Ghosts - Henrik Ibsen (most read books in the world of all time .TXT) 📗

class="calibre1">[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’ 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 MANGERS 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 Enstrand. 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 blessed 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? [Note: “Sige du” = Fr. tutoyer] 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 overpowering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no brightness into his home.

OSWALD. Not even you?

MRS.