Ghosts: Henrik Ibsen 1

Ghosts: Henrik Ibsen 1

Ghosts: Henrik Ibsen 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: Bjornson, from whom he had been practically estranged ever since _The League of Youth_, and Georg 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 Bjornson. 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 _Tete 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 Buhne, founded on the model of the Paris Theatre Libre, began its operations two years later (September 29, 1889), _Gespenster_ was the first play that it produced. The Freie Buhne 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 Theatre Libre (at the Theatre 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 [Note: 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.] 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, Bjornstjerne Bjornson, 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 Gregors 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 poet's 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 Bjornson's judgment? I think not. In a historical, if not in an aesthetic, 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 Camelias_ 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 Georg 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." GHOSTS A FAMILY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. (1881) CHARACTERS.   MRS. HELEN ALVING, widow of Captain Alving, late Chamberlain to   the King. [Note: 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.]   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. 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 worktable 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_ [Note: This and other French words by Regina are in that language in the original] 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. [A "krone" is equal to one shilling and three-halfpence.] 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 blessed weather for the country, sir. MANDERS. No doubt; you are quite right. We townspeople give too little thought to that. [He begins to take of 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--!