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 lighthearted, 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, fells, 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 tine.] 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.]
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' 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. 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. |
|
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기