Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (207 page)

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 of 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.]

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
[Note: A phrase equivalent to the German
Prosit die Mahlzeit
— May good digestion wait on appetite.]
, 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 wide 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, free-thinking 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.