Ghosts - Judi Dench - Kenneth Branagh - Michael Gambon - Ibsen - SN ARCHIVES - 1987 - 4K

[Music] What do you want? Stay where you are. You're dripping wet. It's God's blessed rain, my child. The devil's bloody rain. More light. Why the way you talk? Throwing such a—no—without being—Master asleep upstairs, still in bed at this hour while the day is half gone. None of your business. I was out drinking last night. Sure, I just got my witness house at my bench by half past five this morning. Yes, yes. Come on now. I don't want to put up with you. Having what I don't want anyone to see you here. Get out. Not until I've had to work with you this afternoon. I have finished my work at the orphanage, at the new schoolhouse, and tonight I'm catching the steamer back to town. What? They're dedicating the orphanage tomorrow, and there'll be a celebration with lots of drinks, and Pastor Manders is expected from town. He's arriving today. Well, there you are. So I shall not be here. I'm not bloody well risking getting into his bad books. Oh, so that's it. What do you mean? What are you trying to fool the pastor into? This tongue me—full—Pastor Manders? Oh, no, he's far too good a friend to me for that. But what I wanted to talk to you about was this: I am going home tonight, sooner the better, yes, and I want to take you with me. You want to take me? I want to take you with me. I said, home with you. Not likely. I—we'll see. We'll see. You bet your life we'll see. You expect me to go back and live with you in that house after Mrs. Alving's brought me up and treats me as though I was one of the family? Get out. Are you setting yourself up against your father? You've said awful enough that I'm no concern of yours. Oh, you mustn't take any notice of that. Well, what about all the times you've sworn at me and called me a— Oh, more dear, don't strike me dead if I have used such a vile word. Oh, I know what word you use. Yes, yes, yes. But that was only when I wasn't myself. The temptations of this world are manifold, my dear, and when your mother was being difficult, I had to find somewhere to knock her. Always was actually the grand lady. Poor mother. You killed her soon enough with your bullying. That's right. That's right. May me where everything—Oh, that leg—What was that, my child? Pon—what's that? English. Yes, ah well, they've made a scholar out of you out here, anyway, and that will come in handy now, my child. What was it you wanted me for in town, anyway? Well, fancy asking such a question. What would a father want with his only child? Aren't I a lonely, forsaken widower? Oh, don't try to fool me with all that rubbish. What was it you wanted me for? Well, uh—you see—like this—I was thinking of starting out on something new. Tried that often enough. You've always made a mess. Yes, but this time you'll see, Reg—God—R—me—how right you are, my child. But what I wanted to say was this: I've put quite a bit of money aside from this work on the orphanage. Have you? Good for you. Yes. Well, there ain't much for a man to spend his money on out here in the country, is there? Well, go on. Yes. Well, so I thought I'd put my money into something that might bring in a bit—a kind of—uh—hosery for saers. Oh, my God. A real smart place, you understand—not one of those low waterfront joints. No, damn it. This is going to be officers and captains and such. Were you going to help me? Just for appearance's sake, of course. You won't have to work hard, my child. You can fix your own hours. I see. But there has to be a bit of skirt on show. I mean, that's obvious. Got to give them a bit of fun in the evening—singing, dancing, and so forth. You must remember that these men are wandering seafarers, lost on the ocean of life. Now, don't be stupid and make things difficult for yourself, Regina. What can you make of yourself out here? What good is going to do you all this fine education Mrs. Alving has given you? I hear you're going to look after the orphans up the streets. Is that what you want? Are you really so anxious to ruin your health on those filthy brats? No. If things work out the way that I—well, they might—they might. What do you mean? This money I've managed to save—it's a lot. Well, I'd say it comes to between 7 and 800 crowns. Not bad enough to make a start on, my child. Well, aren't you going to give me any of it? Not bloody likely I'm not. Aren't you even going to send me a new dress? You come back to town, set up with me, and you'll get dresses enough. I could do that on my own if I wanted to. No, Re—you need a father's hand to guide you. There's a nice house I can get on Little Harbor Street. They don't want much cash on the nail, and we could turn it into a sort of—well—mission for sailors. But I don't want to live with you. I don't want anything to do with you. Get out. But you wouldn't have to stay with me for long, my child. What was the pity? If you play your cards properly, the way you've blossomed out in recent years—will you never wait long before some nice officer brought the—will you marry any of them? Sailors haven't any—SVO—of evil—haven't any— What? I know sailors. No future in marrying them. All right then, don't marry them. You can do just as well without. The Englishman with a yacht—he paid out 700 crowns, and she was no prettier than you. Get her out. You wouldn't—your father wouldn't—I—you say another word about my mother and your—Sea! And don't slam the door, young Mr. Alving! And is your sleep—why you fuss so much—of you wouldn't be thinking of him, would you? Out, and be quick about it. You're out of your mind. You're not that way. He passed Manders out through the kitchen. All right, I'll—Oh, but you ask him—ask his rence—what the charge you—D—to its father—and I am your father, whatever you may say. I can prove it from the parish register.

Good morning, Miss Engstrand. Hi, Pastor. This is—the—arrived already? Yes, it arrived a few minutes ago. Very tiresome, this rain we're having. A blessing for the farmers, though, sir. Ah, yes, you're right there. We city people tend to forget them. It's soaking. I'll let your umbrella out. Ah, it's good to be under a dry roof again. I trust all is well here. Yes, thank you, sir. I'm very busy, I suppose, getting ready for tomorrow. Yes, there are one or two things to be done. Mrs. Alving is at home, I hope? Yes, sir, she's upstairs. Ah, yes, I heard when I got off the boat that Oswald had returned. Yes, he arrived the day before yesterday. We hadn't expected him until today. In good health and spirits, I trust? Yes, thank you, sir. I think so. He felt dreadfully tired after his journey. Came from Paris in one go. I think he's asleep now, so we better talk just a tiny bit quietly. We'll be like mice now. Sit down, sir, and make yourself comfortable. Thank you. Do you know, Miss Engstrand, I really do believe you've grown since I last saw you. Do you think so too? Mrs. Alving says I've rounded out a bit—a little perhaps—not too much. Shall I tell Madam you've come? Thank you, my child, but there's no hurry. Tell me, Regina, how's your father getting on out here? Thank you, sir. He's doing very well. He came to see me when he was in town last. No, did he really? He's always so happy when he gets a chance to speak with you, sir. You go down and see him quite often? Oh, oh, yes, of course, whenever I get the chance. Your father hasn't a very strong character, Miss Engstrand. He badly needs a hand to guide him. Yes, I dare say you're right there. He needs to have someone near whom he's fond of and whose judgment he respects. He admitted it to me quite openly last time he visited me. Yes, he said something of the sort to me too. But I don't know whether Mrs. Alving will want to lose me, especially now that we've the new orphanage to look after. Besides, I'd hate to leave Mrs. Alving. She's always been so kind to me. But, my dear girl—a daughter's duty. Naturally, I would have to ask your mistress's permission first. Yes, but I don't know whether it would be right for me to keep house for an unmarried man at my age. Dear child—that your own father were talking about. Yes, but all the same, of course, if it was a nice house, run by a real gentleman. But, my dear Regina, someone I could feel affection for and look up to as a father. Dear, dear child. Oh, I would so love to go and live in the city. Out here it's so dreadfully lonely, and you know, don't you, so what it means to be all alone in the world. And I'm quick and willing. I think I can say that. Or Pastor Manders, don't you know of a place where I could go? No, I'm afraid I don't know of anyone at all. Oh, well, do please think of me if you should. I certainly will. Would you fetch Mrs. Alving down for me? Certainly, sir. [Music] [Music] Welcome to Rosenvold, Pastor. Good morning, Mrs. Alving. Well, I've kept my promise—punctual as always. But you know it wasn't easy for me to get away—all these blessed committees I sit on. All the kinder of you to arrive in such good time. Now we can get our business settled before lunch. But uh—where is your luggage? My portmanteau is down at the village. I shall be sleeping there. I can't persuade you to spend a night in my house, even now? No, no, Mrs. Alving, it's very kind of you, but I shall sleep down there as usual. It's more convenient for when I go on board again. As you please, though I really think two old people such as you and me—Bless me, you must be joking. But then you were very happy, the great day tomorrow, and you have Oswald home again. Yes, you can imagine how happy that makes me. It's 2 years since he was home last, and now he has promised to stay with me the whole winter. No, has he really? Well, he knows his filial duty, I fancy. Life in Paris and Rome must offer altogether different attractions. Yes, but his home is here, and his mother. It would be sad indeed if distance and dabbling in art and such things should blunt his natural affections. It would indeed. I shall be amused to see whether you recognize him again. He'll be down later. He's upstairs just now taking a little rest on the sofa. But please sit down, my dear Pastor. Thank you. Are you sure this is a convenient moment? Certainly. Very well. To begin with, Mrs. Alving, tell me, what are these books doing here? There's books. I'm reading them. You read writings of this kind? Certainly I do. And does this kind of reading make you feel better—happier? I think they make me feel more secure. How extraordinary. In what way? They explain and confirm many things that puzzle me. There isn't really anything new in these books—as nothing that most people haven't already thought for themselves. It's just that most people either haven't fully realized it, or they won't admit it. Oh, dear God. Do you seriously believe that most people— Yes, I do. But surely not people from this country—not people like us? Yes, of course, people like us. Well, really, I must say— What do you object to in these books? Object to? You surely don't imagine I spend my time studying such publications. In other words, you've no idea what you're condemning. I've read quite enough about these writings to disapprove of them. Don't you think you ought to form your own opinion, my dear Mrs. Alving? There are many occasions in life when one must rely on the judgment of others. That is the way things are. It is good they should be so. If it were not so, then what would become of society? Yes, yes, you may be right, of course. I don't deny that there may be quite a lot that is attractive about these writings, and I cannot exactly blame you for wishing to keep informed of these intellectual movements from the great world outside, about which one hears so much. After all, you have allowed your son to wander there for a number of years. But—but—but—one does not have to talk about it, Mrs. Alving. No, of course not. Remember the duty you owe this orphanage, which you decided to found at a time when your attitude towards spiritual matters was quite different from what it is now, as far as I can judge. Yes, yes, it's perfectly true. But it was the orphanage that we were going to discuss. Yes, it was the orphanage we were going to discuss. But, dear Mrs. Alving, be discreet now. Let us turn to our business. You see these are—those—the deeds? Yes, all of them ready and completed. Now, as you can imagine, it's been no easy task for me to get them all through in time. I really had to get out my whip. The authorities can be almost painfully conscientious when it comes to getting a decision from them. But here we have them nevertheless. Now, here is the executed deed of conveyance, with the farmstead named in the manner of Rosenvold, with its newly constructed buildings—schoolrooms, staff accommodation, and chapel. And here is the settlement of the endowment and the trust deed of the institution. Look—deed of trust for the Captain Alving Memorial Home. So there it is. I thought I'd put Captain rather than Chamberlain. Captain looks less ostentatious. Yes, yes, as you think best. And here is the bank book for the capital, which has been placed on deposit to cover the running expenses of the orphanage. Thank you. I think it would be better if you kept that, if you don't mind. Certainly, certainly. Admittedly, the interest isn't very attractive—4% with 6 months' notice of withdrawal. If we could obtain a good mortgage later, of course it would have to be a first mortgage and of unimpeachable security, we could reconsider the matter. Yes. Well, dear Pastor Manders, you know best about all that. Good. Well, I'll keep my eyes open. Now, there is another matter I've several times been meaning to ask you about. Is that—should the buildings of the orphanage be insured or not? Of course, they must be insured. Ah, but wait a minute, Mrs. Alving. Let us consider this question a little more closely. Everything I have is insured—buildings, furniture, crops, livestock—as on your own estate, naturally, I do the same. But this is quite a different matter. The orphanage is, so to speak, to be consecrated to a higher purpose. Yes, but as far as I personally am concerned, I see nothing offensive in securing ourselves against all eventualities. Well, I certainly do. But what is the feeling among the local people out here? You can judge that better than I. The feeling—well, are there many people with a right to an opinion—I mean, people who really have the right to hold an opinion—who might take offense? What do you mean by people who might have the right to hold an opinion? I'm thinking chiefly of people sufficiently independent and influential to make it impossible for one to ignore their opinions altogether. Yes, I suppose there are quite a few people— You—in town we have a great many such people. People might very easily come to the conclusion that neither you nor I had sufficient trust in the ordinances of a higher power. Yes, but my dear Pastor, as long as you yourself— Yes, I know, I know. My conscience is clear. That is true. But all the same, we couldn't prevent a false and unfavorable interpretation being placed on our action, and that might well adversely influence the purpose for which the orphanage has been dedicated. But if that—I can't altogether close my eyes to the difficult—I might even say deeply embarrassing—position in which I might find myself among influential circles in town. There is a great interest in the cause of the orphanage, after all. It is to serve the town as well, and it is hoped it may considerably ease the burden on the ratepayers in respect of the poor. But since I've been your advisor and acted on the business side, I must admit I fear certain overzealous persons might, in the first instance, direct their attacks against me. Well, you mustn't lay yourself open to that. Not to speak of an attack which would undoubtedly be launched against me in certain newspapers. That settles it then. You do not wish the orphanage to be insured? No, we will forget it. But suppose an accident should occur—you never can tell—would you be able to make good the damage? No, quite frankly, I couldn't. But you see, this is really a rather serious responsibility we are taking on our shoulders, and I don't think there is any real alternative. We must not lay ourselves open to misinterpretation, and we have—have no right to antagonize public opinion. At any rate, you, as a clergyman, must not. And I really think we must feel that such an institution will have luck on its side—that it stands under special protection. Let us hope so. Pastor Manders, shall we take the risk then? Yes, let us. Good. As you wish. No insurance then. Strange you happen to mention this today. I've often thought of raising the matter. Yesterday we almost had a fire down there. What? Oh, nothing really—just some shavings caught fire in the carpentry shop where Engstrand works. Yes, they say he's very careless with matches. Yeah, so many things to worry about—poor man. I think Heaven has now resolved to lead a virtuous life. Oh, who says so? Oh, he's told me so himself. And he's a good worker. Yes, as long as he keeps sober. Yes, that is a grievous weakness. He's often compelled to yield to it because of his bad leg, he says. Last time he came to see me, I was quite touched. He came up to me and thanked me so sincerely for getting him this job here so that he could be near Regina. I don't think he sees her very often. Oh, yes, he told me himself. He talks to her every day. Oh, well, possibly. He's so conscious of his need to have someone near him who can restrain him when temptation presents itself. That's what's so lovable about Jacob Engstrand—when he comes to one like a child and accuses himself and admits his weakness. Last time he came up and talked to me—tell me, Mrs. Alving, if it became vital for the poor man to have Regina back to live with him again— Regina? You mustn't oppose it. I certainly shall. Anyway, Reg is going to work at the orphanage. But don't forget he is her father. I know very well the kind of father he's been to her. Now, I shall never consent to Regina getting back to him. I— Mrs. Alving, you mustn't get so emotional about it. You seem quite frightened. It's very sad the way you misjudged this poor man. In—never mind that. I've taken Regina into my house, and here she shall stay. Let us talk no more about it. Listen, I hear Oswald coming downstairs now. We will think of nothing but him. I'm sorry. I thought you were in the study. Good morning, Pastor. Most extraordinary. Well, Pastor Manders, what do you think of him? I think—I think—but is this really— Yes, this really is the prodigal son, Pastor. Dear young friend. Well, the son, anyway. Oswald is thinking of the time when you used to be so strongly opposed. He's becoming a painter. Many a step which to human eyes seems dubious often turns out— Anyway, welcome—welcome, my dear Oswald. I trust you'll allow me to call you by your Christian name. What else? You mustn't think I condemn the artistic profession out of hand. I presume there are many who succeed in keeping the inner man untarnished in that profession too. Oh, let us hope so. I know one person who was—remain pure both inwardly and outwardly. Just look at him. Yes, yes, Mother. De—please—unquestionably—was no denying it. Besides, you've begun to acquire a name now. The newspapers speak of you so often and in the most flattering terms. That is to say—I don't seem to have read quite so much about you lately. Well, I haven't done so much painting lately. Even painters have to rest now and then, I suppose. So to prepare themselves and conserve their energies for some great work. Yes, Mother. Shall we be eating soon? In about half an hour. He still enjoys his food, thank heaven—and his tobacco. I see. I found Father's pipe upstairs in the bedroom, so I—of course— What do you mean? When Oswald appeared in that doorway with that pipe in his mouth, it was as though Alving was alive again. Really? Oh, can you say that? Oswald takes after me. Well, yes, but there is an expression on the corner of his mouth—something about his lips that reminds me so vividly of Alving. How can you say that? Oswald has much more the mouth of a clergyman, I think. Yes, some of my colleagues have similar expressions. But put away that pipe, my dear. I don't want any smoke in here. I'm sorry. I only wanted to try it. You see, I smoked it once when I was a child. What? Yes, I remember. I was quite small at the time. I went upstairs to see Father in his room one evening. He was so happy and cheerful. You remember nothing of that time? No, I remember it very clearly. He picked me up, sat me on his knee, and let me smoke his pipe. Puff away, boy, he said. Puff hard. I puffed as hard as I could, felt myself go pale, and the sweat broke out in my forehead in great drops, and that made him roar with laughter. Oh, very strange, my dear. It's just something that Oswald has dreamed. No, I didn't dream it, Mother. Well, surely you must remember you came in and carried me back to the nursery, and then I was sick, and I saw you crying. Did Father often play jokes like that in his youth? He was extremely—he was very high-spirited. And yet he managed to achieve so much—well, so much that was good and useful, although he died so young. Yes, you have inherited the name of an industrious and worthy man, my dear Oswald Alving. I trust this will spur you on. Yes—ought to, anyway. It was good of you to come home and join us in honoring him. It was the least I could do for Father. The best thing of all is that I have him here for so long. Yes, I hear you're staying the winter. Yes, I am here for an indefinite period, Pastor. Oh, and it's good to be home. Oh, yes, Oswald, isn't it? Yes. You went out into the world early, my dear Oswald. Yes, I did. I sometimes wonder if it wasn't—wasn't too early. Nonsense. It's good for a healthy boy, especially if he's an only child. It's bad for them to be kept at home with their mother and father and be pampered. Now, that is a debatable point, Mrs. Alving. When all is said and done, the parental home is where a child belongs. Oh, I agree with you there, Pastor. Take your own son. Well, it'll do no harm to talk about it in his presence. What has been the consequence for him? Here he is—24 years old—he's never had the opportunity to know what a real home is like. Oh, I beg your pardon, but there you're quite mistaken. Uh—I thought you spent practically all your time in artistic circles. Yes, I have—mostly among young artists. Yes, but I thought most of those people lack the means to support a family and make a home for themselves. Well, most of them can't afford to get married. Is that what I'm saying? Yes, but that doesn't mean they can't have a home. Some of them do, and very good and comfortable homes at that. But I'm not talking of bachelor establishments. By a home, I mean a family establishment where a man may live with his wife and children—quite—or with his children and their mother. Merciful Heavens, you don't— Yes, lives with the mother of his children. Oh, would you rather he disowned the mother of his children? Wa—so you are talking of unlegalised relationships—free marriages? I've never noticed anything particularly free about the way such people live. But how is it possible that any reasonably well-brought-up man or young woman could bring themselves to live like that openly, for all to see? What else can they do? A poor young artist—a poor young girl—it costs a lot of money to get married. What can they do? What can they do? I'll tell you, Mr. Alving, what they can do. They should have kept—

Away from each other in the first place, what they should have done. Well, that argument won't get you very far with young people. No, it won't get you very far to think the authorities tolerate such behavior; that is allowed to happen openly. Wasn't I right, Mrs. Alving, to be so concerned about your son in circles where immorality is practiced openly and is, one might almost say, accepted?

Let me tell you something, sir. I have been a regular Sunday guest in one or two of these irregular households, as you call them, on Sundays. Yes, that's the day one--one can enjoy oneself--and I have never heard an offensive word there, far less ever witnessed anything which could be called immoral.

No, do you know where and when I have encountered immorality in artistic circles? No, I don't. Well, I shall tell you. I have encountered it when one or another of our model husbands and fathers came down there to look around a little on their own. Well then, we learned a few things; those gentlemen were able to tell us about places and things of which we'd never dreamed. You were saying that honorable--Have you never heard those Honorable Men, when they returned home, have you never heard them hold forth on the rampancy of immorality in foreign countries? Of course I have. Well, you can take their word for it; some of them are experts. Oh, that wonderful and beautiful life of Freedom should be soiled like this! You mustn't get overexcited, Oswald; it isn't good for you.

No, Mother, it isn't good for my health. It's that damn tiredness again. Well, I'll take a little walk before dinner. I'm sorry, Pastor. I know you can't see it from my point of view, but I had to say what I felt. My poor boy! Yes, you may well say that. So it's come to this. He called himself the prodigal son. Alas, alas! What do you have to say to all this? I say that Oswald was right in every word he said; right, right in expressing those principles. Here in my loneliness, Pastor, I began to think like him, but I've never dared bring up the subject. Now my son shall speak for me.

I feel deeply sorry for you, Mrs. Alving, but now I'll have to speak to you in earnest. I stand before you now as your priest, as I did at the moment when you strayed so far. And what is the priest to say to me? First, I wish to refresh your memory, Mrs. Alving; the occasion is appropriate. Tomorrow will be the 10th anniversary of your husband's death; tomorrow I will address the whole assembled flock, but today I wish to speak to you alone. Very well, Pastor, speak. Have you forgotten that, after barely a year of marriage, that you abandoned your house and home, that you deserted your husband? Yes, deserted him, Mrs. Alving, and refused to return to him although he begged and entreated you to do so. Have you forgotten how desperately unhappy I was during that time? Yes, that is the sign of a rebellious spirit, to demand happiness from this earthly life. What right have we to happiness? You know quite well the kind of life he led at that time; the depravities he indulged in. I'm only too aware of the rumors that were circulating about him. But a wife is not appointed to be her husband's judge. It was your duty to bear that cross which a higher will had seen fit to assign to you, but instead you rebelliously flung down that cross, abandoned the erring soul you should have supported, hazarded your good name and very nearly ruined the reputations of others. Others and others, you mean? It was extremely inconsiderate of you to seek refuge with me, with your priest, with an old friend. Exactly. Well, you may now thank God I possess the necessary firmness, that I was able to dissuade you from your intentions, and it was granted to me to lead you back to your lawful husband.

Yes, that was certainly your doing, Pastor Manders. I was merely a tool in the hand of a higher purpose; that I persuaded you to bow to the call of duty and obedience. Has not that proved a blessing which will surely enrich the remainder of your days? Did I not foretell all this? Did not Alving turn from his aberrations like a man? Did he not afterwards live a loving and blameless life for the remainder of his days? Did he not become a public benefactor? Did he not inspire you so that, in time, you became his right hand in all his enterprises; and a very capable right hand? Oh yes, I know that, Mrs. Alving. I give you credit for that. But now I come to the next great error of your life. What is that? Once you discerned your duties as a wife, since then you have discerned your duties as a mother. Ah, all your life you have been ruled by a fatal spirit of willfulness. You have never been willing to suffer the curb of discipline. Everything that has been troublesome in your life you've cast off ruthlessly and callously. It was no longer convenient for you to be a wife, so you left your husband; you found it irksome to be a mother, so you put your child out to live among strangers. Yes, that is true; I did. And in consequence you have become a stranger to him. No, no, that is not true. It is; it must be. And how have you got him back? Think well, Mrs. Alving. You have sinned greatly against your husband; confess now how you have sinned against your son. There may still be time to bring him back from the paths of error; turn and save what may still be saved in him. This I have regarded as my duty to say to you.

You've had your say, Pastor, and tomorrow you will speak publicly at my husband's ceremony. I shall not speak tomorrow, but now I want to say a few words to you. Of course, if you wish to excuse your conduct--No, I simply want to tell you what happened. No, everything that you have said about me and my husband and our life together after you, as you put it, led me back onto the path of duty, all this is something of which you have no knowledge except from your own observations. From that moment, you, who used to visit us every day, never once set foot in my house. You and your husband moved from town shortly afterwards. Yes, and you never came out here once to see us while he was alive. It was only the business of the orphanage that compelled you to visit me again. Helen, if this is intended as a rebuke, I beg you to consider the--the duty you owe your position. Yes, and of course I was a wife who'd run away from her husband; one cannot be too careful with such unprincipled women. Dear Mrs. Alving, you exaggerate. Yes, well, maybe so. What I want to say is this: when you judge my conduct as a wife, you are content to base your judgment on common opinion. Yes, what of it? But now, Manders, now you shall know the truth. I've sworn to myself that one day you should know it; only you. And what is the truth? The truth is that my husband died just as dissolute as he had always lived. What did you just say? Just as dissolute, at any rate in his desires after nine years of marriage, as he was before. You--you call these youthful escapades, excesses, evidence of a dissolute life? That's the expression our doctor used. I don't understand you. Doesn't it--I cannot believe my ears! You're saying the whole of your married life, all those years you shared with your husband, were nothing but a facade? Yes, now you know. But--but this I cannot accept. I don't understand; I cannot credit it. How on Earth is it possible? How could such a thing be kept a secret? I had to fight day after day to keep it a secret. After Oswald was born, I thought things began to get a little better with Alving, but it didn't last. And then I had to fight a double battle; fight with all my strength to prevent anyone knowing the kind of man my child's father was. And you know what a winning personality Alving had; nobody could believe anything but good of him. He was one of those people whose reputations remain untarnished by the way they live. But then, Manders, you must know this too. Then came the most loathsome thing of all; more loathsome than this I had put up with him, although I knew well what went on secretly outside this house. But when he offended within these four walls, here--yes, here in our own home--it was in the dining room I first heard of it. I had something to do in here, and the door was left ajar. Then I heard my servant come up to water the flowers. Who? Yes. A moment later, Alving entered the room. I heard him say something to her, and then I heard--I still don't know whether to laugh or cry--I heard my own servant whisper, "Stop it, Mr. Alving; let me go." And that relationship had consequences, Pastor Manders. And all this took place in this house; in this house! I had endured much in this house to keep him in; in the evenings and at night I had to sit with him alone, drink with him, listen to his obscene and senseless dribbling. How did you endure it? I had to, to endure it for my son's sake. But when the final humiliation came, when my own servant--then I swore to myself this must stop. It was then I took up the reins of this house, both as regards him and everything else, and it was then that I sent Oswald away. He was nearly seven. I thought the child could not help but be poisoned simply by breathing in this tainted home; that was why I sent him away. So now you know why he was never allowed to set foot in this house while his father was alive. No one knows what it cost me. You have indeed been sorely tried. I could never have borne it if it had not been for my work; for I think I can say I have worked--all the additions, all the improvements to the estate, all the useful innovations for which Alving was praised--do you think he had the energy to initiate any of these? No. And let me tell you this: I drove him forward when he was in his happier moods, and I had to bear the whole burden when he started again. And it is to this man that you raise a memorial there! You--you see the power of a guilty conscience. What do you mean? I always believed that inevitably the truth would come out, and that it would be believed. The orphanage would destroy all rumors and banish all doubt. You certainly made no mistake there, Mrs. Alving. I also had another motive. I did not wish my own son, Oswald, to inherit anything whatsoever from his father. You mean it was Alving's money? Yes; the annual donations I have made to this orphanage add up to the sum--I have calculated it carefully--the sum which made Lieutenant Alving, in his day, a good match. I understand it was the sum with which he bought me. I do not wish that money to come into Oswald's hands. My son shall inherit everything from me.

Are you back already? Yes. What--one to do outside in this incessant rain? My dear, dear boy! I hear we're about to eat soon. How splendid! He's just come for you, Madam; copies of the songs for tomorrow's ceremony, I suppose. Dinner is served, Madam. Good. I shall be along presently. Should it be white port or red port, Mr. Rosmer? Both, Mr. Engstrand. Yeah, very good, Mr. Rosmer. I better help her open the bottles. That's right. It's the copies of the songs. How am I going to make my address tomorrow with a clear conscience? You'll find a way. Yes, yes. There mustn't be any scandal. No. And now this long, loathsome comedy is over. The day after tomorrow it will be as if the dead never lived in this house. There will be no one here but my boy and his mother. Was--are you mad? Let me go! What was that, Mrs. Alving? What--what's going on? Ghosts! [Music] I'm glad you enjoyed it. P--are you joining us, Oswald? I think I'll go out and take a walk. Yes. Do stop draining now, Regina. Yes, Madam. Go down to the barn and help with the gardeners. Very well, Madam. [Music] He can't hear us from in there, can he? Not when the door is closed. Anyway, he's getting out. I'm still stunned. What has to be done? I don't know. I'm so sadly inexperienced in matters of this kind. I'm certain no harm has been done yet. No, Heaven forbid. Nevertheless, it is the most improper situation. It was only a casual whim of Oswald; you can be certain of that. Well, I have no experience in matters of this kind, but I'm sure she must leave the house, and at once. That's obvious. Yes, naturally. But where to? We can't just--where to? Home to her father? To whom did you say? To her God? No! Engstrand isn't her father, God! How can this be possible? Surely you must be mistaken. Fortunately, I know I'm not mistaken. In the end, Johanna had to confess everything to me, and Alving couldn't deny it, so there was nothing to be done but to keep the matter hushed up. Yes, I suppose that was the--the only thing you could do. The girl left my service at once and was given a considerable sum of money to keep her mouth shut. The remaining difficulty she solved for herself. When she got to town, she renewed an old acquaintance in Engstrand, let it be known, no doubt, how much money she had, and spun him some story about some foreigner or other who'd been here with a yacht that summer, and she and Engstrand got themselves married. Well, you married them yourself. But how can this be true? I remember clearly how Engstrand came to me. He was totally abject and accused himself most bitterly of having indulged with his betrothed in a moment of weakness, but he had to take the blame on himself. But to be so deceitful, and to me! I never would have believed that of Jacob Engstrand. I shall speak to him seriously about this; he can be sure of that. How much was it you gave the girl? One thousand crowns. Just imagine! To go and marry a fallen woman for a paltry thousand crowns! What about me? Do you think Alving was any purer when I accompanied him to the altar than Johanna was when Engstrand married her? The two things are utterly different. Oh, not so different! Oh yes, there was a great difference in price; a paltry thousand crowns against an entire fortune! But how can you compare two completely different situations? You were acting on the counsels of your heart and of your family. I thought you knew the direction in which my heart, as you call it, had strayed during that time. If I had known anything of the kind, Mrs. Alving, I should not have been a daily guest in your husband's house, anyway. I didn't follow my own counsels, you can be sure of it. Well, this much at least is certain, that your marriage was conducted in an orderly fashion and in full accordance with the law. Oh, all this talk about law and order! I often think that's what causes all the unhappiness in the world. Mrs. Alving, now you are being sinful. Yes, perhaps I am, but I can't bear being bound in by all these petty conventions. I can't; I must find my own way to freedom. What do you mean by that? I should never have concealed the truth about Alving's life, but I dared not do otherwise. And it wasn't only for Oswald's sake. Oh, I was such a coward! Coward! If people had known, they would have said, "Poor man! No wonder he strays now and then, after all his wife ran away from him." Perhaps they would not have been altogether unjustified. If I were a real mother, I would take Oswald and I would tell him the whole story, everything that I have told you. Have you forgotten that a child shall love and honor its father and mother? Let us not generalize so; let us ask rather, shall Oswald love and honor Captain Alving? Is there not a voice in your mother's heart which forbids you to destroy your son's ideals? Yes, but what about the truth? Yes, but what about his ideals? Oh, ideals, ideals! Oh, if I weren't such a coward! Don't despise our ideals, Mrs. Alving. Retribution will surely follow. Take Oswald, in particular; he hasn't many ideals, I'm afraid, but this much I have discovered: that to him his father is an ideal. You're right there, and you have awakened and fostered these ideas of his by your letters. I was driven by a false sense of duty, so I lie to my son year in and year out. Oh, what a coward, what a coward I've been! You have created a happy illusion in your son, Mrs. Alving. You mustn't regard that as being of little value. Hmm, I wonder. But I shall allow him any relations with Regina? No, no; that would be dreadful. If I thought it would make him happy and that he was serious--yes, what then? But that's impossible. Unfortunately, Regina isn't that type. What do you mean? If I weren't such an abject coward, I would say, "Marry her, or make what arrangements you please, as long as you're honest and open about it." God in Heaven! You mean a legalized marriage? What a shocking idea! It's absolutely unheard of! Oh, unheard of, did you say? Put your hand on your heart, Pastor Manders, and tell me, do you really believe there aren't married couples like that to be found in the country, as closely related as those two? I don't understand you. Oh yes, you do. You are thinking that, by chance, possibly--well, yes, alas! Family life is not--not always as pure as it should be. But in that kind of case one can never be sure; not absolutely. But in this case, that you, a mother, would want to allow your--I don't want to; I wouldn't allow it for anything in the world. That's just what I'm saying. No, because you are a coward. But if you weren't a coward--Great God in Heavens! What a shocking relationship! Well, we all stem from a relationship of that kind, so we are told. And who was it who arranged things like that in the world, Pastor Manders? I shall not listen to such questions from you, Mrs. Alving. You are not in the right spiritual frame of mind. But that you dare ask it--that is cowardly of you. I will tell you what I mean. I am frightened because there is in me something ghostlike from which I can never free myself. What did you call it? Ghostlike. When I saw Oswald and Regina in there just now, it was as if I saw ghosts. I almost think that we are all ghosts, all of us, Pastor Manders. It isn't just what we've inherited from our father and mother that walks in us; it's all sorts of dead ideas and all sorts of old and obsolete beliefs. They are not alive in us, but they live in us, and we can never free ourselves from them. They lie as thick as grains of sand, and we're all so horribly afraid of the light. Uh-huh. So there we have the fruits of your reading; fine fruits indeed. You are mistaken, Pastor Manders. It was you who first spurred me to think, and I thank and bless you for it. I--yes, when you forced me into what you call duty, when you praised as good and proper what my whole being rebelled against as something abominable, it was then that I began to examine the seams of your learning. I only wanted to pick at a single knot, but when I worked it loose, the whole fabric fell apart. Is this the reward for my life's greatest struggle? Call it rather your life's most pitiful defeat. It was my life's greatest victory, Helen; the victory over myself. It was a crime against us both, but I besought you, woman, saying, "Go home to your lawful husband," when you came to me and cried, "Take me; I am here." Was that a crime? Yes, I think so. Then we two do not understand each other; not anymore; never, never. In my most secret moments I have never thought of you except as another man's wedded wife. I wonder. One forgets so easily what one was like. I do not. I'm the same as I always have been. Well, well, let's not talk anymore about the past. You are up to your eyes in committees and commissions, and I sit here fighting with ghosts, both in me and around me. I will help you exorcise those ghosts; for, after all the dreadful things you've told me today, my conscience will not permit me to allow a young and unprotected girl to remain in your house. Wouldn't it be better if we got her taken care of--well, decently married, of course? It w--but for the present, at least, she must go home to her father's care. No, but Engstrand isn't her father, God! That he could conceal the truth from me! Who can that be? Come in! Begging your--No, Engstrand! It's you. There were none of the servants about. I took the liberty of giving a little talk. Yes, yes. Well, come in. Do you want to speak to me about something? No, thank you, m--it's the--the past I really wanted to have a word. Speak to me. Do you indeed? I would be so terribly grateful if that were possible. I ask--what is the nature of your question? Well, Pastor, it's like this: we've been paid off down there. Now, a thousand thanks, Mrs. Alving. And so I thought it would be only right and proper, if we have worked together so well all this time, I thought we might conclude with a few prayers this evening; prayers down at the orphanage. Oh, well, sir, if--if your reverence doesn't think it right then--Oh yes, indeed, indeed. Yes, but I've been in the habit of holding a service there myself of an evening. Have you? Yes, now and then; just a little edification, as the saying goes. But I'm a poor, humble man and don't have the proper gifts, and I thought--Things--Pastor Manders is out here now. Look here, Engstrand, first I must ask you a question: do you feel you're in the right frame of mind for such a meeting? Do you feel your conscience is clear and free? Go God forgive me; let's not talk about conscience. Yes, that's just what we are going to talk about. Well, well, what is your answer? Well, sir, man's conscience can be a bit of a beggar now and then; at least, to admit it. Now, will you tell me the truth? What's all this about Regina? Regina? Master Manders, leave this to me. Regina! Good Heavens! How you frighten me! Surely nothing's happened to--hope not. What I meant was, what's all this about you and--Ina? You call yourself her father, don't you? You know about me and poor Johanna. I want no more reparation, Engstrand. Your late wife told the whole truth to Mrs. Alving before she left her service. Well made up! No, did she really? So now you are unmasked! She promised and swore on the Bible! Swore on the Bible! No, she only promised, but very sincerely. And all these years you've concealed the truth from me? Me? Concealed it from me, who trusted you so implicitly? Yes, I suppose I have; I'm afraid. And have I deserved all this from you, Engstrand? Haven't I always been ready to assist you with help, both spiritual and material, as far as it lay within my power? Answer me! Haven't I? Things would often have looked black for me if it hadn't been for your reverence. This is how you reward me. You cause me to enter false statements in the parish register and withhold from me, over a period of years, the information you owed both to me and to the cause of Truth. Your action has been completely indefensible, Engstrand. From now on, I wash my hands of you. Yes, of course, sir. I--I--I appreciate that. How could you possibly justify yourself? But wouldn't it have been even worse for poor Johanna if the truth had been allowed to come out? I mean, just imagine if your reverence had been in the same situation as her. I am--Oh, good Heavens! I--I don't mean exactly the same situation, but--but suppose you, your reverence, had something to be ashamed of in the eyes of the world, as the saying goes. We men mustn't judge a poor woman too harshly, your reverence. But I'm not--it's you I'm reproaching. May I ask a tiny question? Yes. What is it? Isn't it right and proper for a man to raise up the fallen? Yes, of course it is. Yes. And isn't it a man's duty to stand by his word? Is--is indeed. Yes. But--well, that time--that time when Johanna fell into misfortune through the Englishman--or maybe it was an American or a Russian, as they called them--well, she came up to town, poor creature; she turned her nose up at me once or twice for--

She only liked to look at what was fine and handsome, poor thing. And I'm afraid I have this thing wrong with my leg.

Well, your reverence will remember how I ventured into the dance hall where foreign sailors were—inul and drunkenness and and excessive and and—when I tried to exalt them to start leading better lives.

I know the rans threw you down the stairs. You've told me all this before. Your injury is something you should be proud of.

Oh, I, I take no pride in it, your reverence, but what I wanted to say was this: so, so she came along and poured out all her troubles to me, and made weeping, nashing of teeth. I'll be frank with your reverence, it nearly broke my heart to listen.

Did it, my dear Engstrand?

Oh, yes, yes. So I said to her, this American is a vagrant on the sea of life, I said, and you have sinned, you poor fallen creature, but Jacob Engstrand, I said, has his feet firmly on the ground—uh, speaking figuratively, you understand.

I understand perfectly. Go on.

Yes, well, so that's how I raised her up and made an honest woman of her, so that people shouldn't get to know the want and way she behaved with foreigners.

Well, you acted very handsomely. The only thing I cannot understand is how you could bring yourself to accept money.

Money? I not a penny. But, oh, yeah, wait, wait a moment. Yes, yes, now I remember. Yes, your Hannah did have a few crowns, but I wouldn't have any of it. "F," I said, "f," that's common, that's the wages of sin, I said. We'll throw that wretched gold, or notes, or whatever, back in the American's face, I said. But unfortunately, he slung his hook and disappeared over the wild sea.

Had he, my dear Engstrand?

Oh, yes, yes. So your Engstrand and I agreed to use the money to bring up the child, and that's what happened. I could account for every crown.

This puts quite a different face on it.

Well, that's, that's how it happened, and I think I can say I've been a real father to Regina. Oh, as far as lay within my path. Unfortunately, I'm an ailing man.

No, no, my dear Engstrand, but this I can say: I brought the child up tenderly and was a loving husband to poor Johanna, and ordered my household the way the good book says. But it would never have entered my head to go along to your reverence in sinful pride and boasted, "For once, I too, I too have done a good deed." No, no. And something like that happens to Jacob Engstrand, he keeps quiet about it. I suppose that's not always the case, most the pity. But when I do go to see Pastor Manders, I have more than enough of wickedness and weakness to talk to him about. I said it just now, and I'll say it again: man's conscience can be a bit of a beggar at times.

Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand.

Oh, good Heavens, Pastor! No argument now.

B—and if I was to go down on my bended knees and beg your reverence's forgiveness—

No, on the contrary, it is I who must beg your pardon.

No, no.

Yes, indeed, and I do so with all my heart. Forgive me that I could ever have misjudged you so. And if there is any way in which I can show the sincerity of my regrets and of my goodwill towards you, your reverence—

Really? Do that most willingly.

Well, in that case, there's a real opportunity just now. With the little money I've managed to put aside from the blessed work here, I was thinking of starting a home for sailors in the city—you are—yeah, kind of refuge, rather like the one here in the—man of speaking—The temptations for sailors wandering on the shore are manifold, but in this house, with me there, it would be like them having a father to look after. I thought, what if you say to that, Mrs. Alving? My means are limited, God knows, but if someone could stretch out a helping hand—

Well, yes, let us consider the matter. Your project interests me deeply. But go along now and get everything in order and light candles, so as to make the place cheerful, and we'll have a little edification together, my dear Engstrand, for now I think you're in the right frame of mind.

Yes, I think I am. Goodbye, Mrs. Alving, and thank you for everything, and take good care of Regina, poor Johanna's child. Strange, feels as though she's become part of me.

Well, what do you have to say about that man now, Mrs. Alving? That was an entirely different explanation we were given.

It was indeed. You see how terribly careful one has to be in condemning one's fellows. But then it is a deep joy to discover that one has been mistaken. Or what do you think?

I think you are a great baby, Manders, and always will be. And I think I would like to fling both my arms around your neck.

Oh, no, no. Bless you with such impulses.

Oh, you needn't be frightened of me. You have such an extravagant way of expressing yourselves sometimes. But now—are—of—keep your eyes open for when Oswald returns. I'll be with you again presently.

Are you still at table, Oswald?

I was just finishing my—are—that Pastor Manders who left us now, he's just gone down to the orphanage.

Oh, dear, do be careful with that—lur—strong—keeps out the—won't you come in and talk to me?

I can't smoke in there, you know.

I don't mind cigars.

All right then, just one tiny block more. Where's the Pastor gone?

I told you, he's gone down to the orphanage.

Oh yes, you shouldn't spend so long at table, Oswald.

Oh, but I think it's so nice, Mother, come home—my mother's own table, in my mother's own dining room, eat my mother's own beautiful food. I, dear, dear, what else is there for me to do here? I can't work.

Can't you, in this weather? Not a glimmer of sunlight all day. That's the worst thing about it, not to be able to work.

Perhaps you shouldn't have come home.

Oh, yes, Mother, I had to. I ten times rather sacrifice the happiness of having you with me.

Well, tell me, Mother, does it really make you happy to have me home? Does it make me happy? Well, I think it must be almost the same for you whether I'm alive or not.

Oh, I—have you the heart to say that to your own mother?

Well, you managed so well to live without me before.

Yes, I have lived without you. It's true. [Music]

Well, I—m—it down on the—sa—with—oh, of course—oh, my dear, dear boy.

Mother, there's something I have to tell you.

Yes.

I can't keep it to myself any longer.

What? What is it?

I couldn't bring myself to write to you about it, and since I came home—what is he—yesterday and today I've been trying to forget, to escape, but it's no good. Tell me the whole story.

Well, sit still. I'll try to tell you about it. I've complained so much about how tired I, I felt after the journey.

You're not ill, Oswald? Sit still, just keep calm.

No, I'm not really—not really ill, Mother. Not what people usually call ill. Mother, spiritually broken, ruined. I should never be able to work anymore.

Oh, look, it's not true. It's not true. Never, never, never, never to be able to work anymore, to be dead while I'm still alive, Mother. Can you imagine anything so dreadful?

When did this terrible thing happen?

That's just what I can't understand. I've never lived intemperately, Mother. You must believe that of me. I've never done that.

I don't believe it, Oswald. And yet it's happened to me, this terrible thing.

Dear, dear boy. It's not possible. You're just overworked.

That's right. I thought at first, but it isn't that. Tell me the whole story, my child.

Yes. When did you notice it?

It was soon after the last time I'd been home and had gone back again to Paris. Began to feel the most violent pains in my head. Was mostly at the back of my head. It seemed as though a tight iron ring had been screwed around my neck and right through my head. Yes, first I thought it was the usual headaches I used to have when I was a child.

Yes, yes.

But I soon realized it wasn't that. Couldn't work anymore. Wanted to begin on a new painting, but it was as though my powers had failed me. Was—as though I was paralyzed. I couldn't see anything clearly. Everything went misty in front of my eyes. And then I sat for the doctor, and he told me the truth.

How do you mean?

Oh, he was one of the leading doctors there. I had to tell him how I felt. Then he asked me all sorts of questions which seemed to me to have absolutely nothing to do with it.

Yes.

I didn't understand what the man was driving at. And then he said, "You've been worm-eaten from birth." That was the word he used—"vermin."

What did he mean by that? I didn't understand. Asked him to explain more clearly than the old cynic at all.

What did he say?

"The sins of the father shall be visited upon the children." When I nearly hit him! What do you think of that? Of course, I assured him it was out of the question.

Do you think he gave in?

No, he stuck to his opinion. Was anyone—I brought out your letters and translated to him all the passages that dealt with Father. But then, then he had to admit he was on the wrong track. And then I learned the truth—the incredible [Music] truth. This wonderfully happy life with my comrades—I should have abstained [Music] from it. Had been too much for my strength. In other [Music] words, I have only myself to blame.

Oh, oh, no. You mustn't think that. There was no other explanation possible. He said that is the terrible thing—ruined for life because of my own folly. Everything I wanted to accomplish in the world—not to dare to think about—not to be able to think about it—to stop my life all over again and undo it all. Could have been something inherited, something I wasn't myself to blame for. About this—to have thrown away in this degrading, stupid, irresponsible way—one's whole happiness and health, one's future and life.

No, my dear, my blessed boy, things are not as desperate as you think.

Oh, you don't know. I would know, Mother, that I should cause you all this grief. I've often almost wished and hoped that you didn't care for me at all.

I—oh, my only son, the only possession I have in the world, the only thing I do care about. Of course, when I'm at home, I know, and that's one of the hardest things to bear. But now you know, and now we won't talk about it any longer. I can't bear to think about it for long, Mother. Get me something to drink.

Drink? What do you want to drink?

Well, anything you've got. Some cold punch in the house? You be nice, Mother. Don't be difficult now. I must have something to help me cope with these worries. How dark it is in here. This incessant rain, week after week, for months, sometimes never to see the sun, Mother. In all the years I've been at home, I don't remember ever having seen the sunshine.

Oswald, you're thinking of leaving me?

I'm not thinking of anything. I can't think of anything. I take good care not to.

Did you ring, Madam?

Yes, Regina. Bring in the lamp.

Very good, Madam. I've already lighted one.

Don't hide anything from me.

I'm not, Mother. Haven't I told you enough? And, Regina, you might bring us half a bottle of champagne.

Very good, Mother. That's the way I knew my Mother wouldn't let her boy go thirsty.

My dear Oswald, how could I deny you anything?

Now, is that true, Mother? Do you really mean it?

Mean what? That you wouldn't deny me anything?

What, my dear? Was—shall I open the champagne?

No, thank you. I'll do it myself. What did you mean just now when I said I mustn't deny you anything? Let's taste this first.

Thank you. Not for me.

Well, for me then. Well, tell me, Mother, I thought you and Pastor Manders looked so strange, quiet, at, at dinner. You noticed? Tell me, Mother, what do you think of Regina?

What do I think? Yes, isn't she splendid? You don't know her as well as I do. Oh, Regina spent too long at home. I'm afraid I should have brought her here to live with me sooner.

Oh, yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, Mother?

Regina has a great many thoughts.

Oh, what does that matter? I'm fond of her all the same, and I'm responsible for her. I'd rather that anything in the world happen than she should come to any harm.

Oh, Mother, Regina is my only hope.

What do you mean by that?

I can't bear all this misery alone.

You have your Mother to bear it with.

Yes, that's what I thought, and that's why I came home to you. But it won't work. I can see it. It won't work. I can't bear this life. Yet, Mother, I must live differently. That's why I have to leave you. I don't want you to see—

Oh, my poor sick boy. As long as you're not well—if it was just the illness, Mother, I'd stay with you. You're the best friend I have in the world.

I am—oh, down to—but it's all the remorse, the self-reproach, and then the fear—this terrible fear.

Fear? What fear? What do you mean? Don't ask me to describe it. I don't know. I can't talk about it.

Oh, what do you want?

I want you to be happy. More champagne? A whole bottle.

Oh, Mother, you think we don't know how to live here. Oh, Mother, isn't she splendid, the way she's made? It's so healthy and strong.

Oswald, let's talk calmly together. You don't know this, Mother, but I have done Regina a wrong, and I've got to put it right.

Oh, well—uh—a little thoughtlessness, whatever you care to call it—quite innocently, really. When I was at home last, I see—well, she asked me so often about Paris, and I told her this and that about the life down there. And I remember one day I happened to say, "Well, wouldn't you like to go there yourself?" Yes, but she blushed violently, and then she said, "Yes, I'd like to very much." Yes, well, of course, I forgot the whole thing. But the day before yesterday, when I asked her if she'd be glad that I'd come home so long—well, she gave me such a strange look, and then she said, "What's going to become of my trip to Paris?" A trip? And then I got it out of her that she'd taken the whole thing seriously, had been going around here the whole time thinking about me, and that she'd begun to learn French. Oh, Mother, when I saw that splendid, handsome, healthy girl standing there in front of me—well, I'd never really noticed her before, but now, standing there, so to speak, with open arms, ready to receive me—well, then I realized that in her I could find salvation, for I saw that she was full of the joy of life—the joy of life.

How could that help? I'm sorry I was so long. I had to go down to the center and fetch another glass. Regina, there's Mrs. Alving's glass, but fetch one for yourself.

Well, do you wish me to, Madam? Fetch the glass, Rina. Oh, the way she walks, with such purpose and—go—this must not happen. It's already decided. Surely you can see there's no point trying to stop me. Sit down, Regina. Sit down, Oswald. What were you saying about the joy of life?

Oh, yes, the joy of life. You don't know much about that here. I never feel it here—not when you're with me—not when I'm at home. But you don't understand that.

Oh, yes, I think I do now. Always the joy of life and the love of one's work—they're practically the same thing. But you don't understand anything about that either.

No, I don't suppose we do. What I mean is that here people are taught to believe that work is a curse and a punishment, and that life is a misery which we do best to get out of as soon as possible—a veil of tears.

Yes, and we do our best to make it one. But out there, no one feels like that. No one there believes in that kind of teaching any longer. They feel it's wonderful and glorious just to be alive, Mother. Have you noticed how everything I've painted is concerned with the joy of life? Always, always the joy of life—light and sunshine—a holiday—and shining, contented faces. That's what makes me afraid to be here at home with you—afraid.

What are you afraid of, with me?

I'm afraid that everything in me here will degenerate into ugliness.

You think that would happen?

I know it. Live the same life here as down there, and it wouldn't be the same life. Now I see.

Oh, what do you see now?

I understand for the first time. And now I shall speak.

No, I don't follow you. Shall I go?

No, stay. Now I shall speak. Now, my boy, you shall know everything, and then you may choose.

Oswald, Regina, and—profitable down there—assist with—s's home—of—his—reg—must go and help him.

No, thank you, Pastor. What, you here with a glass in your hand?

Oh—on—Regina is leaving with me, sir.

Leaving with you?

Yes, as my wife, if she so wishes.

Good Heavens! Isn't any of mine doing—or—she will stay here if I stay here. You terrify me, Mrs. Alving. She will neither leave with you nor stay with you. Now I can speak the truth.

No, you mustn't.

I can, and I will, and I shall destroy any ideals either of you would have been hiding from me, Mother. I am—listen! There, there are people shouting outside. What's going on? Where's that light coming from?

Your house is on fire!

On fire? Where's my hat? Oh, never mind. F—s—all—it—f—my shoulder—hope—ll—buildings—a—[Music] light—all burnt—burnt to the ground. It's still burning in the basement. Why doesn't Oswald come back? There's nothing left to save. Would you like me to go down and take him aside?

No, I'll go look for him myself. Listen to Mrs.—out in here.

Yes, sir. She's just this minute gone into the garden.

Oh, most frightful night I've ever experienced.

Yes, isn't it the most dreadful—tr—oh, don't talk about it, Miss Engstrand. I hardly even dare to think about it. But how can it have happened?

Oh, don't ask me, Miss Engstrand. Isn't it enough that your father—what's he done?

Oh, he's completely confused me, your reverence. Are you still pursuing me?

Yes. Well, God rot me!

Oh, good Heavens! But this is a terrible business, your reverence.

It is indeed. It is indeed. What? Well, it's like this: it all started with the prayer meeting. Fancy me being to blame for the pastor being to blame for something like this. But Engstrand, I assure you—but there was no one but your reverence—bucking around with candles down there.

So you keep saying, but I don't remember ever having a candle in my hand. And yet I saw it as plain as plain could be. Your reverence, take a candle, snuff it out with your fingers, and throw the wick straight down among the shavings. And you saw this?

Yes, with these eyes. That I cannot understand. It is not usually my habit to snuff out candles with my fingers.

Yes, it looked a little careless, I thought, but it can't be as bad as you say, can it, your reverence?

Oh, don't ask me. Of course, you haven't insured it.

No, no. I've told you—not insured. Then to go straight over there and set fire to it all!

Oh, good Heavens! What a tragedy!

Yes, you may well say that—that this should happen to a charitable institution which will—to serve the city as well as the countryside. The newspapers are not going to be very gentle with your reverence, I'm afraid.

It's just what I've been thinking. It's almost the worst part of it all—these dreadful attacks and accusations. Oh, it's too frightful to think about. I can't persuade him to come away from the fire. Are your—to Mrs. Alving?

Well, you won't have to make that speech after all, Manders. I'm only too happy to. It was all for the best. Nothing good would have come out of that orphanage.

You think not? What do you think? Nevertheless, it was the most terrible tragedy. We'll discuss it simply as a business matter. Are you waiting for the Pastor, Engstrand?

That's right, Madam. Well, sit down.

I'm happy standing, thank you. I suppose you'll be leaving with the steamer?

Yes, in about an hour. Would you be kind enough to take all those papers along with you? I don't want to hear another word about this now. I have other things on my mind, Mrs. Alving. I'll send you a power of attorney to take whatever measures you think fit.

I will only be too happy to shoulder that responsibility, although I fear the original purpose of the endowment will now have to be completely changed.

I appreciate that. Yes, I'm provisionally thinking of arranging for the Solvik property to be handed over to the parish. The freehold isn't without value. Always be put to some purpose or other, and the interest from the capital could be used to support some enterprise which could benefit the town.

As you please. It's a matter of complete indifference to me. Remember my home for the sailors, your reverence?

Yes, you have a point there. We should have to consider that possibility very carefully. Consider what? The hell—oh, good heavens! Of course, I don't know how much longer these matters are going to remain in my hands. Public opinion may force me to withdraw. It all depends on the outcome of the inquiry into the cause of the fire.

What are you saying? And one cannot possibly predict the outcome.

Oh, yes, one can. Don't I stand here, and isn't my name Jacob Engstrand?

Yes, yes, but—and Jacob Engstrand isn't the man to fail his blessed benefactor in his hour of need, your reverence.

But, my dear man, how—Jacob Engstrand can be likened to an angel of deliverance, as the saying goes, your reverence.

No, no. I really cannot accept—that's the way it's going to be. I seem to remember somebody taking the blame for another man's wickedness once before. Jacob, you are indeed a rare person. Well, you too shall receive a helping hand for your seaman's home—that you can rely on.

Well, shall we be off? Shall we two go together? Come and stay with me, and you'll live as tight as a yolk in an egg. Merry bye, Mrs. Alving. The spirit of law and order soon enter into your house. Goodbye, Manders.

Goodbye, my child. And if ever you find yourself in any trouble, you know where to find Jacob Engstrand, little Harv Street. And the house for wandering sailors will be called Captain Alving's Home. And if I am allowed to run it according to my ideas, I think I can promise you it will be a worthy memorial to him. God rest his soul.

What was that he was talking about? Just some home that he and Pastor Manders are going to find. They burn down just like this one. Why do you say that? Everything will burn. There will be nothing left to remind people of Father.

I too, I'm burning. You shouldn't have stayed down there so long, my poor boy. I think you're right. Oh, let me wipe your face—soaking wet.

Thank you, Mother. Aren't you—wouldn't you like to go upstairs and sleep?

I can't sleep. I never sleep. I only pretend to.

Oh, it'll come soon enough, my poor boy. You're really ill, Mr. Alving—ill.

Oh, shut all the doors! Oh, this fear that haunts me! Sh—now let me sit beside you.

Oh, yes, do. Oh, and Regina—oh, Regina must stay here. Regina must always be near me. Regina, you'll save me, won't you?

Save you? Well, when the time comes—

Oh, but Oswald, I'm here—you—Mother, you wouldn't do this for me, though? Really, you're the one who ought to—why don't you talk to me as though I were your friend, Regina? Why don't you call me Oswald?

I don't think Mrs. Alving would like it.

You may do so presently. Come over here and sit down now, my poor tormented boy. Now I shall remove that burden from your mind, you—Mother. All that anxiety and self-reproach. You think you can do that?

Yes, Oswald. Now I can. You spoke of the joy of life. That seemed to throw a new light on everything that has happened to me in my life. I don't understand your—

Oh, I wish you'd known your father when he was a young lieutenant, Oswald. He was full of the joy of life too. Know, and this happy, carefree child—for he was like, like a child then—had to live here in this small town where there was no joy to offer him, only diversions. He had to live here with no purpose in life, simply a position to keep up. He—

Could find no work into which to throw himself heart and soul; just keeping the wheels of business turning. He hadn't a single friend capable of knowing what the joy of Life meant; only drinking companions. Oh, mother! And in the end, the inevitable happened. The inevitable you said yourself what would happen to you if you stayed here.

Mother, you don't mean your poor father never found an outlet for his overwhelming Joy Of Life, and I'm afraid I brought no brightness into his home. You didn't; there taught me about things like Duty, and I sat here too long believing in them. In the end, everything became a matter of Duty—his duty and my duty—and I'm afraid I made life intolerable for your poor father.

Why did you know her, right and tell me about this until now? I never saw it as something I could tell you because you were his son. And how did you see it? Only that your father was depraved before you were [Music] born. And day in and day out I could think of only one thing—that Rina belonged here in this house as much as my own son. Regina! Yes, I know you both know. So mother was one of them. Your mother was, in many ways, a good woman, Regina, yes, but still she was one of—well, Madam, if you will allow me, I think I'd better leave at once.

Regina. Well, of course you must do as you please, but no, you belong here. Thank you, Mr. Alving. Yes, I suppose I'm allowed to call you Oswald now, but it's certainly not in the way I—don't, Regina. I haven't been open with you. I should say not. If I'd known that Oswald was all like this, now there can never be anything serious between us. No, I'm not going to stay here and wear myself out looking after invalids.

Oh, but not even for someone who is so close to you? A poor girl's got to make the best of her life while she's young; otherwise, she'll be left high and dry before she knows where she is. And I've got the joy of life in me too, Mrs. Alving. Yes, I'm afraid you have, but don't throw yourself away, Regina. Oh, what will be will be. If Oswald takes after his father, I wouldn't be surprised if I—I don't take after my mother. Tell me, Madam, does Pastor Manders know this about me? Pastor Manders knows everything. Well, then I'd better get down to the steamer as quickly as possible. The past is such a nice man, and I'm sure I have as much right to that money as he has—that awful Carpenter. I'm sure you're welcome to it, Regina. You might have brought me up like the daughter of a gentleman; it would have been more appropriate considering—oh, what the hell! I can still drink champagne with gentlemen, Regina. If ever you want a home, come to me.

No, thank you, Madam. A pastor will take care of me, and if things go really wrong, I know a house where I belong. Where is that? In Captain Alving's home for Sailors, Regina. I can see it—you will destroy yourself. Oh, rubbish! I—you—is she gone? Yes. I think it was wrong, all this. Oh, oh my poor boy! Has this news upset you very much? All this about Father, you mean? Yes, about your poor father. I'm so afraid it's been too much for you. What on earth makes you think that?

It came as a great surprise, of course, but I can't really feel it makes any difference. No difference that your father was so miserably unhappy? I feel sorry for him, of course, as I would for anyone, but—but nothing else—for your own father? Oh, Father, Father! I never knew anything about Father. I can't remember anything about him except that once he made me sick. This is terrible! Surely a child ought to love its father, whatever may happen. Well, even when a child has nothing to thank its father for, has never known him—do you really cling to that old Superstition, you who are otherwise so enlightened? You really think it's only a super—yes, it's one of those old truisms people hand down to their children—ghosts. Yes, that's not a bad word for it—ghosts, Oswald. Then you don't love me either? Well, at least I know you know me. Yes, but is that all? Oh, of course I know how fond you are of me, and for that I must be grateful. And you can do so much for me now that I'm ill. Oh yes, I can, also, can't I? I could almost bless your sickness for bringing you back to me. I see that now—you're not mine—I must win you.

Yes, yes—these are just empty phrases. You must remember I'm ill, Mother. I can't worry about anyone else. I've got enough worry thinking about myself. I should be patient and undemanding. I'm cheerful, Mother. He—my boy—I know. Have I freed you from all your anxiety and self-reproach now? Yes, you have. But who will take away the [Music] fear? What fear? Regina would have done it for the asking. I don't understand you. What's all this about fear and Regina? Is it very late, Mother? It's nearly morning; the dawn is beginning to show upon the mountains, and it's going to be a fine day, Oswald. In a little while you'll be able to see the sun. I should look forward to that. There's still so much to look forward to and live for. Yes, there is, OS, isn't there, even if I can't work there? Oh, my poor boy, you'll soon be able to work now you haven't all these oppressive thoughts to brood over. No, it was a good thing you managed to rid me of all those ideas. Once I've got over this one thing, Mother, let's sit down and talk, Mother. Yes, while we talk the sun will rise, and then you'll know, and then I won't have this fear any longer. What will I know, Mother? Didn't you say earlier tonight that there wasn't anything in the world you wouldn't do for me if I ask you? Certainly I did. And you'll keep your promise, of course, my—my dear boy. I have nothing else to live for only you. Yes. Well, listen then, Mother. You're brave and strong, I know that now. You must sit quite still while I tell you—but what is this dreadful thing? Now you mustn't scream—you—here, promise me that we'll sit quite still and talk calmly about it. You promise me that? Yes, yes, I promise. Only tell me. Yes. Well, all that about being tired and not being able to think about work—that isn't the real illness. What is the real illness? The illness which is my inheritance—that's in here. Oh, no! Oh, don't scream, Mother! I can't bear it. Yes, it sits in here, watching and waiting, and it may break out at any time—any hour—horrible! Keep calm! That's the way it is. It's not true! It's impossible! It can't be true! I had one attack down there in Paris; it soon passed. But when I found out what I had been—this raging fear began to haunt me, and that's why I came home to you as quickly as I could. So that's a fear? Yes, it's so unspeakably repulsive. Oh, if it only been an ordinary illness—something that would have killed me—because I'm not so frightened of dying, though I'd like to live as long as I can. Oh, you must, Osw! Yes, you must! This is so terrible and disgusting! It turns you back into a baby—you have to be fed—you have to be—oh, it doesn't bear thinking about! But your mother's here today. That's just what I won't allow. I can't bear the thought that I might stay like that for years—growing old and gray—and then you might die and leave me. It might not mean I die at once. The doctor said softening of the brain or something. I think that sounds so beautiful! I shall always think of cherry-colored velvet curtains—something delicious to stroke. What—all—and now you've taken Regina from me. She would have saved me, I know. Oh, what do you mean? Isn't there anything I wouldn't do to save you? After the last attack, the doctor told me that when it comes again—and it will come again—then there's no more hope. Oh, how could he be so heartless? As I made him tell me—I told him I had arrangements to make—and so I had, Mother. Do you see this? What's that? Morphine. Oh, give me that! I can't bear it! Well, you must bear it! If Reg had been here, I'd have told her how things were with me and asked her to perform this last service for me. I'm sure she would have helped me. Never! Yes. When the horror was on me and she saw me lying there like a newborn baby—lost, helpless, beyond all hope—Regina never would have di—she would have—she was so splendidly carefree, and she would soon have got bored looking after an invalid like me. Thank goodness Reg is not here. So now you will have to do this last service for me. I—who else? Your Mother. Exactly. I who gave you life. I didn't ask you for life, and what sort of a life have you given me? I don't want it—take it back! Where are you going? How—you get it—you're not going anywhere—and no—here, my child! If you have a mother's love for me, how can you see me suffer like this? Very well, I give you my word—you promise—if it becomes necessary—but it won't—it's impossible. Let us hope so, and let us live together as long as we can. Oh, thank you, Mother. Are you calm now? Yes. You've just imagined all these things, Osw. You've imagined them all. The suffering is being too much for you, but now you shall rest—as home with your mother—my own dear blessed boy! Point at anything you want and you shall have it—just like when you were a little child. There, there now! The attack is over. You see how easily it passed? And—ord—do you see what a beautiful day it's going to be? Bright sunshine! Now you can really see your home. Give me the son. What did you say? Son? Son, Oswald! How are you feeling? What's this, Oswald? What's this? Look at me, Oswald! Don't you know me? Son? Son! I can't bear this! I can't bear it! No! Where did he put them? Oh, yeah. Oh, no! No! No! Yes! No! No! [Music] h [Music]