Yes, you see how much I need it. You must practise with me up to the
last moment. Will you promise me, Torvald?
HELMER.
Certainly, certainly.
NORA.
Neither to-day nor to morrow must you think of anything but me. You
mustn’t open a single letter—mustn’t look at the letter-box.
HELMER.
Ah, you’re still afraid of that man——
NORA.
Oh yes, yes, I am.
HELMER.
Nora, I can see it in your face—there’s a letter from him in the box.
NORA.
I don’t know, I believe so. But you’re not to read anything now; nothing
ugly must come between us until all is over.
RANK.
[_Softly, to_ HELMER.] You mustn’t contradict her.
HELMER.
[_Putting his arm around her._] The child shall have her own way. But
to-morrow night, when the dance is over——
NORA.
Then you shall be free.
ELLEN _appears in the doorway, right._
ELLEN.
Dinner is on the table, ma’am.
NORA.
We’ll have some champagne, Ellen.
ELLEN.
Yes, ma’am. [_Goes out._
HELMER.
Dear me! Quite a banquet.
NORA.
Yes, and we’ll keep it up till morning. [_Calling out._] And macaroons,
Ellen—plenty—just this once.
HELMER.
[_Seizing her hand._] Come, come, don’t let us have this wild
excitement! Be my own little lark again.
NORA.
Oh yes, I will. But now go into the dining-room; and you too, Doctor
Rank. Christina, you must help me to do up my hair.
RANK.
[_Softly, as they go._] There’s nothing in the wind? Nothing—I mean——?
HELMER.
Oh no, nothing of the kind. It’s merely this babyish anxiety I was
telling you about.
[_They go out to the right._
NORA.
Well?
MRS. LINDEN.
He’s gone out of town.
NORA.
I saw it in your face.
MRS. LINDEN.
He comes back to-morrow evening. I left a note for him.
NORA.
You shouldn’t have done that. Things must take their course. After all,
there’s something glorious in waiting for the miracle.
MRS. LINDEN.
What is it you’re waiting for?
NORA.
Oh, you can’t understand. Go to them in the dining-room; I shall come in
a moment.
[MRS. LINDEN _goes into the dining-room._ NORA _stands for a
moment as though collecting her thoughts; then looks at her
watch._
NORA.
Five. Seven hours till midnight. Then twenty-four hours till the next
midnight. Then the tarantella will be over. Twenty-four and seven?
Thirty-one hours to live.
HELMER _appears at the door, right._
HELMER.
What has become of my little lark?
NORA.
[_Runs to him with open arms._] Here she is!
-----
Footnote 9:
In the original, “We say ‘thou’ to each other.”
ACT THIRD
_The same room. The table, with the chairs around it, in the middle. A
lighted lamp on the table. The door to the hall stands open. Dance
music is heard from the floor above._
_MRS. LINDEN sits by the table and absently turns the pages of a book.
She tries to read, but seems unable to fix her attention; she
frequently listens and looks anxiously towards the hall door._
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Looks at her watch._] Not here yet; and the time is nearly up. If only
he hasn’t—— [_Listens again._] Ah, there he is. [_She goes into the hall
and cautiously opens the outer door; soft footsteps are heard on the
stairs; she whispers._] Come in; there is no one here.
KROGSTAD.
[_In the doorway!_] I found a note from you at my house. What does it
mean?
MRS. LINDEN.
I must speak to you.
KROGSTAD.
Indeed? And in this house?
MRS. LINDEN.
I could not see you at my rooms. They have no separate entrance. Come
in; we are quite alone. The servants are asleep, and the Helmers are at
the ball upstairs.
KROGSTAD.
[_Coming into the room._] Ah! So the Helmers are dancing this evening?
Really?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes. Why not?
KROGSTAD.
Quite right. Why not?
MRS. LINDEN.
And now let us talk a little.
KROGSTAD.
Have we two anything to say to each other?
MRS. LINDEN.
A great deal.
KROGSTAD.
I should not have thought so.
MRS. LINDEN.
Because you have never really understood me.
KROGSTAD.
What was there to understand? The most natural thing in the world—a
heartless woman throws a man over when a better match offers.
MRS. LINDEN.
Do you really think me so heartless? Do you think I broke with you
lightly?
KROGSTAD.
Did you not?
MRS. LINDEN.
Do you really think so?
KROGSTAD.
If not, why did you write me that letter?
MRS. LINDEN.
Was it not best? Since I had to break with you, was it not right that I
should try to put an end to all that you felt for me?
KROGSTAD.
[_Clenching his hands together._] So that was it? And all this—for the
sake of money!
MRS. LINDEN.
You ought not to forget that I had a helpless mother and two little
brothers. We could not wait for you, Nils, as your prospects then stood.
KROGSTAD.
Perhaps not; but you had no right to cast me off for the sake of others,
whoever the others might be.
MRS. LINDEN.
I don’t know. I have often asked myself whether I had the right.
KROGSTAD.
[_More softly._] When I had lost you, I seemed to have no firm ground
left under my feet. Look at me now. I am a shipwrecked man clinging to a
spar.
MRS. LINDEN.
Rescue may be at hand.
KROGSTAD.
It _was_ at hand; but then you came and stood in the way.
MRS. LINDEN.
Without my knowledge, Nils. I did not know till to-day that it was you I
was to replace in the Bank.
KROGSTAD.
Well, I take your word for it. But now that you do know, do you mean to
give way?
MRS. LINDEN.
No, for that would not help you in the least.
KROGSTAD.
Oh, help, help——! I should do it whether or no.
MRS. LINDEN.
I have learnt prudence. Life and bitter necessity have schooled me.
KROGSTAD.
And life has taught me not to trust fine speeches.
MRS. LINDEN.
Then life has taught you a very sensible thing. But deeds you _will_
trust?
KROGSTAD.
What do you mean?
MRS. LINDEN.
You said you were a shipwrecked man, clinging to a spar.
KROGSTAD.
I have good reason to say so.
MRS. LINDEN.
I too am shipwrecked, and clinging to a spar. I have no one to mourn
for, no one to care for.
KROGSTAD.
You made your own choice.
MRS. LINDEN.
No choice was left me.
KROGSTAD.
Well, what then?
MRS. LINDEN.
Nils, how if we two shipwrecked people could join hands?
KROGSTAD.
What!
MRS. LINDEN.
Two on a raft have a better chance than if each clings to a separate
spar.
KROGSTAD.
Christina!
MRS. LINDEN.
What do you think brought me to town?
KROGSTAD.
Had you any thought of me?
MRS. LINDEN.
I must have work or I can’t bear to live. All my life, as long as I can
remember, I have worked; work has been my one great joy. Now I stand
quite alone in the world, aimless and forlorn. There is no happiness in
working for one’s self. Nils, give me somebody and something to work
for.
KROGSTAD.
I cannot believe in all this. It is simply a woman’s romantic craving
for self-sacrifice.
MRS. LINDEN.
Have you ever found me romantic?
KROGSTAD.
Would you really——? Tell me: do you know all my past?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes.
KROGSTAD.
And do you know what people say of me?
MRS. LINDEN.
Did you not say just now that with me you could have been another man?
KROGSTAD.
I am sure of it.
MRS. LINDEN.
Is it too late?
KROGSTAD.
Christina, do you know what you are doing? Yes, you do; I see it in your
face. Have you the courage then——?
MRS. LINDEN.
I need some one to be a mother to, and your children need a mother. You
need me, and I—I need you. Nils, I believe in your better self. With you
I fear nothing.
KROGSTAD.
[_Seizing her hands._] Thank you—thank you, Christina. Now I shall make
others see me as you do.—Ah, I forgot——
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Listening._] Hush! The tarantella! Go! go!
KROGSTAD.
Why? What is it?
MRS. LINDEN.
Don’t you hear the dancing overhead? As soon as that is over they will
be here.
KROGSTAD.
Oh yes, I shall go. Nothing will come of this, after all. Of course, you
don’t know the step I have taken against the Helmers.
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, Nils, I do know.
KROGSTAD.
And yet you have the courage to——?
MRS. LINDEN.
I know to what lengths despair can drive a man.
KROGSTAD.
Oh, if I could only undo it!
MRS. LINDEN.
You could. Your letter is still in the box.
KROGSTAD.
Are you sure?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; but——
KROGSTAD.
[_Looking to her searchingly._] Is that what it all means? You want to
save your friend at any price. Say it out—is that your idea?
MRS. LINDEN.
Nils, a woman who has once sold herself for the sake of others, does not
do so again.
KROGSTAD.
I shall demand my letter back again.
MRS. LINDEN.
No, no.
KROGSTAD.
Yes, of course. I shall wait till Helmer comes; I shall tell him to give
it back to me—that it’s only about my dismissal—that I don’t want it
read——
MRS. LINDEN.
No, Nils, you must not recall the letter.
KROGSTAD.
But tell me, wasn’t that just why you got me to come here?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, in my first alarm. But a day has passed since then, and in that day
I have seen incredible things in this house. Helmer must know
everything; there must be an end to this unhappy secret. These two must
come to a full understanding. They must have done with all these shifts
and subterfuges.
KROGSTAD.
Very well, if you like to risk it. But _one_ thing I can do, and at
once——
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Listening._] Make haste! Go, go! The dance is over; we’re not safe
another moment.
KROGSTAD.
I shall wait for you in the street.
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, do; you must see me home.
KROGSTAD.
I never was so happy in all my life!
[KROGSTAD _goes out by the outer door. The door between the room
and the hall remains open._
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Arranging the room and getting her outdoor things together._] What a
change! What a change! To have some one to work for, to live for; a home
to make happy! Well, it shall not be my fault if I fail.—I wish they
would come.—[_Listens._] Ah, here they are! I must get my things on.
[_Takes bonnet and cloak._ HELMER’S _and_ NORA’S _voices are
heard outside, a key is turned in the lock, and_ HELMER
_drags_ NORA _almost by force into the hall. She wears the
Italian costume with a large black shawl over it. He is in
evening dress and wears a black domino, open._
NORA.
[_Struggling with him in the doorway._] No, no, no! I won’t go in! I
want to go upstairs again; I don’t want to leave so early!
HELMER.
But, my dearest girl——!
NORA.
Oh, please, please, Torvald, I beseech you—only one hour more!
HELMER.
Not one minute more, Nora dear; you know what we agreed. Come, come in;
you’re catching cold here.
[_He leads her gently into the room in spite of her resistance._
MRS. LINDEN.
Good-evening.
NORA.
Christina!
HELMER.
What, Mrs. Linden! You here so late?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, I ought to apologise. I did so want to see Nora in her costume.
NORA.
Have you been sitting here waiting for me?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; unfortunately I came too late. You had gone upstairs already, and I
felt I couldn’t go away without seeing you.
HELMER.
[_Taking_ NORA’S _shawl off._] Well then, just look at her! I assure you
she’s worth it. Isn’t she lovely, Mrs. Linden?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, I must say——
HELMER.
Isn’t she exquisite? Every one said so. But she’s dreadfully obstinate,
dear little creature. What’s to be done with her? Just think, I had
almost to force her away.
NORA.
Oh, Torvald, you’ll be sorry some day that you didn’t let me stay, if
only for one half-hour more.
HELMER.
There! You hear her, Mrs. Linden? She dances her tarantella with wild
applause, and well she deserved it, I must say—though there was,
perhaps, a little too much nature in her rendering of the idea—more than
was, strictly speaking, artistic. But never mind—the point is, she made
a great success, a tremendous success. Was I to let her remain after
that—to weaken the impression? Not if I know it. I took my sweet little
Capri girl—my capricious little Capri girl, I might say—under my arm; a
rapid turn round the room, a curtsey to all sides, and—as they say in
novels—the lovely apparition vanished! An exit should always be
effective, Mrs. Linden; but I can’t get Nora to see it. By Jove! it’s
warm here. [_Throws his domino on a chair and opens the door to his
room._] What! No light there? Oh, of course. Excuse me——
[_Goes in and lights candles._
NORA.
[_Whispers breathlessly._] Well?
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Softly._] I’ve spoken to him.
NORA.
And——?
MRS. LINDEN.
Nora—you must tell your husband everything——
Nora.
[_Tonelessly._] I knew it!
MRS. LINDEN.
You have nothing to fear from Krogstad; but you must speak out.
NORA.
I shall not speak.
MRS. LINDEN.
Then the letter will.
NORA.
Thank you, Christina. Now I know what I have to do. Hush——!
HELMER.
[_Coming back._] Well, Mrs. Linden, have you admired her?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes; and now I must say good-night.
HELMER.
What, already? Does this knitting belong to you?
MRS. LINDEN.
[_Takes it._] Yes, thanks; I was nearly forgetting it.
HELMER.
Then you do knit?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes.
HELMER.
Do you know, you ought to embroider instead?
MRS. LINDEN.
Indeed! Why?
HELMER.
Because it’s so much prettier. Look now! You hold the embroidery in the
left hand, so, and then work the needle with the right hand, in a long,
graceful curve—don’t you?
MRS. LINDEN.
Yes, I suppose so.
HELMER.
But knitting is always ugly. Just look—your arms close to your sides,
and the needles going up and down—there’s something Chinese about
it.—They really gave us splendid champagne to-night.
MRS. LINDEN.
Well, good-night, Nora, and don’t be obstinate any more.
HELMER.
Well said, Mrs. Linden!
MRS. LINDEN.
Good-night, Mr. Helmer.
HELMER.
[_Accompanying her to the door._] Good-night, good-night; I hope you’ll
get safely home. I should be glad to—but you have such a short way to
go. Good-night, good-night. [_She goes;_ HELMER _shuts the door after
her and comes forward again._] At last we’ve got rid of her: she’s a
terrible bore.
NORA.
Aren’t you very tired, Torvald?
HELMER.
No, not in the least.
NORA.
Nor sleepy?
HELMER.
Not a bit. I feel particularly lively. But you? You do look tired and
sleepy.
NORA.
Yes, very tired. I shall soon sleep now.
HELMER.
There, you see. I was right after all not to let you stay longer.
NORA.
Oh, everything you do is right.
HELMER.
[_Kissing her forehead._] Now my lark is speaking like a reasonable
being. Did you notice how jolly Rank was this evening?
NORA.
Indeed? Was he? I had no chance of speaking to him.
HELMER.
Nor I, much; but I haven’t seen him in such good spirits for a long
time. [_Looks at_ NORA _a little, then comes nearer her._] It’s splendid
to be back in our own home, to be quite alone together!—Oh, you
enchanting creature!
NORA.
Don’t look at me in that way, Torvald.
HELMER.
I am not to look at my dearest treasure?—at all the loveliness that is
mine, mine only, wholly and entirely mine?
NORA.
[_Goes to the other side of the table._] You mustn’t say these things to
me this evening.
HELMER.
[_Following._] I see you have the tarantella still in your blood—-and
that makes you all the more enticing. Listen! the other people are going
now. [_More softly._] Nora—soon the whole house will be still.
NORA.
Yes, I hope so.
HELMER.
Yes, don’t you, Nora darling? When we are among strangers, do you know
why I speak so little to you, and keep so far away, and only steal a
glance at you now and then—do you know _why_ I do it? Because I am
fancying that we love each other in secret, that I am secretly betrothed
to you, and that no one dreams that there is anything between us.
NORA.
Yes, yes, yes. I know all your thoughts are with me.
HELMER.
And then, when the time comes to go, and I put the shawl about your
smooth, soft shoulders, and this glorious neck of yours, I imagine you
are my bride, that our marriage is just over, that I am bringing you for
the first time to my home—that I am alone with you for the first
time—quite alone with you, in your trembling loveliness! All this
evening I have been longing for you, and you only. When I watched you
swaying and whirling in the tarantella—my blood boiled—I could endure it
no longer; and that’s why I made you come home with me so early——
NORA.
Go now, Torvald! Go away from me. I won’t have all this.
HELMER.
What do you mean? Ah, I see you’re teasing me, little Nora! Won’t—won’t!
Am I not your husband——?
[_A knock at the outer door._
NORA
[_Starts._] Did you hear——?
HELMER.
[_Going towards the hall._] Who’s there?
RANK.
[_Outside._] It is I; may I come in for a moment?
HELMER.
[_In a low tone, annoyed._] Oh! what can he want just now? [_Aloud._]
Wait a moment. [_Opens door._] Come, it’s nice of you to look in.
RANK.
I thought I heard your voice, and that put it into my head. [_Looks
round._] Ah, this dear old place! How cosy you two are here!
HELMER.
You seemed to find it pleasant enough upstairs, too.
RANK.
Exceedingly. Why not? Why shouldn’t one take one’s share of everything
in this world? All one can, at least, and as long as one can. The wine
was splendid——
HELMER.
Especially the champagne.
RANK.
Did you notice it? It’s incredible the quantity I contrived to get down.
NORA.
Torvald drank plenty of champagne, too.
RANK.
Did he?
NORA.
Yes, and it always puts him in such spirits.
RANK.
Well, why shouldn’t one have a jolly evening after a well-spent day?
HELMER.
Well-spent! Well, I haven’t much to boast of in that respect.
RANK.
[_Slapping him on the shoulder._] But I _have_, don’t you see?
NORA.
I suppose you have been engaged in a scientific investigation, Doctor
Rank?
RANK.
Quite right.
HELMER.
Bless me! Little Nora talking about scientific investigations!
NORA.
Am I to congratulate you on the result?
RANK.
By all means.
NORA.
It was good then?
RANK.
The best possible, both for doctor and patient—certainty.
NORA.
[_Quickly and searchingly._] Certainty?
RANK.
Absolute certainty. Wasn’t I right to enjoy myself after that?
NORA.
Yes, quite right, Doctor Rank.
HELMER.
And so say I, provided you don’t have to pay for it to-morrow.
RANK.
Well, in this life nothing is to be had for nothing.
NORA.
Doctor Rank—I’m sure you are very fond of masquerades?
RANK.
Yes, when there are plenty of amusing disguises——
NORA.
Tell me, what shall we two be at our next masquerade?
HELMER.
Little featherbrain! Thinking of your next already!
RANK.
We two? I’ll tell you. You must go as a good fairy.
HELMER.
Ah, but what costume would indicate _that_?
RANK.
She has simply to wear her everyday dress.
HELMER.
Capital! But don’t you know what you will be yourself?
RANK.
Yes, my dear friend, I am perfectly clear upon that point.
HELMER.
Well?
RANK.
At the next masquerade I shall be invisible.
HELMER.
What a comical idea!
RANK.
There’s a big black hat—haven’t you heard of the invisible hat? It comes
down all over you, and then no one can see you.
HELMER.
[_With a suppressed smile._] No, you’re right there.
RANK.
But I’m quite forgetting what I came for. Helmer, give me a cigar—one of
the dark Havanas.
HELMER.
With the greatest pleasure. [_Hands cigar-case._
RANK.
[_Takes one and cuts the end off._] Thank you.
NORA.
[_Striking a wax match._] Let me give you a light.
RANK.
A thousand thanks.
[_She holds the match. He lights his cigar at it._
RANK.
And now, good-bye!
HELMER.
Good-bye, good-bye, my dear fellow.
NORA.
Sleep well, Doctor Rank.
RANK.
Thanks for the wish.
NORA.
Wish me the same.
RANK.
You? Very well, since you ask me—Sleep well. And thanks for the light.
[_He nods to them both and goes out._
HELMER.
[_In an undertone._] He’s been drinking a good deal.
NORA.
[_Absently._] I daresay. [HELMER _takes his bunch of keys from his
pocket and goes into the hall._] Torvald, what are you doing there?
HELMER.
I must empty the letter-box; it’s quite full; there will be no room for
the newspapers to-morrow morning.
NORA.
Are you going to work to-night?
HELMER.
You know very well I am not.—Why, how is this? Some one has been at the
lock.
NORA.
The lock——?
HELMER.
I’m sure of it. What does it mean? I can’t think that the servants——?
Here’s a broken hair-pin. Nora, it’s one of yours.
NORA.
[_Quickly._] It must have been the children——
HELMER.
Then you must break them of such tricks.—There! At last I’ve got it
open. [_Takes contents out and calls into the kitchen._] Ellen!—Ellen,
just put the hall door lamp out.
[_He returns with letters in his hand, and shuts the inner
door._
HELMER.
Just see how they’ve accumulated. [_Turning them over._] Why, what’s
this?
NORA.
[_At the window._] The letter! Oh no, no, Torvald!
HELMER.
Two visiting-cards—from Rank.
NORA.
From Doctor Rank?
HELMER.
[_Looking at them._] Doctor Rank. They were on the top. He must just
have put them in.
NORA.
Is there anything on them?
HELMER.
There’s a black cross over the name. Look at it. What an unpleasant
idea! It looks just as if he were announcing his own death.
NORA.
So he is.
HELMER.
What! Do you know anything? Has he told you anything?
NORA.
Yes. These cards mean that he has taken his last leave of us. He is
going to shut himself up and die.
HELMER.
Poor fellow! Of course I knew we couldn’t hope to keep him long. But so
soon——! And to go and creep into his lair like a wounded animal——
NORA.
When we _must_ go, it is best to go silently. Don’t you think so,
Torvald?
HELMER.
[_Walking up and down._] He had so grown into our lives, I can’t realise
that he is gone. He and his sufferings and his loneliness formed a sort
of cloudy background to the sunshine of our happiness.—Well, perhaps
it’s best as it is—at any rate for him. [_Stands still._] And perhaps
for us too, Nora. Now we two are thrown entirely upon each other.
[_Takes her in his arms._] My darling wife! I feel as if I could never
hold you close enough. Do you know, Nora, I often wish some danger might
threaten you, that I might risk body and soul, and everything,
everything, for your dear sake.
NORA.
[_Tears herself from him and says firmly._] Now you shall read your
letters, Torvald.
HELMER.
No, no; not to-night. I want to be with you, my sweet wife.
NORA.
With the thought of your dying friend——?
HELMER.
You are right. This has shaken us both. Unloveliness has come between
us—thoughts of death and decay. We must seek to cast them off. Till
then—we will remain apart.
NORA.
[_Her arms round his neck._] Torvald! Goodnight! good-night!
HELMER.
[_Kissing her forehead!_] Good-night, my little song-bird. Sleep well,
Nora. Now I shall go and read my letters.
[_He goes with the letters in his hand into his room and shuts
the door._
NORA.
[_With wild eyes, gropes about her, seizes_ HELMER’S _domino, throws it
round her, and whispers quickly, hoarsely, and brokenly._] Never to see
him again. Never, never, never. [_Throws her shawl over her head._]
Never to see the children again. Never, never.—Oh that black, icy water!
Oh that bottomless——! If it were only over! Now he has it; he’s reading
it. Oh, no, no, no, not yet. Torvald, good-bye——! Good-bye, my little
ones——!
[_She is rushing out by the hall; at the same moment_ HELMER
_flings his door open, and stands there with an open letter
in his hand._
HELMER.
Nora!
NORA.
[_Shrieks._] Ah——!
HELMER.
What is this? Do you know what is in this letter?
NORA.
Yes, I know. Let me go! Let me pass!
HELMER.
[_Holds her back._] Where do you want to go?
NORA.
[_Tries to break away from him._] You shall not save me, Torvald.
HELMER.
[_Falling back._] True! Is what he writes true? No, no, it is impossible
that this can be true.
NORA.
It is true. I have loved you beyond all else in the world.
HELMER.
Pshaw—no silly evasions!
NORA.
[_A step nearer him._] Torvald——!
HELMER.
Wretched woman—what have you done!
NORA.
Let me go—you shall not save me! You shall not take my guilt upon
yourself!
HELMER.
I don’t want any melodramatic airs. [_Locks the outer door._] Here you
shall stay and give an account of yourself. Do you understand what you
have done? Answer! Do you understand it?
NORA.
[_Looks at him fixedly, and says with a stiffening expression._] Yes;
now I begin fully to understand it.
HELMER.
[_Walking up and down._] Oh! what an awful awakening! During all these
eight years—she who was my pride and my joy—a hypocrite, a liar—worse,
worse—a criminal. Oh, the unfathomable hideousness of it all! Ugh! Ugh!
[NORA _says nothing, and continues to look fixedly at him._
HELMER.
I ought to have known how it would be. I ought to have foreseen it. All
your father’s want of principle—be silent!—all your father’s want of
principle you have inherited—no religion, no morality, no sense of duty.
How I am punished for screening him! I did it for your sake; and you
reward me like this.
NORA.
Yes—like this.
HELMER.
You have destroyed my whole happiness. You have ruined my future. Oh,
it’s frightful to think of! I am in the power of a scoundrel; he can do
whatever he pleases with me, demand whatever he chooses; he can domineer
over me as much as he likes, and I must submit. And all this disaster
and ruin is brought upon me by an unprincipled woman!
NORA.
When I am out of the world, you will be free.
HELMER.
Oh, no fine phrases. Your father, too, was always ready with them. What
good would it do me, if you were “out of the world,” as you say? No good
whatever! He can publish the story all the same; I might even be
suspected of collusion. People will think I was at the bottom of it all
and egged you on. And for all this I have you to thank—you whom I have
done nothing but pet and spoil during our whole married life. Do you
understand now what you have done to me?
NORA.
[_With cold calmness._] Yes.
HELMER.
The thing is so incredible, I can’t grasp it. But we must come to an
understanding. Take that shawl off. Take it off, I say! I must try to
pacify him in one way or another—the matter must be hushed up, cost what
it may.—As for you and me, we must make no outward change in our way of
life—no _outward_ change, you understand. Of course, you will continue
to live here. But the children cannot be left in your care. I dare not
trust them to you.—Oh, to have to say this to one I have loved so
tenderly—whom I still——! But that must be a thing of the past.
Henceforward there can be no question of happiness, but merely of saving
the ruins, the shreds, the show—— [_A ring;_ HELMER _starts._] What’s
that? So late! Can it be the worst? Can he——? Hide yourself, Nora; say
you are ill.
[NORA _stands motionless._ HELMER _goes to the door and opens
it._
ELLEN.
[_Half dressed, in the hall._] Here is a letter for you, ma’am.
HELMER.
Give it to me. [_Seizes the letter and shuts the door._] Yes, from him.
You shall not have it. I shall read it.
NORA.
Read it!
HELMER.
[_By the lamp._] I have hardly the courage to. We may both be lost, both
you and I. Ah! I _must_ know. [_Hastily tears the letter open; reads a
few lines, looks at an enclosure; with a cry of joy._] Nora!
[NORA _looks inquiringly at him._
HELMER.
Nora!—Oh! I must read it again.—Yes, yes, it is so. I am saved! Nora, I
am saved!
NORA.
And I?
HELMER.
You too, of course; we are both saved, both of us. Look here—he sends
you back your promissory note. He writes that he regrets and apologises,
that a happy turn in his life——Oh, what matter what he writes. We are
saved, Nora! No one can harm you. Oh, Nora, Nora——; but first to get rid
of this hateful thing. I’ll just see—— [_Glances at the I.O.U._] No, I
will not look at it; the whole thing shall be nothing but a dream to me.
[_Tears the I.O.U. and both letters in pieces. Throws them into the fire
and watches them burn._] There! it’s gone!—He said that ever since
Christmas Eve——Oh, Nora, they must have been three terrible days for
you!
NORA.
I have fought a hard fight for the last three days.
HELMER.
And in your agony you saw no other outlet but——No; we won’t think of
that horror. We will only rejoice and repeat—it’s over, all over! Don’t
you hear, Nora? You don’t seem able to grasp it. Yes, it’s over. What is
this set look on your face? Oh, my poor Nora, I understand; you cannot
believe that I have forgiven you. But I have, Nora; I swear it. I have
forgiven everything. I know that what you did was all for love of me.
NORA.
That is true.
HELMER.
You loved me as a wife should love her husband. It was only the means
that, in your inexperience, you misjudged. But do you think I love you
the less because you cannot do without guidance? No, no. Only lean on
me; I will counsel you, and guide you. I should be no true man if this
very womanly helplessness did not make you doubly dear in my eyes. You
mustn’t dwell upon the hard things I said in my first moment of terror,
when the world seemed to be tumbling about my ears. I have forgiven you,
Nora—I swear I have forgiven you.
NORA.
I thank you for your forgiveness.
[_Goes out, to the right._
HELMER.
No, stay——! [_Looking through the doorway._] What are you going to do?
NORA.
[_Inside._] To take off my masquerade dress.
HELMER.
[_In the doorway._] Yes, do, dear. Try to calm down, and recover your
balance, my scared little song-bird. You may rest secure. I have broad
wings to shield you. [_Walking up and down near the door._] Oh, how
lovely—how cosy our home is, Nora! Here you are safe; here I can shelter
you like a hunted dove whom I have saved from the claws of the hawk. I
shall soon bring your poor beating heart to rest; believe me, Nora, very
soon. To-morrow all this will seem quite different—everything will be as
before. I shall not need to tell you again that I forgive you; you will
feel for yourself that it is true. How could you think I could find it
in my heart to drive you away, or even so much as to reproach you? Oh,
you don’t know a true man’s heart, Nora. There is some thing
indescribably sweet and soothing to a man in having forgiven his
wife—honestly forgiven her, from the bottom of his heart. She becomes
his property in a double sense. She is as though born again; she has
become, so to speak, at once his wife and his child. That is what you
shall henceforth be to me, my bewildered, helpless darling. Don’t be
troubled about anything, Nora; only open your heart to me, and I will be
both will and conscience to you. [NORA _enters in everyday dress._] Why,
what’s this? Not gone to bed? You have changed your dress?
NORA.
Yes, Torvald; now I have changed my dress.
HELMER.
But why now, so late——?
NORA.
I shall not sleep to-night.
HELMER.
But, Nora dear——
NORA.
[_Looking at her watch._] It’s not so late yet. Sit down, Torvald; you
and I have much to say to each other. [_She sits at one side of the
table._
HELMER.
Nora—what does this mean? Your cold, set face——
NORA.
Sit down. It will take some time. I have much to talk over with you.
[HELMER _sits at the other side of the table._
HELMER.
You alarm me, Nora. I don’t understand you.
NORA.
No, that is just it. You don’t understand me; and I have never
understood you—till to-night. No, don’t interrupt. Only listen to what I
say.—We must come to a final settlement, Torvald.
HELMER.
How do you mean?
NORA.
[_After a short silence._] Does not one thing strike you as we sit here?
HELMER.
What should strike me?
NORA.
We have been married eight years. Does it not strike you that this is
the first time we two, you and I, man and wife, have talked together
seriously?
HELMER.
Seriously! What do you call seriously?
NORA.
During eight whole years, and more—ever since the day we first met—we
have never exchanged one serious word about serious things.
HELMER.
Was I always to trouble you with the cares you could not help me to
bear?
NORA.
I am not talking of cares. I say that we have never yet set ourselves
seriously to get to the bottom of anything.
HELMER.
Why, my dearest Nora, what have you to do with serious things?
NORA.
There we have it! You have never understood me.—I have had great
injustice done me, Torvald; first by father, and then by you.
HELMER.
What! By your father and me?—By us, who have loved you more than all the
world?
NORA
[_Shaking her head._] You have never loved me. You only thought it
amusing to be in love with me.
HELMER.
Why, Nora, what a thing to say!
NORA.
Yes, it is so, Torvald. While I was at home with father, he used to tell
me all his opinions, and I held the same opinions. If I had others I
said nothing about them, because he wouldn’t have liked it. He used to
call me his doll-child, and played with me as I played with my dolls.
Then I came to live in your house——
HELMER.
What an expression to use about our marriage!
NORA.
[_Undisturbed._] I mean I passed from father’s hands into yours. You
arranged everything according to your taste; and I got the same tastes
as you; or I pretended to—I don’t know which—both ways, perhaps;
sometimes one and sometimes the other. When I look back on it now, I
seem to have been living here like a beggar, from hand to mouth. I lived
by performing tricks for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and
father have done me a great wrong. It is your fault that my life has
come to nothing.
HELMER.
Why, Nora, how unreasonable and ungrateful you are! Have you not been
happy here?
NORA.
No, never. I thought I was; but I never was.
HELMER.
Not—not happy!
NORA.
No; only merry. And you have always been so kind to me. But our house
has been nothing but a play-room. Here I have been your doll-wife, just
as at home I used to be papa’s doll-child. And the children, in their
turn, have been my dolls. I thought it fun when you played with me, just
as the children did when I played with them. That has been our marriage,
Torvald.
HELMER.
There is some truth in what you say, exaggerated and overstrained though
it be. But henceforth it shall be different. Play-time is over; now
comes the time for education.
NORA.
Whose education? Mine, or the children’s?
HELMER.
Both, my dear Nora.
NORA.
Oh, Torvald, you are not the man to teach me to be a fit wife for you.
HELMER.
And you can say that?
NORA.
And I—how have I prepared myself to educate the children?
HELMER.
Nora!
NORA.
Did you not say yourself, a few minutes ago, you dared not trust them to
me?
HELMER.
In the excitement of the moment! Why should you dwell upon that?
NORA.
No—you were perfectly right. That problem is beyond me. There is another
to be solved first—I must try to educate myself. You are not the man to
help me in that. I must set about it alone. And that is why I am leaving
you.
HELMER.
[_Jumping up._] What—do you mean to say——?
NORA.
I must stand quite alone if I am ever to know myself and my
surroundings; so I cannot stay with you.
HELMER.
Nora! Nora!
NORA.
I am going at once. I daresay Christina will take me in for to-night——
HELMER.
You are mad! I shall not allow it! I forbid it!
NORA.
It is of no use your forbidding me anything now. I shall take with me
what belongs to me. From you I will accept nothing, either now or
afterwards.
HELMER.
What madness this is!
NORA.
To-morrow I shall go home—I mean to what was my home. It will be easier
for me to find some opening there.
HELMER.
Oh, in your blind inexperience——
NORA.
I must try to _gain_ experience, Torvald.
HELMER.
To forsake your home, your husband, and your children! And you don’t
consider what the world will say.
NORA.
I can pay no heed to that. I only know that I must do it.
HELMER.
This is monstrous! Can you forsake your holiest duties in this way?
NORA.
What do you consider my holiest duties?
HELMER.
Do I need to tell you that? Your duties to your husband and your
children.
NORA.
I have other duties equally sacred.
HELMER.
Impossible! What duties do you mean?
NORA.
My duties towards myself.
HELMER.
Before all else you are a wife and a mother.
NORA.
That I no longer believe. I believe that before all else I am a human
being, just as much as you are—or at least that I should try to become
one. I know that most people agree with you, Torvald, and that they say
so in books. But henceforth I can’t be satisfied with what most people
say, and what is in books. I must think things out for myself, and try
to get clear about them.
HELMER.
Are you not clear about your place in your own home? Have you not an
infallible guide in questions like these? Have you not religion?
NORA.
Oh, Torvald, I don’t really know what religion is.
HELMER.
What do you mean?
NORA.
I know nothing but what Pastor Hansen told me when I was confirmed. He
explained that religion was this and that. When I get away from all this
and stand alone, I will look into that matter too. I will see whether
what he taught me is right, or, at any rate, whether it is right for me.
HELMER.
Oh, this is unheard of! And from so young a woman! But if religion
cannot keep you right, let me appeal to your conscience—for I suppose
you have some moral feeling? Or, answer me: perhaps you have none?
NORA.
Well, Torvald, it’s not easy to say. I really don’t know—I am all at sea
about these things. I only know that I think quite differently from you
about them. I hear, too, that the laws are different from what I
thought; but I can’t believe that they can be right. It appears that a
woman has no right to spare her dying father, or to save her husband’s
life! I don’t believe that.
HELMER.
You talk like a child. You don’t understand the society in which you
live.
NORA.
No, I do not. But now I shall try to learn. I must make up my mind which
is right—society or I.
HELMER.
Nora, you are ill; you are feverish; I almost think you are out of your
senses.
NORA.
I have never felt so much clearness and certainty as to-night.
HELMER.
You are clear and certain enough to forsake husband and children?
NORA.
Yes, I am.
HELMER.
Then there is only one explanation possible.
NORA.
What is that?
HELMER.
You no longer love me.
NORA.
No; that is just it.
HELMER.
Nora!—Can you say so!
NORA.
Oh, I’m so sorry, Torvald; for you’ve always been so kind to me. But I
can’t help it. I do not love you any longer.
HELMER.
[_Mastering himself with difficulty._] Are you clear and certain on this
point too?
NORA.
Yes, quite. That is why I will not stay here any longer.
HELMER.
And can you also make clear to me how I have forfeited your love?
NORA.
Yes, I can. It was this evening, when the miracle did not happen; for
then I saw you were not the man I had imagined.
HELMER.
Explain yourself more clearly; I don’t understand.
NORA.
I have waited so patiently all these eight years; for of course I saw
clearly enough that miracles don’t happen every day. When this crushing
blow threatened me, I said to myself so confidently, “Now comes the
miracle!” When Krogstad’s letter lay in the box, it never for a moment
occurred to me that you would think of submitting to that man’s
conditions. I was convinced that you would say to him, “Make it known to
all the world”; and that then——
HELMER.
Well? When I had given my own wife’s name up to disgrace and shame——?
NORA.
Then I firmly believed that you would come forward, take everything upon
yourself, and say, “I am the guilty one.”
HELMER.
Nora——!
NORA.
You mean I would never have accepted such a sacrifice? No, certainly
not. But what would my assertions have been worth in opposition to
yours?—_That_ was the miracle that I hoped for and dreaded. And it was
to hinder _that_ that I wanted to die.
HELMER.
I would gladly work for you day and night, Nora—bear sorrow and want for
your sake. But no man sacrifices his honour, even for one he loves.
NORA.
Millions of women have done so.
HELMER.
Oh, you think and talk like a silly child.
NORA.
Very likely. But you neither think nor talk like the man I can share my
life with. When your terror was over—not for what threatened me, but for
yourself—when there was nothing more to fear—then it seemed to you as
though nothing had happened. I was your lark again, your doll, just as
before—whom you would take twice as much care of in future, because she
was so weak and fragile. [_Stands up._] Torvald—in that moment it burst
upon me that I had been living here these eight years with a strange
man, and had borne him three children.—Oh, I can’t bear to think of it!
I could tear myself to pieces!
HELMER.
[_Sadly._] I see it, I see it; an abyss has opened between us.—But,
Nora, can it never be filled up?
NORA.
As I now am, I am no wife for you.
HELMER.
I have strength to become another man.
NORA.
Perhaps—when your doll is taken away from you.
HELMER.
To part—to part from you! No, Nora, no; I can’t grasp the thought.
NORA.
[_Going into room on the right._] The more reason for the thing to
happen.
[_She comes back with out-door things and a small
travelling-bag, which she places on a chair._
HELMER.
Nora, Nora, not now! Wait till to-morrow.
NORA.
[_Putting on cloak._] I can’t spend the night in a strange man’s house.
HELMER.
But can we not live here, as brother and sister——?
NORA.
[_Fastening her hat._] You know very well that wouldn’t last long.
[_Puts on the shawl._] Goodbye, Torvald. No, I won’t go to the children.
I know they are in better hands than mine. As I now am, I can be nothing
to them.
HELMER.
But some time, Nora—some time——?
NORA.
How can I tell? I have no idea what will become of me.
HELMER.
But you are my wife, now and always!
NORA.
Listen, Torvald—when a wife leaves her husband’s house, as I am doing, I
have heard that in the eyes of the law he is free from all duties
towards her. At any rate, I release you from all duties. You must not
feel yourself bound, any more than I shall. There must be perfect
freedom on both sides. There, I give you back your ring. Give me mine.
HELMER.
That too?
NORA.
That too.
HELMER.
Here it is.
NORA.
Very well. Now it is all over. I lay the keys here. The servants know
about everything in the house—better than I do. To-morrow, when I have
started, Christina will come to pack up the things I brought with me
from home. I will have them sent after me.
HELMER.
All over! all over! Nora, will you never think of me again?
NORA.
Oh, I shall often think of you, and the children, and this house.
HELMER.
May I write to you, Nora?
NORA.
No—never. You must not.
HELMER.
But I must send you——
NORA.
Nothing, nothing.
HELMER.
I must help you if you need it.
NORA.
No, I say. I take nothing from strangers.
HELMER.
Nora—can I never be more than a stranger to you?
NORA.
[_Taking her travelling-bag._] Oh, Torvald, then the miracle of miracles
would have to happen——
HELMER.
What is the miracle of miracles?
NORA.
Both of us would have to change so that——Oh, Torvald, I no longer
believe in miracles.
HELMER.
But _I_ will believe. Tell me! We must so change that——?
NORA.
That communion between us shall be a marriage. Good-bye.
[_She goes out by the hall door._
HELMER.
[_Sinks into a chair by the door with his face in his hands._] Nora!
Nora! [_He looks round and rises._] Empty. She is gone. [_A hope springs
up in him._] Ah! The miracle of miracles——?!
[_From below is heard the reverberation of a heavy door
closing._
THE END
GHOSTS
(1881)
CHARACTERS.
MRS. HELEN ALVING, _widow of Captain Alving, late Chamberlain[10]
to the King_.
OSWALD ALVING, _her son, a painter._
PASTOR MANDERS.
JACOB ENGSTRAND, _a carpenter_.
REGINA ENGSTRAND, _Mrs. Alving’s maid_.
_The action takes place at Mrs. Alving’s country
house, beside one of the large fjords in
Western Norway._
-----
Footnote 10:
Chamberlain (Kammerherre) is the only title of honour now existing in
Norway. It is a distinction conferred by the King on men of wealth and
position, and is not hereditary.
GHOSTS:
A FAMILY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS.
ACT FIRST.
_A spacious garden-room, with one door to the left, and two doors to the
right. In the middle of the room a round table, with chairs about
it. On the table lie books, periodicals, and newspapers. In the
foreground to the left a window, and by it a small sofa, with a
work-table in front of it. In the background, the room is
continued into a somewhat narrower conservatory, the walls of
which are formed by large panes of glass. In the right-hand wall
of the conservatory is a door leading down into the garden.
Through the glass wall a gloomy fjord-landscape is faintly
visible, veiled by steady rain._
_ENGSTRAND, the carpenter, stands by the garden door. His left leg is
somewhat bent; he has a clump of wood under the sole of his boot.
REGINA, with an empty garden syringe in her hand, hinders him from
advancing._
REGINA.
[_In a low voice._] What do you want? Stop where you are. You’re
positively dripping.
ENGSTRAND.
It’s the Lord’s own rain, my girl.
REGINA.
It’s the devil’s rain, _I_ say.
ENGSTRAND.
Lord, how you talk, Regina. [_Limps a step or two forward into the
room._] It’s just this as I wanted to say——
REGINA.
Don’t clatter so with that foot of yours, I tell you! The young master’s
asleep upstairs.
ENGSTRAND.
Asleep? In the middle of the day?
REGINA.
It’s no business of yours.
ENGSTRAND.
I was out on the loose last night——
REGINA.
I can quite believe that.
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, we’re weak vessels, we poor mortals, my girl——
REGINA.
So it seems.
ENGSTRAND.
——and temptations are manifold in this world, you see. But all the same,
I was hard at work, God knows, at half-past five this morning.
REGINA.
Very well; only be off now. I won’t stop here and have
_rendezvous’s_[11] with you.
ENGSTRAND.
What do you say you won’t have?
REGINA.
I won’t have any one find you here; so just you go about your business.
ENGSTRAND.
[_Advances a step or two._] Blest if I go before I’ve had a talk with
you. This afternoon I shall have finished my work at the school-house,
and then I shall take to-night’s boat and be off home to the town.
REGINA.
[_Mutters._] Pleasant journey to you!
ENGSTRAND.
Thank you, my child. To-morrow the Orphanage is to be opened, and then
there’ll be fine doings, no doubt, and plenty of intoxicating drink
going, you know. And nobody shall say of Jacob Engstrand that he can’t
keep out of temptation’s way.
REGINA.
Oh!
ENGSTRAND.
You see, there’s to be heaps of grand folks here to-morrow. Pastor
Manders is expected from town, too.
REGINA.
He’s coming to-day.
ENGSTRAND.
There, you see! And I should be cursedly sorry if he found out anything
against me, don’t you understand?
REGINA.
Oho! is that your game?
ENGSTRAND.
Is what my game?
REGINA.
[_Looking hard at him._] What are you going to fool Pastor Manders into
doing, this time?
ENGSTRAND.
Sh! sh! Are you crazy? Do _I_ want to fool Pastor Manders? Oh no! Pastor
Manders has been far too good a friend to me for that. But I just wanted
to say, you know—that I mean to be off home again to-night.
REGINA.
The sooner the better, say I.
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, but I want you with me, Regina.
REGINA.
[_Open-mouthed._] You want me——? What are you talking about?
ENGSTRAND.
I want you to come home with me, I say.
REGINA.
[_Scornfully._] Never in this world shall you get me home with you.
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, we’ll see about that.
REGINA.
Yes, you may be sure we’ll see about it! Me, that have been brought up
by a lady like Mrs. Alving! Me, that am treated almost as a daughter
here! Is it _me_ you want to go home with you?—to a house like yours?
For shame!
ENGSTRAND.
What the devil do you mean? Do you set yourself up against your father,
you hussy?
REGINA.
[_Mutters without looking at him._] You’ve said often enough I was no
concern of yours.
ENGSTRAND.
Pooh! Why should you bother about _that_——
REGINA.
Haven’t you many a time sworn at me and called me a——? _Fi donc!_
ENGSTRAND.
Curse me, now, if ever I used such an ugly word.
REGINA.
Oh, I remember very well what word you used.
ENGSTRAND.
Well, but that was only when I was a bit on, don’t you know? Temptations
are manifold in this world, Regina.
REGINA.
Ugh!
ENGSTRAND.
And besides, it was when your mother was that aggravating—I _had_ to
find something to twit her with, my child. She was always setting up for
a fine lady. [_Mimics._] “Let me go, Engstrand; let me be. Remember I
was three years in Chamberlain Alving’s family at Rosenvold.”
[_Laughs._] Mercy on us! She could never forget that the Captain was
made a Chamberlain while she was in service here.
REGINA.
Poor mother! you very soon tormented her into her grave.
ENGSTRAND.
[_With a twist of his shoulders._] Oh, of course! I’m to have the blame
for everything.
REGINA.
[_Turns away; half aloud._] Ugh——! And that leg too!
ENGSTRAND.
What do you say, my child?
REGINA.
_Pied de mouton._
ENGSTRAND.
Is that English, eh?
REGINA.
Yes.
ENGSTRAND.
Ay, ay; you’ve picked up some learning out here; and that may come in
useful now, Regina.
REGINA.
[_After a short silence._] What do you want with me in town?
ENGSTRAND.
Can you ask what a father wants with his only child? A’n’t I a lonely,
forlorn widower?
REGINA.
Oh, don’t try on any nonsense like that with _me_! Why do you want me?
ENGSTRAND.
Well, let me tell you, I’ve been thinking of setting up in a new line of
business.
REGINA.
[_Contemptuously._] You’ve tried that often enough, and much good you’ve
done with it.
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, but this time you shall see, Regina! Devil take me——
REGINA.
[_Stamps._] Stop your swearing!
ENGSTRAND.
Hush, hush; you’re right enough there, my girl. What I wanted to say was
just this—I’ve laid by a very tidy pile from this Orphanage job.
REGINA.
Have you? That’s a good thing for you.
ENGSTRAND.
What can a man spend his ha’pence on here in this country hole?
REGINA.
Well, what then?
ENGSTRAND.
Why, you see, I thought of putting the money into some paying
speculation. I thought of a sort of a sailor’s tavern——
REGINA.
Pah!
ENGSTRAND.
A regular high-class affair, of course; not any sort of pig-sty for
common sailors. No! damn it! it would be for captains and mates,
and—and—regular swells, you know.
REGINA.
And I was to——?
ENGSTRAND.
You were to help, to be sure. Only for the look of the thing, you
understand. Devil a bit of hard work shall you have, my girl. You shall
do exactly what you like.
REGINA.
Oh, indeed!
ENGSTRAND.
But there must be a petticoat in the house; that’s as clear as daylight.
For I want to have it a bit lively-like in the evenings, with singing
and dancing, and so on. You must remember they’re weary wanderers on the
ocean of life. [_Nearer._] Now don’t be a fool and stand in your own
light, Regina. What’s to become of you out here? Your mistress has given
you a lot of learning; but what good is _that_ to you? You’re to look
after the children at the new Orphanage, I hear. Is _that_ the sort of
thing for you, eh? Are you so dead set on wearing your life out for a
pack of dirty brats?
REGINA.
No; if things go as I want them to——Well there’s no saying—there’s no
saying.
ENGSTRAND.
What do you mean by “there’s no saying”?
REGINA.
Never you mind.—How much money have you saved?
ENGSTRAND.
What with one thing and another, a matter of seven or eight hundred
crowns.[12]
REGINA.
That’s not so bad.
ENGSTRAND.
It’s enough to make a start with, my girl.
REGINA.
Aren’t you thinking of giving me any?
ENGSTRAND.
No, I’m blest if I am!
REGINA.
Not even of sending me a scrap of stuff for a new dress?
ENGSTRAND.
Come to town with me, my lass, and you’ll soon get dresses enough.
REGINA.
Pooh! I can do that on my own account, if I want to.
ENGSTRAND.
No, a father’s guiding hand is what you want, Regina. Now, I’ve got my
eye on a capital house in Little Harbour Street. They don’t want much
ready-money; and it could be a sort of a Sailors’ Home, you know.
REGINA.
But I will _not_ live with you! I have nothing whatever to do with you.
Be off!
ENGSTRAND.
You wouldn’t stop long with me, my girl. No such luck! If you knew how
to play your cards, such a fine figure of a girl as you’ve grown in the
last year or two——
REGINA.
Well?
ENGSTRAND.
You’d soon get hold of some mate—or maybe even a captain——
REGINA.
I won’t marry any one of that sort. Sailors have no _savoir vivre_.
ENGSTRAND.
What’s that they haven’t got?
REGINA.
I know what sailors are, I tell you. They’re not the sort of people to
marry.
ENGSTRAND.
Then never mind about marrying them. You can make it pay all the same.
[_More confidentially._] He—the Englishman—the man with the yacht—he
came down with three hundred dollars, he did; and she wasn’t a bit
handsomer than you.
REGINA.
[_Making for him._] Out you go!
ENGSTRAND.
[_Falling back._] Come, come! You’re not going to hit me, I hope.
REGINA.
Yes, if you begin talking about mother I shall hit you. Get away with
you, I say! [_Drives him back towards the garden door._] And don’t slam
the doors. Young Mr. Alving——
ENGSTRAND.
He’s asleep; I know. You’re mightily taken up about young Mr.
Alving——[_More softly._] Oho! you don’t mean to say it’s him as——?
REGINA.
Be off this minute! You’re crazy, I tell you! No, not that way. There
comes Pastor Manders. Down the kitchen stairs with you.
ENGSTRAND.
[_Towards the right._] Yes, yes, I’m going. But just you talk to him as
is coming there. _He’s_ the man to tell you what a child owes its
father. For I _am_ your father all the same, you know. I can prove it
from the church register.
[_He goes out through the second door to the right, which REGINA
has opened, and closes again after him. REGINA glances
hastily at herself in the mirror, dusts herself with her
pocket handkerchief, and settles her necktie; then she
busies herself with the flowers._
_PASTOR MANDERS, wearing an overcoat, carrying an umbrella, and
with a small travelling-bag on a strap over his shoulder,
comes through the garden door into the conservatory._
MANDERS.
Good-morning, Miss Engstrand.
REGINA.
[_Turning round, surprised and pleased._] No, really! Good-morning,
Pastor Manders. Is the steamer in already?
MANDERS.
It is just in. [_Enters the sitting-room._] Terrible weather we have
been having lately.
REGINA.
[_Follows him._] It’s such blessëd weather for the country, sir.
MANDERS.
No doubt; you are quite right. We townspeople give too little thought to
that.
[_He begins to take off his overcoat._
REGINA.
Oh, mayn’t I help you?—There! Why, how wet it is? I’ll just hang it up
in the hall. And your umbrella, too—I’ll open it and let it dry.
[_She goes out with the things through the second door on the
right._ PASTOR MANDERS _takes off his travelling-bag and
lays it and his hat on a chair. Meanwhile_ REGINA _comes in
again._
MANDERS.
Ah, it’s a comfort to get safe under cover. I hope everything is going
on well here?
REGINA.
Yes, thank you, sir.
MANDERS.
You have your hands full, I suppose, in preparation for to-morrow?
REGINA.
Yes, there’s plenty to do, of course.
MANDERS.
And Mrs. Alving is at home, I trust?
REGINA.
Oh dear, yes. She’s just upstairs, looking after the young master’s
chocolate.
MANDERS.
Yes, by-the-bye—I heard down at the pier that Oswald had arrived.
REGINA.
Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn’t expect him before
to-day.
MANDERS.
Quite strong and well, I hope?
REGINA.
Yes, thank you, quite; but dreadfully tired with the journey. He has
made one rush right through from Paris—the whole way in one train, I
believe. He’s sleeping a little now, I think; so perhaps we’d better
talk a little quietly.
MANDERS.
Sh!—as quietly as you please.
REGINA.
[_Arranging an arm-chair beside the table._] Now, do sit down, Pastor
Manders, and make yourself comfortable. [_He sits down; she places a
footstool under his feet._] There! Are you comfortable now, sir?
MANDERS.
Thanks, thanks, extremely so. [_Looks at her._] Do you know, Miss
Engstrand, I positively believe you have grown since I last saw you.
REGINA.
Do you think so, sir? Mrs. Alving says I’ve filled out too.
MANDERS.
Filled out? Well, perhaps a little; just enough.
[_Short pause._
REGINA.
Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here?
MANDERS.
Thanks, thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child.—By-the-bye, Regina, my
good girl, tell me: how is your father getting on out here?
REGINA.
Oh, thank you, sir, he’s getting on well enough.
MANDERS.
He called upon me last time he was in town.
REGINA.
Did he, indeed? He’s always so glad of a chance of talking to you, sir.
MANDERS.
And you often look in upon him at his work, I daresay?
REGINA.
I? Oh, of course, when I have time, I——
MANDERS.
Your father is not a man of strong character, Miss Engstrand. He stands
terribly in need of a guiding hand.
REGINA.
Oh, yes; I daresay he does.
MANDERS.
He requires some one near him whom he cares for, and whose judgment he
respects. He frankly admitted as much when he last came to see me.
REGINA.
Yes, he mentioned something of the sort to me. But I don’t know whether
Mrs. Alving can spare me; especially now that we’ve got the new
Orphanage to attend to. And then I should be so sorry to leave Mrs.
Alving; she has always been so kind to me.
MANDERS.
But a daughter’s duty, my good girl——Of course, we should first have to
get your mistress’s consent.
REGINA.
But I don’t know whether it would be quite proper for me, at my age, to
keep house for a single man.
MANDERS.
What! My dear Miss Engstrand! When the man is your own father!
REGINA.
Yes, that may be; but all the same——Now, if it were in a thoroughly
_nice_ house, and with a real gentleman——
MANDERS.
Why, my dear Regina——
REGINA.
——one I could love and respect, and be a daughter to——
MANDERS.
Yes, but my dear, good child——
REGINA.
Then I should be glad to go to town. It’s very lonely out here; you know
yourself, sir, what it is to be alone in the world. And I can assure you
I’m both quick and willing. Don’t you know of any such place for me,
sir?
MANDERS.
I? No, certainly not.
REGINA.
But, dear, dear sir, do remember me if——
MANDERS.
[_Rising._] Yes, yes, certainly, Miss Engstrand.
REGINA.
For if I——
MANDERS.
Will you be so good as to tell your mistress I am here?
REGINA.
I will, at once, sir. [_She goes out to the left._
MANDERS.
[_Paces the room two or three times, stands a moment in the background
with his hands behind his back, and looks out over the garden. Then he
returns to the table, takes up a book, and looks at the title-page;
starts, and looks at several books._] Ha—indeed!
_MRS. ALVING enters by the door on the left; she is followed by
REGINA, who immediately goes out by the first door on the
right._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Holds out her hand._] Welcome, my dear Pastor.
MANDERS.
How do you do, Mrs. Alving? Here I am as I promised.
MRS. ALVING.
Always punctual to the minute.
MANDERS.
You may believe it was not so easy for me to get away. With all the
Boards and Committees I belong to——
MRS. ALVING.
That makes it all the kinder of you to come so early. Now we can get
through our business before dinner. But where is your portmanteau?
MANDERS.
[_Quickly._] I left it down at the inn. I shall sleep there to-night.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Suppressing a smile._] Are you really not to be persuaded, even now,
to pass the night under my roof?
MANDERS.
No, no, Mrs. Alving; many thanks. I shall stay at the inn, as usual. It
is so conveniently near the landing-stage.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, you must have your own way. But I really should have thought we
two old people——
MANDERS.
Now you are making fun of me. Ah, you’re naturally in great spirits
to-day—what with to-morrow’s festival and Oswald’s return.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; you can think what a delight it is to me! It’s more than two years
since he was home last. And now he has promised to stay with me all the
winter.
MANDERS.
Has he really? That is very nice and dutiful of him. For I can well
believe that life in Rome and Paris has very different attractions from
any we can offer here.
MRS. ALVING.
Ah, but here he has his mother, you see. My own darling boy—he hasn’t
forgotten his old mother!
MANDERS.
It would be grievous indeed, if absence and absorption in art and that
sort of thing were to blunt his natural feelings.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, you may well say so. But there’s nothing of that sort to fear with
him. I’m quite curious to see whether you know him again. He’ll be down
presently; he’s upstairs just now, resting a little on the sofa. But do
sit down, my dear Pastor.
MANDERS
Thank you. Are you quite at liberty——?
MRS. ALVING.
Certainly. [_She sits by the table._
MANDERS.
Very well. Then let me show you——[_He goes to the chair where his
travelling-bag lies, takes out a packet of papers, sits down on the
opposite side of the table, and tries to find a clear space for the
papers._] Now, to begin with, here is——[_Breaking off._] Tell me, Mrs.
Alving, how do these books come to be here?
MRS. ALVING.
These books? They are books I am reading.
MANDERS.
Do you read this sort of literature?
MRS. ALVING.
Certainly I do.
MANDERS.
Do you feel better or happier for such reading?
MRS. ALVING.
I feel, so to speak, more secure.
MANDERS.
That is strange. How do you mean?
MRS. ALVING.
Well, I seem to find explanation and confirmation of all sorts of things
I myself have been thinking. For that is the wonderful part of it,
Pastor Manders—there is really nothing new in these books, nothing but
what most people think and believe. Only most people either don’t
formulate it to themselves, or else keep quiet about it.
MANDERS.
Great heavens! Do you really believe that most people——?
MRS. ALVING.
I do, indeed.
MANDERS.
But surely not in this country? Not here among us?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, certainly; here as elsewhere.
MANDERS.
Well, I really must say——!
MRS. ALVING.
For the rest, what do you object to in these books?
MANDERS.
Object to in them? You surely do not suppose that I have nothing better
to do than to study such publications as these?
MRS. ALVING.
That is to say, you know nothing of what you are condemning?
MANDERS.
I have read enough _about_ these writings to disapprove of them.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; but your own judgment——
MANDERS.
My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one must rely
upon others. Things are so ordered in this world; and it is well that
they are. Otherwise, what would become of society?
MRS. ALVING.
Well, well, I daresay you’re right there.
MANDERS.
Besides, I of course do not deny that there may be much that is
attractive in such books. Nor can I blame you for wishing to keep up
with the intellectual movements that are said to be going on in the
great world—where you have let your son pass so much of his life. But——
MRS. ALVING.
But?
MANDERS.
[_Lowering his voice._] But one should not talk about it, Mrs. Alving.
One is certainly not bound to account to everybody for what one reads
and thinks within one’s own four walls.
MRS. ALVING.
Of course not; I quite agree with you.
MANDERS.
Only think, now, how you are bound to consider the interests of this
Orphanage, which you decided on founding at a time when—if I understand
you rightly—you thought very differently on spiritual matters.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, yes; I quite admit that. But it was about the Orphanage——
MANDERS.
It was about the Orphanage we were to speak; yes. All I say is:
prudence, my dear lady! And now let us get to business. [_Opens the
packet, and takes out a number of papers._] Do you see these?
MRS. ALVING.
The documents?
MANDERS.
All—and in perfect order. I can tell you it was hard work to get them in
time. I had to put on strong pressure. The authorities are almost
morbidly scrupulous when there is any decisive step to be taken. But
here they are at last. [_Looks through the bundle._] See! here is the
formal deed of gift of the parcel of ground known as Solvik in the Manor
of Rosenvold, with all the newly constructed buildings, schoolrooms,
master’s house, and chapel. And here is the legal fiat for the endowment
and for the Bye-laws of the Institution. Will you look at them?
[_Reads._] “Bye-laws for the Children’s Home to be known as ‘Captain
Alving’s Foundation.’”
MRS. ALVING.
[_Looks long at the paper._] So there it is.
MANDERS.
I have chosen the designation “Captain” rather than “Chamberlain.”
“Captain” looks less pretentious.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, yes; just as you think best.
MANDERS.
And here you have the Bank Account of the capital lying at interest to
cover the current expenses of the Orphanage.
MRS. ALVING.
Thank you; but please keep it—it will be more convenient.
MANDERS.
With pleasure. I think we will leave the money in the Bank for the
present. The interest is certainly not what we could wish—four per cent.
and six months’ notice of withdrawal. If a good mortgage could be found
later on—of course it must be a first mortgage and an unimpeachable
security—then we could consider the matter.
MRS. ALVING.
Certainly, my dear Pastor Manders. You are the best judge in these
things.
MANDERS.
I will keep my eyes open at any rate.—But now there is one thing more
which I have several times been intending to ask you.
MRS. ALVING.
And what is that?
MANDERS.
Shall the Orphanage buildings be insured or not?
MRS. ALVING.
Of course they must be insured.
MANDERS.
Well, wait a moment, Mrs. Alving. Let us look into the matter a little
more closely.
MRS. ALVING.
I have everything insured; buildings and movables and stock and crops.
MANDERS.
Of course you have—on your own estate. And so have I—of course. But
here, you see, it is quite another matter. The Orphanage is to be
consecrated, as it were, to a higher purpose.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, but that’s no reason——
MANDERS.
For my own part, I should certainly not see the smallest impropriety in
guarding against all contingencies——
MRS. ALVING.
No, I should think not.
MANDERS.
But what is the general feeling in the neighbourhood? You, of course,
know better than I.
MRS. ALVING.
Well—the general feeling——
MANDERS.
Is there any considerable number of people—really responsible people—who
might be scandalised?
MRS. ALVING.
What do you mean by “really responsible people”?
MANDERS.
Well, I mean people in such independent and influential positions that
one cannot help attaching some weight to their opinions.
MRS. ALVING.
There are several people of that sort here, who would very likely be
shocked if——
MANDERS.
There, you see! In town we have many such people. Think of all my
colleague’s adherents! People would be only too ready to interpret our
action as a sign that neither you nor I had the right faith in a Higher
Providence.
MRS. ALVING.
But for your own part, my dear Pastor, you can at least tell yourself
that——
MANDERS.
Yes, I know—I know; my conscience would be quite easy, that is true
enough. But nevertheless we should not escape grave misinterpretation;
and that might very likely react unfavourably upon the Orphanage.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, in that case——
MANDERS.
Nor can I entirely lose sight of the difficult—I may even say
painful—position in which _I_ might perhaps be placed. In the leading
circles of the town, people take a lively interest in this Orphanage. It
is, of course, founded partly for the benefit of the town, as well; and
it is to be hoped it will, to a considerable extent, result in
lightening our Poor Rates. Now, as I have been your adviser, and have
had the business arrangements in my hands, I cannot but fear that I may
have to bear the brunt of fanaticism——
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, you mustn’t run the risk of that.
MANDERS.
To say nothing of the attacks that would assuredly be made upon me in
certain papers and periodicals, which——
MRS. ALVING.
Enough, my dear Pastor Manders. That consideration is quite decisive.
MANDERS.
Then you do not wish the Orphanage to be insured?
MRS. ALVING.
No. We will let it alone.
MANDERS.
[_Leaning back in his chair._] But if, now, a disaster were to happen?
One can never tell——Should you be able to make good the damage?
MRS. ALVING.
No; I tell you plainly I should do nothing of the kind.
MANDERS.
Then I must tell you, Mrs. Alving—we are taking no small responsibility
upon ourselves.
MRS. ALVING.
Do you think we can do otherwise?
MANDERS.
No, that is just the point; we really cannot do otherwise. We ought not
to expose ourselves to misinterpretation; and we have no right whatever
to give offence to the weaker brethren.
MRS. ALVING.
You, as a clergyman, certainly should not.
MANDERS.
I really think, too, we may trust that such an institution has fortune
on its side; in fact, that it stands under a special providence.
MRS. ALVING.
Let us hope so, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS.
Then we will let it take its chance?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, certainly.
MANDERS.
Very well. So be it. [_Makes a note._] Then—no insurance.
MRS. ALVING.
It’s odd that you should just happen to mention the matter to-day——
MANDERS.
I have often thought of asking you about it——
MRS. ALVING.
——for we very nearly had a fire down there yesterday.
MANDERS.
You don’t say so!
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, it was a trifling matter. A heap of shavings had caught fire in the
carpenter’s workshop.
MANDERS.
Where Engstrand works?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes. They say he’s often very careless with matches.
MANDERS.
He has so much on his mind, that man—so many things to fight against.
Thank God, he is now striving to lead a decent life, I hear.
MRS. ALVING.
Indeed! Who says so?
MANDERS.
He himself assures me of it. And he is certainly a capital workman.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, yes; so long as he’s sober——
MANDERS.
Ah, that melancholy weakness! But he is often driven to it by his
injured leg, he says. Last time he was in town I was really touched by
him. He came and thanked me so warmly for having got him work here, so
that he might be near Regina.
MRS. ALVING.
He doesn’t see much of _her_.
MANDERS.
Oh, yes; he has a talk with her every day. He told me so himself.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, it may be so.
MANDERS.
He feels so acutely that he needs some one to keep a firm hold on him
when temptation comes. That is what I cannot help liking about Jacob
Engstrand: he comes to you so helplessly, accusing himself and
confessing his own weakness. The last time he was talking to me——Believe
me, Mrs. Alving, supposing it were a real necessity for him to have
Regina home again——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Rising hastily._] Regina!
MANDERS.
——you must not set yourself against it.
MRS. ALVING.
Indeed I _shall_ set myself against it. And besides—Regina is to have a
position in the Orphanage.
MANDERS.
But, after all, remember he is her father——
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, I know very well what sort of a father he has been to her. No! She
shall never go to him with _my_ goodwill.
MANDERS.
[_Rising._] My dear lady, don’t take the matter so warmly. You sadly
misjudge poor Engstrand. You seem to be quite terrified——
MRS. ALVING.
[_More quietly._] It makes no difference. I have taken Regina into my
house, and there she shall stay. [_Listens._] Hush, my dear Mr. Manders;
say no more about it. [_Her face lights up with gladness._] Listen!
there is Oswald coming downstairs. Now we’ll think of no one but him.
_OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand, and smoking a
large meerschaum, enters by the door on the left; he stops
in the doorway._
OSWALD.
Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought you were in the study. [_Comes
forward._] Good-morning, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS.
[_Staring._] Ah——! How strange——!
MRS. ALVING.
Well now, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders?
MANDERS.
I—I—can it really be——?
OSWALD.
Yes, it’s really the Prodigal Son, sir.
MANDERS.
[_Protesting._] My dear young friend——
OSWALD.
Well, then, the Lost Sheep Found.
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so much opposed to his
becoming a painter.
MANDERS.
To our human eyes many a step seems dubious, which afterwards
proves——[_Wrings his hand._] But first of all, welcome, welcome home! Do
not think, my dear Oswald—I suppose I may call you by your Christian
name?
OSWALD.
What else should you call me?
MANDERS.
Very good. What I wanted to say was this, my dear Oswald—you must not
think that I utterly condemn the artist’s calling. I have no doubt there
are many who can keep their inner self unharmed in that profession, as
in any other.
OSWALD.
Let us hope so.
MRS. ALVINO.
[_Beaming with delight._] I know one who has kept both his inner and his
outer self unharmed. Just look at him, Mr. Manders.
OSWALD.
[_Moves restlessly about the room._] Yes, yes, my dear mother; let’s say
no more about it.
MANDERS.
Why, certainly—that is undeniable. And you have begun to make a name for
yourself already. The newspapers have often spoken of you, most
favourably. Just lately, by-the-bye, I fancy I haven’t seen your name
quite so often.
OSWALD.
[_Up in the conservatory._] I haven’t been able to paint so much lately.
MRS. ALVING.
Even a painter needs a little rest now and then.
MANDERS.
No doubt, no doubt. And meanwhile he can be preparing himself and
mustering his forces for some great work.
OSWALD.
Yes.—Mother, will dinner soon be ready?
MRS. ALVING.
In less than half an hour. He has a capital appetite, thank God.
MANDERS.
And a taste for tobacco, too.
OSWALD.
I found my father’s pipe in my room——
MANDERS.
Aha—then that accounts for it!
MRS. ALVING.
For what?
MANDERS.
When Oswald appeared there, in the doorway, with the pipe in his mouth,
I could have sworn I saw his father, large as life.
OSWALD.
No, really?
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, how can you say so? Oswald takes after me.
MANDERS.
Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of the mouth—something
about the lips—that reminds one exactly of Alving: at any rate, now that
he is smoking.
MRS. ALVING.
Not in the least. Oswald has rather a clerical curve about his mouth, I
think.
MANDERS.
Yes, yes; some of my colleagues have much the same expression.
MRS. ALVING.
But put your pipe away, my dear boy; I won’t have smoking in here.
OSWALD.
[_Does so._] By all means. I only wanted to try it; for I once smoked it
when I was a child.
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 fathers.
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 back-slider 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 observation. 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.
MANDERS.
More repulsive than what you have told me!
MRS. ALVING.
I had gone on bearing with him, although I knew very well the secrets of
his life out of doors. But when he brought the scandal within our own
walls——
MANDERS.
Impossible! Here!
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; here in our own home. It was there [_Pointing towards the first
door on the right_], in the dining-room, that I first came to know of
it. I was busy with something in there, and the door was standing ajar.
I heard our housemaid come up from the garden, with water for those
flowers.
MANDERS.
Well——?
MRS. ALVING.
Soon after, I heard Alving come in too. I heard him say something softly
to her. And then I heard—[_With a short laugh_]—oh! it still sounds in
my ears, so hateful and yet so ludicrous—I heard my own servant-maid
whisper, “Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!”
MANDERS.
What unseemly levity on his part! But it cannot have been more than
levity, Mrs. Alving; believe me, it cannot.
MRS. ALVING.
I soon knew what to believe. Mr. Alving had his way with the girl; and
that connection had consequences, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS.
[_As though petrified._] Such things in this house! in this house!
MRS. ALVING.
I had borne a great deal in this house. To keep him at home in the
evenings, and at night, I had to make myself his boon companion in his
secret orgies up in his room. There I have had to sit alone with him, to
clink glasses and drink with him, and to listen to his ribald, silly
talk. I have had to fight with him to get him dragged to bed——
MANDERS.
[_Moved._] And you were able to bear all this!
MRS. ALVING.
I had to bear it for my little boy’s sake. But when the last insult was
added; when my own servant-maid——; then I swore to myself: This shall
come to an end! And so I took the reins into my own hand—the whole
control—over him and everything else. For now I had a weapon against
him, you see; he dared not oppose me. It was then I sent Oswald away
from home. He was nearly seven years old, and was beginning to observe
and ask questions, as children do. That I could not bear. It seemed to
me the child must be poisoned by merely breathing the air of this
polluted home. That was why I sent him away. And now you can see, too,
why he was never allowed to set foot inside his home so long as his
father lived. No one knows what that cost me.
MANDERS.
You have indeed had a life of trial.
MRS. ALVING.
I could never have borne it if I had not had my work. For I may truly
say that I have worked! All the additions to the estate—all the
improvements—all the labour-saving appliances, that Alving was so much
praised for having introduced—do you suppose he had energy for anything
of the sort?—he, who lay all day on the sofa, reading an old Court
Guide! No; but I may tell you _this_ too: when he had his better
intervals, it was I who urged him on; it was I who had to drag the whole
load when he relapsed into his evil ways, or sank into querulous
wretchedness.
MANDERS.
And it is to this man that you raise a memorial?
MRS. ALVING.
There you see the power of an evil conscience.
MANDERS.
Evil——? What do you mean?
MRS. ALVING.
It always seemed to me impossible but that the truth must come out and
be believed. So the Orphanage was to deaden all rumours and set every
doubt at rest.
MANDERS.
In that you have certainly not missed your aim, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING.
And besides, I had one other reason. I was determined that Oswald, my
own boy, should inherit nothing whatever from his father.
MANDERS.
Then it is Alving’s fortune that——?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes. The sums I have spent upon the Orphanage, year by year, make up the
amount—I have reckoned it up precisely—the amount which made Lieutenant
Alving “a good match” in his day.
MANDERS.
I don’t understand——
MRS. ALVING.
It was my purchase-money. I do not choose that that money should pass
into Oswald’s hands. My son shall have everything from me—everything.
_OSWALD ALVING enters through the second door to the right; he
has taken off his hat and overcoat in the hall._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Going towards him._] Are you back again already? My dear, dear boy!
OSWALD.
Yes. What can a fellow do out of doors in this eternal rain? But I hear
dinner is ready. That’s capital!
REGINA.
[_With a parcel, from the dining-room._] A parcel has come for you, Mrs.
Alving. [_Hands it to her._
MRS. ALVING.
[_With a glance at MR. MANDERS._] No doubt copies of the ode for
to-morrow’s ceremony.
MANDERS.
H’m——
REGINA.
And dinner is ready.
MRS. ALVING.
Very well. We will come directly. I will just—— [_Begins to open the
parcel._
REGINA.
[_To_ OSWALD.] Would Mr. Alving like red or white wine?
OSWALD.
Both, if you please.
REGINA.
_Bien._ Very well, sir.
[_She goes into the dining-room._
OSWALD.
I may as well help to uncork it.
[_He also goes into the dining-room, the door of which swings
half open behind him._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Who has opened the parcel._] Yes, I thought so. Here is the Ceremonial
Ode, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS.
[_With folded hands._] With what countenance I am to deliver my
discourse to-morrow——!
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, you will get through it somehow.
MANDERS.
[_Softly, so as not to be heard in the dining-room._] Yes; it would not
do to provoke scandal.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Under her breath, but firmly._] No. But _then_ this long, hateful
comedy will be ended. From the day after to-morrow, I shall act in every
way as though he who is dead had never lived in this house. There shall
be no one here but my boy and his mother.
[_From the dining-room comes the noise of a chair overturned,
and at the same moment is heard_:
REGINA.
[_Sharply, but in a whisper._] Oswald! take care! are you mad? Let me
go!
MRS. ALVING.
[_Starts in terror._] Ah——!
[_She stares wildly towards the half-open door._ OSWALD _is
heard laughing and humming. A bottle is uncorked._
MANDERS.
[_Agitated._] What can be the matter? What is it, Mrs. Alving?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Hoarsely._] Ghosts! The couple from the conservatory—risen again!
MANDERS.
Is it possible! Regina——? Is _she_——?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes. Come. Not a word——!
[_She seizes_ PASTOR MANDERS _by the arm, and walks unsteadily
towards the dining-room._
-----
Footnote 11:
This and other French words used, by Regina are in that language in
the original.
Footnote 12:
A “krone” is equal to one shilling and three-halfpence.
ACT SECOND.
_The same room. The mist still lies heavy over the landscape._
_MANDERS and MRS. ALVING enter from the dining-room._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Still in the doorway._] _Velbekomme_,[13] Mr. Manders. [_Turns back
towards the dining-room._] Aren’t you coming too, Oswald?
OSWALD.
[_From within._] No, thank you. I think I shall go out a little.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, do. The weather seems a little brighter now. [_She shuts the
dining-room door, goes to the hall door, and calls:_] Regina!
REGINA.
[_Outside._] Yes, Mrs. Alving?
MRS. ALVING.
Go down to the laundry, and help with the garlands.
REGINA.
Yes, Mrs. Alving.
[_MRS. ALVING assures herself that REGINA goes; then shuts the
door._
MANDERS.
I suppose he cannot overhear us in there?
MRS. ALVING.
Not when the door is shut. Besides, he’s just going out.
MANDERS.
I am still quite upset. I don’t know how I could swallow a morsel of
dinner.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Controlling her nervousness, walks up and down._] Nor I. But what is
to be done now?
MANDERS.
Yes; what is to be done? I am really quite at a loss. I am so utterly
without experience in matters of this sort.
MRS. ALVING.
I feel sure that, so far, no mischief has been done.
MANDERS.
No; heaven forbid! But it is an unseemly state of things, nevertheless.
MRS. ALVING.
It is only an idle fancy on Oswald’s part; you may be sure of that.
MANDERS.
Well, as I say, I am not accustomed to affairs of the kind. But I should
certainly think——
MRS. ALVING.
Out of the house she must go, and that immediately. That is as clear as
daylight——
MANDERS.
Yes, of course she must.
MRS. ALVING.
But where to? It would not be right to——
MANDERS.
Where to? Home to her father, of course.
MRS. ALVING.
To whom did you say?
MANDERS.
To her——But then, Engstrand is not——? Good God, Mrs. Alving, it’s
impossible! You must be mistaken after all.
MRS. ALVING.
Unfortunately there is no possibility of mistake. Johanna confessed
everything to me; and Alving could not deny it. So there was nothing to
be done but to get the matter hushed up.
MANDERS.
No, you could do nothing else.
MRS. ALVING.
The girl left our service at once, and got a good sum of money to hold
her tongue for the time. The rest she managed for herself when she got
to town. She renewed her old acquaintance with Engstrand, no doubt let
him see that she had money in her purse, and told him some tale about a
foreigner who put in here with a yacht that summer. So she and Engstrand
got married in hot haste. Why, you married them yourself.
MANDERS.
But then how to account for——? I recollect distinctly Engstrand coming
to give notice of the marriage. He was quite overwhelmed with
contrition, and bitterly reproached himself for the misbehaviour he and
his sweetheart had been guilty of.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; of course he had to take the blame upon himself.
MANDERS.
But such a piece of duplicity on his part! And towards me too! I never
could have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall not fail to take him
seriously to task; he may be sure of that.—And then the immorality of
such a connection! For money——! How much did the girl receive?
MRS. ALVING.
Three hundred dollars.
MANDERS.
Just think of it—for a miserable three hundred dollars, to go and marry
a fallen woman!
MRS. ALVING.
Then what have you to say of me? I went and married a fallen man.
MANDERS.
Why—good heavens!—what are you talking about! A fallen man!
MRS. ALVING.
Do you think Alving was any purer when I went with him to the altar than
Johanna was when Engstrand married her?
MANDERS.
Well, but there is a world of difference between the two cases——
MRS. ALVING.
Not so much difference after all—except in the price:—a miserable three
hundred dollars and a whole fortune.
MANDERS.
How can you compare such absolutely dissimilar cases? You had taken
counsel with your own heart and with your natural advisers.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Without looking at him._] I thought you understood where what you call
my heart had strayed to at the time.
MANDERS.
[_Distantly._] Had I understood anything of the kind, I should not have
been a daily guest in your husband’s house.
MRS. ALVING.
At any rate, the fact remains that with myself I took no counsel
whatever.
MANDERS.
Well then, with your nearest relatives—as your duty bade you—with your
mother and your two aunts.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, that is true. Those three cast up the account for me. Oh, it’s
marvellous how clearly they made out that it would be downright madness
to refuse such an offer. If mother could only see me now, and know what
all that grandeur has come to!
MANDERS.
Nobody can be held responsible for the result. This, at least, remains
clear: your marriage was in full accordance with law and order.
MRS. ALVING.
[_At the window._] Oh, that perpetual law and order! I often think that
is what does all the mischief in this world of ours.
MANDERS.
Mrs. Alving, that is a sinful way of talking.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, I can’t help it; I must have done with all this constraint and
insincerity. I can endure it no longer. I must work my way out to
freedom.
MANDERS.
What do you mean by that?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Drumming on the window-frame._] I ought never to have concealed the
facts of Alving’s life. But at that time I dared not do anything else—I
was afraid, partly on my own account. I was such a coward.
MANDERS.
A coward?
MRS. ALVING.
If people had come to know anything, they would have said—“Poor man!
with a runaway wife, no wonder he kicks over the traces.”
MANDERS.
Such remarks might have been made with a certain show of right.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Looking steadily at him._] If I were what I ought to be, I should go
to Oswald and say, “Listen, my boy: your father led a vicious life——”
MANDERS.
Merciful heavens——!
MRS. ALVING.
——and then I should tell him all I have told you—every word of it.
MANDERS.
You shock me unspeakably, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; I know that. I know that very well. I myself am shocked at the
idea. [_Goes away from the window._] I am such a coward.
MANDERS.
You call it “cowardice” to do your plain duty? Have you forgotten that a
son ought to love and honour his father and mother?
MRS. ALVING.
Do not let us talk in such general terms. Let us ask: Ought Oswald to
love and honour Chamberlain Alving?
MANDERS.
Is there no voice in your mother’s heart that forbids you to destroy
your son’s ideals?
MRS. ALVING.
But what about the truth?
MANDERS.
But what about the ideals?
MRS. ALVING.
Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward!
MANDERS.
Do not despise ideals, Mrs. Alving; they will avenge themselves cruelly.
Take Oswald’s case: he, unfortunately, seems to have few enough ideals
as it is; but I can see that his father stands before him as an ideal.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, that is true.
MANDERS.
And this habit of mind you have yourself implanted and fostered by your
letters.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; in my superstitious awe for duty and the proprieties, I lied to my
boy, year after year. Oh, what a coward—what a coward I have been!
MANDERS.
You have established a happy illusion in your son’s heart, Mrs. Alving;
and assuredly you ought not to undervalue it.
MRS. ALVING.
H’m; who knows whether it is so happy after all——? But, at any rate, I
will not have any tampering with Regina. He shall not go and wreck the
poor girl’s life.
MANDERS.
No; good God—that would be terrible!
MRS. ALVING.
If I knew he was in earnest, and that it would be for his happiness——
MANDERS.
What? What then?
MRS. ALVING.
But it couldn’t be; for unfortunately Regina is not the right sort of
woman.
MANDERS.
Well, what then? What do you mean?
MRS. ALVING.
If I weren’t such a pitiful coward, I should say to him, “Marry her, or
make what arrangement you please, only let us have nothing underhand
about it.”
MANDERS.
Merciful heavens, would you let them _marry_! Anything so dreadful——! so
unheard of——
MRS. ALVING.
Do you really mean “unheard of”? Frankly, Pastor Manders, do you suppose
that throughout the country there are not plenty of married couples as
closely akin as they?
MANDERS.
I don’t in the least understand you.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh yes, indeed you do.
MANDERS.
Ah, you are thinking of the possibility that——Alas! yes, family life is
certainly not always so pure as it ought to be. But in such a case as
you point to, one can never know—at least with any certainty. Here, on
the other hand—that you, a mother, can think of letting your son——!
MRS. ALVING.
But I cannot—I wouldn’t for anything in the world; that is precisely
what I am saying.
MANDERS.
No, because you are a “coward,” as you put it. But if you were not a
“coward,” then——? Good God! a connection so shocking!
MRS. ALVING.
So far as that goes, they say we are all sprung from connections of that
sort. And who is it that arranged the world so, Pastor Manders?
MANDERS.
Questions of that kind I must decline to discuss with you, Mrs. Alving;
you are far from being in the right frame of mind for them. But that you
dare to call your scruples “cowardly”——!
MRS. ALVING.
Let me tell you what I mean. I am timid and faint-hearted because of the
ghosts that hang about me, and that I can never quite shake off.
MANDERS.
What do you say hangs about you?
MRS. ALVING.
Ghosts! When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it was as though ghosts
rose up before me. But I almost think we are all of us ghosts, Pastor
Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from our father and
mother that “walks” in us. It is all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless
old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us
all the same, and we cannot shake them off. Whenever I take up a
newspaper, I seem to see ghosts gliding between the lines. There must be
ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sands of the sea. And then
we are, one and all, so pitifully afraid of the light.
MANDERS.
Aha—here we have the fruits of your reading. And pretty fruits they are,
upon my word! Oh, those horrible, revolutionary, freethinking books!
MRS. ALVING.
You are mistaken, my dear Pastor. It was you yourself who set me
thinking; and I thank you for it with all my heart.
MANDERS.
I!
MRS. ALVING.
Yes—when you forced me under the yoke of what you called duty and
obligation; when you lauded as right and proper what my whole soul
rebelled against as something loathsome. It was then that I began to
look into the seams of your doctrines. I wanted only to pick at a single
knot; but when I had got that undone, the whole thing ravelled out. And
then I understood that it was all machine-sewn.
MANDERS.
[_Softly, with emotion._] And was that the upshot of my life’s hardest
battle?
MRS. ALVING.
Call it rather your most pitiful defeat.
MANDERS.
It was my greatest victory, Helen—the victory over myself.
MRS. ALVING.
It was a crime against us both.
MANDERS.
When you went astray, and came to me crying, “Here I am; take me!” I
commanded you, saying, “Woman, go home to your lawful husband.” Was
_that_ a crime?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, I think so.
MANDERS.
We two do not understand each other.
MRS. ALVING.
Not now, at any rate.
MANDERS.
Never—never in my most secret thoughts have I regarded you otherwise
than as another’s wife.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh—indeed?
MANDERS.
Helen——!
MRS. ALVING.
People so easily forget their past selves.
MANDERS.
I do not. I am what I always was.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Changing the subject._] Well well well; don’t let us talk of old times
any longer. You are now over head and ears in Boards and Committees, and
I am fighting my battle with ghosts, both within me and without.
MANDERS.
Those without I shall help you to lay. After all the terrible things I
have heard from you today, I cannot in conscience permit an unprotected
girl to remain in your house.
MRS. ALVING.
Don’t you think the best plan would be to get her provided for?—I mean,
by a good marriage.
MANDERS.
No doubt. I think it would be desirable for her in every respect. Regina
is now at the age when——Of course I don’t know much about these things,
but——
MRS. ALVING.
Regina matured very early.
MANDERS.
Yes, I thought so. I have an impression that she was remarkably well
developed, physically, when I prepared her for confirmation. But in the
meantime, she ought to be at home, under her father’s eye——Ah! but
Engstrand is not——That he—that _he_—could so hide the truth from me! [_A
knock at the door into the hall._
MRS. ALVING.
Who can this be? Come in!
ENGSTRAND.
[_In his Sunday clothes, in the doorway._] I humbly beg your pardon,
but——
MANDERS.
Aha! H’m——
MRS. ALVING.
Is that you, Engstrand?
ENGSTRAND.
——there was none of the servants about, so I took the great liberty of
just knocking.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, very well. Come in. Do you want to speak to me?
ENGSTRAND.
[_Comes in._] No, I’m obliged to you, ma’am; it was with his Reverence I
wanted to have a word or two.
MANDERS.
[_Walking up and down the room._] Ah—indeed! You want to speak to me, do
you?
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, I’d like so terrible much to——
MANDERS.
[_Stops in front of him._] Well; may I ask what you want?
ENGSTRAND.
Well, it was just this, your Reverence: we’ve been paid off down
yonder—my grateful thanks to you, ma’am,—and now everything’s finished,
I’ve been thinking it would be but right and proper if we, that have
been working so honestly together all this time—well, I was thinking we
ought to end up with a little prayer-meeting to-night.
MANDERS.
A prayer-meeting? Down at the Orphanage?
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, if your Reverence doesn’t think it proper——
MANDERS.
Oh yes, I do; but—h’m—
ENGSTRAND.
I’ve been in the habit of offering up a little prayer in the evenings,
myself——
MRS. ALVING.
Have you?
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, every now and then—just a little edification, in a manner of
speaking. But I’m a poor, common man, and have little enough gift, God
help me!—and so I thought, as the Reverend Mr. Manders happened to be
here, I’d——
MANDERS.
Well, you see, Engstrand, I have a question to put to you first. Are you
in the right frame of mind for such a meeting! Do you feel your
conscience clear and at ease?
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, God help us, your Reverence! we’d better not talk about conscience.
MANDERS.
Yes, that is just what we must talk about. What have you to answer?
ENGSTRAND.
Why—a man’s conscience—it can be bad enough now and then.
MANDERS.
Ah, you admit that. Then perhaps you will make a clean breast of it, and
tell me—the real truth about Regina?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Quickly._] Mr. Manders!
MANDERS.
[_Reassuringly._] Please allow me——
ENGSTRAND.
About Regina! Lord, what a turn you gave me! [_Looks at MRS. ALVING._]
There’s nothing wrong about Regina, is there?
MANDERS.
We will hope not. But I mean, what is the truth about you and Regina?
You pass for her father, eh!
ENGSTRAND.
[_Uncertain._] Well—h’m—your Reverence knows all about me and poor
Johanna.
MANDERS.
Come now, no more prevarication! Your wife told Mrs. Alving the whole
story before quitting her service.
ENGSTRAND.
Well, then, may——! Now, did she really?
MANDERS.
You see we know you now, Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND.
And she swore and took her Bible oath——
MANDERS.
Did she take her Bible oath?
ENGSTRAND
No; she only swore; but she did it that solemn-like.
MANDERS.
And you have hidden the truth from me all these years? Hidden it from
me, who have trusted you without reserve, in everything.
ENGSTRAND.
Well, I can’t deny it.
MANDERS.
Have I deserved this of you, Engstrand? Have I not always been ready to
help you in word and deed, so far as it lay in my power? Answer me. Have
I not?
ENGSTRAND.
It would have been a poor look-out for me many a time but for the
Reverend Mr. Manders.
MANDERS.
And this is how you reward me! You cause me to enter falsehoods in the
Church Register, and you withhold from me, year after year, the
explanations you owed alike to me and to the truth. Your conduct has
been wholly inexcusable, Engstrand; and from this time forward I have
done with you!
ENGSTRAND.
[_With a sigh._] Yes! I suppose there’s no help for it.
MANDERS.
How can you possibly justify yourself?
ENGSTRAND.
Who could ever have thought she’d have gone and made bad worse by
talking about it? Will your Reverence just fancy yourself in the same
trouble as poor Johanna——
MANDERS.
I!
ENGSTRAND.
Lord bless you, I don’t mean just exactly the same. But I mean, if your
Reverence had anything to be ashamed of in the eyes of the world, as the
saying goes. We menfolk oughtn’t to judge a poor woman too hardly, your
Reverence.
MANDERS.
I am not doing so. It is you I am reproaching.
ENGSTRAND.
Might I make so bold as to ask your Reverence a bit of a question?
MANDERS.
Yes, if you want to.
ENGSTRAND.
Isn’t it right and proper for a man to raise up the fallen?
MANDERS.
Most certainly it is.
ENGSTRAND.
And isn’t a man bound to keep his sacred word?
MANDERS.
Why, of course he is; but——
ENGSTRAND.
When Johanna had got into trouble through that Englishman—or it might
have been an American or a Russian, as they call them—well, you see, she
came down into the town. Poor thing, she’d sent me about my business
once or twice before: for she couldn’t bear the sight of anything as
wasn’t handsome; and I’d got this damaged leg of mine. Your Reverence
recollects how I ventured up into a dancing saloon, where seafaring men
was carrying on with drink and devilry, as the saying goes. And then,
when I was for giving them a bit of an admonition to lead a new life——
MRS. ALVING.
[_At the window._] H’m——
MANDERS.
I know all about that, Engstrand; the ruffians threw you downstairs. You
have told me of the affair already. Your infirmity is an honour to you.
ENGSTRAND.
I’m not puffed up about it, your Reverence. But what I wanted to say
was, that when she came and confessed all to me, with weeping and
gnashing of teeth, I can tell your Reverence I was sore at heart to hear
it.
MANDERS.
Were you indeed, Engstrand? Well, go on.
ENGSTRAND.
So I says to her, “The American, he’s sailing about on the boundless
sea. And as for you, Johanna,” says I, “you’ve committed a grievous sin,
and you’re a fallen creature. But Jacob Engstrand,” says I, “he’s got
two good legs to stand upon, he has——” You see, your Reverence, I was
speaking figurative-like.
MANDERS.
I understand quite well. Go on.
ENGSTRAND.
Well, that was how I raised her up and made an honest woman of her, so
as folks shouldn’t get to know how as she’d gone astray with foreigners.
MANDERS.
In all that you acted very well. Only I cannot approve of your stooping
to take money——
ENGSTRAND.
Money? I? Not a farthing!
MANDERS.
[_Inquiringly to MRS. ALVING._] But——
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, wait a minute!—now I recollect. Johanna _did_ have a trifle of
money. But I would have nothing to do with _that_. “No,” says I, “that’s
mammon; that’s the wages of sin. This dirty gold—or notes, or whatever
it was—we’ll just fling that back in the American’s face,” says I. But
he was off and away, over the stormy sea, your Reverence.
MANDERS.
Was he really, my good fellow?
ENGSTRAND.
He was indeed, sir. So Johanna and I, we agreed that the money should go
to the child’s education; and so it did, and I can account for every
blessed farthing of it.
MANDERS.
Why, this alters the case considerably.
ENGSTRAND.
That’s just how it stands, your Reverence. And I make so bold as to say
as I’ve been an honest father to Regina, so far as my poor strength
went; for I’m but a weak vessel, worse luck!
MANDERS.
Well, well, my good fellow——
ENGSTRAND.
All the same, I bear myself witness as I’ve brought up the child, and
lived kindly with poor Johanna, and ruled over my own house, as the
Scripture has it. But it couldn’t never enter my head to go to your
Reverence and puff myself up and boast because even the likes of me had
done some good in the world. No, sir; when anything of that sort happens
to Jacob Engstrand, he holds his tongue about it. It don’t happen so
terrible often, I daresay. And when I do come to see your Reverence, I
find a mortal deal that’s wicked and weak to talk about. For I said it
before, and I says it again—a man’s conscience isn’t always as clean as
it might be.
MANDERS.
Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, Lord! your Reverence——?
MANDERS.
Come, no nonsense [wrings his hand]. There we are!
ENGSTRAND.
And if I might humbly beg your Reverence’s pardon——
MANDERS.
You? On the contrary, it is I who ought to beg your pardon——
ENGSTRAND.
Lord, no, sir!
MANDERS.
Yes, assuredly. And I do it with all my heart. Forgive me for
misunderstanding you. I only wish I could give you some proof of my
hearty regret, and of my good-will towards you——
ENGSTRAND.
Would your Reverence do it?
MANDERS.
With the greatest pleasure.
ENGSTRAND.
Well then, here’s the very chance. With the bit of money I’ve saved
here, I was thinking I might set up a Sailors’ Home down in the town.
MRS. ALVING.
_You?_
ENGSTRAND.
Yes; it might be a sort of Orphanage, too, in a manner of speaking.
There’s such a many temptations for seafaring folk ashore. But in this
Home of mine, a man might feel like as he was under a father’s eye, I
was thinking.
MANDERS.
What do you say to this, Mrs. Alving?
ENGSTRAND.
It isn’t much as I’ve got to start with, Lord help me! But if I could
only find a helping hand, why——
MANDERS.
Yes, yes; we will look into the matter more closely. I entirely approve
of your plan. But now, go before me and make everything ready, and get
the candles lighted, so as to give the place an air of festivity. And
then we will pass an edifying hour together, my good fellow; for now I
quite believe you are in the right frame of mind.
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, I trust I am. And so I’ll say good-bye, ma’am, and thank you
kindly; and take good care of Regina for me—[_Wipes a tear from his
eye_]—poor Johanna’s child. Well, it’s a queer thing, now; but it’s just
like as if she’d growd into the very apple of my eye. It is, indeed.
[_He bows and goes out through the hall._
MANDERS.
Well, what do you say of that man now, Mrs. Alving? _That_ was a very
different account of matters, was it not?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, it certainly was.
MANDERS.
It only shows how excessively careful one ought to be in judging one’s
fellow creatures. But what a heartfelt joy it is to ascertain that one
has been mistaken! Don’t you think so?
MRS. ALVING.
I think you are, and will always be, a great baby, Manders.
MANDERS.
I?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Laying her two hands upon his shoulders._] And I say that I have half
a mind to put my arms round your neck, and kiss you.
MANDERS.
[_Stepping hastily back._] No, no! God bless me! What an idea!
MRS. ALVING.
[_With a smile._] Oh, you needn’t be afraid of me.
MANDERS.
[_By the table._] You have sometimes such an exaggerated way of
expressing yourself. Now, let me just collect all the documents, and put
them in my bag. [_He does so._] There, that’s all right. And now,
good-bye for the present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I
shall look in again later.
[_He takes his hat and goes out through the hall door._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Sighs, looks for a moment out of the window, sets the room in order a
little, and is about to go into the dining-room, but stops at the door
with a half-suppressed cry._] Oswald, are you still at table?
OSWALD.
[_In the dining room._] I’m only finishing my cigar.
MRS. ALVING.
I thought you had gone for a little walk.
OSWALD.
In such weather as this?
[_A glass clinks. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open, and sits
down with her knitting on the sofa by the window._
OSWALD.
Wasn’t that Pastor Manders that went out just now?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; he went down to the Orphanage.
OSWALD.
H’m. [_The glass and decanter clink again._
MRS. ALVING.
[_With a troubled glance._] Dear Oswald, you should take care of that
liqueur. It is strong.
OSWALD.
It keeps out the damp.
MRS. ALVING.
Wouldn’t you rather come in here, to me?
OSWALD.
I mayn’t smoke in there.
MRS. ALVING.
You know quite well you may smoke cigars.
OSWALD.
Oh, all right then; I’ll come in. Just a tiny drop more first.—There!
[_He comes into the room with his cigar, and shuts the door after him. A
short silence._] Where has the pastor gone to?
MRS. ALVING.
I have just told you; he went down to the Orphanage.
OSWALD.
Oh, yes; so you did.
MRS. ALVING.
You shouldn’t sit so long at table, Oswald.
OSWALD.
[_Holding his cigar behind him._] But I find it so pleasant, mother.
[_Strokes and caresses her._] Just think what it is for me to come home
and sit at mother’s own table, in mother’s room, and eat mother’s
delicious dishes.
MRS. ALVING.
My dear, dear boy!
OSWALD.
[_Somewhat impatiently, walks about and smokes._] And what else can I do
with myself here? I can’t set to work at anything.
MRS. ALVING.
Why can’t you?
OSWALD.
In such weather as this? Without a single ray of sunshine the whole day?
[_Walks up the room._] Oh, not to be able to work——!
MRS. ALVING.
Perhaps it was not quite wise of you to come home?
OSWALD.
Oh, yes, mother; I had to.
MRS. ALVING.
You know I would ten times rather forgo the joy of having you here, than
let you——
OSWALD.
[_Stops beside the table._] Now just tell me, mother: does it really
make you so very happy to have me home again?
MRS. ALVING.
_Does_ it make me happy!
OSWALD.
[_Crumpling up a newspaper._] I should have thought it must be pretty
much the same to you whether I was in existence or not.
MRS. ALVING.
Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald?
OSWALD.
But you’ve got on very well without me all this time.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; I have got on without you. That is true.
[_A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces to and
fro across the room. He has laid his cigar down._
OSWALD.
[_Stops beside Mrs. Alving._] Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside you?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Makes room for him._] Yes, do, my dear boy.
OSWALD.
[_Sits down._] There is something I must tell you, mother.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Anxiously._] Well?
OSWALD.
[_Looks fixedly before him._] For I can’t go on hiding it any longer.
MRS. ALVING.
Hiding what? What is it?
OSWALD.
[_As before._] I could never bring myself to write to you about it; and
since I’ve come home——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Seizes him by the arm._] Oswald, what is the matter?
OSWALD.
Both yesterday and to-day I have tried to put the thoughts away from
me—to cast them off; but it’s no use.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Rising._] Now you must tell me everything, Oswald!
OSWALD.
[_Draws her down to the sofa again._] Sit still; and then I will try to
tell you.—I complained of fatigue after my journey——
MRS. ALVING.
Well? What then?
OSWALD.
But it isn’t that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary fatigue——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Tries to jump up._] You are not ill, Oswald?
OSWALD.
[_Draws her down again._] Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. I’m not
downright ill, either; not what is commonly called “ill.” [_Clasps his
hands above his head._] Mother, my mind is broken down—ruined—I shall
never be able to work again!
[_With his hands before his face, he buries his head in her lap,
and breaks into bitter sobbing._
MRS. ALVING.
[_White and trembling._] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; it’s not true.
OSWALD.
[_Looks up with despair in his eyes._] Never to be able to work again!
Never!—never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so
horrible?
MRS. ALVING.
My poor boy! How has this horrible thing come upon you?
OSWALD.
[_Sitting upright again._] That’s just what I cannot possibly grasp or
understand. I have never led a dissipated life—never, in any respect.
You mustn’t believe that of me, mother! I’ve never done that.
MRS. ALVING.
I am sure you haven’t, Oswald.
OSWALD.
And yet this has come upon me just the same—this awful misfortune!
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, but it will pass over, my dear, blessëd boy. It’s nothing but
over-work. Trust me, I am right.
OSWALD.
[_Sadly._] I thought so too, at first; but it isn’t so.
MRS. ALVING.
Tell me everything, from beginning to end.
OSWALD.
Yes, I will.
MRS. ALVING.
When did you first notice it?
OSWALD.
It was directly after I had been home last time, and had got back to
Paris again. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head—chiefly
in the back of my head, they seemed to come. It was as though a tight
iron ring was being screwed round my neck and upwards.
MRS. ALVING.
Well, and then?
OSWALD.
At first I thought it was nothing but the ordinary headache I had been
so plagued with while I was growing up——
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, yes——
OSWALD.
But it wasn’t that. I soon found that out. I couldn’t work any more. I
wanted to begin upon a big new picture, but my powers seemed to fail me;
all my strength was crippled; I could form no definite images;
everything swam before me—whirling round and round. Oh, it was an awful
state! At last I sent for a doctor—and from him I learned the truth.
MRS. ALVING.
How do you mean?
OSWALD.
He was one of the first doctors in Paris. I told him my symptoms; and
then he set to work asking me a string of questions which I thought had
nothing to do with the matter. I couldn’t imagine what the man was
after——
MRS. ALVING.
Well?
OSWALD.
At last he said: “There has been something worm-eaten in you from your
birth.” He used that very word—_vermoulu_.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Breathlessly._] What did he mean by that?
OSWALD.
I didn’t understand either, and begged him to explain himself more
clearly. 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 upon the children.”
MRS. ALVING.
[_Rising slowly._] The sins of the fathers——!
OSWALD.
I very nearly struck him in the face——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Walks away across the room._] The sins of the fathers——
OSWALD.
[_Smiles sadly._] Yes; what do you think of that? Of course I assured
him that such a thing was out of the question. But do you think he gave
in? No, he stuck to it; and it was only when I produced your letters and
translated the passages relating to father——
MRS. ALVING.
But _then_——?
OSWALD.
Then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong track; and so I
learned the truth—the incomprehensible truth! I ought not to have taken
part with my comrades in that light-hearted, glorious life of theirs. It
had been too much for my strength. So I had brought it upon myself!
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald! No, no; do not believe it!
OSWALD.
No other explanation was possible, he said. _That’s_ the awful part of
it. Incurably ruined for life—by my own heedlessness! All that I meant
to have done in the world—I never dare think of it again—I’m not _able_
to think of it. Oh! if I could only live over again, and undo all I have
done! [_He buries his face in the sofa._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Wrings her hands and walks, in silent struggle, backwards and
forwards._]
OSWALD.
[_After a while, looks up and remains resting upon his elbow._] If it
had only been something inherited—something one wasn’t responsible for!
But this! To have thrown away so shamefully, thoughtlessly, recklessly,
one’s own happiness, one’s own health, everything in the world—one’s
future, one’s very life——!
MRS. ALVING.
No, no, my dear, darling boy; this is impossible! [_Bends over him._]
Things are not so desperate as you think.
OSWALD.
Oh, you don’t know——[_Springs up._] And then, mother, to cause you all
this sorrow! Many a time I have almost wished and hoped that at bottom
you didn’t care so very much about me.
MRS. ALVING.
I, Oswald? My only boy! You are all I have in the world! The only thing
I care about!
OSWALD.
[_Seizes both her hands and kisses them._] Yes, yes, I see it. When I’m
at home, I see it, of course; and that’s almost the hardest part for
me.—But now you know the whole story; and now we won’t talk any more
about it to-day. I daren’t think of it for long together. [_Goes up the
room._] Get me something to drink, mother.
MRS. ALVING.
To drink? What do you want to drink now?
OSWALD.
Oh, anything you like. You have some cold punch in the house.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, but my dear Oswald——
OSWALD.
Don’t refuse me, mother. Do be kind, now! I _must_ have something to
wash down all these gnawing thoughts. [_Goes into the conservatory._]
And then——it’s so dark here! [_MRS. ALVING pulls a bell-rope on the
right._] And this ceaseless rain! It may go on week after week, for
months together. Never to get a glimpse of the sun! I can’t recollect
ever having seen the sun shine all the times I’ve been at home.
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald—you are thinking of going away from me.
OSWALD.
H’m—[_Drawing a heavy breath._]—I’m not thinking of anything. I _cannot_
think of anything! [_In a low voice._] I let thinking alone.
REGINA.
[_From the dining-room._] Did you ring, ma’am?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes; let us have the lamp in.
REGINA.
Yes, ma’am. It’s ready lighted. [_Goes out._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Goes across to OSWALD._] Oswald, be frank with me.
OSWALD.
Well, so I am, mother. [_Goes to the table._] I think I have told you
enough.
[_REGINA brings the lamp and sets it upon the table._
MRS. ALVING.
Regina, you may bring us a small bottle of champagne.
REGINA.
Very well, ma’am. [_Goes out._
OSWALD.
[_Puts his arm round MRS. ALVING’S neck._] That’s just what I wanted. I
knew mother wouldn’t let her boy go thirsty.
MRS. ALVING.
My own, poor, darling Oswald; how could I deny you anything now?
OSWALD.
[_Eagerly._] Is that true, mother? Do you mean it?
MRS. ALVING.
How? What?
OSWALD.
That you couldn’t deny me anything.
MRS. ALVING.
My dear Oswald——
OSWALD.
Hush!
REGINA.
[_Brings a tray with a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses, which
she sets on the table._] Shall I open it?
OSWALD.
No, thanks. I will do it myself.
[_REGINA goes out again._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Sits down by the table._] What was it you meant—that I musn’t deny
you?
OSWALD.
[_Busy opening the bottle._] First let us have a glass—or two.
[_The cork pops; he pours wine into one glass, and is about to
pour it into the other._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Holding her hand over it._] Thanks; not for me.
OSWALD.
Oh! won’t you? Then I will!
[_He empties the glass, fills, and empties it again; then he
sits down by the table._
MRS. ALVING.
[_In expectancy._] Well?
OSWALD.
[_Without looking at her._] Tell me—I thought you and Pastor Manders
seemed so odd—so quiet—at dinner to-day.
MRS. ALVING.
Did you notice it?
OSWALD.
Yes. H’m——[_After a short silence._] Tell me: what do you think of
Regina?
MRS. ALVING.
What do I think?
OSWALD.
Yes; isn’t she splendid?
MRS. ALVING.
My dear Oswald, you don’t know her as I do——
OSWALD.
Well?
MRS. ALVING.
Regina, unfortunately, was allowed to stay at home too long. I ought to
have taken her earlier into my house.
OSWALD.
Yes, but isn’t she splendid to look at, mother?
[_He fills his glass._
MRS. ALVING.
Regina has many serious faults——
OSWALD.
Oh, what does that matter?
[_He drinks again._
MRS. ALVING.
But I am fond of her, nevertheless, and I am responsible for her. I
wouldn’t for all the world have any harm happen to her.
OSWALD.
[_Springs up._] Mother, Regina is my only salvation!
MRS. ALVING.
[_Rising._] What do you mean by that?
OSWALD.
I cannot go on bearing all this anguish of soul alone.
MRS. ALVING.
Have you not your mother to share it with you?
OSWALD.
Yes; that’s what I thought; and so I came home to you. But that will not
do. I see it won’t do. I cannot endure my life here.
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald!
OSWALD.
I must live differently, mother. That is why I must leave you. I will
not have you looking on at it.
MRS. ALVING.
My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, while you are so ill as this——
OSWALD.
If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, mother, you may be
sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not?
OSWALD.
[_Wanders restlessly about._] But it’s all the torment, the gnawing
remorse—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh—that awful dread!
MRS. ALVING.
[_Walking after him._] Dread? What dread? What do you mean?
OSWALD.
Oh, you mustn’t ask me any more. I don’t know. I can’t describe it.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Goes over to the right and pulls the bell._]
OSWALD.
What is it you want?
MRS. ALVING.
I want my boy to be happy—that is what I want. He sha’n’t go on brooding
over things. [_To REGINA, who appears at the door:_] More champagne—a
large bottle. [_REGINA goes._
OSWALD.
Mother!
MRS. ALVING.
Do you think we don’t know how to live here at home?
OSWALD.
Isn’t she splendid to look at? How beautifully she’s built! And so
thoroughly healthy!
MRS. ALVING.
[_Sits by the table._] Sit down, Oswald; let us talk quietly together.
OSWALD.
[_Sits._] I daresay you don’t know, mother, that I owe Regina some
reparation.
MRS. ALVING.
You!
OSWALD.
For a bit of thoughtlessness, or whatever you like to call it—very
innocent, at any rate. When I was home last time——
MRS. ALVING.
Well?
OSWALD.
She used often to ask me about Paris, and I used to tell her one thing
and another. Then I recollect I happened to say to her one day,
“Shouldn’t you like to go there yourself?”
MRS. ALVING.
Well?
OSWALD.
I saw her face flush, and then she said, “Yes, I should like it of all
things.” “Ah, well,” I replied, “it might perhaps be managed”—or
something like that.
MRS. ALVING.
And then?
OSWALD.
Of course I had forgotten all about it; but the day before yesterday I
happened to ask her whether she was glad I was to stay at home so long——
MRS. ALVING.
Yes?
OSWALD.
And then she gave me such a strange look, and asked, “But what’s to
become of my trip to Paris?”
MRS. ALVING.
Her trip!
OSWALD.
And so it came out that she had taken the thing seriously; that she had
been thinking of me the whole time, and had set to work to learn
French——
MRS. ALVING.
So _that_ was why——!
OSWALD.
Mother—when I saw that fresh, lovely, splendid girl standing there
before me—till then I had hardly noticed her—but when she stood there as
though with open arms ready to receive me——
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald!
OSWALD.
——then it flashed upon me that in her lay my salvation; for I saw that
she was full of the joy of life.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Starts._] The joy of life——? Can there be salvation in _that_?
REGINA.
[_From the dining-room, with a bottle of champagne._] I’m sorry to have
been so long, but I had to go to the cellar. [_Places the bottle on
the table._
OSWALD.
And now bring another glass.
REGINA.
[_Looks at him in surprise._] There is Mrs. Alving’s glass, Mr. Alving.
OSWALD.
Yes, but bring one for yourself, Regina. [_REGINA starts and gives a
lightning-like side glance at MRS. ALVING._] Why do you wait?
REGINA.
[_Softly and hesitatingly._] Is it Mrs. Alving’s wish?
MRS. ALVING.
Bring the glass, Regina.
[_REGINA goes out into the dining-room._
OSWALD.
[_Follows her with his eyes._] Have you noticed how she walks?—so firmly
and lightly!
MRS. ALVING.
This can never be, Oswald!
OSWALD.
It’s a settled thing. Can’t you see that? It’s no use saying anything
against it.
[_REGINA enters with an empty glass, which she keeps in her
hand._
OSWALD.
Sit down, Regina.
[_REGINA looks inquiringly at Mrs. Alving._
MRS. ALVING.
Sit down. [_REGINA sits on a chair by the dining-room door, still
holding the empty glass in her hand._] Oswald—what were you saying about
the joy of life?
OSWALD.
Ah, the joy of life, mother—that’s a thing you don’t know much about in
these parts. I have never felt it here.
MRS. ALVING.
Not when you are with me?
OSWALD.
Not when I’m at home. But you don’t understand that.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, yes; I think I almost understand it—now.
OSWALD.
And then, too, the joy of work! At bottom, it’s the same thing. But
that, too, you know nothing about.
MRS. ALVING.
Perhaps you are right. Tell me more about it, Oswald.
OSWALD.
I only mean that here people are brought up to believe that work is a
curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is something miserable,
something it would be best to have done with, the sooner the better.
MRS. ALVING.
“A vale of tears,” yes; and we certainly do our best to make it one.
OSWALD.
But in the great world people won’t hear of such things. There, nobody
really believes such doctrines any longer. There, you feel it a positive
bliss and ecstasy merely to draw the breath of life. Mother, have you
noticed that everything I have painted has turned upon the joy of
life?—always, always upon the joy of life?—light and sunshine and
glorious air—and faces radiant with happiness. That is why I’m afraid of
remaining at home with you.
MRS. ALVING.
Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me?
OSWALD.
I’m afraid lest all my instincts should be warped into ugliness.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Looks steadily at him._] Do you think _that_ is what would happen?
OSWALD.
I know it. You may live the same life here as there, and yet it won’t be
the same life.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Who has been listening eagerly, rises, her eyes big with thought, and
says:_] Now I see the sequence of things.
OSWALD.
What is it you see?
MRS. ALVING.
I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak.
OSWALD.
[_Rising._] Mother, I don’t understand you.
REGINA.
[_Who has also risen._] Perhaps I ought to go?
MRS. ALVING.
No. Stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my boy, you shall know the whole
truth. And then you can choose. Oswald! Regina!
OSWALD.
Hush! The Pastor——
MANDERS.
[_Enters by the hall door._] There! We have had a most edifying time
down there.
OSWALD.
So have we.
MANDERS.
We must stand by Engstrand and his Sailors’ Home. Regina must go to him
and help him——
REGINA.
No thank you, sir.
MANDERS.
[_Noticing her for the first time._] What——? You here? And with a glass
in your hand!
REGINA.
[_Hastily putting the glass down._] _Pardon!_
OSWALD.
Regina is going with _me_, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS.
Going! With you!
OSWALD.
Yes; as my wife—if she wishes it.
MANDERS.
But, merciful God——!
REGINA.
I can’t help it, sir.
OSWALD.
Or she’ll stay here, if I stay.
REGINA.
[_Involuntarily._] Here!
MANDERS.
I am thunderstruck at your conduct, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING.
They will do neither one thing nor the other; for now I can speak out
plainly.
MANDERS.
You surely will not do that! No, no, no!
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, I can speak and I will. And no ideals shall suffer after all.
OSWALD.
Mother—what is it you are hiding from me?
REGINA.
[_Listening._] Oh, ma’am, listen! Don’t you hear shouts outside.
[_She goes into the conservatory and looks out._
OSWALD.
[_At the window on the left._] What’s going on? Where does that light
come from?
REGINA.
[_Cries out._] The Orphanage is on fire!
MRS. ALVING.
[_Rushing to the window._] On fire!
MANDERS.
On fire! Impossible! I’ve just come from there.
OSWALD.
Where’s my hat? Oh, never mind it—Father’s Orphanage——!
[_He rushes out through the garden door._
MRS. ALVING.
My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in a blaze!
MANDERS.
Terrible! Mrs. Alving, it is a judgment upon this abode of lawlessness.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, of course. Come, Regina.
[_She and REGINA hasten out through the hall._
MANDERS.
[_Clasps his hands together._] And we left it uninsured!
[_He goes out the same way._
-----
Footnote 13:
A phrase equivalent to the German _Prosit die Mahlzeit_—“May good
digestion wait on appetite.”
ACT THIRD.
_The room as before. All the doors stand open. The lamp is still burning
on the table. It is dark out of doors; there is only a faint glow
from the conflagration in the background to the left._
_MRS. ALVING, with a shawl over her head, stands in the conservatory,
looking out. REGINA, also with a shawl on, stands a little behind
her._
MRS. ALVING.
The whole thing burnt!—burnt to the ground!
REGINA.
The basement is still burning.
MRS. ALVING.
How is it Oswald doesn’t come home? There’s nothing to be saved.
REGINA.
Should you like me to take down his hat to him?
MRS. ALVING.
Has he not even got his hat on?
REGINA.
[_Pointing to the hall._] No; there it hangs.
MRS. ALVING.
Let it be. He must come up now. I shall go and look for him myself.
[_She goes out through the garden door._
MANDERS.
[_Comes in from the hall._] Is not Mrs. Alving here?
REGINA.
She has just gone down the garden.
MANDERS.
This is the most terrible night I ever went through.
REGINA.
Yes; isn’t it a dreadful misfortune, sir?
MANDERS.
Oh, don’t talk about it! I can hardly bear to think of it.
REGINA.
How can it have happened——?
MANDERS.
Don’t ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should _I_ know? Do _you_, too——? Is
it not enough that your father——?
REGINA.
What about him?
MANDERS.
Oh, he has driven me distracted——
ENGSTRAND.
[_Enters through the hall._] Your Reverence——
MANDERS.
[_Turns round in terror._] Are you after me here, too?
ENGSTRAND.
Yes, strike me dead, but I must——! Oh, Lord! what am I saying? But this
is a terrible ugly business, your Reverence.
MANDERS.
[_Walks to and fro._] Alas! alas!
REGINA.
What’s the matter?
ENGSTRAND.
Why, it all came of this here prayer-meeting, you see. [_Softly._] The
bird’s limed, my girl. [_Aloud._] And to think it should be _my_ doing
that such a thing should be his Reverence’s doing!
MANDERS.
But I assure you, Engstrand——
ENGSTRAND.
There wasn’t another soul except your Reverence as ever laid a finger on
the candles down there.
MANDERS.
[_Stops._] So you declare. But I certainly cannot recollect that I ever
had a candle in my hand.
ENGSTRAND.
And I _saw_ as clear as daylight how your Reverence took the candle and
snuffed it with your fingers, and threw away the snuff among the
shavings.
MANDERS.
And you stood and looked on?
ENGSTRAND.
Yes; I saw it as plain as a pike-staff, I did.
MANDERS.
It’s quite beyond my comprehension. Besides, it has never been my habit
to snuff candles with my fingers.
ENGSTRAND.
And terrible risky it looked, too, that it did! But is there such a deal
of harm done after all, your Reverence?
MANDERS.
[_Walks restlessly to and fro._] Oh, don’t ask me!
ENGSTRAND.
[_Walks with him._] And your Reverence hadn’t insured it, neither?
MANDERS.
[_Continuing to walk up and down._] No, no, no; I have told you so.
ENGSTRAND.
[_Following him._] Not insured! And then to go straight away down and
set light to the whole thing! Lord, Lord, what a misfortune!
MANDERS.
[_Wipes the sweat from his forehead._] Ay, you may well say that,
Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND.
And to think that such a thing should happen to a benevolent
Institution, that was to have been a blessing both to town and country,
as the saying goes! The newspapers won’t be for handling your Reverence
very gently, I expect.
MANDERS.
No; that is just what I am thinking of. That is almost the worst of the
whole matter. All the malignant attacks and imputations——! Oh, it makes
me shudder to think of it!
MRS. ALVING.
[_Comes in from the garden._] He is not to be persuaded to leave the
fire.
MANDERS.
Ah, there you are, Mrs. Alving.
MRS. ALVING.
So you have escaped your Inaugural Address, Pastor Manders.
MANDERS.
Oh, I should so gladly——
MRS. ALVING.
[_In an undertone._] It is all for the best. That Orphanage would have
done no one any good.
MANDERS.
Do you think not?
MRS. ALVING.
Do you think it would?
MANDERS.
It is a terrible misfortune, all the same.
MRS. ALVING.
Let us speak of it plainly, as a matter of business.—Are you waiting for
Mr. Manders, Engstrand?
ENGSTRAND.
[_At the hall door._] That’s just what I’m a-doing of, ma’am.
MRS. ALVING.
Then sit down meanwhile.
ENGSTRAND.
Thank you, ma’am; I’d as soon stand.
MRS. ALVING.
[_To MANDERS._] I suppose you are going by the steamer?
MANDERS.
Yes; it starts in an hour.
MRS. ALVING.
Then be so good as to take all the papers with you. I won’t hear another
word about this affair. I have other things to think of——
MANDERS.
Mrs. Alving——
MRS. ALVING.
Later on I shall send you a Power of Attorney to settle everything as
you please.
MANDERS.
That I will very readily undertake. The original destination of the
endowment must now be completely changed, alas!
MRS. ALVING.
Of course it must.
MANDERS.
I think, first of all, I shall arrange that the Solvik property shall
pass to the parish. The land is by no means without value. It can always
be turned to account for some purpose or other. And the interest of the
money in the Bank I could, perhaps, best apply for the benefit of some
undertaking of acknowledged value to the town.
MRS. ALVING.
Do just as you please. The whole matter is now completely indifferent to
me.
ENGSTRAND.
Give a thought to my Sailors’ Home, your Reverence.
MANDERS.
Upon my word, that is not a bad suggestion. That must be considered.
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, devil take considering—Lord forgive me!
MANDERS.
[_With a sigh._] And unfortunately I cannot tell how long I shall be
able to retain control of these things—whether public opinion may not
compel me to retire. It entirely depends upon the result of the official
inquiry into the fire——
MRS. ALVING.
What are you talking about?
MANDERS.
And the result can by no means be foretold.
ENGSTRAND.
[_Comes close to him._] Ay, but it can though. For here stands old Jacob
Engstrand.
MANDERS.
Well well, but——?
ENGSTRAND.
[_More softy._] And Jacob Engstrand isn’t the man to desert a noble
benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying goes.
MANDERS.
Yes, but my good fellow—how——?
ENGSTRAND.
Jacob Engstrand may be likened to a sort of a guardian angel, he may,
your Reverence.
MANDERS.
No, no; I really cannot accept that.
ENGSTRAND.
Oh, that’ll be the way of it, all the same. I know a man as has taken
others’ sins upon himself before now, I do.
MANDERS.
Jacob! [_Wrings his hand._] Yours is a rare nature. Well, you shall be
helped with your Sailors’ Home. That you may rely upon.
[_ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but cannot for emotion._
MANDERS.
[_Hangs his travelling-bag over his shoulder._] And now let us set out.
We two will go together.
ENGSTRAND.
[_At the dining-room door, softly to REGINA._] You come along too, my
lass. You shall live as snug as the yolk in an egg.
REGINA.
[_Tosses her head._] _Merci!_
[_She goes out into the hall and fetches MANDERS’S overcoat._
MANDERS.
Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! and may the spirit of Law and Order descend upon
this house, and that quickly.
MRS. ALVING.
Good-bye, Pastor Manders.
[_She goes up towards the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD
coming in through the garden door._
ENGSTRAND.
[_While he and REGINA help MANDERS to get his coat on._] Good-bye, my
child. And if any trouble should come to you, you know where Jacob
Engstrand is to be found. [_Softly._] Little Harbour Street, h’m——! [_To
MRS. ALVING and OSWALD._] And the refuge for wandering mariners shall be
called “Chamberlain Alving’s Home,” that it shall! And if so be as I’m
spared to carry on that house in my own way, I make so bold as to
promise that it shall be worthy of the Chamberlain’s memory.
MANDERS.
[_In the doorway._] H’m—h’m!—Come along, my dear Engstrand. Good-bye!
Good-bye!
[_He and ENGSTRAND go out through the hall._
OSWALD.
[_Goes towards the table._] What house was he talking about?
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, a kind of Home that he and Pastor Manders want to set up.
OSWALD.
It will burn down like the other.
MRS. ALVING.
What makes you think so?
OSWALD.
Everything will burn. All that recalls father’s memory is doomed. Here
am I, too, burning down. [_REGINA starts and looks at him._
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald! You oughtn’t to have remained so long down there, my poor boy.
OSWALD.
[_Sits down by the table._] I almost think you are right.
MRS. ALVING.
Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are quite wet.
[_She dries his face with her pocket-handkerchief._
OSWALD.
[_Stares indifferently in front of him._] Thanks, mother.
MRS. ALVING.
Are you not tired, Oswald? Should you like to sleep?
OSWALD.
[_Nervously._] No, no—not to sleep! I never sleep. I only pretend to.
[_Sadly._] That will come soon enough.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Looking sorrowfully at him._] Yes, you really are ill, my blessëd boy.
REGINA.
[Eagerly.] Is Mr. Alving ill?
OSWALD.
[_Impatiently._] Oh, do shut all the doors! This killing dread——
MRS. ALVING.
Close the doors, Regina.
[_REGINA shuts them and remains standing by the hall door. MRS.
ALVING takes her shawl off. REGINA does the same. MRS.
ALVING draws a chair across to OSWALD’S, and sits by him._
MRS. ALVING.
There now! I am going to sit beside you——
OSWALD.
Yes, do. And Regina shall stay here too. Regina shall be with me always.
You will come to the rescue, Regina, won’t you?
REGINA.
I don’t understand——
MRS. ALVING.
To the rescue?
OSWALD.
Yes—when the need comes.
MRS. ALVING.
Oswald, have you not your mother to come to the rescue?
OSWALD.
You? [_Smiles._] No, mother; _that_ rescue you will never bring me.
[_Laughs sadly._] You! ha ha! [_Looks earnestly at her._] Though, after
all, who ought to do it if not you? [_Impetuously._] Why can’t you say
“thou” to me, Regina?[14] Why do’n’t you call me “Oswald”?
REGINA.
[_Softly._] I don’t think Mrs. Alving would like it.
MRS. ALVING.
You shall have leave to, presently. And meanwhile sit over here beside
us.
[_REGINA seats herself demurely and hesitatingly at the other
side of the table._
MRS. ALVING.
And now, my poor suffering boy, I am going to take the burden off your
mind——
OSWALD.
You, mother?
MRS. ALVING.
——all the gnawing remorse and self-reproach you speak of.
OSWALD.
And you think you can do that?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you spoke of the joy of life;
and at that word a new light burst for me over my life and everything
connected with it.
OSWALD.
[_Shakes his head._] I don’t understand you.
MRS. ALVING.
You ought to have known your father when he was a young lieutenant. He
was brimming over with the joy of life!
OSWALD.
Yes, I know he was.
MRS. ALVING.
It was like a breezy day only to look at him. And what exuberant
strength and vitality there was in him!
OSWALD.
Well——?
MRS. ALVING.
Well then, child of joy as he was—for he _was_ like a child in those
days—he had to live at home here in a half-grown town, which had no joys
to offer him—only dissipations. He had no object in life—only an
official position. He had no work into which he could throw himself
heart and soul; he had only business. He had not a single comrade that
could realise what the joy of life meant—only loungers and
boon-companions——
OSWALD.
Mother——!
MRS. ALVING.
So the inevitable happened.
OSWALD.
The inevitable?
MRS. ALVING.
You told me yourself, this evening, what would become of _you_ if you
stayed at home.
OSWALD.
Do you mean to say that father——?
MRS. ALVING.
Your poor father found no outlet for the over-powering joy of life that
was in him. And I brought no brightness into his home.
OSWALD.
Not even you?
MRS. ALVING.
They had taught me a great deal about duties and so forth, which I went
on obstinately believing in. Everything was marked out into duties—into
_my_ duties, and _his_ duties, and—I am afraid I made his home
intolerable for your poor father, Oswald.
OSWALD.
Why have you never spoken of this in writing to me?
MRS. ALVING.
I have never before seen it in such a light that I could speak of it to
you, his son.
OSWALD.
In what light did you see it, then?
MRS. ALVING.
[_Slowly._] I saw only this one thing: that your father was a
broken-down man before you were born.
OSWALD.
[_Softly._] Ah——!
[_He rises and walks away to the window._
MRS. ALVING.
And then, day after day, I dwelt on the one thought that by rights
Regina should be at home in this house—just like my own boy.
OSWALD.
[_Turning round quickly._] Regina——!
REGINA.
[_Springs up and asks, with bated breath._] I——?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, now you know it, both of you.
OSWALD.
Regina!
REGINA.
[_To herself._] So mother _was_ that kind of woman.
MRS. ALVING.
Your mother had many good qualities, Regina.
REGINA.
Yes, but she was one of that sort, all the same. Oh, I’ve often
suspected it; but——And now, if you please, ma’am, may I be allowed to go
away at once?
MRS. ALVING.
Do you really wish it, Regina?
REGINA.
Yes, indeed I do.
MRS. ALVING.
Of course you can do as you like; but——
OSWALD.
[_Goes towards_ REGINA.] Go away now? Your place is here.
REGINA.
_Merci_, Mr. Alving!—or now, I suppose, I may say Oswald. But I can tell
you _this_ wasn’t at all what I expected.
MRS. ALVING.
Regina, I have not been frank with you——
REGINA.
No, that you haven’t indeed. If I’d known that Oswald was an invalid,
why——And now, too, that it can never come to anything serious between
us——I really can’t stop out here in the country and wear myself out
nursing sick people.
OSWALD.
Not even one who is so near to you?
REGINA.
No, that I can’t. A poor girl must make the best of her young days, or
she’ll be left out in the cold before she knows where she is. And I,
too, have the joy of life in me, Mrs. Alving!
MRS. ALVING.
Unfortunately, you have. But don’t throw yourself away, Regina.
REGINA.
Oh, what must be, must be. If Oswald takes after his father, I take
after my mother, I daresay.—May I ask, ma’am, if Pastor Manders knows
all this about me?
MRS. ALVING.
Pastor Manders knows all about it.
REGINA.
[_Busied in putting on her shawl._] Well then, I’d better make haste and
get away by this steamer. The Pastor is such a nice man to deal with;
and I certainly think I’ve as much right to a little of that money as
_he_ has—that brute of a carpenter.
MRS. ALVING.
You are heartily welcome to it, Regina.
REGINA.
[_Looks hard at her._] I think you might have brought me up as a
gentleman’s daughter, ma’am; it would have suited me better. [_Tosses
her head._] But pooh—what does it matter! [_With a bitter side glance at
the corked bottle._] I may come to drink champagne with gentlefolks yet.
MRS. ALVING.
And if you ever need a home, Regina, come to me.
REGINA.
No, thank you, ma’am. Pastor Manders will look after me, I know. And if
the worst comes to the worst, I know of one house where I’ve every right
to a place.
MRS. ALVING.
Where is that?
REGINA.
“Chamberlain Alving’s Home.”
MRS. ALVING.
Regina—now I see it—you are going to your ruin.
REGINA.
Oh, stuff! Good-bye.
[_She nods and goes out through the hall._
OSWALD.
[_Stands at the window and looks out._] Is she gone?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes.
OSWALD.
[_Murmuring aside to himself._] I think it was a mistake, this.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Goes up behind him and lays her hands on his shoulders._] Oswald, my
dear boy—has it shaken you very much?
OSWALD.
[_Turns his face towards her._] All that about father, do you mean?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have been too much
for you.
OSWALD.
Why should you fancy that? Of course it came upon me as a great
surprise; but it can make no real difference to me.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Draws her hands away._] No difference! That your father was so
infinitely unhappy!
OSWALD.
Of course I can pity him, as I would anybody else; but——
MRS. ALVING.
Nothing more! Your own father!
OSWALD.
[_Impatiently._] Oh, “father,”—“father”! I never knew anything of
father. I remember nothing about him, except that he once made me sick.
MRS. ALVING.
This is terrible to think of! Ought not a son to love his father,
whatever happens?
OSWALD.
When a son has nothing to thank his father for? has never known him? Do
you really cling to that old superstition?—you who are so enlightened in
other ways?
MRS. ALVING.
Can it be only a superstition——?
OSWALD.
Yes; surely you can see _that_, mother. It’s one of those notions that
are current in the world, and so——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Deeply moved._] Ghosts!
OSWALD.
[_Crossing the room._] Yes; you may call them ghosts.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Wildly._] Oswald—then you don’t love me, either!
OSWALD.
You I know, at any rate——
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, you know me; but is that all!
OSWALD.
And, of course, I know how fond you are of me, and I can’t but be
grateful to you. And then you can be so useful to me, now that I am ill.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, cannot I, Oswald? Oh, I could almost bless the illness that has
driven you home to me. For I see very plainly that you are not mine: I
have to win you.
OSWALD.
[_Impatiently._] Yes yes yes; all these are just so many phrases. You
must remember that I am a sick man, mother. I can’t be much taken up
with other people; I have enough to do thinking about myself.
MRS. ALVING.
[_In a low voice._] I shall be patient and easily satisfied.
OSWALD.
And cheerful too, mother!
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. [_Goes towards him._] Have I
relieved you of all remorse and self-reproach now?
OSWALD.
Yes, you have. But now who will relieve me of the dread?
MRS. ALVING.
The dread?
OSWALD.
[_Walks across the room._] Regina could have been got to do it.
MRS. ALVING.
I don’t understand you. What is this about dread—and Regina?
OSWALD.
Is it very late, mother?
MRS. ALVING.
It is early morning. [_She looks out through the conservatory._] The day
is dawning over the mountains. And the weather is clearing, Oswald. In a
little while you shall see the sun.
OSWALD.
I’m glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and live for——
MRS. ALVING.
I should think so, indeed!
OSWALD.
Even if I can’t work——
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, you’ll soon be able to work again, my dear boy—now that you haven’t
got all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to brood over any longer.
OSWALD.
Yes, I’m glad you were able to rid me of all those fancies. And when
I’ve got over this one thing more——[_Sits on the sofa._] Now we will
have a little talk, mother——
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, let us.
[_She pushes an arm-chair towards the sofa, and sits down close
to him._
OSWALD.
And meantime the sun will be rising. And then you will know all. And
then I shall not feel this dread any longer.
MRS. ALVING.
What is it that I am to know?
OSWALD.
[_Not listening to her._] Mother, did you not say a little while ago,
that there was nothing in the world you would not do for me, if I asked
you?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, indeed I said so!
OSWALD.
And you’ll stick to it, mother?
MRS. ALVING.
You may rely on that, my dear and only boy! I have nothing in the world
to live for but you alone.
OSWALD.
Very well, then; now you shall hear——Mother, you have a strong,
steadfast mind, I know. Now you’re to sit quite still when you hear it.
MRS. ALVING.
What dreadful thing can it be——?
OSWALD.
You’re not to scream out. Do you hear? Do you promise me that? We will
sit and talk about it quietly. Do you promise me, mother?
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, yes; I promise. Only speak!
OSWALD.
Well, you must know that all this fatigue—and my inability to think of
work—all that is not the illness itself——
MRS. ALVING.
Then what is the illness itself?
OSWALD.
The disease I have as my birthright—[_He points to his forehead and adds
very softly_]—is seated here.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Almost voiceless._] Oswald! No—no!
OSWALD.
Don’t scream. I can’t bear it. Yes, mother, it is seated here—waiting.
And it may break out any day—at any moment.
MRS. ALVING.
Oh, what horror——!
OSWALD.
Now, quiet, quiet. That is how it stands with me——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Springs up._] It’s not true, Oswald! It’s impossible! It cannot be so!
OSWALD.
I have had _one_ attack down there already. It was soon over. But when I
came to know the state I had been in, then the dread descended upon me,
raging and ravening; and so I set off home to you as fast as I could.
MRS. ALVING.
Then this is the dread——!
OSWALD.
Yes—it’s so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it had only been
an ordinary mortal disease——! For I’m not so afraid of death—though I
should like to live as long as I can.
MRS. ALVING.
Yes, yes, Oswald, you must!
OSWALD.
But this is so unutterably loathsome. To become a little baby again! To
have to be fed! To have to——Oh, it’s not to be spoken of!
MRS. ALVING.
The child has his mother to nurse him.
OSWALD.
[_Springs up._] No, never that! That is just what I will not have. I
can’t endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many
years—and get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and leave
me. [_Sits in_ MRS. ALVING’S _chair._] For the doctor said it wouldn’t
necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the
brain—or something like that. [_Smiles sadly._] I think that expression
sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry-coloured
velvet—something soft and delicate to stroke.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Shrieks._] Oswald!
OSWALD.
[_Springs up and paces the room._] And now you have taken Regina from
me. If I could only have had her! She would have come to the rescue, I
know.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Goes to him._] What do you mean by that, my darling boy? Is there any
help in the world that I would not give you?
OSWALD.
When I got over my attack in Paris, the doctor told me that when it
comes again—and it _will_ come—there will be no more hope.
MRS. ALVING.
He was heartless enough to——
OSWALD.
I demanded it of him. I told him I had preparations to make——[_He smiles
cunningly._] And so I had. [_He takes a little box from his inner breast
pocket and opens it._] Mother, do you see this?
MRS. ALVING.
What is it?
OSWALD.
Morphia.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Looks at him horror-struck._] Oswald—my boy!
OSWALD.
I’ve scraped together twelve pilules——
MRS. ALVING.
[_Snatches at it._] Give me the box, Oswald!
OSWALD.
Not yet, mother.
[_He hides the box again in his pocket._
MRS. ALVING.
I shall never survive this!
OSWALD.
It must be survived. Now if I’d had Regina here, I should have told her
how things stood with me—and begged her to come to the rescue at the
last. She would have done it. I know she would.
MRS. ALVING.
Never!
OSWALD.
When the horror had come upon me, and she saw me lying there helpless,
like a little new-born baby, impotent, lost, hopeless—past all saving——
MRS. ALVING.
Never in all the world would Regina have done this!
OSWALD.
Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly light-hearted. And
she would soon have wearied of nursing an invalid like me.
MRS. ALVING.
Then heaven be praised that Regina is not here.
OSWALD.
Well then, it is you that must come to the rescue, mother.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Shrieks aloud._] I!
OSWALD.
Who should do it if not you?
MRS. ALVING.
I! your mother!
OSWALD.
For that very reason.
MRS. ALVING.
I, who gave you life!
OSWALD.
I never asked you for life. And what sort of a life have you given me? I
will not have it! You shall take it back again!
MRS. ALVING.
Help! Help! [_She runs out into the hall._
OSWALD.
[_Going after her._] Do not leave me! Where are you going?
MRS. ALVING.
[_In the hall._] To fetch the doctor, Oswald! Let me pass!
OSWALD.
[_Also outside._] You shall not go out. And no one shall come in.
[_The locking of a door is heard._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Comes in again._] Oswald! Oswald—my child!
OSWALD.
[_Follows her._] Have you a mother’s heart for me—and yet can see me
suffer from this unutterable dread?
MRS. ALVING.
[_After a moment’s silence, commands herself, and says:_] Here is my
hand upon it.
OSWALD.
Will you——?
MRS. ALVING.
If it should ever be necessary. But it will never be necessary. No, no;
it is impossible.
OSWALD.
Well, let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. Thank
you, mother.
[_He seats himself in the arm-chair which_ MRS. ALVING _has
moved to the sofa. Day is breaking. The lamp is still
burning on the table._
MRS. ALVING.
[_Drawing near cautiously._] Do you feel calm now?
OSWALD.
Yes.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Bending over him._] It has been a dreadful fancy of yours,
Oswald—nothing but a fancy. All this excitement has been too much for
you. But now you shall have a long rest; at home with your mother, my
own blessëd boy. Everything you point to you shall have, just as when
you were a little child.—There now. The crisis is over. You see how
easily it passed! Oh, I was sure it would.—And do you see, Oswald, what
a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine! Now you can
really see your home.
[_She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. Sunrise. The
glacier and the snow-peaks in the background glow in the
morning light._
OSWALD.
[_Sits in the arm-chair with his back towards the landscape, without
moving. Suddenly he says:_] Mother, give me the sun.
MRS. ALVING.
[_By the table, starts and looks at him._] What do you say?
OSWALD.
[_Repeats, in a dull, toneless voice._] The sun. The sun.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Goes to him._] Oswald, what is the matter with you?
OSWALD.
[_Seems to shrink together in the chair; all his muscles relax;
his face is expressionless, his eyes have a glassy stare._]
MRS. ALVING.
[_Quivering with terror._] What is this? [_Shrieks._] Oswald! what is
the matter with you? [_Falls on her knees beside him and shakes him._]
Oswald! Oswald! look at me! Don’t you know me?
OSWALD.
[_Tonelessly as before._] The sun.—The sun.
MRS. ALVING.
[_Springs up in despair, entwines her hands in her hair and shrieks._] I
cannot bear it! [_Whispers, as though petrified_;] I cannot bear it!
Never! [_Suddenly._] Where has he got them? [_Fumbles hastily in his
breast._] Here! [_Shrinks back a few steps and screams:_] No; no;
no!—Yes!—No; no!
[_She stands a few steps away from him with her hands twisted in
her hair, and stares at him in speechless horror._
OSWALD.
[_Sits motionless as before and says._] The sun.—The sun.
THE END.
-----
Footnote 14:
“Sige du” = Fr. _tutoyer_.
Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
There was no anchor for the footnote on p. 276. An anchor has been
placed on the most likely spot, based on the context.
There are quite a few instances of missing punctuation. The conventional
period following the character’s name is sometimes missing and has been
added for consistency’s sake without further comment. Those missing from
setting and stage direction are also added without comment, since there
is no obvious purpose to be served by the omission. However, the
restoration of punctuation missing from dialogue is noted below, since
the punctuation is frequently expressive. Several instances of dubious
‘?’ marks have been corrected, based on context.
Volume I of this series included errata for each succeeding volume, but
noted none in Volume VII.
The contraction ‘mustn’t’ appears twenty-one times, but twice without
the internal ‘t’ as ‘musn’t’. These have been corrected.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
13.3 how wonderful it is to think of[?/!] Replaced.
14.2 I see you don’t recognise me[.] Added.
28.16 Yes, of cou[r]se. Inserted.
36.11 Ugly[?] Added.
47.27 Only unpleasantness[.] Added.
52.5 to your father[?] Added.
54.22 b[n/u]t soon pauses. Inverted.
55.18 Has anybody been here[./?] Replaced.
68.21 I’ll tell you something[?/.] Replaced.
72.19 “trying on[.]” Inserted.
84.15 Look here[!] Look! Added.
84.22 look at the rest too[.] Added.
98.28 That l[a/e]tter is from Krogstad Replaced.
103.12 you mus[t]n’t even touch Inserted.
106.28 mustn’t look at the letter-box[.] Added.
122.2 I shall not speak[?/.] Replaced.
133.14 it is best to go silently[.] Added.
207.19 be kept [r/s]ecret Replaced.
273.8 REGIN[A.] Restored.
289.7 though [I] should like to live Missing.
291.24 Regina is not here[.] Added.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Collected Works of Henrik Ibsen, Vol. 7 (of 11)" ***
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