Ghosts - Henrik Ibsen (most read books in the world of all time .TXT) š
- Author: Henrik Ibsen
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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.] Ahā! [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 houseājust like my own boy.
OSWALD. [Turning round quickly.] Reginaā!
REGINA. [Springs up and asks, with bated breath.] Iā?
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, Iāve often suspected it; butāAnd now, if you please, maāam, 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; butā
OSWALD. [Goes towards REGINA.] Go away now? Your place is here.
REGINA. Merci, Mr. Alving!āor now, I suppose, I may say Oswald. But I can tell you this wasnāt at all what I expected.
MRS. ALVING. Regina, I have not been frank with youā
REGINA. No, that you havenāt indeed. If Iād known that Oswald was an invalid, whyāAnd now, too, that it can never come to anything serious between usāI really canāt 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 canāt. A poor girl must make the best of her young days, or sheāll 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 leave. But donāt throw yourself away, Regina.
REGINA. Oh, what must be, must be. If Oswald takes after his father, I take after my mother, I daresay.āMay I ask, maāam, 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, Iād better make haste and get away by this steamer. The Pastor is such a nice man to deal with; and I certainly think Iāve as much right to a little of that money as he hasāthat 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 gentlemanās daughter, maāam; it would have suited me better. [Tosses her head.] But poohāwhat 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, maāam. Pastor Manders will look after me, I know. And if the worst comes to the worst, I know of one house where Iāve every right to a place.
MRS. ALVING. Where is that?
REGINA. āChamberlain Alvingās Home.ā
MRS. ALVING. Reginaānow I see itāyou 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 boyāhas 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; butā
MRS. ALVING. Nothing more! Your own father!
OSWALD. [Impatiently.]Oh, āfather,āāāfatherā! 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?āyou who are so enlightened in other ways?
MRS. ALVING. Can it be only a superstitionā?
OSWALD. Yes; surely you can see that, mother. Itās one of those notions that are current in the world, and soā
MRS. ALVING. [Deeply moved.] Ghosts!
OSWALD. [Crossing the room.] Yes; you may call them ghosts.
MRS. ALVING. [Wildly.] Oswaldāthen you donāt love me, either!
OSWALD. You I know, at any rateā
MRS. ALVING. Yes, you know me; but is that all!
OSWALD. And, of course, I know how fond you are of me, and I canāt 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 canāt 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 donāt understand you. What is this about dreadāand 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. Iām glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and live forā
MRS. ALVING. I should think so, indeed!
OSWALD. Even if I canāt workā
MRS. ALVING. Oh, youāll soon be able to work again, my dear boyā now that you havenāt got all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to brood over any longer.
OSWALD. Yes, Iām glad you were able to rid me of all those fancies. And when Iāve got over this one thing moreā[Sits on the sofa.] Now we will have a little talk, motherā
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 youāll 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 hearāMother, you have a strong, steadfast mind, I know. Now youāre to sit quite still when you hear it.
MRS. ALVING. What dreadful thing can it beā?
OSWALD. Youāre 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 fatigueāand my inability to think of workāall that is not the illness itselfā
MRS. ALVING. Then what is the illness itself?
OSWALD. The disease I have as my birthrightā[He points to his forehead and adds very softly]āis seated here.
MRS. ALVING. [Almost voiceless.] Oswald! Noāno!
OSWALD. Donāt scream. I canāt bear it. Yes, mother, it is seated here waiting. And it may break out any dayāat any moment.
MRS. ALVING. Oh, what horrorā!
OSWALD. Now, quiet, quiet. That is how it stands with meā
MRS. ALVING. [Springs up.] Itās not true, Oswald! Itās 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 dreadā!
OSWALD. Yesāitās so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it had only been an ordinary mortal diseaseā! For Iām not so afraid of deathāthough 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 hive to be fed! To have toāOh, itās 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 canāt endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many yearsāand get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and leave me. [Sits in MRS. ALVINGāS chair.] For the doctor said it wouldnāt necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the braināor something like that. [Smiles sadly.] I think that expression sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry-coloured velvetāsomething 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 againāand it will comeāthere will be no more hope.
MRS. ALVING. He was heartless enough toā
OSWALD. I demanded it of him. I told him I had preparations to makeā [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.] Oswaldāmy boy!
OSWALD. Iāve scraped together twelve pilulesā
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 Iād had Regina here, I should have told her how things stood with meāand 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, hopelessāpast all
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