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LIBRARY
PT 8861 eae 1890 Library

WUC
NORA;

OR, A DOLL’S HOUSE.

(ET DUKKEHJEM)

A PLAV

BY

HENRIK IBSEN.

TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN
. BY

HENRIETTA FRANCES LORD.
cw Edition, Revised.

ONLY AUTHORIZED AMERICAN EDITION OF THIS
TRANSLATION.

LIEY PUBLISHING HOUSE, CHICAGO, ILL.

Gauirrita, Fasran, OkEDEN AND WELSH, ' f

Newbery House, Charing Cross Road, London.
1890.
: Coprerent, 1890.

Lity Pusuisuina House.

- 6H

 
PUBLISHER’S NOTE.

To derive any real enlightenment from the writings
ofa great poet it is necessary to do more than simply
read the drama in which is portrayed distorted views
and false conditions of life. If there is on the part
of the reader a conception of what would be true con-
ditions, and a desire to reach them by putting away
the false, it becomes comparatively easy to catch the
underlying thought of the writer, for the true poet

recognizes the true in life and in all its relations.

Any help, therefore, to a right understanding of -

the poet’s thought will be welcomed by those who
seek the truest conceptions of lite, and all such will
be interested in the preface of this new edition of Vora
and Ghests, by Frances Lord, especially those who
have read with any degree of interest or profit her
other writings on subjects concerning spiritual growth
and power, as will also many others who have reached
a point in the soul’s progress where they can throw

as
PUBLISHER'S NOTE.

 

aside old opinions when they find them to be hin-
drances to further evolution.

Miss Lord was the first translator of these two
dramas,—the pioneer, in 1882, in introducing
Tbsen’s writings to the English-speaking public; she
is also the only person who has attempted to give any
solution, from the advanced standpoint of Spiritual
Science, of the problems with which they deal.
These views may or may not seem to the average
reader to be correct ones, but the honest student will
at least ask whether the false conditions and relations
of life which so many are trying to remedy may not
be due to false conceptions or interpretations, and
whether a truer view of life may not in many respects
be totally unlike the generally accepted ideas.

Cuicaco, ILL., June, r89o.
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.

A Doll's House has been a decade before the
public; yet criticism continues to rage around it.
This might be accounted for, by saying the subject
of Marriage is of universal interest, and any striking
exposition of it will serve.as a Iesson book. But this
is not the only reason Mora engages attention. The
topic has come up for final settlement, in the sense,
that the human race will never relapse into any one
of its many shades of discomfort and falseness: And
of this final settlement, /Vora, and any similar expres-
sions of sentiment, are signs, not causes.

Those who are grateful to Ibsen for writing the
play, have thanked me only too kindly for translating
it, ever since 1882, and for the introduction, in which
I arranged the thoughts of ‘Robinson,’ a distinguished
Swedish critic, because I thought his saying for us,
just as Ibsen does, the same things that we women
say for ourselves, was noteworthy. Many other noble
men know that happiness for men in married life
depends upon the freedom of women.

Criticism comes from (1) People who really
dislike progress, change, improvement; (2) people
who are timid about it and are sticklers for degree
and method. The obstructionists I leave to learn on
life itself, “The ship which will not learn by the
rudder must learn on the rocks.” Vora affects such
persons uncomfortably, because it makes them feel
searched and known. Verily, ,“‘ Zhou hast searched
me, and known me;”" by every passing event, every
trifle—even by a drama, perhaps read carelessly,
which nevertheless will haunt the memory. It seems
vi NORA.

 

a forestalling of the Day of Judgment, when people
expect to feel very uncomfortable; and they prefer
to put off the evil day as long as possible. But since
no day passes without our judging something, it 15
always ‘the Day of Judgment’; and whenever our
accounts have to be settled, we shall be asked whether
we shirked warnings, hints, the realities of life brought
before us.

I watched Miss Janet Achurch’s magnificent per-
formance of Wora in A Doll’s House,in London, July
1889. It was announced to be ‘translated by
William Archer.’ He has acknowledged in print
his debt to me as the original translator of Mora
and Ghosts, Appleton has republished Vora in
America, no copyright law protecting me, I am
content to leave all transgressors to that inexpensive
moment just referred to,—the Day of Judgment.

Mr. Besant’s imaginary termination of the story
dishonours every one concerned, as untruthful views
are sure to do. According to him, Helmer would
drink and Nora would write bad novels. Mr. Besant
should not think so badly of Helmer; and I hope he
will be told this by men whom he respects. I leave
them to settle their own account with him. Helmer
would never sink thus; it is a most unnecessary
assumption of Mr. Besant’s. And if his idea of
Helmer, the man, is so mistaken, it does not take
much ability to see that in assuming Nora would
write bad novels, he shows’ even less intuition. At
the worst, Helmer would dessicate ; becoming a mere
dried mummy, a prig. If he did improve, he would
become a fine man. But my heart sinks as I write the
words ; he was one of those who must wade through
a shallow ocean of second-rateness on their way to
what is clear and true. And would he tolerate Nora
at his side meanwhile ?

When I published my translation in 1882, the last
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. vii

 

thing which occurred to me was, that people would
assume Nora never returned to her home. Progres-
sive but timid minds often assume this. How can
they be so wanting in knowledge of human nature?

The Pall Mall Gazetie, ever brave in woman’s
cause, said in its literary jottings lately, that 4 Do//'s
Afouse was a story from real life—that Nora returned
when she had learnt her lesson, and has been at home
nearly twenty years. I have always felt the-play was
based on real life.

Another assumption is, that Nora thought herself
very wise. But Nora says plainly and humbly, “I
must try to become a human being; and, in my
foolishness and ignorance, a little solitude is what I
need.”

Some contend that Ibsen regards her as a model
wife, and wishes all wives to leave all husbands,
directly dissatisfaction arises. That Ibsen knew one
married woman might act like Nora and another quite
differently, no one could doubt, who regarded him as
a student of realities. But, fortunately, we have a
proof of this in the Lady of the Sea (1888). There
the husband is kind and indulgent; the wife only
needs to be told ‘you are free,’ and her nature turns
to him with passionate eagerness. Just so would
Nora have clung to Helmer, had he been the kind of
man, who kneeling down by her, would have said
gently, ‘‘ Love, when anything goes wrong between us,
some of it must be my fault; tell me what you think
it is.’ There are plenty of men who are at least as
good and sensible as this; and the Noras of the
world recognize them as real helpmates, not owners
or tyrants. Imagine Helmer a human, kind, intelli-
gent man. But then such a man would never have
let Nora build up a Doll’s House for their joint home.
Ibsen’s point is: “Given a man of Helmer’s character
and a woman of Nora’s, their home must be remodelle<
viii NORA.

 

before it can be built on a firm foundation.” If this
be all Ibsen claims to indicate, it is beside the mark
to say, that another married couple-would act differ-
ently ; of course they would. It is equally beside the
mark to say, ‘Nora and Helmer are not like anybody
I know.” This is very likely. Nora is a Norwegian
girl of middle-class life. She is not the wealthy young
woman of the best English or American society, who
has visited in large country houses, had a maid to
dress her hair, had quantities of offers, and hosts of
friends. Nor is Nora the serious benevolent girl, who
tilt marriage, employs her time usefully in a large circle
of relatives and friends. Nor is she the woman who
is very admirable, but ‘not quite a lady,’ like
Christina Linden ; who knows the world just as it is.
All these types get social education; Nora had none.
Nora is not what sensible mothers and aunts call a
well brought-up young lady. How should she be?
Ibsen does not bring forward a single relative on
Helmer’s side, and alludes to Nora’s deceased father
as the only kin she had. Nora was not rich enough
to visit in society much, after her marriage; and
Helmer discouraged her from even talking of the few
ties her school days had yielded her. Serious people
do not admire Nora; because her fibs—as about
eating contraband maccaroons and the greediness
implied—blind them to her sterling worth in resisting
help from Dr. Rank after his declaration of love; her
power of keepirig her painful secret about the loan
from Krogstad ; her untiring industry in her home.
Frivolous people do not admire Nora because of this
sterling worth ; it reproaches them. A serious sen-
sible woman, would never have left husband and
children ; but neither would she have forged a name
from good motives. No critics are so mistaken as
those who think Nora went because she was selfish,
A selfish woman never leaves her bread and butter;
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. ix

 

her respectable husband; her position, (just im-
proved by his appointment as bank manager). Nora
was absolutely unselfish, noble-hearted, and misin-
formed. Helmer was misinformed without being un-
selfish or noble-hearted. Nora went away from fear of
again harming those she loved by her ignorance; this
danger over, she would fly home. She would find some
work ; in three months she would long to be tossing
Emmy in her arms; in six months she would be home-
sick ; but she would resolve to hold out for one year ;
her idea of self-respect, purpose, industry would prompt
.that; by the time autumn came, she would be making
notches on a stick to count the days, and she would
come home of her own accord to spend Christmas.
The greatest difficulty would be with Helmer. Such
aman really likes a conventional woman for his wife ;
a woman who does and says just what others do and
say. He is perfectly sincere in his preference for
what is second-rate; and I am always sorry for him,
when he is married to a woman, who wants to be more
real, and to find realities instead of seemings. Life
would never run easily between Nora and Helmer,
because they do not desire the same things. Helmer
quite frankly wishes for Conventionality ; Nora with
equal frankness would wish for ‘real things’; only
to have friends she really valued, and only to spend
money on objects she and her husband really admired ;
not to spend for the sake of possessing just what other
people consider desirable. Nora would wish her
children to study according to preference, Helmer
according to custom. If Emmy disliked music, Nora
would let her learn drawing instead; Helmer would
fear Emmy’s ‘peculiar tastes.’ Nora perhaps dis-
likes the army as a profession; but would promote
Ivar’s adopting it, because she respects his tendencies
and wishes him to choose his own path. She could
not consent except on this principle, or in silence,
x NORA.

 

Helmer would be annoyed at her way of arriving at
her duty in the matter; and would long for a wife.
who would take the same view of the army as other |
people do, or who would at least say she did. Bob
would wish to go into business. Some divergence
would occur over that event. Helmer would incline
to paying the premium instead of finishing Emmys.
education. Nora, remembering her own half-taught |
girlhood, might plead for some other way of doing the
thing. And having tried self-effacement for eight years, .
she would never dare to solve her difficulties by act-
ing only ‘so as to please Torvald’; and she is too
generous and ‘real’ to suggest his effacing himself a
little to please, her. She would desire he should act.
only as he thinks right; and yet he would never go to
the bottom of things with‘her; or he might even try
to do so; but what he would fish up and present her
as a pearl of truth, would merely be a ‘‘ By the bye,:
you know, Jones was quite right the other day. He
said, ‘I find I come out all right when I do exactly
what Smith does.’ Depend upon it, my dear Nora,
there is sound sense in what Jones says.” Helmer
would really succeed best in life by acting much as
others do; he would feel truest to himself thus ;
happiest ; and prepared to learn‘from mistakes ; be-:
cause they would be made along a path his conscience
approves: Conventionality. He would then announce
things as ‘discoveries,’ which Nora’s intuitions’ and
love of principle had taught her years before; but he
would never see she had learned them by these
methods; nor that this was the cause of her quiet
manner on his announcing his ‘ discoveries.’

In 1882, when I issued the first large edition of
Nora, I had no counter-solution to propose for Dr.
Rank’s view on Heredity; but without saying a word
in challenge of it, I cannot issue the present one,
Now, however, the doctrine, “we reap as we sow.”
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. xi

 

and not only in one existence but in many, seems to
me truer than Heredity. Every soul on coming to
this world, brings with it its own possibilities of harvest.
‘ Attraction of similar tendencies’ accounts for pecu-
liarities when exhibited in a whole family. A useful
name for ‘harvest’ in this sense of evolution, is
Karma, the Indian philosophical name for it; and as
Ibsen’s drama Ghosts turns on Heredity, my preface
to it will be the proper place to. treat the doctrines
of Heredity and Karma.

A good deal of present day discussion on marriage
would gain in clearness and usefulness, if people knew
whence arises their increased disposition to discuss it
at all. That true marriage is a union of souls, hearts,
minds, has been often stated. This is an echo of a
deeper truth which has also been stated, but never quite
satisfactorily. The truest marriage can only take place
when the souls really belong to each other, werc created
to complete each other, are Twin Souls,or soul mates.

It is only the dullest minds who would not admit
our Age to be one of transition from some older
order to a new one. As a part of this transition, the
fountains of the great deep having been broken up,
certain restrictions upon human knowledge have come
to a natural end; many a soul in the Unseen World
is freé to seek its mate still on earth; many such
recognitions are attempted; many succeed, (the
degree of conscious recognition varies;) with the
result, that these divinely united souls radiate ideas
of what true marriage should be, and these ideas: are
caught up by thousands and echoed in their hearts,
And equally of course ‘the Enemy’ uses evil-dis-
posed persons to desecrate this holy truth, and
promote license within wedlock or outside it, alleging
the. attraction of ‘soul-union’ for what is only
common-place improper conduct—which is the last
thing ‘soul-union’ could possibly prompt.
xii NORA.

 

The union of the Twin souls in earthly marriage is
not a very common occurrence; and is not easy to
distinguish from any other happy marriage character-
ized by good feeling, loyalty, and courage. But where
the two really belong to each other, the world often
recognizes the fact with a very unexpected gleam of
perception. :

Regarding A Dol?’s House as a story of real life,
I would describe Mrs. Linden and Krogstad as twin
souls, Their life-struggle side by side would be full
of sweetness to them, and would purify both, until’
in old age they would know theirs was an eternal
marriage. Whether on earth or in the Unseen, your
twin may not be ‘perfect’ or ‘so good as you are’;
and if on earth, it may be, that under the discipline
of patience with your imperfect earthly partner, you.
are actually ministering to the one soul destined to’
share the rest of your evolution in endless future time.

Nora and Helmer were not Twin souls. But, like all
who have chosen each other in marriage, they owed
each other the best either had to give. Helmer gave
his best in working for Nora’s bread. Nora thought
she had given her best in borrowing money to save
his life; and when she found that was wrong, it was
still under the idea of doing the very best by her
husband and her children, that she left them for a
little while ; though, as she said truly, the duty to our
own soul, taught us by the conscience within each of
us, must always have the first claim as guide of action.

“ to thine own self be true,
And it shall follow, as the Night the Day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man,”
Frances Lorp,

Kensington, London,
March 1890. °
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN.

HENRIK InpsEN was born in Norway, March 20, 1828, and
lived there until 1864, when, in his distress that Sweden and
Norway would not help Denmark to resist Prussia, he wrote
scornful epigrams about his fellow-countrymen ; and since then
he has not been in Norway. He lived for some years in Dresden,
since 1878 has been chiefly in Rome, but has no settled home,

Of his earlier works, Catilina, Fru Inger, The Comedy of Love,
and above all, Rivals for the Crown, 1864, were those that chiefly
brought him into notice, until in 1866, Brand gave him a fame
that grew with Peer Gynt, Youth’s Bond, Emperor and Galilean
(translated by Miss C. Ray: S. Tinsley), Zhe Pillars of Society ;
1879 Nora appeared, and at Christmas 1881, Ghosts.

He has married a daughter of Mrs. Magdalene Thoresen, a
Norwegian poetess. He has a small literary pension from the
Norwegian Government, the rest of his income is derived from
his writings.

His long gray hair and whiskers make him look somewhat more
than fifty. He is short, but firmly and well built, so that he looks
taller than he is. The most characteristic points in his serious,
decided face, are his powerful forehead, which is remarkably
broad and high, a very Jupiter’s brow, and his delicate mouth ;
it has no lips, but shuts energetically in a fine line, and it expresses
inexhaustible will, as though some giant ‘resolve were for ever
being taken afresh. His small blue eyes almost disappear behind
his spectacles. His nose is quite Northern in its irregularity. He
speaks softly, moves slowly, and rarely gesticulates. His self-
command almost amounts to coldness; it is but the snow that
covers a volcano of wild and passionate power. .

The play now given us as Nora is called in Norwegian Zit
Dukkehjem. Toa public unused to Ibsen’s surprises, A Doll's
House is a misleading title ; the German translator seems to have
felt this too, and preferred to call his translation of the play Nora.
‘Whatever is written in Swedish, Norwegian, or Danish can be
read without a translator’s help in Norway, Sweden, Denmark,

and Finland ; and, as I learnt during my own residence in Stock-
xiv NORA.

holm, 1878-9, the cultivated homes among these ten millions of
people look to Ibsen as their great teacher. They do not always
like what he says, but they let him speak on. Such furious dis-
cussion did Nora rouse when the play came out, 1879-80, that
many a social invitation given in Stockholm during that winter
bore the words, ‘‘ You are requested not to mention Ibsen’s Do//’s
House!” The play’s firm hold on the Scandinavian mind has
been strengthened, rather than effaced, by his Ghosts (1881); and
how firm this hold is, a mass of criticism shows, as it continues to
pour from the press. In a series of essays called ‘ Questions of
the Day,’ is lésen and the Marriage Question, by ‘ Robinson.’
It explains Ibsen’s position iu ie worlds of thought and literature,
and in Scandinavian estimation so well, that I venture to give
much of its substance,

Marriage is still an unsettled problem. The Eastern poets
sing Woman a slave, the Western, Man enslaved by her. But
far-sighted spirits like Dante, reject both views, and sing Ideal
Love, a thought too precious for humanity to let it escape, when
once it reached human consciousness, Yet it is philosophers and
moralists whom Time leads to accept it, while ik poets, its first
leaders, ignore the truth that marriage involves human dignity,
responsibility, community, and mutual trust. It is to making this
truth clear that Henry Ibsen has devoted his poet’s gift. No
sooner does a great and popular poet do so, than we see how
little woman’s own voice has been feud in other poetry ; and we
feel thankful that a singer who can make himself gladly heard, is,
singing of freedom, openness, true and conscious, devotion, con-
science responsible to itself alike in man and-woman. Ibsen sees.
the world deluged by masculine qualities ; he approves them if,
by devotion to a distinct plan and its execution, they touch hero-
ism, otherwise he chases lovers of self mercilessly about with
scorn or laughter, He sees womanly qualities hidden, fled away,
or misunderstood. He does not construct some purely harmonious
circumstances, and show Woman attaining a seeming equilibrium,
and. becoming all that her nature is capable of. He either shows
her driven to crime or ec¢centricity by cramped or misdirected
development (as Nora was), or losing he womanliness by being
reared in a wrong state of society (like Helen in Zveperor and
Galilean) ; or finally he opens all the great gates of his poetry to
noble, pure-hearted, loving, disappointed women, who move
about among reckless men as the natural centres for conversion
and reconciliation, but either lack courage to seize the occasion,
or, if they-have much courage, happen to have such a pig-headed,
one-sided manhood to deal with, that the inspired woman, the
heavenly herald of nature and conscience, is trampled under foot,
or passed by, the man regretting it, but when it is too late,
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. xv

 

Such are most of Ibsen’s women. He considers they are to
be found everywhere, a latent force whose accession humanity
needs, and that his task is to release the Sleeping Beauty, as the
prince did in our childish fable. The thorny wood has grown
all round. Meanwhile, unwomanliness flaunts outside ; the thorns
are blooming. Men dream away life amid this injury to woman-
hood ; at any rate they forget to break their way in to reality ;
they are ready for any deed rather than that. Ibsen approaches
the thorn-girt home; he knows that every expression crushes
thousands of conventionality’s roses ; and on his plain but trusty
sword are these words only: Love and Understand. Expanded,
the words mean—The union between two people is. only true
according as they love and understand each tet, in thought,
feeling, and will, tasks of duty and sources of joy ; and are con-
sequently able to fight life’s battles, bear its pains, and enjoy its
glory together ; and this by having directed, forwarded, and freed
each other’s development.

Renowned as Ibsen has long been, it was Nora (1879, during
a few months’ journey round Europe) that procured him the title
* Woman’s Poet,’ because it threw a lightning flash over all his
past writing. «

To see Ibsen’s position as a dramatist, we ought to glance at
the history of the stage, and especially atthe French stage, which
has influenced all other dramatic writing for the past 150 years,
and then we shall ask why Ibsen passes by and turns away from
something by which Frenchmen produce their greatest stage
effects.’ That class of women to whom novels and plays have
been giving complete publicity year after year, and who are very
conspicuous in the world, are almost excluded from the great
Northman’s works. While French dramatists and their disciples
are never weary of depicting these beings, —who have nothing of
woman but her outward enchantment, whereby they rule Society's
life, and are like a pest in its midst,—Ibsen has worked out but
one such figure, Helen in the Emferor and Galilean, and he
chastises her as only the world’s greatest poets for the stage have
dared to chastise her like before him. Through Ibsen, as through
Shakespeare, we get a striking impression, that the one absolutely
unpoetical thing in humanity is to be born to develop through
struggle and change into a human being, and yet to will to have
one’s influence in life only as being a beautiful animal.

Other poets,—modern Frenchmen, and Swinburne even more
than they, —may show by the strongest language, that they hald
this same view, and how every such woman exists but as an injury,
a sort of scar on humanity’s living organism ; but all their words
only increase her power, and she knows this only too well.

Under our existing social conditions Silence is the only thing
which can possibly lessen her death-bringing power ;—that people

.
xvi NORA.

 

should find a world-renowned poet, who knows how to touch all
the fine chords of ideality, and at the same time is wide awake
to all that goes on around him, simply sets her aside, wholly
ignores her, or makes her a mere listener, puts her outside the
real action of the poem, and in the same position as a listless
and ignorant person occupies during brilliant conversation among
intelligent people ; so that the reader or the onlooker is obliged
to ask himself, how a being thus spiritually defective could ever
have got a place amid the awakened life of human work and
human will.

Thinking Frenchmen seem to wish to treat such women net as
exceptions to womanhood, but as characteristic of it ; but whether
the woman be cunning or simple, coquette or prude, she never
arrives at any development through the action of the piece, and
there is nothing to show whether she will end in being like her
surroundings, or be educated by life into real womanhood. Ibsen,
on the contrary, handles the question of development seriously,

. as being for woman the question of awakening in the end to being
able to love devotedly and really.

It is not only as an idealist, that Ibsen knows this is the
highest thing ; he knows as a realist, as a friend to the modern
philosophy of development or ‘evolution,’ that every return to
an earlier or ruder view of life, when a more human one has
already entered the general consciousness, is unnatural, With
these two convictions, he plans his work and carries it out; he
feels he is the messenger of nature and the spirit ; and therefore,
amid the moral anachronisms in the rest of European poetry, he
bursts in like a storm from the North to clear the air. So far as
he is concerned, he will contribute nothing to justify antiquated
habits of thought.

Ibsen considers that the womanly life which is available for
dramatic purposes,—all the conditions for passionate action
among woman’s virtues and sins, together with the events arising
out of them,—are different from what they were in past times,
because the sort of influence it is now natural for her to strive
after, is different.

‘Woman of course exercises influence in all possible ways ; but
if it be not that of a free and loving being, it drags down; it is
an influence of somnambulism, death, and retrogression, a return
to the Oriental idea of the relation between the sexes, according
to which it is a merit for her to have no soul.

Against this now antiquated, animal view, whether on its
rere or its unrespectable side, Ibsen wages ceaseless war,

«and with a strategy that he has devised for himself. At any rate,
he has turned his back on the French method which has been so
industriously copied.

All women who willingly or unwillingly are part of the con-.
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. xvii

 

federacy for maintaining the exclusive responsibility of man’s
qualities in the world, all women who thus consciously. or un-
consciously, are foes to woman’s development, and, if they try to
have influence, try to have it 11 some other, and therefore some
unnatural way,—Ibsen disposes of summarily: in Princess Helen
and a few others, And he considers he has then got rid of the
whole brood.

‘But the richest streams from thé royal veins of his poetry flow
towards the other women, who are natural, fresh, self-deceived ;
who desired development, but did not, as a rule, find circum-
stances ripe enough to give it them ; who were thus cheated out
of life ; who were alone in their day, or even before their day.
He considers that he has a good opportunity for doing this, even
when he is handling the great historic forces of the world, religious
and other grave matters ; his reason presumably being, that he
considers these great things can never be settled without one half
of the human race.

It is, then, marriage in its widest sense, the common work of
man and woman, which is the question of questions to the.great
poet ; the question which involves the final untying of every knot
of difficulty, or at least the question whether or no we are to
realize the idea of our race. ;

Nothing is justifiable in. man or woman which is one-sided.
Tbsen’s plays show what ruin the Furies of one-sidedness can
work, in the absence of harmonious understanding between man
and woman. Ibsen views the relation between the sexes as the
ultimate cause our reason can trace for all the unloveliness our
race has inherited. This unloveliness may have more remote.
causes ; and he suggests these infinite questions, but without
believing he can get incontestable answers to them, as he believes
he can about marriage.

A reader who from nature or teaching, inclines to the Oriental
view of the sexes, will find Ibsen’s writings merely ‘destructive’
and ‘negative.’ Our examination will lead us, however, to see,
that his poetry is more constructive and positive than any other
of his time ; for to say that, for us human beings, a wrong ylation
’ between the sexes is the visible reason for all that is urflovely,
is the same as saying, that beauty, or the realizing the idea of our
race, is much nearer to us, more natural, more possible, than we
could otherwise dare to believe.

The contempt for women associated with Don Juan’s name has
given place to another story, also a medizval one, that of Venus
and Tannhduser, where woman is the leader astray ; and just now
this is the only story which is applied in dramatic writing. Possibly
some poets fancy that they do woman honour thereby, so far as
her sex may be said to exercise a sort of right of chastisement
for centuries of hampered development. The poison does not

B

. \
xviii NORA.

 

consist in our awakening to the consciousness, that we possess
senses as well assouls. That consciousress is exactly what a poet
should rouse and help to set in order; he is the only person
really qualified to do it. The poison consists in getting our
natural dislike at all lessened towards the Venus and Tannhiauser
‘story, and the representation of our nature underlying it, whose
meaning is a thousand times more lowering to all that woman
means in this world, than any told of Don Juan. For when that
story had done its worst, it had but expressed the dishonour of
some one woman. The Venus story disgraces the whole sex, and
does it through a woman. :

And the most refined, surest, most weakening poison of all,
consists in regarding such scenes as living pictures, where no
historical consequences of action appear, or rather no conse-
quences of any sort ; but where the events are a joke, and the
end a joke, ard the whole a mere amusement, a cannibal feast,
where the actresses are crowned with roses.

There is not-a drop of this poison in Ibsen’s poetry. This
should not be forgotten, in reckoning up the essentials, whenever
his title ‘ Woman’s Poet’ is in question ; for there is no mistaking
its meaning in an author so powerful as he is; it cannot arise
from any want of power to choose or manage material. It means
neither more nor less than that Ibsen will not depict a woman
using power, when this power is based on hampered develop-
ment ; he considers that idea has had its day, and must now be
consigned to the tomb; though in all his plays he allows for
difference of hisiorical period, and for individual strength or
weakness, :

Ibsen’s women are generally beings with a power to accom-
sae an entire and distinct task in life, such women as, when
ife at any time offers them a share in action, put their mark on
it, in the same way as women like them will, when more sensible
manners shall prevail in the world, and earth’s face grow young
once more, with springs of blessing which are now sealed up.’
Even the wives who were not their husbands’ choice, and there-
fore never had anything of a real wife’s lot, even the disappointed
old maids or the spoilt girls, do their best in their distorted
position ; when a moment for action or liberty comes, they show
that their heart is still in the right place, even though it be not a

wholly fresh, courageous heart.

And of the powerful women, who pioneer their own way, and
whose career is easier to follow, because it is more dramatic, it
may be said, that their very crime does but show the obverse side
of the devotedness which could have made them thorough women.

The strength of Ibsen’s drawing of men’s character has never
been questioned ; men recognize past times and themselves through
them ; zcr can these impressions ever be forgotten. But these
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. xix

 

chiefly negative representations are not his most beautiful. His
most beautiful things are his positive pictures of womanhood, and
they only are (like Shakespeare’s) clearly marked and completely
carried out. The, friendly, hopeful light they shed, only strikes
our eyes, perhaps, when thrown into a strong contrast with the
view man has hitherto held as to the position of the s-xes. The
poet has cut his way right through the thorny wood, to the
dwelling where womanliness is to be found. After that, it
depends upon each man, whether he will follow the path, and
try to raise the newly-roused woman to full consciousness.

The end of the story of the sleeping wood Ibsen leaves to
the reader. How he has carried it out, we know now; and how
his own way is to show woman respect by his poetry; how
cautious, how intensely modest he is, how manly his konesty is,
how artistically chaste, how free from all sentimentality, all flowery
language, all patronizing approval. Ibsen’s method is not to get a
chorus, but to secure silence and transparent air round his object.
Ile waits, like a believer, rather to get to know something than
get to say something, when by one great poem after another he
carefully opens the way to the fresh new forces in humanity:
Woman.

Ibsen considers that it is from man’s side that the greatest
hindrances come to the realization of marriage on earth ;—unity,
positive purity, complete oneness of life and work between man
and woman ; but that woman increases man’s difficulties in getting
into the right way, because she does not understand his tempt-
ations, and has not learnt to cherish a noble respect for his fight.

Man has inherited more than woman has, of the disordered
instincts which result from all false marriage, in countless previous
generations. The physical and spiritual laws are yet unknown
which enable heredity to give this different stamp to the two
sexes, and thus a great difference in the difficulties of life’s
problems. How the matter actually stands is, on the contrary,
plain to every one; and also that even the womanly woman
will contribute to man’s fall, while our present social ideas are in
force. She does it from want of courage. But the results of an
action may be equally great, whether it was intentional or uncon-
scious. The momentary, unconscious crime is often a result of our
not being developed enough to face the task from which we shrink.
Whole hosts of such actions or omissions file through the world
in silent darkness; and people who prefer that man should
be left in his undeveloped condition, take pious comfort from
thinking that these evils arise without any blame to the person
who set them going. If only no one can be made personally’
responsible as the cause, they think the evils can be borne with
meekness, and they accustom themselves to calling them ‘natural’
evils. No small part of the poet’s task is to rouse men from this
|

xX NORA.

 

opiate comfort. He does it, not by denying the existence of
these evils, but by painting them in all their far-reaching conse-
quences, and making all men collectively responsible for them.
The poet, like the thinker, does not consider, that it is a part of
the world’s scheme, that it is out of evil good should arise ; but

_knows, that it is we ourselves who futilize our common life ; and

therefore he regards it as no crime to disturb us in our sleepy
or pious disregard of bad conditions and false views of life. He
sees that the struggle against evil is quite serious enough, without
our refusing our support to good, by retaining habits which uncon-
sciously and irresponsibly work evil. He believes, in short, that
the full development of all healthy forces can only lead to good.

The trivial social view against which Ibsen protests is, that for
two to become one and blessed is a mere dream, but that marriage
is something practical; that while parents alone chose for their
children, marriage was on too narrow a basis, but that the happy
mean has been found, now the approval of all relatives and friends
is sought. Against all such shallowness and cynicism, Ibsen
protests, that human passions cannot be controlled by locks or by
opiates, and that the only possible help is for passion and duty
to go the same way. .

There are two ways of working for reform: the politician
waits and steers his course ; the poet compromises nothing. To
on ie these two ways, let us take an example from the physical
world.

Human beauty is an exception, whereas it should be the’rule,
People set to work to attack wrong clothing and food, bad habits
at home and at school. Doubtless all this is in the right direction ;
and some areconvinced. But one day, by accident, one of those
who have listened and assented, opens a book of engravings from
Greek sculpture, and seeing perfect beauty, he learns more from
that single glance, than from all the indirect working of sanitary
teaching. He has seen what beauty looks like.

The poet’s work gives a similar discovery of inner beauty or
moral life. Some of the clearest light Ibsen has so far shed on
marriage, we get from Vora. The problem is set in its purest
form ; no unfavourable citcumstances' hinder the working out of
marriage ; nor does the temper of Nora or Helmer ; both are
well fitted for married life, and everything points to their being.
naturally suited to each other. The hindrance lies exclusively
in the application of a false view of life, or—if some insist it once
contained truth—a view which Western peoples have out-lived.
When Helmer said he would work night and day for his wife, his
were no empty words. He had done it, he meant to doit; he
had been faithfully working for eight years, and there is no sign
that he meant to cease. His happiness lay in Nora’s being

unruffled. Nor would he dream of curtailing what Ae considers
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. xxi

hex wiles freedom, z. é, the happy play of her imagination. He
would deprive Her but of one thing—reality, How could he
claim to be a ‘real man,’ he would say, if he gave it to her?
And he so far succeeds in unfitting her for action, that when she
takes upon herself to meddle in realities, she immediately com-
mits acrime} He gives her everything but his confidence ; not
because he has anything to conceal, but because she is a woman.

Thousands who adhere to society’s usual view of a right life
between man and woman, express it by saying their home is
‘like a doll’s house’ ; others, more serious, mean that they are
glad to see a woman cosy and comfortable in this hard world.
Some express disapproval -by saying, “‘ Helmer went too far ; if
he had given Nora a cookery-book instead of a tambourine all
would have been well.” Others say, ‘“‘If Nora had but hada
nice ordinary woman for her friend, instead of that knitting book-
keeper, Mrs. Linden, all would have gone smoothly, even the
loan from Dr. Rank, which a little tact would have turned into
a charming concluding scene.”

The only reply to all these is to ask them to read Vora through
carefully once more, when they will see for themselves all the
conditions for a moral marriage laid down. They may be
summed up in the one word, Love. But at present Love is an idea
to which no clear meaning attaches. Love presumes youth as a
tule, but is not the same thing as youth, or even as youth with
warm and mutual liking into the bargain. Youth is a glorious
thing, but it has its own dangers ; ant the chief of them is self-
deception. It is only too easy for two young. people to rock
themselves in dreams of bliss without real love, in which case all
relation between them is according to Western notions immoral, —
a point to which marriage makes no difference whatever. Love
is confidence ; and Mrs. Linden and Krogstad, shipwrecked folks
as they were, had better prospects of it, in their union, than Nora
and Helmer had, because they meant to live in future with mutual
understanding. For marriage is really a state of being awake to
life and activity ; at least nine-tenths of it is active ; and every
piece of activity from which either mate excludes the other,
is a piece of robbery from the marriage winnings or the mutual
development marriage is intended to bring about for both, and
therefore for humanity ; quite apart from whether the activity
itself fails or succeeds, It will generally be found, that those
who dislike Mora are those whose view of marriage the play
utterly destroys ; while those who like the play, are those who,
with Ibsen himself, would rejoice with all their hearts, to see that
past ideal of marriage crushed, against which every word in Vora
quietly strikes a certain death-blow. ;

If you lose sight of the play’s great human interest, you come
to petty considerations ; such as whether Nora had a really large

 
xxii NORA.

 

nature and Helmer a stupid one; or that Ibsen means very little
in it after all ; or as to the effect it is likely to have in making
foolish young people neglect their duties, and turn from Chris-
tianity to Nihilism.

A poetical work reveals an idea, a truth which has a perfect
right to its place among the truths of the world ; a truth which
is so permanent and indestructible, that if the time has come for
that truth, it cannot be injured by neglect, or evaded or turned
aside, though he who attempts to injure it, may thereby injure
and destroy himself. A perfect poem sets forth an idea perfectly.
Either Vora is not a poetical work, or at any rate not a perfect
one ; or else by means of the idea it sets forth, it is perfectly easy
to find our way into every corner of the play, and get a clearer
and deeper knowledge of it, than would be possible from, e.g. an
historical essay. On the other hand, with anything less than this
idea, it is impossible to do justice to the play as a whole, or to
any of its organic parts.

The idea in Nora is: the object of marriage is to make each
human personality free. However incontrovertible this may be
when laid down as an axiom, does that confer the power of giving
it expression in real life, steering one’s way among all the diffi-
culties of deceit, inexperience, etc.? Doubtless not ; but the
poet’s work tells us, that until the relation between man and
woman turns in this direction, the relation is not yet Love. This
is the idea in Vora,‘ freed from all side issues, and no other key
will unlock it.

It is of course possible to find one's way through schematic
plays, products of a weaker time than ours, without grasping the
main idea. But in our realistic art, when people speak the
language of their own passions and prejudices, we could never
reach the main idea through the various details, in so many ways
may an individual utterance be taken. The poet does not
create ideas; as a rule, he can hardly be said to discover them ;
in most cases, they have already become human property, as
it were, amongst a few of his most thoughtful and cultured
contemporaries. But it is the poet’s art which brings them to
light ; he communicates them to millions. What is new seems
dumb, while its spokesmen are the philosophers, statesmen,
Priests, moralists, critics, sociologists, or publicists. It is as
though unsaid, till the poet says it; when he has spoken,
humanity has spoken ; the thought is born on the lips of all, and
it is for the simple reason, that he cannot give it complete utter-
ance until the hour has struck, and humanity has got so far, that
the new thing is said from necessity.

Some people consider that Mora shows the exaggeration of
genius, and not the beautiful, balanced revelation of a newly-
reached awakenedness in our moral conscience ; others admit that
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. xxiii

 

the Oriental ideal of marriage must be given up, but ask why Mora
ends with a breaking off, and not a warning? Nora’s own words
to Helmer give the answer ; but she speaks so like and so unlike
the old morally unconscious being, whose development we have
been following step by step, that we are unwilling to recognize her
words in their full meaning. Perhaps it could be philosophically
demonstrated, that to say this does her great injustice, the same
injustice as she complains her father and husband did her; no
one will ever begin to treat her as a human being ; no one shows
honourable and real respect for her own responsibility ; and she
has the same right to it asa man has. Perhaps all this could be
proved, but feeling is only convinced by feeling or by reality.

Let us then construct another ending to Vora. Let us suppose
that the doll’s house does not fall to pieces, but that Helmer

“keeps his oid delusion as to Nora’s being a weak creature. There
is no doubt, that he would act exactly as he spoke; he would
forgive her; and, since the time for education had begun, he
would be a most careful schoolmaster. Nora would take no step
without his help ; she would be just as much tied and bound as
before, with no will or conscience of her own.

He says, ‘‘I have power to become another man.” She
replies, ** Yes, when your doll is taken from you.” She is
probably right ; but it is certain that unless it happens, this
loving husband, the faithful, and, as some would say, the
‘morally’ loving man, will never change, never for a moment
come near guessing what morality in love really is: the effort
to make the beloved one free, awakened, responsible, true, pure-
hearted, noble, and strong ; instead of enslaving, and making the
beloved dependent, irresponsible, double, needing help, slavish-
minded, and clinging. Helmer,—who has such an intense wish
to be a patron, and has such an artificially developed gift for
patronizing,—must continue to believe he possesses at least one
being destined for liberty, conscientious life, and personality, as
his private slave, who is favoured by partiality, ard shielded
wisely, tenderly, and chivalrously. He will be sure to go on in
the belief, that there is at least one fellow-creature, who has no
will but his, even if outside home’s shelter he is often tried, as he
probably will be, by painful miscalculation in such matters ; ¢. g.
if the Bank statt were to be ungrateful for his fostering care of
them, and his humane attempt to absorb their personality in his
own. The ‘doll,’ the dream-creature, to whom he gave Nora’s
shape, is not to be taken from him ; he is to be able to go on
hugging that untrue view of half-humanity to his broad breast,
just as a child hugs its doll. He is to suffer much, because he is
an intelligent and sensitive man, but he is not to suffer in that.
way, by having his eyes opened to what Nora is: Woman, or
the woman who should have been the angel of freedom to him.
xxiv NORA.

 

But if this constructed ending to the play be rejected, surely a
happy one of some sort could be found? A novelist’s mouth
must be watering to make Helmer lose his money,—e. g. by
Krogstad working him out of the Bank,—and then Nora is to
work for him and win his love. But we know that Nora has not
this sort of ascendancy in development, nor can have, with the
education life has so far given ker. Torvald’s illness did not
reveal them to each other, nor did eight years’ struggle with
poverty. Ibsen has intentionally barred that outlet for us. The
struggle would only set Nora’s energy in motion, till she found
it was praised like a good child’s task, but not with respect, not
with humanity’s charter of freedom—open, high-minded, devoted
trust. When she saw that that ‘miracle’ did not come, she
would grow weary. And garlanded slavery under poverty’s roof
would be no better, but rather worse, than it was under the roof
of prosperity.

In all trials common to both, Helmer would do his duty, pre-
serve his equilibrium, and remain just what he always was. For
he is a ‘gentleman’; let us give him full credit for that ; but he
is not a real man, and years would but mark this more clearly.
His principles would dry up into mere maxims, his duty, honour,
taste, and judgment into routine ; till he ended in being one of
those faultless persons, with whom no one would dream of ex-
changing ideas on any subject, great or small ; but who, on the
contrary, by tacit understanding, are listened to with a respectful
smile, when they are so obliging as to communicate any view they
happen to hold.

Some are ready to agree: ‘‘ We never were deeply imbued
with belief in Mr. Helmer’s ideality ; but why did Nora run
away in such haste? We cannot see that she gained anything,
poor creature, or that her little children did, by losing her motherly
care.” Let us see if we can justify the mistake with which they
thus charge Ibsen. Their words imply, that the story of the
forgery, the agony of mind during Chnstmas week, the explan-
ation between husband and wife, were a mere accidental dis-
turbance ; ‘that in a week it would all be forgotten, as Helmer
says, and buried in a month or two. At first, no doubt, Nora
would be merrier and more docile than ever, and Helmer fonder
of his wife than even in the days when their home-life first began,
But as the weeks went by, Nora would be neither her present
nor her former self. As the memory of the great day faded, a
Nervousness would creep over her, such as Helmer never dreamt
of. Either she would ask his opinion every other minute, evidently
to get rid of some secret restlessness ; or without asking it, she
would be found undertaking things which in the old fonder days,
it would never have occurred to her to attempt alone. And if
Helmer did not answer her questions, she would cry ; and if he
LIFE OF HENKIK IBSEN. xxv

 

quietly expressed his surprise at his wife’s taking her own course,

she would break out into wounding assertions, always ending with

he one which decided him to despatch Krogstad’s dismissal ; that
e is petty.

Helmer would now begin to find it is high time to fulfil his
promise of leaving the stage of play, and devoting himself to
that of education. He adds that occupation to all his others, in
an orderly way, and with the great power of getting through
work which we know him to possess. He would try first one
thing and then another. That Mrs. Krogstad is not the most
suitable companion for Nora, would be his earliest discovery in
his work of reformation. Result : Nora sometimes really avoids
Christina, at others—as often as possible—contrives to meet her
without Torvald’s knowing it. She wants to tell her daily hopes
and troubles to the industrious, sympathetic woman who was her
friend in childhood; and all the time she contrives to appear to
her husband as desiring no society but his. The attempt to be
Will and Conscience to another shows its usual results : deception,
hypocrisy, crooked ways, duplicity, loss of trust, absence of ease,
joy, and healthiness in daily intercourse, and a habit, which
seems to have taken root very quickly, of covering the abyss with
artificial liveliness.

Let us suppose, however, that Helmer makes himself into a
domestic school inspector of Nora’s ways with the children, and
points out, that if she is to do her duty by them and have time
for him too, she must shop less, and spend less time with her
dressmaker. Nora would try; but some day or other, in the
middle of one of his nursery inspections, questions would burst
from her lips, such as, What is skill with children? How much
* self-control’ and ‘method’ is to be expected from them, without
sacrificing their individuality? and, Wat things ought one to
pretend not to see? ,

Helmer wonders when his discoveries in this strange woman’s
nature will come to an end, and where she can have got this
new barrier from; which hinders husband and wife from their
common work,

Such signs of self-guidance touch the most sensitive point in
his view of life, as they always have done. We can hear him
say, as he did once before, ‘* Now we'll put an end to this, once
and for all.”

He is not eager about it ; he wishes to spare her, so far as
possible. He says little ; but what he does say, so oppresses
Nora, that she loses what little pleasure she ever took in the
development of Ivar, Bob; and Emmy. But when a person like
Nora once gets frightened, there is an element of rebellion in it ;
feeling in the dark as she is after self-dependence, when she may
not create something, she must at least destroy.. So at one time,
xxvi NORA.

 

she is cold and dull with the children; at another, she spoils
them, and fills their heads with the idea they ‘ must not tell papa.”
The new dominion over her Conscience and Will has only led
her to fresh lies ; it has only dragged her deeper into the mud,
and this time, it is the children’s turn to go with her and get
soiled. Thus Boredom will settle down on that home, as 02
thousands of other homes. But that was not the air which was
wafted towards us, when the curtain first rose. The air was
restless perhaps, but one felt there were possibilities.

Is Helmer a bad man, then; coarse, dilatory, or boisterous
and domineering at times? No, he is quoted everywhere as a
model husband, and not without reason. He is merely colour-
blind in one direction, educated into colour-blindness.

One thing is certain; amid all this new order of things, he
yearns for the Jark and the squirrel, the careless gaiety of the
Nora that used to be, and that is sometimes now when she
makes an effort. Then it strikes him, that it is unnatural to shut
up a young and beautiful woman; so he takes her into society,
to obliterate the past which perhaps preys on her mind, and to
‘diaw out the child in her nature.’ For wise men think a
woman never grows ; or that it is happier for her not to grow ;
and that she can be stunted in her growth, as it used to be
thought puppies could by brandy.

A glance around us shows us many women arrested thus, many
rich young souls prevented from ever becoming real women.
It is a social murder, whose results are most disastrous for human
destiny. It means that homes can get amiable hostesses without
husbands getting loving wives, or children loving mothers. Will
this succeed in Nora’s case? She is not a doll ; but will Society's
stupefying agencies make her into one,—a model doll, a splendid
example of self-satisfied, undeveloped humanity, who will be
described as perfectly comme il feut?

Readers who desire this say, ‘‘ We cannot see into each others’
hearts, and Nora’s inner life may be anything she pleases ; "but
a well-bred woman should always seem at ease, and make it
possible for us to have dealings with her.” Nora will never
come up to their expectations. There is something untamed in
her, which will make her sin continually against worldly rules. She
might dress as becomingly as any one, but there her likeness to
others would end. She does not belong to the class of women
whose two sections are the coquette and the prude, both being
the Doll grown to full stature. Such women are her only
enemies. ‘lhey can lay aside conscience and ideality, without
loss of charm ; they can never be free, nor make others lree, never
love. They point in the opposite direction—to rule and be ruled ;
they use freedom’s means in the service of slavery. It is useless
to expect this of Nora. Her power of freedom, her need to love
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. xxvii

 

and live really, are téo strong to allow it, and will lead her to
break up life again and again, if Helmer continues unawakened
from his idea that conscience, will, personality, development and
human dignity are notions which concern man only, and this not
for himself alone, but for woman as represented by him.

The associates Helmer would summon to help him in drawing
out Nora by ‘society,’ would find their pupil too hard to manage,
too individual, too inscrutable for them. She would win no
friends among women of the world. And although sue is one
of those to whom men feel drawn, she will never secure one
thorough friend among them ; nor does she wish it, since she
found out Dr. Rank thought she had been making advances to
him. She will behave in a strikingly unsuitable manner in
society ; either too full of herself, or too indifferent. In either
case, she will wound Helmer’s fine sense of ‘vhat is fitting.
Sometimes, she will show unrestrained feeling, as she did in the
Tarantvlla, because she is secretly worried about something ; at
other times, she will take no interest in what is going on around
her, And if anybody in society turns specially to her, as though
to draw a little nearer to her real self, nothing will be got out of
her, except some utterly unsuitable answer ; an answer to the
thing, instead of an answer conveying an agreeable recognition
of the questioner’s polite attention.

So Nora will get no recompense in society for her losses
at home—her husband’s growing precision, or the children’s
mixture of affection and disrespect, when at one time, she is
able to give them what they want behind their father’s back,
and at another, cannot do what she promised them.

A few glimpses of happiness for Nora, and a sort of sad rest
for Helmer, may, however, come into their ruined home ; not
when the family is alone, for then the tension is only too plain ;
but when they give smal! parties, and the hostess is able to lay
down her own rules for etiquette, and charms herself into a
fancied self-guidance and liberty, for a few hours. Young people
will feel particularly happy on these occasions; and Nora will
flash out for a few moments and seem young again. When all
this is over, Torvald, who is still in love with her, will spend
Jong hours in painfully pondering what it 7s that he has done,
that his young, happy, warm world has been cut away from
under him ; that he, though he has continued master in his own
home, really Zas no home now?

Need we follow them further ?—into the critical years, when the
absense of ideality has made them grotesque ; when young people
laugh in Helmer’s face at his way of playing /e pire noble ;
when Nora is middle-aged ; and some chance opening of the box,
where a pair of silk stockings bas lain ‘ever since that night,
tempts from mamma’s lips, a neat little description of her triump>:
xxviii NORA 3

 

at the costume ball, ending with the remark that Emmy has her
mother’s foot and ankle, but she ‘‘ must not think of putting on
that charming dress and dancing with the tambourine, poor little
Emmy! or let out that she has ever seen them ; papa can’t bear
such things, you know.” ; :

Such, then, is that to which in the most favourable circum-
stances, a mere ‘ warning’ must have brought Nora and Helmer,
being what they were by nature and education. We should see
Nora selfish, but with the selfishness which is more or less in
every natural woman’s heart ; which unchecked and suppressed,
destroys either her whole woman’s personality, or the happiness
and honour of all around her; but raised to the moral plane of
freedom, would, on the contrary, have saved both. And we should
see Helmer selfish ; in a certain sense, more so than Nora ; but
selfish with the egoism of his sex, with satisfaction that he is a
man, and not a woman, rather than with any very exaggerated
individual egoism. He is typical of the class of men on whom
the punishment falls most heavily of women not getting a true
human education, but being brought up to self-deception instead ;
and it is rather the punishment of his whole sex which he bears
‘than any tragic fate of his own, in bearing the consequences of
not having promoted his wife’s human development.

Let us now see what prospect there is of reconciliation between
the Adam and Eve, whom Ibsen drives out of their Paradise
into the world of consciousness. Everything in the play
strengthens our perception of the bare truth, that these two
people have by their life together, brought matters to such a pass,
that before anything good can come to them, Helmer must try
to come to himself, and Nora to herself. And at the last moment,
there seems a prospect, that they will achieve it some day. And
earthly life offers no truer ground for reconciliation than this, if
we believe development to be the end of our existence. Every
right-thinking person must feel compelled to admit, that Nora’s
fight for existence, as it faces her in all its cruelty, deserves our
love a thousand times more than any return to the Doll’s House
conditions of ruining herself, her husband, and her children; but
this by no means prevents his feeling painfully affected by the
idea of Helmer’s petted wife, Ivar’s, Bob’s, and Emmy’s merry
little mother, going away and shutting the door between herself
and them, It is the only violent action in the last scene, and it
makes us feel all the indescribable pain which must weigh on that
undeveloped, newly-roused being, on the threshold between her
past and her future. ;

What is the outlook for him who is left behind on the stage ;
between his certainty of crushed happiness, and the hope of
higher things arising? ‘He thought himself so pure-hearted and
justifiable in everything; he finds he only possessed a favourite
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. xxix

 

slave. Is it only mechanically that he repeats her words, ‘the
greatest miracle,’ or does a new hope arise within him? The
poet bids us think he has some new hope. Is it that Nora will
repent and return? Her last words are too clear ; she expects
a radical change in him. Through all the mist of his senses and
ee has he not caught a glimpse of the real Nora, the

igher Eros, whom Socrates calls the oldest of all the gods ; and,
bowed to the earth with blushes, yet thankful he has learnt to
blush, does he not say to himself, ‘‘ A woman, too, is intended
to bea human being”? Then he asks, ‘‘ Am I a human being?
Have I not made a slave of her, who might have helped me to
freedom ?”

How near to freedom he is, no one can determine, not even
the poet himself; because the path to freedom is one which
cannot be marked out beforehand. But everything in the play
indicates that he will attain it. And if he does, it will be no
small matter, that in everything but what concerned Nora, he
was an honest man.

Since the idea in Mora is plain to all, we will now inquire |

what means Ibsen selected from every-day life, to make his
meaning clear. The kernel of every home is its womanly

rinciple ; and the kernel of Ibsen’s play is Nora’s character.
He means to make a modern home go to pieces before our very
eyes, from some necessity within itself. It must contain every-
thing that can attract : simplicity, gladness, power of work, good
temper, gentle and strong regard, love of beauty, merry little

children, friends, well-managed servants, good habits, good .

reputation, a position which has at length been won by praise-
worthy endeavours, etc.; but also a husband who has such an
essentially false idea of happiness between man-and woman, that
it has practically undermined this delightful home, and it is ready
to fall in, at any moment. :

The husband, too, is such a pleasant man, that his Oriental
view of woman is ennobled, so far as a view can be, which is
$0 inhuman and wounding to us.. His belief, not that humanity
is creation’s king, but that man is, comes out ina kind, quiet
way ; if ever otherwise, he soon recovers his Oriental manly
dignity, as though to say! “‘I forgot myself. I judged her as
though she were a human being. In my haste, I overlooked the
fact.of her being only a woman. But it shall not happen twice.
Henceforth I will abide faithfully and true to my principle
that I, and I only, bear the burden and responsibility for us
both.”

If these presumptions are sufficiently unmistakable at every.
turn in the play, the spectator knows from the very beginning,
that some of the indispensable conditions for healthy develou
XXX NORA.

 

ment are wanting, and that the breaking up of the Doll’s House
is only a question of time,

But it might have lasted a lifetime, as so many false marriages
do; and in that case, it would not have been a suitable subject
fora play. The dramatist did not need for his object a strong
character, such as could have set the wrong right, and kept the
home together; or a ‘ passive’ woman, whose will is dead; or
one with ‘a broken heart’; or a superficial person, who ends
in being satisfied with trifles ; or one who suffers, and weeps, and
sighs ; or one of those, who combine any of these characters with
that of a prude or a coquette. Any one of these women would
have delayed the climax, so as to destroy dramatic possibilities ;
nor would a large and highly religious womanly figure have
been suitable ; still less would one already exhausted by homage
to propriety and custom.

Tbsen needed a young creature, loving but undisciplined ; full
of life, but lacking all principle in thought and action; blind
to all but what is nearest at hand, but ready to love with her
whole strength, that is, to devote all her happiness to what is
nearest her ; otherwise, crue! with indifferent carelessness, but
only. because no notion of the rights of others, of ‘strangers,’
has ever been presented to her ; capable as a child of nature is, of
stealing on behalf of her own dear ones, but not capable as an
artificialized nature is, of stealing from them in order to gratify her
private vanity before strangers with what she has thus stolen ;
gentle to those nearest her, but not to others or to herself;
an uneducated girl, who never had a mother; one who, as a
daughter and a growing girl, had to get what poor little exchange
of thought she could in the maids’ room ; a wife who is obliged
to choose as her confidential friend her husband’s friend, and not

{ her husband himself ; a beautiful, attractive young woman, who

feels she is independent, placed in the high position of head
of a house, but who, none the less, has come to tricking her
husband, by lie after lie in daily life ; half-consciously longing,
and waiting outside in the darkness, for some change which is to
come suddenly, ‘the miracle,’ she does not exactly know what ;
but its effect is to be that the activity of her soul and her hus-
band’s are no longer to be allowed to go different ways; that
what she tries, what ske accomplishes, what she sacrifices, is to
be reckoned as human, like his. The poet must find all these
elements, like mines ready laid, in the woman’s character, upon
which the existence of the home is based. No one of them must
fail him, when the match is put to the train, if the Doll’s House
is to be blown to unrecognizable pieces before our eyes.

Nora is precisely all this. The poet has now what he wants ;
it is as in real life: the persons of the action have no notion

what they are about, until the moment of partinz, ‘
LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. xxxi

 

When all is falling to pieces, and not a moment sooner, they
see by a sudden flash, how they have been gradually bringing
their fate on themselves, so that it destroys all the edifice of their
past life: the man, by not having considered the woman’s per-
sonality; the woman, by the man having loved a person who
does not exist ; an illusion the more unfortunate in her case, as it
turned her best deeds into faults.

It has been alleged, that Nora is not the same person in her
concluding scene with Helmer as she is throughout the play.
So far as her understanding goes,'she is just the same. Her one
reproach to Helmer at the end is, that he did not take the blame
on himself; and her calm at the end is so touching, because the
ape knows what Helmer neither knows nor believes, that
she was really ready to die to save him from the necessity of
taking the blame on himself. For she means it in perfect good
faith ; in a few minutes she will jump into ‘the cold black water,”
which does not, however, prevent her,—with her childish optim-
ism, her habit of succeeding, and her power of telling herself tales
(such as of the old gentleman who was to leave her his property),
—having some hope that the water might not be cold, or not
drown her, or might change her into some new being, whom no
anxiety could threaten. For even in this last and most honest
tesolve to die, she is not acting as one fully awake, responsible,
and conscious. She is all this for the first time, at the moment
she breaks away from Helmer and goes. But it is the old Nora;
only it is Nora on her most serfous side ; it is the young and in-
experienced woman who, after Helmer’s proper little speech gives
her the experience which puts an end to her youth, cannot help
telling him how boundlessly she once believed in him,

The same objection is urged by those who say, that she utters
a number of incontestable truths, or, as her enemies describe it,
‘makes a speech’ at the end and ‘preaches the doctrine of the
future.’ This, were it true, would prove her to be another Nora.
But she really speaks as she always has spoken, without any cal-
culation whatever. It is but the outburst of human nature’s own
consciousness of itself, but it has been so very recently awakened
in her. It first awoke in her, at the moment when she finally
discovered the thing, whose pain wrung from her. . . ‘‘It
became clear to me that I had been living here all these years,
with a strange man, and had borne him three children. Oh! I
cannot bear to think of it! I could tear myself in pieces!”

Till then, she had never guessed, that her husband’s Oriental
view of life’s task as adjusted to the two sexes had been a serious
one, which had reduced her to a mere Thing, day after day—the
dearest thing in all the world, but not a human being, not his
peer. The moment she not only guessed this, but knew it with
the most deadly cold- certainty, every spark of womanly instinct
xxii NORA.

 

told her, in that second, all that can ever be taught or known
about it.

Nora herself is the Chorus to all the previous action, through
the general truths she finally utters; but it is precisely because she
only gets to know them at the very moment she utters them. It
is ak on such occasions as this, that people do speak, unless
feeling chokes their words,

‘\ Nora’s being able to speak harmonizes with her whole self.
,Helmer has always been mistaken in his notion that she was

‘weak’ ; it was part of his false theory of a wife. She is rather

‘strong than not, as appears in all her doings. And if women in

general come to act more, the same thing will cause surprise in

countless cases. Weakness is most often, nothing but destroyed
power of thinking and doing. It is Vedas her character is so
capable of strong devotion that she can go away, when she finds

She would do harm by staying ; and can speak out all the hard

new truths, feeling as she does, that she is no more fit to stay and

‘educate him into them, than he is to educate her.

| But people shoot beside the mark, too, when they will not see
the subject of Vora as one of universal human application, when
| they think that Ibsen wanted to make Helmer hateful. What

Ibsen wanted to make hateful, and what he has made hateful, is

Helmer’s false view of half humanity,—a view that still is the

view of life which most men hold, and which makes it possible

for a man to be every inch a gentleman, without being for that
reason a human being; to belieye he loves a woman, and at the
same time think he can be Will and Conscience for her; which
makes it possible for a woman to call these habits of thought in
men Chivalry, and exercise every quality of her inner and outward
being, only to secure the small triumphs of an odalisk ; while at

'| the same time she believes herself a pure-hearted woman, believes
that she love’, believes that she really ives.

It is this social pest, this expression of what is unnatura:, that
Ibsen hates. For it is unnatural, standing as it does side by side
with such a highly-developed notion of individuality as that now
current in society. And Ibsen hates this, not because he delights
to hate, but because, as a poet, he loves individuality with all
his heart, and womanly individuality above all, as the friendly,
dawning promise for all our retarded human development, as the
most promising side in the gospel of Man, as the daylight side of

| the future.
Frances Lorp.
London, November, 1882.
NORA.

(A DOLL'S HOUSE.)

 

PERSONS IN THE PLAY.

HELMER (a /awyer).
Nora (his wife).
Docror Rank.
Mrs. Linpen. |
Krocstap (a business man),
THE HeELMERs’ three little CHILDREN.
Mary ANN (their nurse).
A Maidservant a¢ the .Helmers’.
A Porter.
(Zhe action takes place at the Helmers’ house.)

_ ACT I.

A room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but
not expensively,

(Zo the right, a door leads to the Hall; to the left,
another door in the background, to Helmer’s study.
Between the two doors, a pianoforte.

In the middle of the left wall, a door, and some-
what nearer the front, a window. Near the window,
a round table with an arm-chair and a small sofa.
Ln the right wall, somewhat to the back, a door. In

the s&me wall, more forward, a stove of porcelain ;
Se
2 NORA.

 

by it, a couple of arm-chairs and a rocking-chair.
Between the stove and the side door, a small table.
Engravings on the walls. An étagtre with china
and other small curiosities. A small book-case of
showily-bound books. Carpet. A fire burns in the
stove. It is winter.)

(The bell rings in the hall outside. Presently, the hall
door is heard opened. Nora walks into the room,
humming contentedly. She ts in walking dress, and
has several parcels in her arms, which she lays on
the right-hand table. She leaves the door into the
hall open behind her, and a Porter is seen standing
outside, carrying a Christmas tree and a basket; he
gives these to the Maidservant, who apened the door.)

. Nora. Be sure you hide the Christmas tree most
carefully, Ellen ; so that the children don’t catch sight
of it, on any.account, before this evening, when it is
dressed and lit. (Zo the Porter, taking out her purse.)
How much ?

Porter. Sixpence, if you please, ma’am.

Nora. There is a shilling... No, keep the change.

(Zhe Porter thanks her and goes. ‘Nora shuts the
door. She continues smiling with quiet contentment,
while she is taking off her walking things. Then’ she
takes a box of maccaroons from her pocket, and eats
some. As she does so, she steps cautiously to her hus- ,
band’s door and listens.) Ves; he is at home. (Ske
begins humming again, walking to the right-hand table.)

HELMER (2 Ais room). Is that my lark, who is
twittering outside there?
NORA. 3

 

Nora (busy opening some of her parcels). Yes, it is.”
HELMeER, Is it the little squirrel running about?
Nora. Yes.

HELMER. When did it get home?

Nora. Just this minute. (Aides the box of maccaroons
in her pocket, and wipes her mouth.) Come in here,
Torvald, and see what I have bought.

Heimer. I can’t be interrupted now. (4 Uittle later
he opens the door and looks in, pen in hand.) ‘Bought,
did you say? What! all that heap of things? Has
my little spendthrift bird been wasting more
money?

Nora. But, Torvald, we really can be a little less
strict now. It is positively the fret Christmas we
aren’t obliged to pinch.

Heimer. Yes; but I'll tell you what: we mustn’t
‘waste money, either.

Nora. Oh, yes! Torvald, we may venture to spend
a little already, mayn’t we? just a very, very little.
You have really got a capital position, and you'll be
earning ever so much money.

HetMeEr. Yes, from New Year’s Day. But there is
a whole quarter before my next salary is due.

Nora. Never mind; we can borrow for that little
time.

Heimer. Nora! (He steps towards her and takes
her playfully by the ear.) Is that light-mindedness of
yours coming out again? Supposing that I borrowed
fifty pounds to-day, and you spent it during Christmas
week, and that on New Year's Day a tile blew off the
roof and struck my head, and I were... .
4 . NORA,

 

Nora (stopping his mouth). Stuff! How can you
say such horn things !

HeELmER. But, suppose anything of the kind were
to happen. What then?

Nora. If such a misfortune were to happen, I should
not care whether I had debts or whether I hadn't.

HELMER. But what about the people I had borrowed
from? ©

Nora. Those people! Who would trouble about
them? They would be strangers, of course.

HeEtmMER. Nora, Nora! you area mere baby. But
seriously, Nora, you know my way of thinking about
such matters. No debts! Never borrow! Home
life ceases to be free and beautiful, directly its founda-
tions are Borrowing and Debts. We two have: held
out bravely till now, and we will do so, for the little

- time now remaining.

Nora (going to the fireplace). Ye—s. Just as you
like, Torvald.

HELMER (following her). Come, come; my lark
must not let her wings droop immediately . . . What!
is the squirrel making wry faces? (Zakes out his purse.)
Nora, what do you think I’ve got here?

Nora (turning round quickly), Money |

Heimer. There! (Gives her some notes.) By Jove!
don’t I know that all sorts of things are wanted at
Christmas ?

Nora (counting). Ten, twenty, thirty, forty. Oh!
thank you, thank you, Torvald. This will help me on
for a long while to come.

HELMER. That is just what it must do.
NORA. 5

 

Nora. Yes, indeed, it will But now you must
come, too, and see all I have been buying. And so
cheap! Look, here is a new suit for Ivar, and a little
sword as well. Here are a little horse and a trumpet
for Bob. And here are a doll and a cradle for Emmy.
They are only common; but she would be sure to
pull them all to pieces directly. And here I’ve got
dresses and handkerchiefs for Ellen and Mary Ann.
Only I ought to have got something better for Mary
Ann.

HELMER. And what is that, in the other parcel ?

Nora (crying out). No, Torvald, you’re not to see
that before this evening.

Heimer. Oh! ah. But now tell me, you little
spendthrift, what you have got for yourself.

Nora. Never mind me. I don’t want anything for
myself. ,

Hecmer. But I am sure you do. Just tell me
something sensible you would like to have.

Nora. No; I really know of nothing ... Yes;
listen, Torvald. —

HEiLMER. Well?

Nora (playing with his coat buttons, without looking
him in the face). If you want to give me something,
you might, you know, you might...

HEtMER. Well, well? Out with it!

Nora (guickly). You might give me the money,
Torvald. Only just as much as you think’ you can
spare; then I will buy myself something with it,
later on.

Heimer. But, Nora...
6 NORA.

 

Nora. Oh, please do, dear Torvald, I beg and im-
plore you. Then I would hang the money in lovely
gilt paper, on the Christmas tree. Wouldn’t that be
funny ?

Heuer. What do people call the bird who always.
spends everything ?

Nora. Yes, I know: a spendthrift, of course. But
please do what I ask you, Torvald. Then I shall
have time to think what I most want. Is not that very
sensible? Come!

HELMER (smiling). Certainly ; that is to say, it would
be if you really kept the money I gave you, and really
bought yourself something with it. But it all goes in
housekeeping, and for all sorts of useless things, and
then I have to find more.

Nora. But, Torvald...

HELMER. Can you deny it, Nora dear? (He puts
his arm round her.) My lark is the dearest little thing
in the world; but she needs a very great deal of
money. No one would believe how expensive such a
little bird is for her husband to keep.

Nora. Rubbish! how can you talk so? I am sure
I am as careful as I can be.

HELMER (smiling). Very true,—as careful as you
can be. But you can’t be careful at all.

Nora -(hums and smiles, in quiet satisfaction).
Hm—m. You should just know, Torvald, what
expenses ‘we larks and squirrels have.

HELMER. What an odd little woman you are! Just
like your father—always eager to get hold of money.
But the moment you have it, it seems to slip through
NORA. 7

your fingers somehow; you never know how you
got rid of it, Well, one must take you as you are.
It’s in the blood. Yes, my dear Nora, you may
say what you please, but things of that sort are
inheritable.

Nora. Ah! there are many things I wish I had
inherited from father.

Heimer. And I couldn't wish you to be anything
but exactly what you are—my own, sweet, little lark.
But... Isay... it strikes me... you look so, so—
what shall I call it?—to-day ... as if you were hiding
something.

Nora. Do I?

Hetmer. Yes, really. Look me full in the face.

Nora (looking at him). Well?

HeELMEr (threatening with his finger). That little
mouth, which is so fond of sugar-plums, has never
been eating any quantity of them, in the town,
surely ?

Nora. No! How can you think anything of the
kind about me? ,

Heimer. Didn’t the dainty-loving little person just
steal off to the confectioner’s ?

Nora. No, I assure you, Torvald...

HEtMER. Not to taste a few sweetmeats ?

Nora. No; most certainly not.

Heimer. Not so much as to nibble a maccaroon
or two?

Nora. No, Torvald, .I really do assure you. ...

Heimer. Well, well, well; of course I’m only
joking. :

 
8 NORA.

 

Nora (goes to ‘the right-hand ‘tasle). 1 should not
think of doing what you disapprove of.

Hemer. I know, dear; and you have given me
your word. (Steps to her.) No; keep your little
Christmas secrets all to yourself, Nora dear. I have
no doubt they will come to light this evening, when
the Christmas tree is lit.

Nora Have you remembered to invite Doctor
Rank?

Heimer. No. But that is not necessary; it is an
understood thing, that he dines with us. Besides, I
shall tell him, when he looks in to-day. I have ordered
some capital wine. Nora, you cannot think how I
look forward to this evening !

Nora. So do I. And how happy the children will
be, Torvald! ,

Hetm_er. Oh! it really is glorious to know, that
one has got a safe and assured position, and has
ample means. Isn’t the consciousness of it a great
enjoyment?

Nora. Oh! it is a miracle.

Heimer. Do you recollect last Christmas? Three
whole weeks beforehand, you used to shut yourself up
till long past midnight, in order to make flowers to
trim the Christmas tree, and get ready all the other
magnificent things to surprise us with. It was the
most wearisome time I ever lived through.

Nora. It did not weary me at all.

HELMER (smiling). We did not see much for your
pains.

Nora. Oh! will you never leave off teasing me
NORA. 9

 

about ‘hat? How could I help it, if the cat did get
in and tear everything I had made to pieces?

Heimer. To be sure, you couldn't help it, my poor
little Nora. You set to work to prepare us a treat
- with the best will in the world, and that is the chief
matter. ... But, nevertheless, it is a good thing, that
hard times are over. ES

Nora. Yes, it is exactly like a miracle.

HELMER. Now I needn’t sit here all by myself,
getting more bored every minute; and you needn’t
torment your blessed eyes and your delicate little
fingers.... .

Nora (clapping her hands). It is really true, isn’t
it, Torvald, that we needn’t do it any more? Oh!
how splendid! (Zakes his arm.) And now I will tell
you, Torvald, how it has been striking me we ought to
attange matters. ... Directly Christmas is over...
(The hall-door bell rings.) Oh, there’s aring! (She
tidies the room a Jittle.) ‘That is somebody come to
call. How vexing!

Heimer. I am ‘not at home’ to catlers. Don’t
forget that.

ELLEN (in the doorway to Nora). A strange lady
wishes to see you, ma’am.

Nora. Show her in.

ELLEN (¢o Helmer). And the Doctor came at the
same time, sir.

HELMER. Did he go straight into my study ?

Eten. Yes, sir. (Helmer goes into his study. Ellen
shows in Mrs. Linden, in travelling costume, and shuts
the door behind her.)
10 NORA.«

 

Mrs. LinpEN (sorrowful and a little doubtful of 4
welcome). How do you do, Nora?

Nora (uncertain who she is). How do you do?

Mrs. LinpEN. I dare say you’ do not know me
azain.

Nora. No, I really... oh, yes—I think. . (Break-
ing forth) What! Christina! Is it really you?

Mrs. LINDEN. Yes; it is I indeed.

Nora. Christina ! and to think I did not see
you! But how could Ileven— (dfore i How
altered you are, Christina !

Mrs. Lrypen. Why ! of course I am, in nine or ten
long years.

Nora. Is it so long since we met? Yes, it posi-
tively is. Oh! the last eight years have been a happy
time, I can tell you. And now you have come to
town ? all this long journey in mid-winter! That was
brave of you.

Mrs. Linpen. I arrived by the steamer this
morning.

Nora. In order to’have some fun at Christmas
time, to be sure. Oh, how delightful that is! Yes,
fun we certainly will have, But take your things off.
Aren’t you frozen? (Helps her to take her things off.)
There ! now we will sit down ‘here cosily by the fire.
No; in that arm-chair ; I will sit here in the rocking-
chair. (Zakes her hands.) Yes, now you are showing
me your dear old face again. It was only the first
moment I saw you. .. . But you are a little paler,
Christina, and perhaps a shade thinner, too.

Mrs. Liypen. And much, much older, Nora.
NORA. ir

 

Nora. Yes, perhaps a little older, too—a little wee
bit, not much. (Ske suddenly stops; seriously.) Oh!
what a thoughtless creature I am! Here I sit chat-
tering on. and—Dear, good Christina, can you forgive
me?

. Mrs. Linpen. What do you mean, Nora?

Nora (softly). Poor Christina! you are a widow.

Mrs. Linpen. Yes; three years ago.

Nora. Ah! I was sure of it. I read it in the news-
paper, you know. Oh, do believe, Christina dear, I
often meant to write to you then; I was always plan-
ning to do it, but something always hindered me.

Mrs.-Linpen. I can very well understand that,
Nora dear. ~

Nora. No, Christina; it was dreadful of me. Ob,
you poor darling! how much you must have gone
through! . . . And he really left you nothing in the
world to live upon?

Mrs. LinpEn. No.

Nora. And no children either ?

Mrs. Linpen. No.

Nora. Then really nothing whatever?

Mrs. LinpEn. Not even a sorrow or a regret to
waste my heart upon.

Nora (looking at her incredulously). But, my dear
Christina, how is that possible ?

Mrs. LinvEN (smiling sadly and stroking her hair).
Oh, it happens so sometimes, Nora.

Nora. So utterly lonely !. . . How awfully hard that
must be for you! I have three of the dearest children
that ever were. But I can’t show them to you just
12 NORA.

 

now; they are out walking with nurse. However,
now you must tell me your whole story. ;

Mrs. Linpen. No, no, I would rather hear
yours.

Nora. No; you must begin: I won't he egotistical
to-day. To-day I will think only of what concerns
you. But one thing I really must tell you. Do you
know what great good fortune has fallen to our lot in
the last few days?

Mrs. Linpen. No. What is it ?

Nora. Only think! My husband has been made
Manager of the Joint Stock Bank.

Mrs. Linpen. Your husband! Oh, what a piace
of luck !

Nora. Yes; tremendous, isn’t it? A professional
man’s position is so uncertain, especially when he will
not be concerned in any business except what is fit
for a gentleman, and respectable. And naturally,
Torvald would not do any other business ; and in that
matter I quite agreed with him. Oh! we are heartily
glad, I can tell you. He will actually enter the Bank
on New Year's Day, and then he will have a large
salary, and high percentages on the business done. In
future, we shall be able to live in a very differeit style
from the way we have lived hitherto,—just as we please,

“in fact. Ob, Christina, I feel so light and happy...

It really is beautiful, isn’t it, to have a great deal of |

money, and be able to live without anxiety? Now
isn’t it?

Mrs. LINDEN. Well; it cannot but be delightful to
have bare necessaries.
NORA. 13

 

Nora. No, not only bare necessaries, but a great
deal of money—heaps |

Mrs. LinpEN (smz/ing). Nora, Nora, haven’t you
grown sensible yet? In our school days, you were a
great spendthrift.

Nora (guietly smiling). Yes; Torvald says I am so
still. (Zhreatens with her finger.) But ‘Nora, Nora,’ is
not so silly as you all think. Oh! our circumstances
have really not been such that I could be a spendthrilt.
We both had to work.

Mrs. LINDEN. You as well?

Nora. Yes, really ;—light fancy work: knitting,
crochet, and things of that sort (as though throwing it
away), and also other work. I suppose you know, that
when we married, Torvald quitted the Government
service? He had no prospect of promotion in his
office, and he certainly had to earn more money than
before. I do assure you, that the first year he over-
worked himself quite terribly. You can easily. under-
stand, that he was naturally obliged to get all the extra
work he could, and toil from morning till night. It
was too much for him, and he fell dangerously ill.
Then the doctors declared it was necessary for him to
go to the South.

Mrs. Linpen. Yes; you spent a whole year in Italy,
didn’t you?

Nora. We did. It was not an easy matter to arrange,
I can assure you. Ivar was only just born then. But
we had to go. Oh, it was a wonderfully delicious
journey! And it saved Torvald’s life, But it cost an
awful sum of money, Christina.
14 NORA.

Mrs. LinpEn. You needn’t tell me that, dear.
Nora. Three hundred pounds. That’s a great
deal, isn't it ?

Mrs. Lrxpen. But in such cases it is, after all, a
most fortunate thing to have the money to spend.

Nora. Yes; I ought to tell you I got it from
father.

Mrs. LinpEn. Ah; I see, It was just about the
time he died, I think ?

Nora. Yes, Christina, just then. And think what
it was for me not to be able to go to him and nurse
him! I was expecting little Ivar’s birth daily. And
then I had my Torvald to nurse, who was dangerously
ill too. Dear good father! I never saw him again,
Christina. Oh! that is the hardest thing I have had
to bear since I married.

Mrs. Linpen. I know you were devotedly fond of
your father. And then you and your husband started
for Italy? ,

Nora. Yes; by that time we had the money; and
the doctors hurried us off. So we went a month
after.

Mrs. Lrypen. And your husband returned com-
pletely cured ?

Nora. Sound as a bell.

Mrs. Linpen. But—the Doctor ?

Nora. What about him ?

Mrs. LinveEn. I thought your servant said, that the

, gentleman, who came in just when I did, was the
Doctor...
Nora. Yes, it was Doctor Rank. But he does not.
NORA. 15

 

pay any professional visits here. He is our best
friend, and comes in to chat with us, at least once
every day. No; Torvald has not had an hour's illness
since we went to Italy. And the children, too, are so
healthy and well, and soam I. (Jumps up and claps
her hands.) Oh, dear! oh, dear! Christina, it is,
indeed wonderfully delicious to live and be happy !—
Oh, but itis really horrible of me! 1 am talking about
nothing but my own concerns. (Si/s down upon a
Sootstool close to her, and lays her arms on Christina's
&nee.) Oh! don’t be angry with me for it. Now just
tell me, is it really true, that you didn’t love your
husband? Why ever did you marry him, then?

Mrs. LINDEN. -My mother was living at that time,
and she was bed-ridden and helpless; and then I had
my two younger brothers to provide for. I did not
consider I should be justified in refusing him.

Nora. Oh, yes. I dare say you were right there.
Then he was rich in those days?

Mrs. LinpDEN. Very well off indeed, I believe.
But his business was not sound, Nora. When he
died, it all fell to pieces, and there was nothing left.

Nora. And then?

Mrs, Linpen. Then I had to try to make my way
by keeping a small shop, a little school, and anything
else I could get. The last three years have been for
me one long working-day, without a moment’s rest.
But now it is over, Nora dear. My poor mother no
longer needs me: she is at rest in her grave. Nor do
.the boys need me: they are in business, and can
provide for themselves.
16 NORA.

 

Nora How relieved you must feel !

Mrs. LinpEN. No, Nora: only inexpressibly empty.
To have nobody you can devote your life to! (Stands
up, restless.) That is why I could not bear to stay any
longer, in that out-of-the-way little town. It must be
easier to find something here, which really has a claim
upon one and occupies one’s thoughts. If I could
but be so fortunate as to get a fixed post,—some
office-work.

Nora. But, Christina, that is so terribly tiring, and
you look so overdone already. It would be far better
for you, if you could go to some cheerful watering-plac¢
for a while.

Mrs. LInDEN (going fo the window). I have no
father who could give me the money to go, Nora.

Nora (7ising). Oh! don’t be vexed with me.

Mrs. LINDEN (going towards her). Dear Nora, do
not be vexed with me. The worst of a position like
mine is, that it leaves the dregs of so much bitter-
ness in one’s mind. One has nobody to work for, and
yet one is obliged to be always on the look-out for
‘chances. Besides, one must live, and so one gets
selfish. When you told me of the happy change in
your circumstances,—you'll hardly believe it ;—but I
rejoiced more on my own account than on yours.

Nora. How do you mean? Ah! I see. You mean
Torvald could do something for you.

Mrs. Linpen. Yes; I thought so.

Nora. And he shall, too, Christina dear. Just
leave that to me. I shall lead up to it, in the most
delicate manner in the world, and invent something
NORA. 17

 

pleasant, which he will thoroughly approve of. Oh!
I should so like to be of some use to you. :

Mrs. LinpDEN. How good of you, Nora, to take
up my cause so zealously; it is doubly good in
you, who know so little of the troubles and difficulties
of life. :

Nora. I? I know so little of—?

Mrs. LINDEN (smiling). Bless me! a little fancy-
work, and things of that sort. You are a mere baby,
Nora.

Nora (éosses her head and paces the room). 1 would
not be so positive, if I were you.

Mrs. Linpen. Really?

Nora. You are like everybody else. You none of
you think that I could be of any real use... .

Mrs. LinpENn. Come, come, darling—

Nora. —that I have had my share of difficulties in
this troublesome world. :

Mrs. Linpen. Dear Nora, you have just finished
telling me the whole story of your trials.

Nora. I dare say—the little ones. (So/#/y.) The
great thing I haven’t told you about.

Mrs. Linpen. What great thing? What do you
mean?

Nora. You overlook me so completely, Christina ;
but you ought not to doso. You are proud of having
worked so hard and so long for your mother.

Mrs. Linen. I am sure I ignore nobody. But it
is true, I am proud and glad when I think, that it was
my privilege to secure my mother the evening-time
of her life tolerably free from care.
18 NORA.

 

Nora. And you are also proud, when you think of
what you did for your brothers.

Mrs. LINpEN. It seems to me, I have a right to be
proud of it.

Nora. I quite agree. But now I will tell you
something, Christina: I, too, have something to be
proud and glad about.

Mrs. LinpEn. I don’t doubt it. But what do you
mean?

Nora. Not soloud. Suppose Torvald were to hear!
He must not, for anything in the world. Nobody
must get to know it, Christina ; nobody but you.

Mrs. LINDEN. What can it be, my dear?

Nora. Come over here. (Draws her down beside her
on the sofa.) Yes... 1, too, have something to be
“proud and glad about. It was I who saved Torvald’s
life.

Mrs. LINDEN. Saved his life? How saved his
life ? }

Nora. I told you about our Italian journey. Tor-
vald could not have recovered, unless he had got down
there.

Mrs. LINDEN. So I indetstaea, dear; and your
father gave you the needful money.

Nora (smiling). Yes; so Torvald and everybody
else believes; but...

Mrs. Linpen. But...

Nora. Father didn’t give us one penny. It was I
who found the money. :

Mrs, Linpen. You? The whole of that large
sum ?
NORA. 19

Nora. Three hundred pounds. What do you say
to that? 7

Mrs. LinpDEN. But, my dear Nora, how was it
possible? Did you win it in some lottery ?

Nora (contemptuously). In a lottery? Pooh! What
would there have been clever in that ?

Mrs. LinpEen. Then wherever did you get it from?

Nora (hums and smiles mysteriously). Hm; tra-
la-la-la !

“Mrs. Linven. For you cettainly couldn’t borrow it:

Nora. No? Why not?

Mrs. Linpen. Why! a wife cannot borrow without
her husband’s consent. ‘

Nora (throwing her head back). Oh! when the
wife is one who has some slight knowledge of business,
a woman, who knows how to set about things with a
little wisdom, then...

Mrs. Linpen. But, Nora, I can’t in- the least com-
prehend...

Nora. Nor need you, either. It has never been
stated, that I borrowed the money. Perhaps I got it
in another way. (Zhrows herself back on the sofa.) 1
may have got it from some ardent swain or another.
When anybody is so distractingly pretty as] am. .

Mrs. LINDEN. You are a fool, Nora.

Nora. Now I am sure you are intensely curious,
Christina...

Mrs. LINDEN. Listen to me for a moment, Nora
dear. Haven't you been a little indiscreet ?

Nora (sitting upright again). Is it indiscreet to save
one’s husband’s hfe? |

 
20 NORA.

 

Mrs. LinDEN. It seems to me it was indiscreet, that
you, without his knowledge. . .

Nora. But he mighth’t know anything about it.
Can’t you comprehend that? He was not to guess,
for a single moment, how dangerous his condition was.
It was to me the doctors came, and said, that his life
was in danger, that nothing could save him but living
for a time in the South. Don’t you suppose I should
have tried to manage it in some other way, first? I
laid before him how nice it would be for me, if I could
have a journey abroad, like other young married ladies,
I wept and prayed; I said he ought to consider my
circumstances ; and he might just as well be nice, and
give me my own way ; and then I hit upon the idea,
that he could of course borrow the money. But when
I said that, Christina, he got almost angry. He said
I was giddy, and that it was his duty as a husband not
to yield to my tempers and fancies,—yes, that was the
word he used, I believe. ‘Very well,’ I thought; ‘ but
saved your life must be;’ and then I found a way to
do it.

Mrs. Linven. And did not your husband learn from
your father, that the money was not from him?

Nora. No; never. Father died within those few
days. I meant to have let him into my secret and
begged him to tell nothing. But as he was so ill, . .
unhappily it was not necessary.

Mrs. Linpen. And have you never since then, taken
your husband into your confidence ?

Nora. Dear me! What can you be thinking of?
Tell him, when he is so strict. on the point of not
NORA, 21

 

borrowing? And ‘added to that, how painful and |
humiliating it would be for Torvald, with his man’s
idea of self-reliance, to know that he owed anything to’
me. It would entirely upset the relation between us;

our beautiful, happy home would never again be what
it is now.

Mrs. Linpen. Will you never tell him?

Nora (thoughtfully, half-smiling). Yes,—later on
perhaps,—after many years, when I have ceased to be
so pretty as I am now. You mustn’t laugh at me.
Of course I mean, when Torvald is not so fond of me
as he is now; when he no longer gets any amusement
out of seeing me skipping about, and dressing up and
acting. Then it might be rather a good plan to have
something in the background. (Breaking off.) What
nonsense! That time will never come. Now, what
do you say to my grand secret, Christina? Am I not
of some real use? Moreover, you will believe me
when I say, the affair gave me much anxiety. It cer-
tainly has not been easy for me to meet my engage-
ments punctually. You must know, Christina, that in
the world of business, there is something which is called
quarterly interest, and something which is called paying
off by instalments ; and they are so terribly hard to
tide over. That compelled me to pinch a little, here
and there, wherever I could. I could not lay anything
aside out of the housekeeping money, for of course
Torvald had to live well. Nor could I let the children
‘go about badly dressed. All I received for that pur-
pose I considered I ought to expend on it. The dear,
darling children !
22 NORA,

Mrs. Linpen. And so your own personal expenses
_ had to be restricted? Poor Nora!

Nora. Yes, of course. I was the person on whom
it bore heaviest. Whenever Torvald gave me money
for clothes and similar things, I never used more than
half of it; I always bought the plainest and cheapest
kinds. It is most fortunate, that everything suits me
so well; so Torvald never noticed it. But it was often
very hard, Christina dear. For it really is very nice to
be beautifully dressed. Now, isn’t it?

Mrs. Linpen. I should think so, indeed !

Nora. Well, and besides that, I had other sources
ofincome. Last winter, for instance, I was so lucky
as to get a heap of copying work todo. Then I used
to shut myself up every evening and write far on into
the night. Oh, sometimes I was so tired, so dreadfully
tired. And yet it was intensely amusing, neverthe-
less, to sit working in that way and earn money; I
almost felt as if I were a man.

Mrs. LinpEen. But how much have you been able
to pay off in this way ?.

Nora. Well, now, that I can’t precisely say. In
business like this, you see, it is very hard to keep
exact accounts. I only know, that I paid everything
back that I could scrape together. Sometimes I really
didn’t know what to do next. (Srz/es.) Then I used
to sit down here and imagine, that a very rich old
gentleman was in love with me.

‘Mrs. Linpen. What! Which gentleman?

Nora. Oh! a mere story ;—that he was now dead,
and that when his will was opened, there stood in
NORA. _ 23

 

large letters: ‘Pay over at once everything of which~
I die possessed to that charming verson, Mrs. Nora
Helmer. . .’

Mrs. LINDEN. But, dear Nora, what gentleman
was it?

Nora. Dear, dear, can’t you understand? The old
gentleman never existed: it was only what I used to-
sit down and think, again and again, when I positively
had no notion where I could get any money from.
But it doesn’t matter now; the tiresome old creature
may stay wherever he is, for aught I care; I don’t
trouble my head about him, or his will; for now I am
freed from all further anxiety. (Springing up.) Oh,
Christina, the thought of it does one good. Free
from cares! Free, quite free. To be able to play
and romp about with the children; to have things .
tasteful and refined in the house, exactly as Torvald
likes it all to be! And think, we shall soon be having
spring, with the glorious blue sky. Perhaps then we
shall be able to have a short outing. Oh! perhaps I
shall get a peep of the sea again. Oh, ‘yes! indeed it
is wonderful to live and be happy.

(The hall-door bell rings.)

Mrs. LInDEN (rising). There isaring. Perhaps I
had better be going.

Nora. No; do stay. I am certain nobddy will
come in here. It is sure to be somebody to see
Torvald.

Eien (i2 the door to the hall). If you please,
ma’am, there is a gentleman who wishes to speak to
_ Mr. Helmer.
24 NORA.

 

Nora. The Bank Manager, you mean.

ELLEN. Yes, ma’am, if you please, ma’am ;—but I
didn’t know, as the Doctor is with him. .

Nora. Where is the gentleman ?

Krocstap (in the doorway to the hall). It is 1, Mrs.
Helmer.

(Mrs. Linden 7s confused, recovers herself, and turns
away to the window.) 2

Nora (goes.a step towards him, excited, half aloud ).
‘You? What does this mean? What do you want to
speak with my husband about?

Krocstap. Bank business—to a certain extent. I
hold a small post in the Joint Stock Bank, and your
husband is now to be our chief, I hear.

Nora. So you wish to speak about... ?

Krocstap. Only about tiresome business, Mrs.
Helmer; nothing in the world else.

Nora. Then will you be so kind as to take a seat
in his office, over there? (Krogstad goes. She bows
indifferently, while she closes the door into the hall.
Then she walks to the fireplace and looks at the fire.)

Mrs. Linpen. Nora, who was that man?

Nora. A Mr. Krogstad. He used to be in the
law.

Mrs. LINDEN. So it was really he!

Nora. Do you know the man?

Mrs. Linpen. I used to know him,—many years
ago. He was in our town a long time, as government
lawyer.

Nora. Yes; he was.

Mrs. LinDEN. How altered he is!
NORA. ry;

 

Nora. He was very unhappily married.

Mrs. LinpeEn, And is he now a widower?

Nora. With a whole troop of children. There!
now it’s burning properly. (She shuts the stove door,
and, pushes the rocking-chair a little aside.)

Mrs. LinDEN. He takes up many kinds of business,
people say.

Nora. Does he? I dare say. I don’t know...
But don’t let us think of business ; it is so tiresome.

(Doctor Rank comes out of Helmer’s room.)

Docror Rank (still in the doorway). No, no; I
won't disturb you. I'll just go and chat to your wife
for alittle while. (Shuts the door and sees Mrs. Linden.)
Oh, I beg your pardon. I am in the way here, too.

‘Nora. No, not in the least. (Zntroduces them.\
Doctor Rank—Mrs. Linden.

Ranx. Oh, indeed, that is a name often heard in
this house. I think I just passed you on the stairs, as
we entered.

Mrs. LinDEN. Yes; I go so very slowly. I can’t
bear much going up-stairs.

Rank. Oh, I see; some slight accident.

Mrs. Linpen. It is really due to over-exertion.

Rank. No worse than that? Ah! then you have
come to town, to rest yourself at all the entertainments.

Mrs. Linpen. I have come here to look for work.

Rawk. May I ask if that is an approved remedy for
over-exertion ? :

Mrs. LINDEN. One must live, Doctor Rank. ‘

Rank. Yes, the general view of the matter appears
to be, that it is necessary.
26 NORA.

 

Nora. Come, Doctor Rank, you yourself want to
live.

Rank. To be sure I do. However miserable I am,
I should like to continue to be tortured as long as
possible. My patients all cherish the same wish. It
is just the same with people who are morally rotten.
At this very moment, Helmer has got talking to him
precisely such a moral hospital-inmate as I mean.

_ Mrs. Linven (catching her breath). Ah!

Nora. Whom do you mean ?

Rank. Oh, it’s a fellow called Krogstad, a lawyer,
aman you know nothing whatever about ;—rotten to
the very core of his character. But even he began
the conversation, as though he were going to say
something very important, by saying he must live.

Nora. Indeed? Then what did he want to talk to
Torvald about ?

Rank. I really don’t know that; I only heard, that
it had something to do with the Joint Stock Bank.

Nora. I didn’t know that Krog—that this Mr.
Krogstad had anything to do with the Bank.

Rank. He has some sort of post there. (Zo Mrs.
Linden.) I don’t know whether in your part of the
country, too, there are to be found the sort of men
who haunt the place, only to scent out moral rotten-
ness, and thus get some advantageous post or another.
The healthy may find themselves nicely left outside.

Mrs. Linpen. Well, after all, it is the sick who
most need, that we should open the door and let
them safely in.

Rank (shrugging his shoulders). Yes, that is just it.
NORA. 27

 

And it is that very consideration which. turns society

into an hospital. .

(Nora, deep in her own thoughts, breaks into half choked
laughter and claps her hands.)

Rank. What are you laughing about? Do you
know what society is?

Nora. What do I care about stupid ‘society’? I
was laughing over something quite different, some-
thing: awfully funny. Tell me, Doctor Rank; are all
the people employed at the Bank now dependent on’
Torvald ?

Rank. Is that what strikes you as so awfully
funny ?

‘Nora (smiles and hums). Leave me alone, leave me
alone. (Walks about the room.) Yes,to think that we,—
that Torvald has now.so much influence over so many
people, really does give me enormous satisfaction.
(Takes the box from her pocket.) Doctor Rank, will you
have a maccaroon ?

Rank. Oh, dear, dear! Maccaroons! I thought
they were contraband here.

Nora. Yes; ... but these are ‘some Christina
brought me.

Mrs. LINDEN. What did you say, dear? I?

Nora. Oh, well, dear me! You needn’t be so
frightened. You couldn’t possibly know, that Torvald
thas forbidden them. The fact is, he is afraid I might
spoil my teeth. But, oh, bother, just for once! It
won't hurt, will it, Doctor Rank? (Puts a maccaroon
into his mouth.) And you too, Christina, And I will
have one at the same time,—only a tiny one, or at
28 NORA.

most, two. (Walks about again.) Yes,1 really am now
in a state of extraordinary happiness. There is only
one thing in the world, that I should really like im-
mensely to do.

Rank. Well, and lta’ s that ?-

, Nora. There’s something that I should immensely
‘like to say, so that Torvald could hear it.

Rank. And why can’t you say it?

Nora. Oh!_I daren’t ; because it sounds so ugly.

Mrs. LINDEN. Ugly?

Rawk. In that case, I would not advise you to say
it. But you might say it to us, at any rate... Pluck
‘up your courage! What is it that you would like to
say, so that Helmer could hear it . . ?

Nora. I should like to shout with all my heart

- Oh! dash it all.
-Rank. Are you out of your mind ?

Mrs. LinDEN. My dearest Nora!

Rank, Say it. There he is.

Nora (hides the maccaroon box). Hush-sh-sh. (Hel-
mer comes out of his room, with his overcoat on his arm
and his hat in his hand.)

Nora (going towards him). Well, Torvald dear, and
have you got rid of him?

HELMER. Yes ; he’s gone at last. ‘

Nora. May I introduce you?—this is Christina,
who has come to town.

HELMER. Christina? Pardon me, but I don’t
know...

Nora. Mrs. Linden, Torvald dear—Christina Lin-
den,
NORA. 29

 

Heimer. Ah, indeed! You are an early friend of
my wife’s, I dare say.

Mrs. Linpen. Yes; we knew each other in old
times.

Nora. And now, only fancy! She has taken this
long journey, in order to speak to you.

HELMER. To speak to me!

Mrs. LinpEn. Well, not actually...

Nora. The fact is, Christina is extraordinarily clever
in counting-house work, to *egin with; and then she
has such a great wish to work under a really able
man, in order to learn even more than she knows
already.

HeELMER. Very sensible indeed !

Nora. And when she heard you were madé Bank
Manager,—the news came by telegram,—she started
off and came here as fast as she could ; and, Torvald
dear, for my sake, you can do something for Chnistina.
Now can’t you ?

Heimer. It might not be impossible. I conclude
you are a widow?

Mrs. Linpen. Yes.

Hetmer. And have aiready had some experience
in office work ?

Mrs. LINDEN. Yes, to some extent.

HELMER. Well, then, it is highly probable I can
find a niche for you.

Nora (capping her hands). There now! there
now!

Heimer. You have just come at a lucky moment,
Mrs. Linden.
30 NORA.

 

Mrs. LinDEN. Oh! how can I thank you enough?

HELMER. There is no occasion for it. (Puts his
overcoat on.\ But to-day you must excuse me.

Rank. Wait; I'll go with you. (Fetches his fur-
lined coat from the hall and warms it at the fire.)

Nora. Don’t be out long, dear Torvald. .

HELMER. Only an hour; not longer.

Nora. Are you going also, Christina ?

Mrs. LinpEn (putting on her walking things). Yes;
I must be off now and look for lodgings.

HELMER. Then perhaps we can go down the street
together.

Nora (helping her). How vexatious that we should
have no spare room to offer you; but it really is quite
impossible.

Mrs. Linpen. What are you dreaming about?
Good-bye, dear Nora, and thank you for all your
kindness, ,

Nora. Good-bye for a little while. Of course you'll
come back this evening. And you too, Doctor Rank,
What? if you feel well enough? Of course you will.
Only be sure you wrap up warmly. (Zhey go out talk-
ing into the hall. Children’s voices are heard outside on
the doorsteps.) There they are! there they are! (She
vuns to the door and opens it. Mary Ann, the nurse,
comes in with the children.)

Nora. Come in! come in! (Bends down.and hisses
the children.) Oh! you sweet, blessed . . . Do you
see them, Christina? Aren’t they darlings ?

Rank. Don’t let’s stand here in the draught, talking
folly.
NORA. 31

 

HELMER. Come, Mrs. Linden ; people who are not
mothers. won’t be able to stand it, if they stay here any
longer. (Doctor Rank, Helmer, and Mrs. Linden go.
Mary Ann envfers the room with the children; Nora
also, and she shuts the door.)

Nora. How fresh and merry you look! And what
rosy cheeks you have !—like apples and roses. (Zhe
children talk all at once to her, during the following.)
And so you have been having great fun? That is
splendid. Oh, really! you have been giving Emmy
and Bob a ride on your sledge. What! bothat once?
Dear me! you are quite a man, Ivar. Oh, give her
to mea little, Mary Ann. My sweet little dolly Baby!
(Takes the smallest from the nurse, and dances it up
and down.) Yes, yes, mother will dance with Bob,
too. What! did you have a game of snow-balls, as
well? Oh! I ought to have been there. No, leave
them, Mary Ann; I will take their things off myself.
No, no, let me do it; it is so amusing. Go to the
nursery for a while; you look so frozen. There is
some hot coffee for you, on the stove. (Zhe nurse
goes to the room on the left. Nora takes off the children’s
things, and throws them. down anyhow; while she lets
the childien talk to each other and to her.) Really !
Then there was a big dog, who ran after you? But
I’m sure he didn’t bite you? No; dogs don't bite
dear dolly little children. Don’t peep into those
parcels, Ivar. You want to know what that is? Yes,
you are the only people who shall know. Oh, no, no,
that is not behaving prettily. What ! must we have
a game? What shall it be, then? Hide and seek ?
32 NORA.

 

Yes, let us play hide and seek. Bob shall hide first.
Am Ito? Very well; I will hide first.

(She and the children play, with laughing and shouting
in:the room and the adjacent one to the right. At last,
Nora Aides under the table ; the children come rushing in
to look for her, but cannot.find her ; hear her half-chohed
laughter ; rush to the table; lift up the cover, and see
her. Shouts of joy. She creeps out, as though to
frighten them. Fresh shouts. Meanwhile there has
been a knock at the hall door. No one has noticed it.
Now the door is half opened, and Krogstad ts seen. He
waits a little; the game ts continued.)

Krocstap. Excuse me, Mrs. Helmer—

Nora (with a suppressed cry, turns round and half
jumps up). Oh! what do you want?

Krocstap. Excuse me; the inner hall door was
ajar ;—-somebody must have forgotten to shut it.

Nora (standing up). My husband is not at home,
Mr. Krogstad. :

Krocstab. I know it.

Nora. Indeed! Then what do you want here?

Krocstab. To say a few words to you.

Nora. To me? (Zo the. children softly.) Go in
to the nursery to Mary Ann. What, dear? No,
the strange man won’t hurt Mamma. When he
is gone, we will go on playing. (She kads the
children into the left-hand room and shuts the door
behind them.)

Nora (uneasy, in anxiety). It was with me you
wished to speak ?

Krocstab. Yes.
NORA. ; 33

 

Nora. To-day? But it is not the first day of the
month yet...

Krocstap. No; to-day is Christmas Eve. it will
depend upon yourself how far you enjoy your
Christmas.

Nora. What do you really want of me? I certainly
can’t to-day—

Krocstap. We won’t discuss that just at present.
Tt is about another matter. You have a minute to
spare?

Nora. Oh, yes, certainly ; I have that, although—

Krocstap. Good. I was sitting over there in
the Restaurant, and I saw your husband cross the
street.

Nora. Yes; well?

Krocstap. With a lady.

Nora. And what then?

Krocstav. May I ask if the lady was a certain
Mrs. Linden ?

Nora. Yes.

Krocstap. Who has just arrived ?

Nora. Yes. This morning.

Krocstap. I suppose she is an intimate friend of
‘yours ?

Nora. Certainly sheis. But I don’t understand...

KrocsrapD. I used to know her, too. -

Nora. I know you did.

' Krocstap. Really? Then you know all about it.
I thought as much. Now, may I ask plainly and
bluntly, whether Mrs. Linden is to have some post in

the Bank ?
D.
34 NORA.

 

Nora. How can you allow yourself to catechize me
in this way—you, a subordinate official of my hus-
band’s? But since you have asked, you shall know
Yes, Mrs. Linden is to be employed at the Bank. And
it is I who spoke for he:, Mr. Krogstad. Now you
know.

Krocstap. Then my inference was right.

Nora (walking up and down). Oh! I should ima-
gine one always has a little wee bit of influence. It
doesn’t follow, that because one is only a woman, that
. . . When one is in a dependent position, Mr. Krog-
stad, one ought to take the greatest care not to offend
anybody, who—hm—

KrocstaD. Who has influence ?

Nora. Yes; just so.

Krocstap (taking another tone). Mrs. Helmer, will
you have the kindness to employ your influence in my
favour?

Nora, What? How do you mean?

Krocstap. Will you be so obliging as to take care,
that I retain my dependent position at the Bank ?

Nora. What is all this about? Who wants to take
your post away ?

Krocstap. Oh, you needn’t pretend ignorance
towards me. I can very well comprehend, that it
cannot be pleasant for your friend to expose herself
to constant collision with me; and I can also
comprehend now, whom I have to thank for my
dismissal.

Nora. But I assure you...

Krocstap. Oh, yes ; make no bones about it : there
NORA. 35

is yet time; and I advise you to use your influence to
prevent it,

Nora. But, Mr. Krogstad, I have absolutely no
influence.

Krocstap. None? It seems to me you were saying
just now yourself—

Nora. Of course you were not to understand me in
that sense. I! How can you think I should have
such influence as that over my husband ?

Krocsrap. Oh, I’ve known your husband since our
College days. I don’t think he is firmer than other
husbands are.

Nora. If you talk disparagingly of my husband, I
must request you to go.

KrocstaD., You are very courageous, my dear .
madam.

Nora. I am no longer afraid of you. When New
Year’s Day is over, I shall soon be out of the whole
difficulty,

Kroasrab (controlling himself more). Now just listen
to me, Mrs. Helmer. If needs be, I shall fight as
though it were for my life, in order to keep my small
post in the Bank.

Nora. Yes; it really looks as if you would.

Krocstab. It is not only on account of the pay ;
that is the part of it which matters to me least. But it
is something else. Well, I suppose I'd better make a
clean breast of it. Look here; it’s this. Of course
you know just what everybody else knows,—that many
years ago, I once got into trouble.

Nora. I think I heard something of the sort.

»
36 NORA.

 

,

Krocstap. The matter never came into Court ; but
from that moment, all paths were, as it were, barri-
caded tome. Then I threw myself into the kind of
business which you know about. I was obliged to
snatch at something; and I may say this much: I
wasn’t the worst of th: men in that line. But now I
ought to clear out of all business of that sort. My
sons are growing up; on their account, I must try to
win back as much respectability as 1 possibly can. In
that direction, this post at the Bank was the first step
of the stairway. And now your husband wants to kick
me off the step and back into the mire.

Nora. But I do assure you, Mr. Krogstad, it is
really not in my power to help you.

Krocstap. That is because you will not; but I
have the means of compelling you to help me.

Nora. You don’t intend to tell my husband, that 1
owe you money?

Krocstap. Hm. Suppose I were to tell him?

Nora. It would be scandalous of you. (Choking
with suppressed tears.) This secret, which is my joy
and my pride, that he should learn it in such a vulgar,
blunt way ;—from you! You want to put me to the
most terrible annoyance.

Krocstab. Only annoyance ?

Nora (Ao¢/y). But just do it; the consequences will
be worse for you than anybody else; for then my
husband will see clearly what a bad man you are, and
then you certainly will not keep your post.

Krocstap. I asked+if it were only domestic un-
pleasantness that you were afraid of ?
NORA. 47

Nora. If my husband gets to know about it, he
will of course pay the rest without delay; and then
we shall have nothing more to do with you.

Kroestab (stepping a pace nearer). Listen, Mrs.
Helmer : either you have rather a weak memory, or
you don’t know much about business. I must get you |
to go more deeply into the matter.

Nora. How will you do that?

KrocstaD. When your husband was ill, you came
to me to borrow £300 of me.

Nora. I knew nobody else.

Kroestap. I promised to find you the money.

Nora. And you did find it.

Krocstap. I promised to find you the money, under
certain conditions. You were just then so excited
about your husband’s illness, and so anxious to get
hold of the money for your journey, that I think you
took no heed of all the attendant circumstances. It
is therefore, not out of order for me to remind you of
them. Now, I promised to find yo the money, in
exchange for an acknowledgment, which I drew up.

Nora. Yes, and I signed it.

KrocstaD. Very well. But then I added a few
lines, whereby your father became security for the
debt. Your father was to sign this.

Nora. Was to? He did sign.

Krocstab. I had left the date blank: that is to say,
your father was to insert the date on which he signed
the document. Do you recollect this, Mrs. Helmer ?

Nora. Yes, I believe...

Krocstap, Thereupon I gave you the acknowledg-
ot

38 NORA.

 

ment, that you might send it to your father. Was not
that so?

Nora. Yes.

Krocsrap, And of course you did so without
delay ; for within five or six days, you brought me
back the acknowledgment duly signed by your father.
Then you received from me the sum promised.

Nora. Well, to be sure; have I not paid it back
punctually ?

Krocsrap. Very fairly; yes. But let us return to
the matter we were speaking of. You were in great
trouble at the time, Mrs. Helmer.

Nora. I was indeed.

Krocstap. Your father, too, was very seriously ill.
I believe.

Nora. He was on his death-bed.

Krocstap. And died soon after?

Nora. Yes.

_  Krogsrap. Now, just tell me, Mrs. Helmer, whether
by any chance you happen to recollect which day he
died,—which day of the month, I mean.

Nora. Father died on the twenty-ninth of Sep-
tember.

KrocstapD. Quite correct ; I have made inquiries
about it. And therefore there is a peculiarity which
I cannot explain. (Zakes a paper from his pocket.)

Nora. What p2culiarity? I do not know...

Krocstap. The peculiarity, dear Mrs. Helmer, is,
that your father signed this acknowledgment three
days after his death.

‘Nora. What? I don’t understand.
NORA. 39

 

Krocstap. Your father died on the twenty-ninth.
of September. But just look here. Here your father
has dated his signature ‘October the 2nd.’ Is not
that peculiar, Mrs. Helmer? (Nora 7s silent.) Can
you explain that tome? (Nora continues silent.) It
is also striking, that the words ‘October the 2nd’
and the year are not in your father’s handwriting, bat
in one which I believe I know. Now this may be
explained by supposing, that your father forgot to
date it, and that somebody added the date by guess
work, before the fact of his death was known.
There is nothing improper in that proceeding. But it
is the signature of his name that my question relates
to. And is it genuine, Mrs. Helmer? Was it really’
your father, who with his own hand, set his name here ?

Nora (after a short silence throws her head back and
looks defiantly at him). No, it is not; it is I, who
wrote papa’s name there.

Krocstap. And are you aware, moreover, that that
is a dangerous admission ?

Nora. Why? You will soon get your money.

Krocsrap. May I be permitted one more question:
Why did you not send the document to your father?

Nora. It was impossible. Father was then danger-
ously ill. If I had asked him for his signature, I
should also have had to tell him what I wanted the
money for. But in his condition, I really could not
tell him, that my husband’s life hung by a thread. It
was quite impossible.

Krocstap. Then it would have been better for you
to give up the journey abroad.
40 NORA.

 

Nora. That was impossible, too. My husband's
life depended on that journey. I could not give it up-

Krocstap. But did you not consider, then, that it
was a fraud on me?

Nora.’ I could not. take any heed of that. I did
not care in the least about you. I could not endure
you, on account of all the hard-hearted difficulties you
made, although you knew what danger my husband
was in. 7

Krocstap, Mrs, Helmer, you have evidently no
clear idea what you have been really guilty of. But I
can assure you it was nothing different from this, nor
worse.than this, that I once did, and that destroyed

‘my entire position in society.

Nora. You? Do you want to make me believe,
that you ever undertook to do anything courageous, in
order to save your wife’s life ?

Krocstap. The laws do not inquire into motives.

Nora. Then we must have very bad laws.

Krocstap. Bad, or not bad,—if I lay: this docu-
ment before a court of law, you will be judged accord-
ing to the laws. :

Nora. That I do not in the least believe. Do you
mean to tell ue, that a daughter has not the right to
spare her old father, on his death-bed, care and worry ?
Do you mean to say, that a wife has not the right to
save her husband’s life? I don’t know the law pre-

' cisely, but I am convinced, that somewhere or another,

the law must contain leave for me to have done such’
things. And you don’t know it?—you, a lawyer !
‘You must be a bad lawyer, Mr. Krogstad.
NORA. 41

 

Krocstap. I daresay. But business—such business
as ours here—you believe that I do understand? Very
well, Now, do as you please. But this I do say to’
you : that if I am turned out of society a second time, ,
you shall keep me company. (He bows and goes out
through the hall.)

Nora (stands awhile thinking ; then she throws her
head back). Never! To.try to frighten me! I am
not so simple as that. (Begins folding the children’s
clothes ; soon pauses.) But... no; but that is quite
impossible. I did it from love.

THE CHILDREN (in the left door). Mamma, the
strange man is gone now.

Nora. Yes, yes; I know. But don’t tell any one
about the strange man. Do you hear? Not even
papa. ;

Tue CHILDREN. No, mamma; but now will you
play with us again?

Nora. No, no; not now.

Tue CHILDREN. Oh, do, mamma You did
promise. at

Nora. Yes; but I can’t just now. Run to the
nursery; I have so much to do. Run along, run
along, my dear, good children. (Cautiously she com-
pels them to go into the inner room, and shuts the door
behind them.)

Nora (‘hrows herself on the sofa, takes a piece of
embroidery and does a few stitches, but soon pauses). No.
(Throws the embroidery down, stands up, goes to the door
towards the hall, and calls out) Ellen, bring in the
Christmas-tree. (Goes to the left-hand table and opens
42 NORA.

 

the drawer ; stands again, thoughtful.) No; but that
is quite impossible.

ELLEN (with the hha basta! Where shall I place
it, if you please, ma’am ?

Nora. There, in the middle of the room.

Euten. Shall I bring in anything else?

Nora. No, thank you; I have what I want.

(Ellen, who has put down the tree, goes out again.)

Nora (Susy dressing the tree). There must be a
candle here, and some flowers there.—The horrid
man !—Nonsense, nonsense; there is nothing wrong
init... . The Christmas-tree shall be beautiful. I
will do pyecrliitie that gives you pleasure, Torvald; I
will sing, and dance, ‘and .

(Helmer enters from out of howe with a bundle of
documents under his arm.)

Nora. Oh! are you back already ?

HELMEr. Yes. Has anybody been here?

Nora. Here? No.

Heimer. Curious! I saw Krogstad come out of
the house. _ ,

Nora. Did you? Oh, yes, it is true he was here
for a minute.

HeELMeER. Nora, I can see from your manner he has
been here, and asked you to put in a good word for
him.

Nori. Yes.

Heimer. And you were to do it as of your own
accord? You were.to say nothing to me of his having
been here. Did he not ask that it should be so?

Nora. Yes, Torvald; but...
NORA. 43

 

HELMER. Nora, Nora! and you could be induced
to do that? to allow yourself to be drawn into talk
with such a man, and give him a promise about it.
And then tell me an untruth about it into the bargain !

Nora. An untruth?

“HELMER. Didn’t you say nobody had been here?
(Threatens with his finger.) My lark must never do
that again. A singing-bird must have a clean little
beak to sing with ; and never sing false notes. (Puts his
arm round her.) That’s true, isn’t it? Yes, I knew
it. (Lets her go.) And now we'll say no more about it.
(Sits down before the fire.) Oh, how comfortable and
quiet it is here. (Glances into his documents.)

Nora (busy with the tree, after a short silence).
Torvald.

Heimer. Yes.

Nora. I am so excessively delighted over the
Stenborgs’ costume ball, the day after: to-morrow.

HeEtmMER. And I am so excessively curious to see
what you will surprise me with.

Nora. Oh! that’s the tiresome part of it.

HeEtMER. How do you mean?

Nora. I can’t find anything to suit me. Everything
seems so silly and meaningless.

HELMeEr. Has my little Nora arrived at that opinion?

Nora (dehind his chair, with her arms on the back).
Are you very busy, Torvald ?

HELMER. Eh ?

Nora. What sort of papers are those? ©

HELMER. Papers concerning the Bank.

Nora Already ?

‘
44 NORA.

 

HELMER. I got the retiring authorities to give me
full power beforehand, to make the necessary changes
in the staff and method of working. This is what I
must spend my ‘Christmas week in arranging. By
New Year’s Day, I will have everything in order.

Nora. Then this is why that poor Brogstad »

Heimer. H—m...

Nora (continues leaning over the chair, strokes his
hair slowly). If your work were not so pressing, I
should ask you a great, great favour, Torvald.

Heimer. Let's hear it. What can it be?

Nora. Nobody has such refined taste as you have.
Now I should so love to look well at the costume ball.
Torvald, dear, couldn’t you take me in hand and settle
what character I am to appear in, and how my costume
ought to be arranged ?

Heer. Is that obstinate little head of yours tired
out at last, and looking about for somebody to save it
from destruction ?

Nora, Yes, Torvald. Without you, I am utterly
helpless.

HELMER. Well, well; I’ll think it over; we shall be
sure to hit upon something together.

Nora. Oh, how kind and good that is of you! (Goes
to the tree again ; pause.) How pretty the red flowers
look! But, by the bye, was the thing which Krogstad
got into trouble:about, years ago, really so bad?

Heimer, Forged a name, that’s all. Have you any
notion what that means?

Nora. Mustn’t he have done it from need?

HIELMER. Yes, or as so many others do it, from
VORA, 45

 

heedlessness. I am not so heartless as to judge any-
body absolutely, from such a transaction alone.

Nora. No; that’s just what I thought you would
say, Torvald.

HELMER. Many a man can lift himself up again
morally, if he openly recognizes his offence, and
undergoes its punishment.

Nora. Punishment ? :

HELMER. But Krogstad didn’t set about it in that
way: he tried to work his way out of it by dodges and
tricks ; and by that very means, he has morally ruined
himself.

Nora. Do you think that it... ?

HELMER. Only just think how a man, so conscious
of guilt as that, must go about everywhere lying, and
a hypocrite, and an actor ; how he must wear a mask
towards his neighbour, and even his wife and children.
Its affecting the children is the worst part of it, Nora.

Nora. Why?

Heimer. Because such a misty atmosphere of lying
brings contagion into the whole family. Every breath
the children draw contains some germ of evil.

Nora (closer behind him). Are you quite sure?

Heer. As a lawyer, darling child, I have remarked
that, many atime. Nearly all men who go to ruin early, .
have had untruthful mothers.

Nora. Why should it be—mothers ?

HEtMER. In most cases, it comes from the mother ;
but the father naturally works in the same direction.
Every lawyer has reason to know that. And Krogstad
has actually been poisoning his own children for years
46 NORA.

 

past, by lying and acting a part; that is precisely why
T call him morally lost. (Stretches out his hands to her.)
This is the reason why my dear little Nora must pro-
mise me not to plead on his behalf. Shake hands upon
it. Come, come; what’s that? Give me your hand.
That’s right. Then it’s a bargain. I do assure you it
would have been impossible to me to work with him.
I literally feel bodily discomfort when I am in any
, proximity to such people.

Nora (takes her hand away and walks to the other
side of the Christmas-tree). How warm it is here!
And I have so much to do, still.

HELMER (vises and puts his papers together). Yes, I
must take care to get some of: these papers read

_ through before dinner; and I will think over your
costume, too. And I should not be surprised, if I
were to get some trifle ready, which might be hung in
gilt prper on the Christmas-tree. (Lays his hand upon
her head.) My dear little lark! (He goes into his room
and shuts the door behind him.)

Nora (slowly, after a pause). What was it? It can’t
be so... . That is impossible. It must be impossible.

Mary Ann (in the left door). The little ones are

begging so prettily to come in to mamma.

Nora. No, no; don’t let them come in to me. Let
them stay with you, Mary Ann.

Mary Ann, Very well, ma’am. (Shuts the door.)

Nora (pale with terror). I ruin my children. . .

poison my home. (Short pause. She raises her head
proudly.) That is not true. It is never, and can
never be, true. ,
: NORA. 47

 

ACT II.
THEsSAME ROOM,

fin the corner beside the piano, stands the Christmas-
tree, stripped, shabby, and with the candles burnt out.
On the sofa, Nora’s walking things.)

(Nora, alone, is in the room ; she walks about restlessly ;
at last she stands by the sofa and takes up her
cloak.)

Nora (takes off her cloak again). There was some-
body coming. (Goes to the door ; listens.) No; nobody.
Nobody is likely to come to-day, Christmas Day, nor
to-morrow either. But perhaps. . (Opens the door and
peeps out.) No. Nothing in the letter-box; it’s quite
empty. (Comes to the front of the Stage.) Stuff and .
nonsense! Of course he will do nothing serious in it.
Nothing of the hind can possibly happen. It is im-
possible. Why, I have three little children,

(Mary Ann comes out of the left room, with a large
card-board box.)

Mary Ann. At last I’ve found the box, with the

masquerade dress.

Nora. Thanks; put it down on the table there.

Mary ANN (does so). But it is still very much out
of order, ma’am.
48 | NORA. ‘

 

Nora. Oh, I wish I could tear it into a hundred
thousand pieces.

Mary Ann. Good gracious me, ma’ am! Why,
it can be easily put to rights; it only wants a little
patience.

Nora. Yes; I will go to Mrs. Linden, and get her
to help me.

Mary Ann. What’! out again, ma’am? In this
dreadful weather? You'll catch your death of cold,
ma’am, and be quite ill.

Nora. Oh, that’s not the worst thing which could
happen. What are the children doing?

Mary Ann. They're playing with their Christmas
presents, dear little things; but...

Nora. Do they often ask after me?

Mary ANN. Well, you see, ma’am, they have been
so used to having their mamma always with them.

t Nora. Yes; but, Mary Ann, henceforth I can’t have
‘them so much with me.

Mary ANN. Well, ma’am, little children get used to
“anything.

Nora. Do you think they do? Do you believe,
that they would forget their mamma, if she went quite
away ?

Mary Aww. Gracious me, ma’am; quite away !

Nora. Tell me, Mary Ann,—I’ve so often wondered
about it,—how could.you bring yourself to place your
child out among strangers ?

Mary Ann. _But I was obliged to, if I wanted to
come as nurse to my little Miss Nora, ma’am.

Nora. Yes; but that you could be willing to do it.
NORA. 49

Mary Ann. When I could get such a good place,
ma’am? A poor girl who’s been in trouble, could
only be very glad to come. For that wicked man did
‘nothing for me.

Nora. But of course your daughter has forgotten
you? ‘

Mary Ann..Oh! no, ma’am, not in the least. She
wrote to me, both when she was confirmed, and when
she got married.

Nora (embracing her). Dear Mary Ann, you were a
good mother to me, when I was a little girl.

Mary Ann. My poor little Miss Nora had no
mother but me.

Nora. And if my little children had nobody else, I
am sure you would . . . Nonsense, nonsense. (Opens
the box.) Go to them in the nursery. Now, I
must .. . To-morrow you shall see how beautifully
this dress suits me.

Mary ANN. Yes, ma’am, I’m sure there will be
nobody at the whole ball so beautiful as my Miss
Nora. (She goes into the left room.)

Nora (degins taking the costume out of the box ; but
soon pushes tt all away from her). Oh, if 1 dared go out !
If only nobody would come! If only nothing would
happen, here, at home, meanwhile! Rubbish! no-
body will come. Only not to think . . . Stroke one’s
muff smooth! Beautiful gloves, beautiful gloves .. .
Away with the whole thing, away withit... One,
two, three, four, five, six.. (With a cry.) Oh! there
they come... (Would go towards the door, but stands
undecided.)

E
50 NORA.

 

(Mrs. Linden comes from the hall, where she has
taken off her things.)

Nora. Oh, it is you, Christina. Is nopody eise
there? How delightful of you to come!

Mrs. LinpEN. I hear you have called at my
lodgings to ask for me.

Nora. Yes, I was just passing. There 1s some-
thing I wanted -you to help me with. Let us sit here
on the sofa. Look here. To-morrow evening, there
is a costume ball at Consul Stenborg’s overhead ; and
now Torvald wants me to appear as a Neapolitan
fisher-girl, and dance the Tarantella, because I learnt it
in Capri.

Mrs. LINDEN. I see, dear. Then you are to give
quite a representation of the character?

Nora. Yes; Torvald wishes it. Look! here is the
costume. ‘Torvald had it made for me in Italy; but
now it is all so torn, and I hardly know. . .

Mrs. LINDEN. Oh! we'll soon set that to rights for
you. It is only the trimming which has got loose, here
and there. Have you a needle and thread? Ah!
there’s the very thing we want.

Nora. How kind it is of you !

Mrs, LinDEN (sewing). Then you're going to dress
up to-morrow, Nora, are you? I tell you what,—I
shall come in for a moment, in order to see you in all
your glory. But I have quite forgotten to thank you
for the pleasant evening you gave me yesterday.

Nora (gets up and walks across the room). Ah}
yesterday it didn’t seem to me so pleasant here as it
generally is... You should have come to town a
NORA. sr

 

little sooner, Christina. Yes, Torvald certainly knows
how to make our home beautiful and pleasant.

Mrs. Linpen. And so do you, I think; or you
would not be your father’s daughter. But tell me,—
is Doctor Rank always so depressed as he was yester-
day evening ?

Nora. It was painfully striking yesterday. But he
really has symptoms of a very dangerous illness which
accounts for it. He has spinal consumption, poor
wretch. ‘You see, his father was an awful man, who
did all sorts of wrong things, and so of course his son
has been ill from his childhood.

Mrs. LinvEN (ets her sewing fall into her lap). But,
my dearest, loveliest Nora, how do you learn such
things ?

Nora (waéking). Oh! when one has three children,
one is sometimes called upon by. . . by women, who
have a little medical knowledge; and they will chat
about one thing and another.

Mrs. LINDEN (goes on sewing ; short pause). Does
Doctor Rank come here every day ?

Nora. He never misses. He has been Torvald’s
friend from boyhood, you know, and is a good
friend of mine, too. Doctor Rank is quite one of the
family.

Mrs. LinveN. But just tell me, dear; is the man
quite honest? I mean, doesn’t he like saying flatter-
ing things to people?

Nora. On the.contrary. What makes you think

.SoP
Mrs. Linpen. When you introduced us yesterday,
52 NORA.

 

he declared he had often heard my name in the house;
but then I noticed your husband had scarcely any idea
who I was. How, then, could Doctor Rank?

Nora. You are right, Christina. But you see,
Torvald loves me so indescribably much ; and that is
why he wants to have me all to himself, as he ex-
presses it. When we first married, he was almost
jealous, if I did but mention one of the people I loved
at home; so naturally I left it off. But I often talk
to Doctor Rank about it, for he loves to hear me, you
know.

Mrs. LINDEN. Now, listen, Nora; you are still just
like a child in many things. I am somewhat older
than -you are, and have a little more experience. I
will tell you something: you ought to put an end to
the whole affair with this Doctor.

Nora, What affair ought 1 to put an end to?

Mrs. Linpen. Both affairs, it seems to me. Yes-
terday you were telling me about a rich admirer, who
was to furnish you with money.

Nora. Yes, and who doesn’t exist, more’s the pity.
But what then ?

Mrs. LinpEN. Has Doctor Rank property ?

Nora. Yes, he has.

Mrs. LinpEN. And nobody to provide for?

Nora. No; nobody. But—

Mrs. LinpEN. And he comes here every day?

Nora. Yes; I tell you he never misses,

Mrs. LinpEN. But how can he, as a gentleman, be
so needy ?

Nora. I really don’t understand you.
NORA. 53

 

Mrs. Linpen. Don’t pretend, Nora. Don’t you
suppose I guess from whom you borrowed the
4300?

.Nora. Are you out of your senses? Can you
think anything of the sort? A friend of the family,
who comes here every day tous! What a frightfully
torturing state of things it would be !

Mrs. Linpen. Then it really is not he?

Nora. No; that I do assure you. It never for a
moment occurred to me to ask him. Besides, at that
time, he had nothing to lend; it was later that he
came into his property.

Mrs. LinpEn. Well, that was certainly lucky for
you, Nora dear.

Nora. No, really, it never would have struck me to
ask Doctor Rank. However, I am certain, that in
case I did ask him—

Mrs. LinDEN. But of course you never would ?

Nora. I should think not, indeed. 1 do not believe
T can imagine its being necessary. But I am firmly
convinced, that if I spoke to Doctor Rank—

Mrs. LinpEN. Behind your husband’s back ?

Nora. I must get out of the other loan; that I had
to manage behind his back, too. I must get out of
that.

Mrs.’Lrnpen. Yes, yes, I was saying so too, yes-
terday ; but—

Nora (walking up and down).» A man can get such
a thing into order much better than awoman can...

Mrs. Linpen. Her own husband ; yes.

Nora. Nonsense. (Stands still.) When one pays
54 NORA.

 

everything off that one owes, one gets back the
acknowledgment of the debt ?

Mrs. LInpDEN. Yes, of course.

Nora. And can tear it into a hundred thousand
pieces, and burn the nasty, horrid thing !

Mrs. LinpEen (looks at her fixedly, lays down her
work, and gets up-slowly). Nora, you are hiding some-
thing from me.

Nora. Can you see that in my manner?

Mrs. LinpEN. Since yesterday morning, something
has been happening to you. Nora, what is it ?

Nora (going towards her). Christina. (Lzstens.)
Hush. There’s Torvald coming home. Here, go and
sit with the children, while you are doing that work.
Torvald can’t bear to see dressmaking. Let Mary
Ann help you.

Mrs. LiInDEN (gathers some of the things together).
Very well ; but I shan’t go away, until we have spoken
openly to each other.

(She goes away to the left, as Helmer enters from the
hail.)

Nora (goes to meet him). Oh! how I have been
longing to see you, Torvald dear.

HELMER. Was the dressmaker here?

Nora. No; Christina. She is helping me to get
my costume into order. You will see I shall look
perfectly charming.

HeELMeER. Yes; wasn’t that an extremely lucky
thought of mine?

Nora. Glorious! But is it not also very nice of
me to give in to you?
NORA. 55

HELMER (fakes her under the chin). Nice of you—
that you give in to your own husband! Why, you
little rogue, I know very well you didn’t mean any-
thing of the sort. But I won’t disturb you. I dare
say you want to be fitting on your dress.

Nora. And I dare say you're going to work ?

HELMER. Yes (shows her a bundle of documents).
Look here. I have been down at the Bank. (/s
about to go to his reom.)

Nora. Torvald.

HELMER (stands still). Yes.

Nora. If your little squirrel were to ask you for
something really very prettily . . .

HELMER. Then?

Nora. Would you do it ?

HELMER. Naturally I should first expect to be told
what it is.

Nora. The little squirrel would jump about and
perform all sorts of funny tricks, if you would be
amiable, and do as you are asked.

Hetmer. Come, then; out with it !

Nora. The little lark would twitter round in all the
rooms, loud and soft by turns...

HeEtMeER. Oh, there’s nothing in that. She does all
that, as it is.

Nora. I would act a fairy, and dance in the moon-
light, Torvald.

HELmMER. Nora, you can’t mean what you were
begging me about this morning ?

Nora (coming nearer). Yes, Torvald, I do beg and

pray you.
56 NORA.

 

HEtmMer. Have you really the courage to mention
the matter again to me?

Nora. Yes, yes. You must do what I want. You
must let Krogstad keep his place at the Bank.

HELMER. My dear Nora, I have arranged for his
place to be given to Mrs. Linden.

Nora. Yes, and that was very nice of you. But
instead of Krogstad, you could dismiss some other
clerk.

Heimer. This is incredible obstinacy. Because
you heedlessly promised to put in a word for him, I
am to...

Nora. Not for that reason, Torvald. It is for your
own sake. ‘The man is on the staff of some of our
most scurrilous newspapers ; I have heard you say so
myself. He can do you such infinite harm. I am so
terribly afraid of him.

HEtmEr. Oh, I understand ; it is old recollections
which are frightening you.

Nora. Why do you say that ?

Hetmer. Of course you are thinking of your father.

Nora. Yes, to be sure. Only call to mind what
wicked men used to write about father in the papers,
and how shamefully they calumniated him! I believe
they really would have got him dismissed, if Govern-
ment had not sent you down to look into the matter,
and if you had not been so kindly and considerate
towards him.

HELMER. My dear Nora, between your father and
me, there is all the difference in the world. Your
father was not, as, an official, quite unimpeachable.
NORA. 57

 

But I am; and I hope to remain so, as long as I am
at my post.

Nora. Oh, no one knows what wicked men can
find to say. We could be so well off now, and live so
quietly and happily in our peacefu} home, free from
any kind of care,—you, and I, and the children,
Torvald! This is why I beg you so earnestly.

Heimer. And it is just by interceding for him,
that you make it impossible for me to keep him. It
-is already known at the Bank, that I intend-to dismiss
Krogstad. If it were now to be known, that the
new Bank Manager let himself be talked round by
his wife— :

Nora. Well, what then?

HeEtMER. If only the obstinate little woman can get
her own way, of course that is all she wants... Iam
to make myself the laughing-stock of all the clerks,
and set people saying I am under all sorts of outside
influence. Take my word for it, I-should soon trace
the consequences. And besides, there is one circum-
stance which makes Krogstad an impossible person to
have at the Bank, while I am manager there.

Nora. What circumstance?

Heimer. Incase of necessity, I could perhaps have
overlooked his moral fault... i

Nora. Yes, couldn’t you, Torvald?

Heimer. And by what I hear, he must be quite
competent. But we knew each other in early youth.
It is one of those hasty acquaintances, which so often
hamper one in later life. ‘Well, I may just as well tell :
you the whole thing plainly: He calls me ‘Torvald.’ °

—
58 NORA.

 

And the tactless creature makes no secret of it, when
other people are present. On the contrary, he fancies
it justifies his taking a familiar tone with me; and so
he blurts out, at every turn, ‘I say, Torvald:’ I do
assure you it causes me most painful emotion. He
would make my position at the Bank perfectly unen-
durable to me.

Nora. Torvald, you are not serious in saying all
this.

HELMER. Not? Why not?

Nora. All these are such petty considerations.

Heimer. What are you saying? Petty—- Do you
consider me petty ?

Nora. No, on the contrary, Torvald dear ; and that
is just why— :

HeEtmer. It’s all the same. You call my reasons
petty; then I must be so, too. Petty! Very well,
then. Now we'll put an end to this, once and for all.
(Goes to the door into the hall, and calls.) Ellen !

Nora. What do you want?

HELMER (searching among his papers). To settle
the thing.

(Ellen en/ers.)

Heimer. There ; take that letter. Go down with it
at once. Get hold of a messenger. But be quick.
The address is on it. Here is the money for him.

Exien. Yes, sir. (She goes with the letter.)

HELMER ( putting his papers in order\, There! my
obstinate little wife.

Nora (éreathlessly). Torvald, what letter was that ?
HELMER. Krogstad’s dismissal.
NORA. 59

 

; Nora. Fetch it back again, Torvald. There is still
time. Oh, Torvald, get it back again. Do it for my
sake,—for your own sake,—for our children’s sake.

Do you hear? Torvald, do it. You don’t know |

what that letter has the power to bring upon us all.

HELMER. Too late.

Nora. Yes, too late. '

HeEtmer. Dear Nora, I forgive you for putting your-
self into this state of anxiety, although it is founded
upon what is wounding to me. Yes, that is what it
really is. Or perhaps it is no offence to me, for you
to believe I should be afraid of the revenge of a dis-
graced newspaper scribbler? But I forgive it you,
because it is all the time a charming proof of your
great love forme. (Zakes her in his arms.) We will
look at it so, my own darling Nora. Let what will
befall us, if I am called upon for it, I have not only
courage, but the strength too, you know. You shall
see that I am the man to take everything upon my
shoulders.

Nora (suddenly terrified). What do you mean by
that ?

Hetmer. Everything, I say.

Nora (decidedly). That you shall never, never do.

HELMER.. Very well; then we will share it, Nora,
as man and wife. That’s the way it shall be. (Strokes
her.) Are you satisfied now? Come, come, come ;
don’t let me see those eyes looking like a scared
dove’s. The whole thing is nothing but the most
baseless fancy. Now you must act the Tarantella, and.
practise the tambourine. I shall go and sit in my
60 NORA.

 

inner office and shut the door between them, so that
I shall hear nothing. You can make as much noise
as ever you please ; (urns round in the door-way) and
when Rank comes, just tell him where I am to be
found. (He nods to her, goes into his room with his
papers, and shuts the door after him.)

Nora (bewildered with anxiety, stands as though
rooted to the ground, and whispers). He had it in his
power to doit. Yes; he did it. He did it in spite
af all and everything I said. No; never that, to all
Eternity. Rather anything than that! Save me! Oh,
for some way out of it! (Zhe hall-door bell rings.)
Doctor Rank! Rather anything than that, whatever
it may be. (She recovers herself, strokes her face, goes
to the door leading to the hall, and opens it. Doctor
Rank és standing outside and hanging up his great coai.
During the following scene, it grows dark.) Good
afternoon, Doctor Rank. I knew you by your ring.
But you must not go to Torvald now; for I believe
he has some work to do.

Rawk. And you?

Nora (as he walks into the room, and she shuts the
door behind him). Oh, you know perfectly well, I have
always a spare moment for you.

Rawk. Thank you. I shall avail myself of your
kindness as long as ever I can.

Nora. What does that mean? As long as ever
you can?

Rank. Yes; does that frighten you ?

Nora. Well, it was such a curious expression. Is
anything going to happen ?
NORA. 61

 

Rank. That will happen, for which I have long
been prepared ; but I certainly did not think it would
come off so soon.

Nora (seczing his arm). What is it you have got to
know? Doctor Rank, you must tell me.

Rank (sitting down by the stove). 1 am running
downhill. There is.no help for it.

Nora (breathing with relief). You are the one, then,

who...?
_ Rank. Who else should it be? There can be no
use in deceiving one’s self? Iam the most miserable
of all my patients, Mrs. Helmer. In the last few days,
I. have had a general stock-taking of my inner man.
Bankruptcy! Before a month is over, I shall perhaps
be food for worms in the churchyard.

Nora. Oh, what ugly things you say!

Rank. The thing itself is so cursed ugly. But the
- worst of it is, that so many ugly things have to be
gone through first. There is only one investigation to
be made, and when I have made it, I shall know
pretty well at what time dissolution will begin. There
is something I want to say to you about that. Helmer
has stamped on his refined nature such a hatred for all
that is disagreeable ; I will not have him in my sick
room.

Nora. Oh! but, Doctor Rank—

Rank. I will not have him in my sick room,—
upon any consideration whatsoever. I close my
door against him. As soon as I obtain completely
certain information as to the worst, I shall send you
my visiting card with a black cross on it; and then
62 NORA.

 

you will know, that the horrors of dissolution have
begun.

Nora. Come! The way you are talking to-day is
perfectly absurd. And I was so particularly anxious
you should be in a really good temper.

Rank. With Death staring me in the face? And
all by way of penance for the faults of another! What
justice is there in that? Just such compensation is
being exacted, inexorably, after one fashion or another,
in every family.

Nora (stopping her ears). Nonsense. Do be funny,
funny!

Rank. Yes, really, the whole story is only worth
laughing at. My poor innocent spine must waste away,
for my father’s notions of amusement when he was a
lieutenant in the army.

Nora ‘at the left table). 1 suppose he was devoted
to asparagus and Strasburg pies, wasn’t he ?

Rank. Certainly, and to truffles.

Nora. Yes, devoted to truffles, to be sure ; and to
oysters, I believe.

Rank. Yes, to oysters; no need to mention that ;
oysters, of course.

Nora. And then all the port wine and champagne.
It is sad that all these dainties should affect the bones
so disastrously. ,

Rank. Especially when the bones so disastrously
affected never got the least advantage from the dainties.

Nora. Yes; that is the saddest part of all.

Rank (looks at her searchingly). H—m...

Nora (a4 moment later). Why were you smiling?
NORA. 63

 

Rank. No; it was you who smiled.

Nora. No, you, Doctor Rank.

Rank (standing up). You are really a greater rogue
than I thought.

Nora. To-day I am just inclined to play all sorts of
tricks.

Rank. It seems like it.

Nora (with her hands on his shoulders). Dear, good
Doctor Rank, Death shall not take you away from
Torvald and me.

Rank. Oh, that is a loss, 1 am sorry to say, you
will easily get over. Péople who go away, are soon
forgotten.

Nora (looking at him anxiously). Do you think so?

Ranx. People make fresh ties, and then—

Nora. Who is making fresh ties ?

Rank. Both you and Helmer will do it, as soon as
Iam gone. In fact, you are setting about it already,
it seems to me. What was that Mrs. Linden doing
here yesterday ?

Nora. Oh, that’s it? But you don’t mean to say
you're jealous of poor Christina ?

Rank. Yes, I am. She will be my successor here
in your house. When I am dead and gone, that lady
will perhaps—

Nora. Hush! Not so loud; she is in there.

Rank. To-day, as well? There, just what I said !

Nora. Only to put my costume in order. Dear!
dear! how absurd you are. (St¢s on the sofa.) Now,
do just be sensible, Doctor Rank ; to-morrow you shall

" see how beautifully I dance, and then you may fancy, if
64 NORA.

 

you like, that I am doing it all to please you only,—
and of course Torvald as well;—of course. (Zakes
various things out of the cardboard box.) Doctor Rank,
sit over here; and then I will show you something.

Rank (sitting down).+ What is it ?

Nora. Look here. Do you see these?

Rank. Silk stockings.

Nora. Flesh-coloured. Aren’t they lovely ?. Oh,
it’s so dark here now; but to-morrow... No, no, no,
you must only look at the feet. Oh, very well, you
may look at the rest, too.

Ranx. H—m.

Nora. What are you looking so critical about?
Don’t you think they would fit me?

Rank. It is impossible I should have any settled
opinion on that point.

Nora (looks at him a@ moment). For shame. (fits
him lightly on the ear with the stockings.) Take that for
it! (Rolls them up again.)

Rank. And what other splendid things have you
got there, that I was to see?

Nora. You won't be allowed to see anything more,
for you don’t behave nicely. (She hums a little, and
searches among the things.)

Rank (after a short silence). When Iam sitting here
in such perfect intimacy with you, I can’t imagine—
in fact, I can’t form the slightest idea, what would
have become of me, if I had never entered this
house.

Nora (smiling). Yes, I really think you thoroughly
like being with us.
NORA. 65

 

Rank (more softly, looking straight before him). And
now I must go away from it all.

Nora. Nonsense. You won’t go away from us.

RANK (én the same tone). And not be able to leave
behind me the smallest sign of thanks; scarcely a
‘passing thought of regret,—nothing but an empty
place, which can be filled by the next comer as well
as by anybody else.

Nora. And if I were to ask you now for... No!

Rank. For what?

Nora. For a great proof of your friendship.

Rank. Well, well?

Nora. No, I mean,—for a very, very great service.

Rank. Would you really for once, make me so
happy as all that?

Nora. Oh, you have no notion yet, what it is.

Rank. Very well; then tell me directly.

Nora. But I can’t, Doctor Rank: it is such an
extraordinarily great thing; both advice, and help,
and a service.

Rank. The greater the better. I can’t imagine
what you can mean. But do goon. Don’t you trust
me?

Nora. Yes, as I trust nobody else. You are my
best and most faithful friend. I know that. For that
reason, I will tell you what it is. Well, then, Doctor
Rank, there is something which you must help me to
hinder. You know how deeply, how indescribably
Torvald loves me; he would not hesitate a moment
to give his very life for mine.

F
66 NORA.

 

Rank (ending towards her). Nora, do you think,
then, that he is the only one who would—

Nora (with a slight start). Who?—

Rank. Who would gladly give his life for you?

Nora (sadly). Oh!

Rank. I had sworn that you should know it, before
I went away for ever. I should never find a better
opportunity. Yes, Nora, now you know it. And now
you know, too, that you can trust yourself to me, as
you could to no one else.

Nora (s/ands ub simply and calmly). Let me: pass,
please.

Rank (makes way for her, but sits still). Nora.

Nora (in the door to the hall). Ellen, bring the
lamp. (Walks to the stove.) Oh, dear Doctor Rank,
that was really too bad of you.

Rank (standing up). That I have loved you
devotedly, as no one else does? Was that too bad
of me?

Nora. No; but that you should go and tell me so.
It was really not necessary...

Rank. What do you mean? Did you know it, then ?

(Ellen comes in with the lamp, sets it down on the
table, and goes out again.)

Rank. ,Nora,— Mrs. Helmer,—I ask you, did you
know anything of it?

Nora. Oh, what do I know, as to whether I knew

“or didn’t know? T'really can’t say . . . But that you
could possibly be so clumsy! Everything was going
on so beautifully.
NORA. 67

 

Rank. Well, at any rate you know now for certain,
that I am quite at your disposal, soul and body. So
will you speak plainly?

Nora (looking at him). Speak on, now ?

Rawk. I beg you to tell me what it is you want,

Nora. Now I can say nothing to you.

Rank. Oh yes, yes! you must not punisn me in
that way. Give me leave to do for you whatever is in
human power.

Nora. You cannot do anything for me, now.
Besides, I really want no help. You will find it was
only my imagination. Yes, that is all. Of course.
(Sits in the rocking-chair, looks at him, smiles.) Yes,
you really are a charming gentleman, Doctor Rank.
Now just tell me, aren’t you ashamed of yourself, now
that the lamp is on the table?

Rank. No, indeed I am not. But perhaps I ought
to go, and for ever?

Nora. No; you certainly needn’t do that. Of
course you are to come to us as you always have
come. You know very well that Torvald can’t do
without you.

Rank. Yes; but you?

Nora. Oh, I always think it is immensely delightful
when you come.

Rank. That is just what led me to mistake my.
path. You area riddle to me. It often seemed to
me, as though you would almost as gladly spend your
time with me as with Helmer.

Nora. Yes,—don’t you see? there are some people
whom one loves most; and other people whom one
68 NORA.

 

would almost always vrefer spending one’s time
with.

Rank. Ah, there’s some truth in that.

Nora. When I was still a girl at home, I naturally
loved papa best. But I always thought it was

immensely amusing when I could steal into the maids’
' room; for they never lectured me, and they always
talked so entertainingly amongst themselves.

Ranx. Oh, I see; then it is ¢ezv place I have
taken. ,

Nora (jumps up and goes towards him). Oh! dear,
good Doctor Rank, I never meant that. But you can
very well imagine, that I feel about Torvald just as I
used to feel about father.

(Ellen comes in from the hall.)

ELLEN. If you please, maam. (IVhispers in her
ear, and gives her a card.)

Nora (glances at the card). Ah! ‘Puts it in her
pocket.)

Rank. Something disagreeable up?

Nora. No, not in the least. It is only something ;
—it is my new costume,

Rank. How can it be? There’s your dress.

Nora. Oh, that one, yes; but it’s another, that .
I ordered it . . . Torvald is not to know.

Rank. Oh, indeed. So that’s the great secret |

Nora. Yes, to be sure. Do just go into his room;
he is in the inner room; do keep him as long as you
can.

Rank. Make yourself easy ; he sha’n’t get away
from me. (He goes tato Helmer’s room.)
NORA. 69

 

Nora (éo Ellen). Then he is waiting in the kitchen?

ELLEN. Yes ; he came to the back door. _

Nora. But did you not tell him I had a visitor with
me?

Eien. Yes, ma’am; but it was no use.

Nora. He really will not go away, then ?

ELLEN. No, ma’am; not until he has spoken with
you.

Nora. Then let him come in, but quietly. Ellen,
you must not tell any one; it is a surprise for my
husband,

Eien. Oh yes, ma’am; I quite understand. (She
goes out.)

Nora. The terrible thing is coming. It is here
already. No, no, no; it can never happen; it shall
not. (She goes fo Helmer’s door and ships the bolt.)

(Ellen opens the hall door to Krogstad, and shuts it
behind hin, He wears a travelling coat, high boots, and
a fur cap.)

Nora (fowards him). Speak quietly. My husband
is at home.

Krocstap. All right ; I don’t care.

Nora. What do you want of me?

Krocstap. An explanation of something.

Nora. Be quick, then. What is it?

Krocsrap. You know Ihave received my dismissal.

Nora. I could not prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I
fought to the last on your behalf; but it was no use.

Krocstap. Does your husband love you so little?
He knows what it is that I can expose you to, and yet
he dares—
70 NORA.

 

Nora. How can you suppose he has got to know it?

Krocstap. Oh! no; I didn’t think that, either.
To show so much manly courage did not look much
like my fine Torvald Helmer.

Nora. Mr, Krogstad, I demand respect for my
husband.

Krocstap. To be sure; ail due respect. But since
you, dear madam, are so anxious to keep the matter
secret, I suppose I may venture to assume, that you
are a little clearer than you were yesterday, as to what
you have really done ?

Nora. Clearer than you could ever make me.

Krocstap. Yes, such a bad lawyer as I am!

Nora. What is it you want?

Krocsrap. Only to see how you were getting on,
Mrs. Helmer. I have been thinkiag about you all day
long. A cashier, a scribbling newspaper writer, a—in
short, a creature like me, nevertheless, has a little bit
of what people call ‘ heart,’ you know.

Nora. Then show it; think of my little children.

Krocstap. Did you and your husband think of
mine? But let’s leave that alone. I only wanted to
tell you, that you needn’t take this matter too seriously.
I sha’nt be the first one to talk about it.

Nora. No; to be sure. I knew you wouldn’t be.

KrocstaD. It can be settled as amicably as possible.
Nobody need know. It can remain among us three.

Nora. My husband is never to know anything
about it.

Krocstap. How can you prevent that? Can you
pay off the debt, eh?
NORA. 71

 

Nora. No, not at once.

Krocstap. Or have you any means of raising the
money in the next few days ?

Nora. No means that I will make use of.

Krocstap. And if you had, it would have been no
good to you. If you stood here with ever so much
money in your hand, you wouldn’t get your I. O. U..
back from me. .

Nora. Then tell me what you want to do with it.

Kroestap. I only want to keep it, to have it in my
own hands. No one whom it does not concern shall
hear anything of it. If, on account of it, you were to
form any desperate resolution . . .

Nora. As I do.

Krocstap. If you should think of leaving your.
husband and children...

Nora. As I do.

Krocstab. Or if you should think of doing some-
thing far worse...

Nora. How do you know that ?

KrocstapD. —then leave it alone.

Nora. How do you know I am thinking of doing
that ?

KrocstaD. Most of us think of fhaf as the first:
thing to do, I thought of it too; but really had not
the courage.

Nora (vottelessly). Nor I.

KrosstaD (relieved). No; one hasn’t. You have
not the courage either, have you?

Nora. I haven’t ; I haven't.

Krocstap. Besides, it would be very silly, ‘When
72 NORA.

 

the first storm is only over in the house... I
have a letter for your husband, here in my pocket.

Nora. Telling him everything ?

Krocstap. Sparing you as far as possible.

Nora (guicki;). He shall never have that letter.
Tear itup. I will get you the money somehow.

Krocstab. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Helmer ; but
I thought I had just told you...

Nora. Oh, I’m not talking about the money I owe
you. ‘Tell me how large a sum you demand from my
husband, and I will get it for you.

Krocsrap. I demand no money from your husband.

Nora. What do you want, then ?

Kroestap. I will tell you. I want to get on in the
-world, dear madam ; I want to redeem my position in
it And your husband shall help metodo it. For
the last eighteen months, I have not been concerned
in any dishonourable transaction ; during that time, I
have been fighting against the most straightened cir-.
cumstances. I was content to work my way up, step
by step. Now I amturned out; and I am not satisfied
to get employment again, as a matter of favour. I
mean to rise in the world, I tell you... I will get
into the Bank again,—and in a higher position than
before. Your husband shall make a place on purpose
for me.

Nora. He will never do that.

Krocstap. He will doit. I know him; he won’t
dare to object. And when I am once associated with
‘him there, you will soon see! Before a year is out,
I shall be the manager’s right hand. It will be Nils
NORA. 73

 

Krogstad, and not Torvald Helmer, who carries on
the Joint Stock Bank.

Nora. You shall never bring that to pass.

Krocstap. Perhaps you would ... .

Nora. Yes; now I have the courage for it,

Krocstap. Oh, youdon’t frighten me, An elegant,
spoilt lady like you...

Nora. You will see ; you will see.

Krocstap. Under the ice, perhaps. Down into
the cold, coal-black water? And then next spring, be
fished up on the shore, ugly, unrecognizable, with your
hair all fallen out...

Nora. You don’t frighten me.

Krocstap. Nor you me. People don’t do things
of that sort, Mrs. Helmer. And, after all, what would
be the use of it? I should have your husband here in
my pocket, just the same.

Nora. Even then, still? When I am no longer—

Krocstap. Do you ferget, that even then, your
forgery would still be in my hands? (Nora stands
speechless and looks at him.) Well, now you are pre-
pared. Do nothing foolish. So soon as Helmer has
received my letter, I shall expect to hear from him.
And bear in mind, that it is your husband himself
who has forced me back again into such paths. That
I will never forgive him. Good-bye, Mrs. Helmer.
(He goes out through the hail.)

Nora (goes to the door, opens it a little, and listens).
He is going. He is not putting the letter in the box.
No, no, it would be quite impossible. (Ogens the
door further and further.) What does that mean?

‘
74 NORA.

 

He is standing still, not going down the-stairs. Is he
thinking better of it? Would he? (A dtter falls
into the box ; Krogstad’s steps are then heard, until lost
in the distance down the stairs.)

Nora (with a suppressed cry rushes through the room
to the sofa-table; short pause). In the letter-bex!
(She steals across tothe door.) There it lies. Torvald,
Torvald, now we are lost.

Mrs. LinDEN (comes with the costume from the left
room). Well, now, I can’t see anything more to put
right. Should we just try it on ?

Nora (hoarsely and softly). Christina, do come
here.

Mrs. LINDEN (throws the dress on the sofa). What’s
the matter? You look so disturbed.

Nora. Do come here. Do you see that letter?
There, see! through the wire-work of the letter-
box.

Mrs. LinpEn. Yes, yes; I see it.

Nora. That letter is from Krogstad.

Mrs. LinpEN. Nora, it was Krogstad who lent you
the money.

Nora. Yes; and now Torvald will know all about
it.

Mrs. Linpen. Oh! believe me, Nora, it is the best
thing for you both.

Nora. You don’t know all yet. I have forged a
name,

Mrs, LinpDEN. Good heavens!

Nora. I only wanted to tell you that, Christina;
that you might be my witness,
NORA. 75

 

Mrs. LinpEN. How ‘witness’? What am I to—?
Nora. If I go mad ; and that might easily happen.
Mrs. Linpen. Nora!

Nora. Or if anything else should happen to me,—
anything such as my not being able to be here
present .

Mrs. LinpEn. Nora, Nora, you seem quite out of
your mind.

Nora. In case there were to be anybody who
wanted to take the . .. the whole blame you
know . :

Mrs. LINDEN. Yes, yes ; but how can youthink...

Nora. Then you will be able to bear witness, that
it is not true, Christina. JI am not in the least out of
my mind. I am in full possession of my senses; and
I say to you: Nobody else knew anything about it; I
alone have done everything. Don’t forget that.

Mrs. Linpen. I won't forget it. But I haven’t the
remotest notion what it all means.

Nora. Oh, how should you? Why! what will
come to pass now, will be a miracle.

Mrs. Linpen. A miracle?

Nora. Yés, a miracle ; but it is so terrible, Christina.
It must not happen for anything in the world.

Mrs. Linpen. I will go straight off to Krogstad, and
talk to him.

‘Nora. Don’t goto him. He wili pain you in.some
way.

Mrs. Linpen. There was a time, when for love of |
me, he would have done anything. :

Nora. He?
76 NORA.

Mrs. LinpEen. Where does he live ?

Nora. Oh, how can I tell? Yes. (Feels in her
pocket.) Here is his card. But the letter, the letter!

HELMER (én his room knocks at the door). Nora!

Nora (cries out anxiously). Yes ; what is it? What
do you want with me?

HeEtMER. Well, well, don’t be so frightened. We
aren’t coming in; you have bolted the door, you
know. You are trying your dress on, I dare say ?

Nora. Yes, yes; I’m trying it on. It suits me so
well, Torvald. .

Mrs. LINDEN (who has read the card). So he lives
close by here, at the corner?

Nora. Yes; butit’s nouse now. Weare lost. The
letter is actually in the box.

Mrs. Linpen. And your husband has the key ?

Nora. Yes, always:

Mrs. Linden. Krogstad must ask to have his letter
back unread. He must make some excuse—

Nora. But this isythe very time when Torvald
generally—

Mrs. LinpEn. Prevent him; go and stay with him
all the time. I will come back as quickly as I can.

She goes away quickly through the hall door.)

Nora (goes to Helmer’s door, opens it, and peeps in).
Torvald.

HELMER (in the back-room). Well, now, may one
come back into one’s own room? Come, Rank, now
we'll just have a look. (Zz the door.) But what does
this mean ?

Nora. What, Torvald dear ?
NORA. 77

HEtMER. Rank led me to expect a grand dress-
transformation scene.

‘Rank (ix the door). So 1 understood; but I was
mistaken, too.

Nora. No; before to-morrow evening, nobody will
get any opportunity of admiring me in my splendour.

HELMER. But, dear Nora, you look so tired. Have
you been practising too hard ?

Nora. No, I haven't practised at all yet.

HELMER. But you really must.

Nora. Yes, it is quite indispensable, Torvald. But
I can’t get on at all, without your help; I have com-
pletely forgotten the whole thing.

HeEtMEr. Oh, we’ll soon freshen it all up again.

Nora. Yes, do help me at last, Torvald. Will you
promise me that? Oh! I am so anxious about it!
Before such a large party! You must sacrifice your-
self entirely to me this evening. You mustn’t do a
scrap of business, or take a pen in your hand. Say
‘yes.’ Am I not right, Torvald dear ?

Hetmer. I promise you : all this evening, I will be
at your entire disposal. You little helpless thing !—hm,
it is true there is just one thing I will first— (Goes
towards the hall door.)

Nora. What do you want outside there ?

HeELMER. Only to see if any letters have come.

Nora. No, no, don’t do that, Torvald.

Heimer. But why not?

Nora. Torvald, I beg you not to; there are none
there.

Hermer. Let me just see. (Will go.)
78 NORA.

(Nora, aé the piano, plays' the first bars of the Taran-
tella.)

HELMER (standing still in the door). An!

Nora. I can’t dance to-morrow, if I don’t try it
over with you.

HELMER (going to her). Are you really so afraid,
dear Nora ?

Nora. Yes, so dreadfully afraid. Let me try it at
once; we have a little time left before dinner. Oh}
sit down here and accompany me, Torvald dear; set
me right ; guide me, just as you always do.

HELMErR. With all the pleasure in life, since you
wish it. (He sits down to the piano.)

Nora (fakes the tambourine out of the box, and
also a long gay shawl, with which she drapes her-
self very rapidly; then with a bound, she comes to
the front of the stage). Now, you play, and I will
dance.

(Helmer A/ays, Nora dances; Rank stands at the
diano behind Helmer and looks on.)

HELMER (Z/aying). Slower, slower !

Nora. I can’t do it differently.

HELMER. Not so violently, Nora.

Nora. That is just its ‘style.

HELMER (stops). No, no ; it isn’t right.

Nora (laughs and swings the tambourine). Isn't that
just what I told you?

Rank. Let me play for her.

HELMER (rising). Yes; do so; then I can guide
her better.

(Rank sits down to the piano and plays. Nora dances
NORA. 79

 

more and more wildly. elmer stands by the fire and —
addresses frequent remarks in correction, during the
dance. She seems not to hear them. Her hair gets
Loose and falls on her shou.ders ; she does not heed it,
but goes on dancang. Mrs. Linden enters.)

Mrs. LinpEN (stands as though spell-bound in the
doorway). Oh!

Nora (dancing). It is merry enough here, Christina.

Hetmer. But, dearest, sweetest Nora, you are
dancing as if it were a matter of life and death.

Nora. And so it is.

Heimer. Rank, just stop; this is the merest mad-
ness .. . Stop, I say.

(Rank stops playing, and Nora comes to a sudden
standstill.) ,

Heuer (going towards her). I should never have
believed it. You have positively forgotten everything
T tanght you.

Nora (throws the tambourine away). You see it for
yourself.

Hetmer. You really do want teaching.

Nora. Yes; now you see how needful it 1s. You
must practise with me up to the last moment. Will
you promise me that, Torvald?

Heimer. You may certainly rely upon my doing
so.

Nora.. Neither to-day nor to-morrow must you think
about anything but me ; you must not open a single
letter,—not so much as the letter-box.

Hetmer. Oh, you are still afraid of that man.

Nora. Yes, I am.
80 NORA.

Hewmer. Nora, I can see it in your manner. There
is a letter from him in the box now.

Nora. I don’t know; I believe so. But you are
not to read anything of that sort ; nothing of a worry-
ing kind must come between us, until everything is
over.

Rank (softly fo Helmer). You mustn’t contradict
her.

HELMER (putting his arm round her). The child
shall have her own way. But to-morrow night, when
you have danced—

Nora. Then you will be free.

ELLEN (2 the right doorway). Dinner is ready,
ma’am.

Nora. We will have some champagne, Ellen.

ELLEN. Yes, ma’am. (Gees.)

HELMER. Dear, dear ; quite a banquet !

Nora. Yes, a champagne banquet until morning
dawns. (Cad/s out.) And maccaroons, Ellen 3—plenty
—a great many—just this once!

HELMER (faking her hands). Come, come, not this
awful wildness! Be my gentle little lark, once more.

Nora. Oh, yes, I will. But now go into the dining-
room ; and you too, Doctor Rank. Christina, you
must help me to do my hair.

Rank (softly as they go). There is nothing in the
wind? Nothing...Imean...

HELMER. Wathing whatever: my dear Rank. It is
merely this babyish anxiety I was telling you about.
(Both go to the right.)

Nora. Well?
NORA. 8

 

Mrs. LINDEN. He is gone out of town.

Nora. I saw it in your face.

Mrs. Lrnpen. He only returns to-morrow evening.
I left a note for him there.

Nora. You should have left it all alone. You ought
not to hinder anything. After all, there is something
glorious in expecting a miracle to happen.

Mrs. LinpENn. What do you expect, then?

Nora. Oh, you can’t understand. Go to them in
the dining-room; I’ll come in a moment. (Mrs.
Linden goes to the dining-room.)

Nora (stands a while, as though collecting her
thoughts. Then looks at her watch), Five ;—seven
hours before midnight. Then twenty-four hours before
the next midnight. Then the Tarantella will be over.
Twenty-four and seven. Still thirty-one hours to live.

Hetmer (in the right-hand door). But what has
become of the little lark ?

Nora (runs with open arms towards him). Here is
the lark.
$2 NORA.

 

ACT III.

(The same room. The sofa-table, with the chairs round
it, has been moved forward into the middle of the
room. A lamp is burning on the table. The door to
the hall stands open. Dance music is heard from
overhead.)

(Mrs. Linden sits by the table and turns the pages of a
book absently. She tries to read, but seems unable to
fix her attention ; occasionally she listens, and looks
anxiously towards the hall door.)

Mrs. LinpEN (looking at her watch). Not here yet !
And it is the latest time I mentioned. If he only
doesn’t . . . (Listens again.) Oh, there he is! (She
goes into the hall and opens the corridor door carefully ;
a light tread is heard on the steps. She whispers) Come
in. Nobody is here.

KrocstaD, (72 the doorway). I found a note from
you at my house. What does that mean ?

Mrs. LINDEN. It is absolutely necessary I should
speak with you.

Krocstap. Indeed? And was it absolutely neces-
sary the interview should take place here?

Mrs. LinpeEN. It was impossible at my lodgings.

I have no sitting-room to myself. Come in; we are
*
NORA. 83

 

quite alone. ‘Ihe servant is asleep, and the Helmers
are at the ball, overhead.

KRocsrap (coming into the room). Ah! what? The
Helmers are dancing this evening? Really?

Mrs. LiInDEN. Yes. Why not?

Krcostab. , Quite right. Why not?

Mrs. Linpen, And now, Mr. ‘Krogstad, let us talk
a little.

Krocstap. Have we two anything left, to say to
each other?

Mrs. LinpEn. We have a great deal.to say.

Kroecstab. I should not have thought so.

Mrs. LinpEen. Because you Have never really under-
stood me.

‘Kroastap. Was there anything more to understand,
than what was the plainest fact in the ‘world? A
heartless woman jilts a man, when a better match
offers itself. :

‘Mrs. Linpen. Do you consider me so utterly heart-
less? Do you think I should have broken it off with
a light heart ?

Kroecstap. Didn’t you?

Mrs. Linpen. Did you really think att of me,
Nils ?

Krocsrap. If it wasn’t so, why did you write me
such a letter as you wrote at the time?

Mrs. Linpen. I really could not do otherwise.
Since I had to break with you, surely it was also my
duty to destroy in your heart everything you felt for
me.

Krocstap (cdasping his hands together). So that

4 ¥
84 NORA,

 

was it. And all,—all for the sake of money,
only.

Mrs. LinpDEN. You ought not to forget, that I had
a helpless mother and two little brothers. We could
not wait for you, Nils; at that time, you had but poor
prospects.

Krocstap. Very likely; but you had no right to
turn me off for the sake of any other man.

Mrs, Linpen. Oh, I don’t know. I. have asked
myself often enough since, whether I had the right to
do it.

Krocstab (more gently). When I had lost you, it
seemed to me as though the very ground had sunk
away from under my feet. Just look at me: I am a
shipwrecked man on a raft, now.

Mrs. Linpen. I should think some help was close
at hand.

Krocstan. It was at hand: but then you came and
stood in my way.

Mrs. LinpEn. Without knowing it, Nils. It was
only this morning I learnt, that it was your post I had
get at the Bank.

Krocstap. I believe you, since you say so. But
now you do know it, do you not mean to give
it up?

Mrs. Linpen. No; for that would not help you in
the least. ’

Krocstap. Oh, ‘help,’ ‘help.’ I should do it,
whether or no.

Mrs. LINDEN. I have learnt to act prudently. Life,
and hard, bitter necessity have taught me to do so.
NORA. 85

 

Krocstap. And life has taught me not to trust fine
speeches,

‘Mrs. Linpen. Then life has taught you a very
sensible thing. But I suppose you do trust deeds?

Krocstap. What do you mean by that ?

Mrs. Linpen. You said you were like a shipwrecked
man on a raft.

Kroestap. I had good reason to say so.

Mrs. Linpen, I am like a shipwrecked woman on
a raft, too: no one to regret, and no one to care for.

Krocstap. You made your own choice.

Mrs. Linpen., I had no choice at the time.

Krocstab. Well, what more?

Mrs. LinpEn. Nils, how would it be, if we two
shipwrecked people could come over to each
other ?

Krocstap. What do you say ?

Mrs. LinpEN. Two people have better chance of
being saved on a raft, than if each stays on his
own.

Krocstab. Christina !

‘Mrs. Linpen. Why do you think I came here, to
town?

Kroastap. Was it with some thought of me?

Mrs. LinpEn. I must work, in order to endure life.
All my days, so far back as I can remember, I have
worked ; and work has been my best and only joy.
But now I am quite alone in the world,—so terribly
empty and forsaken. There is no happiness in working
for one’s self. Nils, give me somebody and something
to work for.
86 , NORA.

Krogstap. I don’t trust that one bit. It is nothing
| but a woman’s exaggerated notion of generosity, leading
her to sacrifice herself.

Mrs, LINDEN. Have you ever noticed any exagger-

ation in me?

KrocstaD, What? You really could? Tell me,
do you know all about my past?

Mrs. Linpen. Yes.

Krocstap. And do you know my reputation ?

. Mrs. LinpEen. You hinted it just now, as though
you meant, that with me you could have been another
man.

Krocstap, I am perfectly certain of it.

Mrs. LinpEN. Could it not yet be so?

Krogstap. Christina, do you say this after full
deliberation? Yes, you do. I see it in your face.
Then you really have the courage?

Mrs. LinpEen. I need somebody to mother, and
your children need a mother. We two are necessary
toeach other. Nils, I believe in the nobler part of
your nature. With you I dare attempt anything |

Krocstap (sezzing her hands). Thank you, thank
you, Christina. Now I shall know how to set about
raising myself in the eyes of others. Oh, but I
forgot...

Mrs. LinpEen (/s/ens). Hush! \the Tarantella!
Go, go.

Krocstap. Why, what is it ?

Mrs.-LinpEn. Don’t you hear the dancing over-
head? When that is over, they will come back.

Krocsrap. All right; I'll go. But it’s too late
NORA. 87

 

now. Of course you don’t know what it is 1 have set
going against the Helmers?

Mrs. Linpen. Yes, Nils, I know.

Krocstap. And nevertheless you have the courage
to...

Mrs. Linpen. I can quite understand to what
lengths despair may drive a man like you.

Krocstab. Oh, if I could but undo it again!

Mrs. LinpEn. You could, for your letter lies there
in the box.

Krocstap. Are you sure?

Mrs. LINDEN. Yes; but...

Krocstap (looking at her searchingly). Is that the
explanation of it? You want to save your friend at
any price. Say it straight out. Is that the way the
land lies ? ,

-Mrs. LINDEN. Nils, a person who has once sold
herself for the sake of others, never does it again.

Krocstap. I will ask to have my letter back again.

Mrs. LINDEN. No, no.

Krocstap. Yes; I shall wait here till Helmer comes
down. I shall tell him, that-he is to give me my letter
back ; that it merely relates to my dismissal, and that
he had better not read it.

Mrs. LinpEn. No, Nils, you must not ask for the
letter back.

Krocstap. But tell me, wasn’t that the very reason
for your fixing to meet me here?

Mrs. LinpEn. Yes, in my first moment of terror.
But since then, more than twenty-four hours have gone
by ; and during that time, I have heard things in this
88 NORA.

 

house, which are beyond belief. Helmer must know
everything ; this unhappy secret must come to light ;
between those two, there must be the completest
possible understanding; and that can never come to
pass, while all these concealments and subterfuges are
going on.

Krocstap. Very well, since you are so bold. But
there is one thing I can do, at any rate, and it shall be
done at once.

Mrs. LinpEN (/stens). Make haste; go, go. The
dance is over; we are not safe another moment,

Krocstap. I will wait for you in the street, in front
here.

Mrs. Linpen. Yes, do. You must take me home.

Krocstap. Oh! I never was so wildly happy, in all
my life before. (He goes out through the outer door.
The door between the room and the halt remains
open.)

Mrs, LINDEN (sets the furniture a little straight, and
puts her walking things together). What a change! what
a happy change. Somebody to work for, to live for!
a deserted home to bring comfort into! Well, he will
be an easy prisoner.... If only they would come
soon. (Léstens.) Ah, here they are! Where are my
things? (Ske puts on her bonnet and cloak.)

(Helmwner’s and Nora’s voices are heard outside ; a
hey is turned in the lock, and Helmer eads Nora almosi? |
forcibly into the hall. She wears the Italian costume,
with a large black shawl over it. He is in evening
dress, with an open black domino.)

Nora (s#il in the door, struggling with him). No,
NORA. 89

 

no, no; I won’t go in; I want to go upstairs again.
I don’t want to leave the ball so early...»

HELMER. But, dearest Nora—

Nora. Oh, I do beg and pray you, so earnestly,
Torvald,—I beg you so very much; only one more
hour. . :

HEtmMeER. Not another minute, my sweet Nora. You
know we settled it should be this way. Nora, go into
the room ; you are catching cold here.

“(He leads her gently into the room, in spite of her
resistance.)

Mrs. LINDEN. Good evening.

Nora. Christina !

HeELMER. What, Mrs. Linden, you here so late?

Mrs. Linpen. Yes, pardon me; I did so want to see
Nora in her costume.

Nora. Have you been sitting here, waiting for
me?

Mrs. LinbEN. Yes. Unfortunately, I did not come
early enough. You were already gone upstairs; and
then I thought I could not go away again, without
seeing you.

HELMER (taking Nora’s shawl off). Yes, look at her:
well, I should rather think she was worth looking at.
Is she not beautiful, Mrs. Linden?

Mrs. LinvENn. Yes, I must say—

Hetmer. Is she not wonderfully lovely? That was
the general opinion at the ball. But she is dreadfully
obstinate,—dear little creature! What is to be done
with her? Will you believe it, I had almost to use
force to get her away from the ball ?
go _ NORA.

 

Nora. Oh, Torvald, you will be sorry you did not
grant my wish, even if it was only for half an hour
longer.

HeELMER. There! you hear her, Mrs. Linden? She
dances her Tarantella, wins wild applause,—which,
however, was but due to her, although perhaps her
rendering was a little too realistic; I mean: .. a little
more than could be reconciled with the strict demands
of art. But be that as it may, the chief thing was she
got applauded, wildly applauded. Ought I to have let
her stay after that, and weaken the impression? Not if
Iknowit. I took my charming Capri maiden, —I might
say my capricious little maiden from Capri,—under my
_arm ; arapid turn round the room ; bows from all sides,
and, as they say in novels—the lovely apparition was
gone. A departure should always be effective, Mrs.
Linden ; but I can’t get Nora to see it... By Jove,
it’s warm here. (Zhrows his domino on a chair and
opens the door to his room.) What? It’s very dark here.
Yes, of course ; pardon me. (He goes inside and lights
two candles.)

Nora (whispers quickly and breathlessly). Well?

Mrs. LINDEN (softly). I have spoken to him.

Nora. And—?

Mrs. LinDEN. Nora... You must tell your husband
everything.

Nora. I knew it,

Mrs. LinpEn. You have nothing to fear from Krog-
stad ; but you must speak.

Nora. I shall not speak.

Mrs. LinpEn. Then the letter will.
NORA. 9!

 

Nora. Thank you, Christina. Now I know what I
must do. Hush!

HELMER (coming back). Well, Mrs. Linden, have you
admired her ?

Mrs. LINDEN. Yes ; and now I will say good-night.

HELMER. What, already? Does this knitting belong
to you? :

Mrs. LINDEN (éaking it). Yes, thanks ; I was nearly
forgetting it.

HELMER. Then you do knit ?

Mrs. Linpen. Yes.

Heimer. Do you know, you ought to embroider
instead ?

Mrs. Linpen. Indeed! Why?

HELMER. Because it looks far better. Look now.
You hold the embroidery in the left hand, in this way,
and then move the needle with the right hand,—in
and out,—in an easy, long-shaped bow, don’t you?

Mrs. Linpen. Yes, I dare say you do.

HELMER. While in knitting, on the contrary, it can
never be anything but ugly. Look now; your arms
are bent tightly together, and the needles go up and
down ; there is something Chinese in it... On! that
‘really was splendid champagne they gave us!

Mrs. LinpEen. Now, good-night, Nora, and don’t
be obstinate any more. :

HELMER. Well said, Mrs. Linden.

Mrs. LinpEen. Good-night, Mr. Helmer.

Heimer (going with her to the door). Good-night,
good-night. I hope you'll get safely home. I would
gladly . . . but it really is not far for you. Good-
«

92 NORA.

night, good-night. (Ske goes. He shuts the door behind
her and comes in again.) There, now we've shut the
door on her. She is an awful bore.

Nora. Aren’t you very tired, Torvald ?

HELMER. No, not in the least.

Nora. Nor sleepy ?

Heimer. Not a bit. On the contrary, I feel most
lively. But you? Yes, you look really tired and
sleepy.

Nora. Yes, I am very tired. I shall soon be asleep
now.

Heimer. There now, you see. I was right, after
all, in not stopping longer with you at the ball.

-Nora. Oh, all is right that you do.

HELMER (hisses her on the forehead). That is my
dear little lark speaking like a human being. But did
you notice how merry Rank was this evening ?

Nora. Oh, was he really? I had no opportunity of
speaking with him.

Hemer. Nor had I, much; but I have not seen
him in such good spirits for a long time. (Looks
at her for a little while, then comes nearer to her.)
Hm ... but it is quite too supremely delightful to be
back in our.own home, for me to be quite alone with
you. Oh, you enchanting, glorious woman |!

Nora. Don’t look at me in that way, Torvald.

Heimer. I am not to look at my dearest treasure ?
—all the glory that is mine, mine only, wholly and
altogether mine.

Nora (goes to the other side of the table). You must
Not talk to me in that way this evening.
NORA. 03

 

HELMER ( following her). I see, you have the Taran-
tella still in your blood; and that makes you more
enchanting than ever. Listen: the other guests aze
beginning to go now. (Aore softly.) Nora, soon all
the house will be still.

Nora. Yes, I hope so.

HEtMER. Yes; don’t you, my own darling Nora?
Oh, do you know, when I go into society with you, in
this way, do you know why I speak so little to you,
and keep at such a distance from you, and only steal
a glance at you now and then,—do you know why I
do it? Because I am fancying, that you are one whom
I love in secret, that I am secretly betrothed to you,
and that nobody guesses there is any particular un-
derstanding between us.

Nora. Yes, yes, yes; I know very well, that all
your thoughts are with me.

Heimer. And then, when we have to go home, and
‘I put the shawl ahout your dear young shoulders, and
.this glorious throat of yours, I imagine you are my bride,
and that we are coming straight from our wedding, and
that I am bringing you for the first time to my ee
and that I am alone with you for the first time, quite
alone with you, you shy, beautiful thing. All this
‘evening I was longing for you, and you only. When
I watched you chasing and beckoning during the
Tarantella, it seemed to set my blood on fire ; I could
endure it no longer... and that’s why I made you
come home with me so early.

Nora. Go now, Torvald ; you must leave me alone.
I won’t have all that.
04 NORA.

 

HELMER. What can you mean? -You must be joking
with me, Nora dear.. You ‘ won’t’; ‘won't’? AmI
not your husband ? (Zhere sa knock at the front door.)

Nora (recovering herself ).. Do you hear ?

HELMER (going to the hall door), Who is there ?

Docror RANK (outside). It is I. May I come in
for a moment?

HELMER (1 @ low tone, annoyed). Oh, dia, what
can he want at this time of night? (A/oud.) Wait a
little. (Goes and opens the door.) Come, it is nice of
you not to pass by our door.

Rank. I thought I heard your voice, and that made
me long just to look in. (Glances rapidly round the
room.) Yes, here is the dear place I know so well.
It is so quiet and comfortable here, with you two.

HELMER. You seemed to enjoy yourself a good deal
upstairs, too,

Rank. Exceedingly. Why should I not? Why
shouldn’t one take everything as it comes in this world?
At any rate, as much and as long as one can. The
wine was excellent.

HeELMER. Especially the champagne.

Rank. Did you notice it, too? It was almost
incredible the quantity I contrived to drink,

Nora. Torvald drank a great deal of champagne
this evening, too.

' Rank. Did he? 7

Nora. Yes; and after it, he is alwavs in such a
good temper.

Rank. Well, why should one not have a merr
evening after a well-spent day? “ee
NORA. 95

HELMER. Well-spent? As to that I have not much
to boast of, I am sorry to say.

RanK (tapping him on the shoulder), But I have,
don’t you see?

Nora. Then you have certainly been engaged in
some scientific investigation, Doctor Rank.

Rank. Quite right.

HELMER. Just see! here’s little Nora talking about
scientific investigations.

Nora. And am I to congratulate you on the result ?

Rank. By all means, you must.

Nora. Then the result was a good one.

Rank. The best possible, alike for the physician
and the patient,—namely, certainty.

Nora (guickly and searchingly), Certainty ?

Rank, Complete certainty, Ought not I, upon the
strength of it, to be very merry this evening ?

Nora. Yes, you were quite right to be, Doctor
Rank.

Heimer. I say the same,—provided you -don’t
have to pay for it to-morrow.

Rank. Well, in this life, nothing is to be had for
nothing
"Nora. Doctor Rank, I am sure you are very fond
of masquerade balls ?

Rank. Yes, when there are plenty of interesting
masks present. 5

Nora. Listen, and tell mé@ what we two ought to
‘ appear as, at our next masquerade.

Heimer. You giddy little thing, are you thinking
already about your next ball?
96 NORA.

 

Rank. Wetwo? Iwill tell you. You must go as
the lucky fairy.

Heimer. Yes; but think of a costume to suit the
character.

Rank. Let your wife appear in her every-day dress.

HELMER. That was really said very nicely. But
don’t you know what character you will take yourself?

Rank, I am perfectly clear as to that, my dear
friend.

HeLmer. Well?

Rank. At the next masquerade, I shall appear
invisible.

“Heimer. What a comical idea !

Rank. Don’t you know there is a big, black hat —
haven’t you heard stories of the hat, that made people
invisible? You pull it all over you, and then nobody
sees you.

HELMER (with a suppressed smile). Oh, I dare say.

Rank. But I am quite forgetting why I came ia
here. Helmer, just give mea cigar,—one of the dark
Havannas.

HELMER. With the greatest pleasure. (Hands him
the case.)

Rank (sakes one and cuts the end off). Thanks.

Nora (strikes a fusee for him). Let me give youa
light.

Rayx. Thank you. (She holds the match. He
lights his cigar at it.) ~ And now, good-bye.

HELMER. Good-bye, good-bye, my dear fellow.

Nora. Sleep well, Doctor Rank.

Rank. I thank you for that kind wish.

*
NORA. 97

 

Nora. Wish me the sanie.

Rank. You? Very well, since you ask me:—
sleep well And thank you for the light. (He nods
to them both and goes.)

HELMER (in an undertone). He’d been drinking a
good deal. ‘

Nora (adbsently). I dare say. (Helmer takes his
bunch of keys from his pocket and goes into the hall.)
Torvald, what are you doing out there ?

HeEtmer. I must empty the letter-box ;—it is quite
full; or there will be no room for the newspapers
to-morrow.

Nora. Are you going to do some work now?

HeEtmerR. You know very well I shan’t! What's
this? Somebody’s been at the lock.

Nora. The lock ?

HeEtMer. Yes, most certainly somebody has. What
does it mean? I could never believe, that the servants

. Here’s a broken hair-pin. Nora, it is one of
yours.

Nora (guickly). Then it must have been the
children.

Heimer. Then you really must break ei of such
tricks.) Hm,‘hm. There! at last I’ve got it open.
(Zakes the contents out and calls into the kitchen.)
Ellen, Ellen; just put the hall-door lamp out.

(He returns to the room and shuts the door into the
hall. With letters in his hand.) Just see! only look
how they have accumulated. (Looks among them.)
What’s that ?

H
98 . NORA.

 

Nora (at the window), The letter! oh, no, no,
Torvald !

HELMER. Two visiting cards,—from Rank.

Nora. From Doctor Rank?

HELMER (looking at them). Rank, M.D. They
were on the top. He must have put them in, when he
went away.

Nora. Is there anything on them ?

HELMER. Over the name, there is a black cross.
Look at it. That is avery ominous sign. Upon my
word, it is as though he were announcing his own
death.

Nora. So he is.

HELMER. What! do you know anything? did he
tell you anything ?

Nora. Yes. He said, that when the card came, it
would mean he had taken leave of us. He means to
shut himself up and die.

HELMER. Poor fellow! I did know, that I should
not be able to keep him much longer. But so
soon! .. And then he goes into his hiding- -place,
like a wounded animal.

Nora. Ifithas to happen, itis best for it to happen
without words ; is it not, Torvald ?

HELMER (walking up and down). He was so
thoroughly intimate with us. I can hardly fancy our
life without him. He and his troubles and loneliness
formed a sort of cloudy background to our sunny
happiness. Well, perhaps it is best so—for him, at
any rate. (Stands sti/Z.) And perhaps for us, too. Now
NORA. 99

 

we two are thrown entirely upon each other. (Pus
his arm round her.) My darling wife! it seems to me
as if I could never hold you closely enough. Do you
know, Nora, I often wish some danger might threaten
you, against which I could stake body and soul, and
all, all else, for your dear sake.

Nora (frees herself and says firmly and decidedly).
Now you shall read your letters, Torvald.

HELMER. No, no, not to-night. I want to stay
with you, sweet wife.

Nora. With the thought of your friend’s death ?

Heimer. You are right, dear. It has shaken us
both. Something unlovely has come between us:
thoughts of death and dissolution. We must try to
get rid of them. Till then,—you go to bed, and I
will go to my room a little.

Nora (her arms round his neck), Torvald, good-
night, good-night.

HELMER (hisses her on the forehead). Good-night,
my little singing bird. Sleep well, Nora. Now I will
go and read all my letters through. (He goes into his
room with the bundle of letters. and shuts the door
behind him.) :

Nora (with wild glances, wanders round touching
things, seizes Helmer’s dontino, throws it over her,
and whispers quickly, hoarsely, and brokenly). Never
see him again! Never, never, never! (Zhrows her
shawl over her head.) And never see the children
again! Not them, either! Never, never. Oh, that
black, icy water! Oh, that bottomless . . . Oh, if it
were but over! Now he has it; now he is reading it.
100 NORA,

 

Oh, no, no; not yet. Torvald, good-bye, you and
the children.

(She ts rushing out through the hall; in the same
moment Helmer tears his door open and stands there,
with an open letter in his hand.)

HeELMER. Nora!

Nora (crying aloud). Ah!

Heimer. What is this? Do you know what is in
this letter ?

Nora. Yes, I know. Let me go; let me go
out.

Heumer (holding her back). Where do you want to
go to?

Nora (fries to get free). You shan’t save me, Tor-
vald.

HELMER (falling back). True! is it true what he
writes? Horrible! No, no; it is perfectly impossible,
that it can be true.

Nora. It is true. I have loved you beyond all
else in the world.

HELMER. Don’t come to me with silly excuses.

Nora (a step nearer to him). Torvald!

HELMER. You miserable creature |—what have you

done ?

Nora. Let me go. You shall not bear it for my
sake ; you shall not take it upon yourself.

HeELMER. Don’t try any actress’s tricks. (Shuts the
door to the hall.) Were you will stay and account to
me for thiss Do you comprehend what you have
done? Answer. Do you understand it?

Nora (looks at him fixedly, and says with hardening
NORA. 101

expression). Yes. Now I begin to understand it
quite,

HELMER (walking round). Oh, what an awful
awakening! During all these eight years,—she who
was my joy and my pride—a hypocrite, a liar,—ay,
and worse, worse —~a criminal. “Oh! what a depth of
wickedness it implies! Ugh! ugh!

(Nora és silent, and continues to look fixedly at him.)

HELMER (continues standing before her). I ought to
have guessed, that something of the kind was sure to
happen. I ought to have foreseen it, Your father’s
careless principles,—be siient !—your father’s careless
principles you have inherited, every one of them. No
religion, no morality, no sense of duty! Oh, how
bitterly punished I am, for ever having winked at his
doings. I did it for your sake; and this the way
you reward me.

Nora. Yes, this is the way.

HELMER. You have utterly destroyed my happiness;
you have ruined my whole future. Oh, the thought of
it is fearful! I find I am in the power of a human
being, who is devoid of conscience ; he can do what-
ever he pleases: with me, ask of me whatever he
chooses, order me about, and command me exactly as
it suits him ;—I shall not dare to complain . . . And
I must sink in this pitiable way and go to ruin, fear the
sake of an unprircipled woman.

Nora. When I am no more, you will be free.

Heimer. No dramatic effects, if you please. Your
father was always ready with fine phrases of that kind.
What good would it do me, if you were ‘no more,’ as

\
102 NORA.

 

you say? No good in the world! In spite of that, he
can publish the whole story ; and if he does publish
it, perhaps I should be suspected of having been a
party to your criminal transactions. Perhaps people
would think I was the originator, that I prompted you
to do it. -And for all this I have you to thank,—you
whom during the whole of our married life, I have so
cherished. Do you understand now what it is you
have done forme? _

Nora (with cold calm). Yes.

Heimer, It is so incredible, that I can hardly
believe it. But we must come to some decision.
Take that shawl off. Take it off, Isay! I must try
to pacify him. in some way or other. The story must
be kept a secret, cost what it may. And so far as you
and I are concerned, it must appear, that we go on as
we always have gone on. But of course, only in the
eyes of the world. Of course, you will continue to
live in the house; that is understood. zt the
children I shall not allow you to educate; I dare not
trust them to you. . . Oh, that I should have to say
this to one whom I have so tenderly loved . . . whom
I still... But that must be a thing of the past.
Henceforward, there can be no question of happiness,
but merely of saving the ruins, the fragments, the
appearance of it. (Zhere is @ ring at the hall door.
Helmer recovers himself.) What’s that? So late!
Can it be the most terrible thing of all? Canhe?...
hide yourself, Nora; say you are ill. (Nora stands
motionless. Helmer goes to the hall door and opens
it.)
NORA. 103

 

ELLEN (halfundressed in the hail). Here is a letter
for mistress,

HELMER. Give it tome. (Sezzes the letter and shuts
the door.) Yes, it is from him., You shall not have it.
I will read it myself.

Nora. Read it.

HELMER (4y the lamp). I have hardly courage to.
Perhaps we are lost, both you and I. Well! I must
know. (Zears the letter hastily open ; glances through
a few lines ; looks at an enclosure; a cry of joy.) Nora!
(Nora looks interrogatively at him.) Nora\ Indeed 1
must read it again. Yes, yes; it isso. Iam saved!
Nora, I am saved! ~

Nora. And I?

' Hetmer. You too, of course ; we are both saved,
you and I. ‘Look here. He sends: you back your
acknowledgment of the debt; he writes, that he regrets
_ and laments,—that a happy turn in his life . . . Oh,
it can’t matter to us what he writes.. We are saved,
Nora! Nobody has any hold over you. Oh, Nora,
Nora! Ah, but first let us destroy all these horrible
pieces of writing . . . I'll just see, though. (Glances
at the I. O. U.) No, 1 won't look at it; the whole
thing shall be no more to me than a bad dream.
(Zears the I. O. U. and both the letters in pieces, throws
them into the fire, and watches them burn.) There, it
has no further existence. He wrote, that ever since
Christmas Day, you had been... Oh, Nora, they
must have been three awful days for you!

Nora. I have fought a hard fight in the last three
days.
104 NORA.

Heimer. You must have tortured yourself and not
seen any means of escape but. . . But we won’t think
_ about those ugly things any more ; we will only rejoice
and repeat; It is all over, all over. Do you hear,
Nora; somehow you don’t seem able to grasp it yet!
Yes, it’s over. ‘Then what can be the meaning of this
set look on your face? Oh, poor dear Nora, I quite
understand: you can’t believe just yet, that I have
‘forgiven you. But I really have forgiven you, Nora ;
I swear it to you; I have forgiven you everything. I
know so well, that what you did, was all done out of
love to me. ,
Nora. That is true.
Heimer. You loved me just as ‘a wife should love
her husband. It was only the means you could not
judge rightly about. But do you think you are less
_dear to me for not knowing how to act alone? No,
indeed ; only lean on me; I will advise you; I will
, guide you. I should be no true man, if this woman’s
\ helplessness did not make you doubly attractive in my
| eyes. You must not dwell on the harsh words I spoke,
‘in my first moment of terror, when I believed ruin was
about to overwhelm me. J have forgiven you, Nora;
I swear to you I have forgiven you.
Nora. I thank you for your forgiveness. (Gors
through the right door.)
Heimer. No, stay. (Looks iz.) What are you
doing in the alcove?
Nora (tuside). Talking off my masquerade dress.
HELMER (in the open door). Yes, do, dear; try to rest
and restore your mind to its balance, my scared litle
NORA. 105

 

song-bird. You may go to rest in comfort; I have
broad wings to protect you. (Walks about close by the
door.) Oh, how beautiful and cosy our home is, Nora.
Here you are safe; here I can shelter~you, like a
hunted dove, whom I have saved from the claws of
the hawk, I shall soon quiet your poor beating hcart.
Little by little, it will come about, Nora; you will find
Tam right. To-morrow all that will look quite different
to you; everything will soon be going on just as it
used to do; I shall not need to repeat over and over
again, that I forgive you: you will really feel for.your-
self, that I have done so. How can you think it could
ever strike me to drive you away, or even so much as
reproach you? Oh, you don’t know what a true man’s
heart is made of, Nora! A man feels there is some-
thing indescribably sweet and soothing in his having:
forgiven his wife, that he has honestly forgiven her,
from the bottom of his heart. She becomes his pro-
perty in a double sense, as it were: ‘It js as though
he had brought her into the world again. She has
become, to a certain extent, at once his wife and his"
child. And that-is-what you shall really be to me
“henceforth, you ill-advised and helpless darling. Don’t
trouble about anything, Nora: only open your heart
to me, and I will be both will and conscience to you.
Why, what's this? Not gone to bed? Have you
changed your dress ?
Nora (entering in her everyday dress). Yes, Tory. ald ;
now I have changed my ‘dress.
Hewmer. But why, now, so late?
Nora. I shall not sleep to-night.

 
106 NORA.

 

Heimer. But, Nora dear...

Nora (looking at her watch). It is not so very late.
Sit down here, Torvald. We two have much to say to
each other. (She séts on one side of the table.)

HeEtMeEr. Nora, what does that mean? Your cold,
set face ?

Nora. Sit down. It will take some time. I have
a great deal to talk to you about.

HELMER (sifting opposite to her at the table). Nora,
you make me anxious. And I don’t understand you.

Nora. No; that is just it. You don’t understand

’ me. And I have never understood you either, till
to-night No; you mustn’t interrupt me. You must
only listen to what I say . . . This is the settlement
of an account, Torvald.

HeEtmMeEr. How do you mean ?

Nora (after a short silence’. Does not one thing
strike you as we sit here ?

HeEtMER. What should strike me ?

Nora. We have now been married eight years.

) Does it not strike you, that to-night for the first time,

“| we two,—you and I, husband and wife,—are speaking
together seriously ?

HELMER. Well; ‘seriously,’ what does that mean?

Nora. During eight whole years and more, since
the day we first made each other’s acquaintance, we
have never exchanged one serious word about serious
things.

Hetmer. Then would you have had me persistently
initiate you into anxieties you could not help me to
bear?
NORA. 107

Nora. I am not talking of anxieties. All I am say-
ing is, that we have never sat down together seriously,
that we might try to get to the bottom of anything.

HELMER. But, dearest Nora, would it have been
any good to you, if we had?

Nora. That is the-very point. You have never
understood me... I have been greatly wronged,
Torvald. First, by father, and then by you. 4

HELMER. What! by us two,—by us two, who have
loved you more deeply than all others have? ;

Nora (shakes her head). You two have never loved |
me. You only thought it was pleasant to be in love .
with me.

Hetmer. But, Nora, these are strange words !

‘Nora. Yes; it is just so, Torvald. While I was
still at home with father, he used to tell me all his
views; and so of course I held-the same views ; if I
had different ones, I concealed it, because he would
not have liked it. He used to call me his little doll,
and he played with me, as I used to play with my dolls,
Then I came to live in your house.

HELMER. What expressions you do use to describe \
our marriage !

Nora (undisturbed). I mean,—then I passed over
from father’s hands into yours. You settled everything
according to your taste; and so I had the same taste
as you, or else I let it seem so; I don’t exactly krow.
I think it was both ways, first one and then the other.
When I look back on it now, it seems to me as if I
had been living here like.a poor man, only from hand
to mouth. I have lived by performing tricks for you,
108 NORA.

 

Torvald. But you would have it so. You and father
have sinned greatly against me. It is the fault of you
two that nothing has been made of me.

‘Herter. Nora, how senseless and ungrateful you
are! Haven’t you been happy here?

Nora. No; that I have never been; I thought 1
was, but I never was.

Heimer. Not... not happy?

Nora. No; only merry. And you were always so
kind to me. But our house has been nothing but a
playroom. Here I have been your doll-wife ; just as
at home, I used to be papa’s doll-child. And nty
children were, in their turn, my dolls. I used to think
it was delightful when you took me to play with, just
as the children were, whenever I took them to play
with, That has been our marriage, Torvald.

Heimer. There is some truth in what you say,
exaggerated and overdrawn though it may be. But
henceforth, it shall be different. The time for play is
gone by ; now comes the time for education.

Nora. Whose education ?—mine or the children’s?

HeEtMER. Yours, as well as the children’s, dear
Nora.

Nora. Oh, Torvald, you are not the man to educate
me into being the right wife for you.

Heimer. And you say that ?

Nora. And I,—how have I been prepared to
educate the children?

HELMER. Nora!

Nora. Did you not say yourself an hour ago, that
thai was a task you dared not entrust to me?

    
  
 
 
  
NORA. 109

 

HELMER. In a moment of excitement. How can
you lay any stress upon that ?

Nora. No; you were perfectly right. For that task
I am not ready. There is another which must be
performed first. I Jnust first try to educate myself.
In that, you are not the man to help me. That I
myst do all alone. And that is why I am going away
from you now.

Heimer (jumping up). What was it you said?

Nora. I must be thrown entirely upon myself, if I
am to come to any understanding as to what I am and:
what the things around me are. So I cannot stay with
you any longer.

Heimer. Nora, Nora !

Nora. I shall now leave your house at once.
Christina will, I am sure, take me in for to-night...

HELMER. You are insane. I shall not allow that.
I forbid you to do it. '

Nora. There is no use in your forbidding me things,
from this time forth. Whatever belongs to me I shall
take with me. I will have nothing from you, either
now or later on.

HELMER. What utter madness this is !

Nora. To-morrow I shall go home,—I mean to-my
old home. There it will be easier for me to get some-
thing to do, of one sort or another.

Hetmer. Oh, you blind, inexperienced creature !

Nora. I must try to gain experience, Torvald.

Heimer. To forsake your home, your husband, and
your children! And only think what people will say |
about it !

be
Tlo NORA.

Nora. I cannot take that into consideration. I only
know, that to go is necessary for me.

{ Hetmer. Oh, it drives one wild! Is this the way
you can evade your holiest duties?
Nora. What do you consider my holiest duties ?

HeELMER. Do I need to tell you that? Are they not
your duties to your husband and your children ?

“Nora. I have other duties equally sacred.

HEtmer. No, you have not. What duties do you
mean ?

Nora. Duties towards myself.

nes Before all else, you are a wife and mother.

Nora. I no longer think so. I think that before
all else I am a human being, just as you are; or at
least, I have to try to become one. I know very well,
that most people agree with you, Torvald, and that
books say something of the sort. But I cannot be
satished any longer with what most people say, and
with what is in books. I must think over things for
myself, and try to get clear about them.

HeLMeEr. Is it possible you are not clear about your

' position in your own family? Have you not in ques-
tions like these, a guide who cannot err? Have you
not religion ?

Nora. Oh, Torvald, I don’t know properly what
religion is.

HELMER. What are you saying?

Nora. I really know nothing but what our clergyman
told me when I was confirmed. -He explained, that
teligion was this and that. When I have got quite
away from here, and am all by myself, then I will
NORA, me

examine that too. I will see whether what our clergy-
man taught is true ; or, at any rate, wheter it is true
for

ee. Who ever heard such things from a young
right, let me appeal to your conscience. For I suppose
you have some moral feeling? Or, answer me, perhaps
you have none?

Nora. Well, Torvald, I think I had better not answer
you. I really don’t know. My ideas about those things
are all upset. I only know, that I have quite a different
opinion about them from yours. And now I have learnt,
that the laws are different from what I thought they
were; but I can’t convince myself, that they. are right.
It appears, that a woman has no right to spare her father '
trouble, when he is old and dying, or to save her
husband’s life. I don’t believe that.

Heimer. You talk like a child. You don’t under-
stand the society in which you live.

Nora. No, no more I do. But now I will set to
work and learn it. I must make up my mind whether
society is right or whether I am.

Heimer. Nora, you are ill; you are feverish; I
almost think you are out of your senses.

Nora. I never felt so clear and certain about things
as I feel to-night.

Heimer. And feeling: clear and certain, you forsake
husband and children ?

Nora, Yes; I do.

Heimer. Then there is only one possible explan-
ation of it.
112 NORA.

 

Nora. What is that ?

Heimer. You no longer love me.

Nora. No; that is just the thing.

Heimer. Nora! ...Can you bring yourself to
say so?

Nora. Oh, I’m so sorry, Torvald; for you have
always been so kind tome. But I can’t help it. I do
not love you any longer.

HeuMeEr (Aeeping his composure with difficulty). Is
this another of the convictions you are clear and certain
about ?

Nora. Yes, quite certain and clear. That is why I
will not stay here any longer.

Hetmer. And can you also explain to me how I
have lost your love ?

Nora. Yes ; I can, easily. It was this evening, when
the miracle did not happen; for it was then Isaw you
were not the man I had taken you for.

Heimer. Explain yourself more; I don’t under-
stand.

Nora. I have waited so patiently all these eight
years ; for, indeed, I saw well enough, that miracle do
not happen every day. Then this crushing trouble
broke over my head; and then I was so firmly con-
vinced, that now the miracle must be at hand. When
Krogstad’s letter lay in the box outside, the thought
never once occurred to me, that you-could allow your-
self to submit to the man’s conditions. I was so firmly
convinced, that you would say to him, “ Pray make
the affair known to all the world ;” and when that had
been done...
NORA. 113

 

Heimer. Well? And when I had given my own
wife’s name up to disgrace and shame?

Nora. When that had been done, then you would,
as I firmly believed, stand before the world, take
everything upon yourself, and say, “I am the guilty
person.”

HELMER. Nora !

Nora. You mean I should never have accepted
such a sacrifice from you? No; certainly not. But
what would my assertions have been worth, compared
with yours? That was the miracle which I hoped and
feared. And it was to hinder it, that I wanted to

night, Nora ; bear sorrow and trouble for your sake ;
but no man sacrifices his honour to a person he
loves. :

‘Nora. Thatis what hundreds of thousands of women
have done.

Hewmer. Oh, you both think and talk dike a silly
child. F

Nora. Very likely. But you neither think nor speak
like the man I could agree with. When your terror was
over,—not for what threatened me, but for what in-
volved you,—and when there was nothing more to fear,
then it was in your eyes, as though nothing whatever
had happened. I was just as much as ever your lark,
your doll, whom you would take twice as much care of
in future, because she was so weak and frail. (Stands
up.) Torvald, in that moment it struck me, that I had

been living here, all these years, with a strange man,
I

‘
Ae
114 NORA.

 

and had borne him three children. Oh, I cannot bear
to think of %. I could tear myself to pieces !
HELMER (sadly). I see it, I see it : a chasm certainly

has opened between us... Oh! but, Nora, could it
not be filled up ?

——Nora. As I now am, I am no wife for you.

| HeELMER. I am strong enough to become another

man.

Nora. Perhaps, when your doll is taken away from
you.

HeEtmer. Part—vart from you! No, no, Nora; I
cannot grasp it.

Nora (going into the right room). The more reason
for it to happen. (She comes in with her walking
things and a small travelling bag, whith she puts on the
chair by the table.)

HELMER. Nora, Nora, not now. Wait till to-morrow.

Nora (putting on her cloak). I cannot spend the
night in the house of a man who is a stranger to me.

HELMER. But can’t we live here as brother and
sister ?

Nora (tying her bonnet tightly). You know quite
well that would not last long. (Puts her shawl on.)
Good-bye, Torvald. I will not see the children before
I go. I know they are in better hands than mine. As
I now am, I can be nothing to them.

Hetmer. But later; Nora—later on?

Nora. How can I tell? I have no idea what will
become of me.

Heimer. But you are my wife —both as you are
now, and as you will become.

(
t
I
|
|

q
NORA. 115

 

Nora. Listen, ‘Torvald. When a wife leaves her
husband’s house, as I am doing, then I have heard he
is free from all duties towards her in the eyes of the
law. At any rate, I release you from all duties. You |
must feel yourself no more bound by anything than I
feel. There must be perfect freedom on both sides,
There! there is your ring back. Give me mine.

HELMER. That too? _

Nora. That too.

Heimer. Here it is.

Nora. Very well. Yes; nowit is all past and gone.
I will put the keys here. The maids know how to
manage everything in the house far better than I do.
To-morrow, when I have started on my journey,
Christina will come, in order to pack up the few things,
which I brought from home as my own. I will have
them sent after me.

HELMER. Past and gone! Nora, will you never
think of me again?

Nora. Certainly. I shall think very often of you,
and the children, and this house.

HELMER. May I write to you, Nora?

Nora. No, never. You must not.

Hetmer. But I may send you what...

Nora. Nothing, nothing.

HetmeEr. Help you, when you are in need?

Nora. No, I say. I take nothing from strangers.

Heimer. Nora, can I never become to you anything
but a stranger? .

Nora (taking her travelling bag sadly). Oh | Torvald,
the greatest miracle of all would have to happen, then.
116 NORA.

HeEtmer. Tell me what the greatest miracle is.

Nora. We should both need to change so,—you as
well as I,—that—Oh, Torvald, I no longer believe in
anything miraculous.

Heimer. But I will believe in it. Tell me. We
must so change, that. ..?

Nora. That our living together could be a marriage.
Good-bye. (She goes out through the hail.)

HELMER (sinks in a chair by the door, and puts his
hands before his face). Nora, Nora! (He looks round
and stands up.) Empty. She isn’t here now. (A
hope. inspires him.) The greatest miracle! (Below-
stairs is heard the dull sound of a door shutting in the
lock.)

THE END.
GHOSTS. -
GHOSTS.

A DRAMA OF FAMILY LIFE

AN THREE ACTS

BY

HENRIK IBSEN.

TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN
BY

HENRIETTA FRANCES LORD.
New Edition, Revised.

: ONLY AUTHOPIZED AMERICAN EDITION OF THIS
TRANSLATION.:

LILY PUBLISHING HOUSE, CHICAGO, ILL.

°® GeirviTH, Farzan, OkEDEN anD WELSH,
Newbery House, Charing Cross Road, London.
1890.

e
PERSONS.

Mrs. HELEN ALVING (widow of Captain Alving, late
Chamberlain of the Royal Household).

OSWALD ALVING (her son, a painter).
Mr. MANDERS (the Rector of the parish).
JACOB ENGSTRAND (a Carpenter).

REGINA ENGSTRAND (Mrs. Alving’s maid —Jacol’s
daughter).

[Zhe action takes place on Mrs. Alving’s estate, situated
on a large bay (fjord) in Western Norway.)

TRANSLATOR’S NoTE.—Some persons do not feel at liberty
to enjoy this powerful drama because they consider that enjoy-
ment implies approval of its philosophy, and this they deem
pessimistic, and too sad to do any one any good. The more
comfortable view for such readers would seem to be that they
are not expected to consider that any one of the characters is
intended to be the voice of final truth. Each mind utters what
that mind has already arrived at under certain conditions of
education, daily life, and the current opinions of the time.

For brief sketch of Ibsen’s literary career see preface to his
Nora, translated by Frances Lord.
PREFACE.

Ghosts is commonly considered the most powerful

but the most disagreeable of Ibsen’s dramas, and also ,

 

the most ‘unwholesome, because the most bewildering

as to its philosophy of life. Yet Ibsen’s real love
of humanity is plain from his whole literary career.
When, therefore, he makes _a_tragedy turn upon
Heredity, it_must_be because he thinks it very im-
portant for us moderns. That to which the seems to
call our attention. is Heredity as an iron law, yet one
whose coming into operation may be arrested through
steps taken by human beings. The inferences after
reading the play are these: (z) Heredity is an iron
law; (2) Moderns suffer from its working; (3) The
only way to arrest this working is for every individual
to behave well, so that’ his or her contribution of
tendencies handed on may be as good as possible ;

 

(4) And where tendencies are hopelessly bad, ‘the.

individual should refrain from chance_of “parenthood.

Truth must be accepted, however hard ; Heredity
has been pressed upon the conscience of our time
as a final truth; and been accepted by many con-
scientious. people. According to the Heredity school,
Oswald Alving iherited disposition to_ brain disease

and absence of moral sense; his half-sister Regina

shared this latter defect with: him, by Heredity from

‘their father, and also from her mother.
But this exhibition of Heredity’s working explains
vi GHOSTS.

 

only 2 small part of the reader’s discomfort in perus-
ing Ghosts; we have the sad story of Mrs. ‘Alving’s
married life; the love between her and Mr. Manders,
in youth ; the mixture of interest and misunderstand-
ing in their middle-age; the odious character of
Engstrand. Then we have Mrs. Alving’s struggle
towards freedom of thought; and Oswald’s ; and we
cannot feel either result satisfactory. Perhaps the
most painful feature of the play is this unsatisfactori-
ness of its best-intentioned actors and moments. We
can all agree in disliking the selfish orthodoxy of Mr.
Manders,’ but we can hardly agree to accept Mrs.
Alving’s or Oswald’s crude presentations of moral
and spiritual concepts as a rallying-point for the
ethics and religion of the future.

_On the surface, Ghosts seems to say: Heredity
can work as a scourge (Oswald and Regina); an
‘unhappy marriage (Mrs. Alving’s), made for money,
helps on our bad ‘social system; however bravely a
woman may try to hide a husband’s faults, she will
do no good, if with her generosity she is only building
up a lie all the time; timidity about what is right
renders a man ridiculous (Mr. Manders); and places
him in the power of his inferiors (Engstrand). These
lessons are true so far as they go; many people ‘need
to learn them, and will do so through a drama. But
if they were all, I could not care to republish Ghosts,
as I should feel other and mistaken lessons were at
least as likely to be learnt.

Ghosts affects me as a story from real life, and as
such I will speak of it. The keys to real life are the
sex-cleavage of the soul for its course of evolution,
and the harvest it makes meanwhile, through succes-
sive lives. A Doll’s House treats chiefly of the
marriage problem ; and regarding it as also a drama
from real life, I have shown in my preface to Nora
how these two doctrines are illustrated by Nora’s
PREFACE. vii

 

married life, promising to give in this preface to
Ghosts a full discussion of the soul’s detailed reaping
of its own harvest, since that is the problem of the
play. The Indian philosophical name for this harvest
—Karma—is on the lips of many just now, who have
vague or incorrect ideas of its real meaning: They
think its operation is punitive, not evolutionary. The
Indian name Karma does not include the doctrine of
the Twin soul. 7

To my thinking, the disorder and hopelessness of
Ghosts disappear, directly we read it with these deeper
views of evolution. Stating my philosophy of the
play, I would say, part of our sense of pain and dis-
order arises from so many of the characters having.
travestied their sex; Chamberlain Alving was really a
woman-soul, Mrs. Alving a man-soul; Mr. Manders
is a woman; so is Oswald; Reginaisa man. This
leaves the arch-humbug Engstrand as the only one in
a genuine position; he is a man. Some souls perform
all their evolution, sub-human and human, attached
to and acting through bodies of one sex ; sometimes
their own; sometimes the opposite ;—some adopt
change for selfish, some for noble reasons—education,
mission, etc., Ibsen himself being a woman-soul, who
has taken man’s form for his work’s sake. Mr. Alving
took man’s form for power’s sake; Mrs. Alving took
woman’s form for a variety of good reasons, which we
may sum up as ‘experience.’ Oswald took man's
form for the sake also of experience, travel, liberty,—
all good reasons in their way. Mr. Manders took
man’s form for power; he had been. a conventual
woman in a former life, and now wished the self-
importance of being a male ecclesiastic. Regina took
woman’s form to mitigate the impact of blows in life ;
(change of sex always modifies the expression your
harvest of circumstances will take ;) she had been a
very bad man, and had nothing but blows to expect
viii GHOSTS.

 

from Karma. And among these ill-assorted people
there is a further element of confusion: that belong-
ing to Twin souls, who meet and are unable to recog-
nize each other, from immaturity,—either this in its
simple sense, or in that of loving evil or error, which
is also ‘immaturity.? Mrs. Alving and Mr. Manders
were Twin souls; the greatest barrier to their recog-
nition was travesty of sex; had they become aware of
the sacred bond between them, we should have felt a
spirituality in their relations now painfully lacking;
for as it is, Mr. Manders mistakes every impulse in
himself or her; and suppresses it promptly as ‘the
voice of earthly passion’—something which Twin
souls never feel for each other, and never suspect in
each other, when they have arrived at true Recognition
point. Oswald and Regina were Twin souls, barred
from recognition by travesty of sex, and also by
Regina’s crass selfishness.

And now if Heredity be not the right theory, what
was the cause of Oswald’s brain attack? He was
obsessed by his father, who had been himself ob-
sessed by sensual tempters all his lifé; after death
they still held him and actually delighted to check-
mate Mrs. Alving thus. She had kept the boy from
his father’s bad influence; they were determined she
should not succeed; ro after death, they made Mr.
Alving attach himself to his unhappy son, and studied
how to darken his mind. Oswald’s line was that of
the artist, free-thinking ; adopting also a materialistic
basis for life, to enjoy while you can. It was therefore
useless to approach him with theological terrors ; he had
to be frightened to death in some other way; Heredity
would do; the materialist believes in Heredity ; the
doctor’s verdict is quoted by Oswald as startling ; his
own father had been preparing the blow for years.

Then if Heredity does not account for Oswald’s
suffering, how came he to be the child of his parents?
PREFACE. ix

 

‘Attraction of similar tendencies’ explains most
cases; occasionally there is a debt on one side or
the other; Mrs. Alving owed Oswald something ; it
could be paid by her incarnating as a woman and
being his mother. Had he been more evolved, he
might have shrunk from accepting a favour from a
soul like Mr. Alving’s, even though he had a claim
on Mrs. Alving. Oswald either did not perceive, or
accepted the risk of having a bad man for his father.
This element of weakness in Oswald explains his fall-
ing a victim to that father in the way I have described.
Regina, in incarfating through Mr. Alving and a
mother of similar character, was utterly indifferent to
every aspect, present and future. A nature at her
stage repudiates obligations as fast as they arise, and
calls it ‘success.’ It is quite possible that she was
attracted to the family by the aura of her Twin soul,
Oswald; just as it is possible Mrs. Alving had been
attracted to Norway by Mr. Manders having selected
an earthly existence there ; for this attraction will often
work blindly. But there was no real recognition, nor
ought we to regret that none ever arose, or even any
approach to one. For Recognition is a crowning joy
to the fit; and an approach to it is a wonderful help
and education to well-intentioned souls, however they
may have stumbled and have even smirched their
fair repute in life’s struggle. ut. the meeting of Twin
souls with’ or without Recognition, becomes a mere
possible engine for evil, when they are not well-in-
tentioned ; this. Regina clearly was not, nor was Oswald
definite enough about right and wrong to be so ‘re-
garded. There are two ways in which the soul can
go wrong: Frivolity and Malice. Oswald was frivo-
lous, Regina malicious. Oswald skated on thin ice ;
Regina had no distaste for a dirty stream; she would
float or dive as suited her ends.

The unwholesomeness of Ghosts consists in its
x GHOSTS.

 

mis-presenting all these transitory phases of soul
history, and calling them the operation of the law of
Heredity. The disorder consists in the travesty of
sex ; this always entails a dulling of intuitions, because
it is a form of untruth. The gloom consists in there
being no way out of all the difficulties; for there is
none, unless it be by spiritual evolution.

Some people will say they prefer thinking Ghosts
true in all the horror of Heredity, to accepting the
interference with mortal life implied by tracing Os-
wald’s pain to his father’s mischievous and cruel
efforts after death, Heredity as a causative principle
does not exist. Relations do exist between us mortals
and those who are unseen by us; these relations may
be unfortunate, as between Oswald and his father, or
full of beauty, truth and love. The old words about
visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children unto
the third and fourth generation, may be quite true, and
yet not mean Heredity, not prove that Heredity is a
causative. ‘Like attracts like,’ is true on the whole;
bad parents will probably attract bad children. The
educative or moulding power of parents is consider-
able; yet I would estimate it as but five per cent., and
the soul’s own influences on its doings and destiny
as ninety-five per cent. Supposing ‘Heredity’ and
‘Recognition of the unseen’ to be two ideas which
are equally unacceptable, capable of being misrepre-
sented and doing harm, there would always be this
difference between them as claimants on our attention :
the one exists and the other does not. That is to
say: to believe in Heredity is to call matter causative.
whereas it is only expressive; parental ideas cannot
create the spirit of the child. But the relation
between the Seen and the Unseen has always existed,
the misstatements of it are almost exhausted by this

time, and it is the one next-great lesson our race has
to learn.
PREFACE. xi

 

Granting this to be our next lesson, what is the
practical use of learning it? Let us study on Ghosts.

Had Mrs. Alving’s inquiries turned in this direction,
she was quite intuitive enough to have seen for her-
self how Oswald was being worked upon to abandon
the citadel of his own life in favour of an intruder,—
for in this most lunacy consists,—and equally able to
understand, that she was as competent to protect her
darling boy as though the tempter stood by him in the
flesh ; silent speech is the power required. Such Un-
seen assailants need to be told they are detected, and
must depart; admonition to do , better, encourage-
ment, love, patience, sternness may be required, any
or all of them ; the sufferer should also be spoken to
in the silent speech of Spirit, and told, “ You are able
to resist this mistake; you know what is good and
true.” Oswald, with his affectionate disposition and
regard for his mother, would have responded to her
helpful thought, long before catastrophe point was in
sight, or even danger. It is perfectly useless to invite
truth-seekers to recognize the existence of relations
between mortals and the Unseen, unless, hand in hand
therewith, they are invited to remember “we are al-
ways Spirit and the children of the One Divine source ;
as_such we ought never to give place to ‘the devil,’
either seen or Unseen.” That is, it is useless to invite
people to see that Oswald’s dead father frightened
him into idiocy, unless we are also able to show how
his mother could have prevented that injury, had she
known how to go to work.!

The weak point of the Heredity school was admitted
by its advocates to be its affecting only conscientious
people,—the very ones whose high moral tone would
seem worth inheriting even at the risk of suffering.’
No one supposes Heredity as an academic proposition,

1 The method is fully described in Christian Science Healing,
by Frances Lord.
xii . GHOSTS.

 

will restrain anybody from continuing the race, who
has a strong enough inducement to attempt it. It
is such a ‘useless’ doctrine, because impossible ot
enforcement.

Inert natures never want to know anything; frivo-
lous and malicious ones dislike truths; some really
good people are better left to die in their stereotyped
ideas. But besides all these, genuine enquirers abound,
who desire knowledge, are aware it costs many an
effort, and are willing to seek. Usually they are-
people who have suffered ; not because suffering ‘ puri-
fies’; but because it disillusionizes ‘people, and cures
them of bargaining with the truth they profess to be
courting.

The doctrine of Karma or the harvest dunng spiritual
evolution, is not useless, because to state it is also to
state the spiritual power of every soul, and to open
the way for comprehension of Our Spiritual Healing
Power for body and mind.

Frances Lorp,

Kensington, London,
March, 1890.
GHOSTS.

ACT I.

(A spacious room looking on toa garben, with a door
in the wall on the left side, and two doors in the wall
on the right side. In the middle of the room, a round
table, with chairs around tt. On the table, lie books,
periodicals, and newspapers. In the foreground to
the left, a window, and by, it a small sofa, with a
work-table in front of it. In the background, the
room extends into a conservatory for flowers, rather
smaller, which ts closed to the outer air by glass walls
with large panes. In the wail of the conservatory,
on the right side, is a door, leading down into the
garden. Through the glass walls, shines a gloomy
view of the sea, veiled by steady. rain.)

(Engstrand, the carpenter, stands by the garien door.
His left leg is rather crooked; he has a clump of
wood under the sole of his boot.

Regina, with an empty flower syringe in her hand,
hinders him from coming nearer.)
2 GHOSTS.

 

Reoina (77 a suppressed voice). What is it you want?
Stand still where you are. You are positively dripping.

Encstranp. The Almighty sends us the rain, my
dear child.

Recina. The Devil sends it, I should say.

Encstranp. Lord! how you do chatter, Regina.
(Limps a few steps forward into the room.) But what
I wanted to say was this

Recina. Don’t stump about with your foot, you
stupid thing! The young gentleman is upstairs,
asleep in bed.

Encstranp. Asleep in bed now? At noon-day ?

Recina. It’s no concern of yours. *

EncsTRAND. I got into a drinking bout last night.

Recina. I can quite believe it.

Ewestranp. Yes, for we human beings are weak
creatures, my dear child

Recina. Yes; we certainly are.

ENGSTRAND. ——and temptations are manifold in
this world, you see; but nevertheless, there I was, the
Lord knows, at my work this morning, by half-past
five.

Recina. Very well ; only be off now; I won't stop ;
here having rendez-vous with you.

ENGSTRAND. What is it you won’t have ?

Regina. I won’t have any one find you here. Just
understand that, and go about your business.

_ENGSTRAND (a few steps nearer). Blest if I go, before
I've had a bit of talk with you. This afternoon I shall

 

 
}

GHOSTS. 3

 

have finished the work down there in the school-house,
and then I shall take the steamer to-night, and go home
to the town.

REGINA (mutters). A pleasant journey to you.

EncGstranp, Thank you, my dear child. To-morrow
the Asylum is to be opened; and then I’ve no doubt
we shall have fine goings on, and plenty of intoxicat-
ing drink, you know. And then nobody shall say of :
Jacob Engstrand, that he can’t control himself when
temptation comes.

Recina. Oh!

ENGSTRAND. “Yes; for so many of the gentry are
to meet here to-morrow. And the Reverend Mr.
Manders is expected from the town, too.

Recina. He is coming here to-day, too.

ENGSTRAND. There! you see. And damn it, if 1
let him find anything about me to remark on, you may
be sure.

Recina. Oh! is that your little game?

Encstranp. Is what my little game?

Recina (ooking hard at him). What sort of a thing —
is it you want to take Mr. Manders in again about,
now ?

ENGSTRAND. Hush! hush! Are you mad? Do
Z want to take Mr. Manders in about anything ? Oh !
no. He is far too nice a gentleman towards me for
that. But it’s the very matter I wanted to talk to you ©
about, you know; I mean, that to-night I am going
back home again.
4 GHOSTS.

 

Recina. The sooner the better, for my part.

Encstranp. Yes. But I want to have you with
me, Regina.

Reina (open-mouthed). You want me? What are
you talking about ?

ENcsTRAND. I want to have you at home, I say.

Recina (scornfully). You will never, never have me
at home.

ENGSTRAND. Well, we shall see about that.

Resina. Yes, you may be sure we shall see about
it. I, who have grown up in the house of a lady like
Mrs, Alving? I, who am treated almost like a child
here? Could I be expected to go back to your home?
A house like that! For shame !

ENGSTRAND. What the devil do you mean? Do
you set yourself against your father, girl?

REGINA (mutters, without looking at him). You have
said times enough I was not to come with you.

ENGsTRAND. Stuff! Why do you trouble about
that ?

Recina, Haven’t you many and many a time
scolded me and called me——? Fi donc!

ENGSTRAND. No. Blest if I ever used such an
ugly word, anyhow.

Recina. Oh! I am quite clear what word you used.

ENGSTRAND, Well, but that was only when I was
driven into a corner H’m! The temptations of
this world are many, Regina.

Recina. Ugh!

 
GHOSTS. 5

 

ENGsTRAND. And that was when your mother rode
her high horse. I was obliged to hit upon something
to twit her with. She was always setting up for a fine
lady, on'the strength of it. (Mimics.) “Let me go,
Engstrand ; let me be. I have been in service three
years in Chamberlain Alving’s family at Rosedene, I
have.” (Zaughs.) Mercy on us! She never could
forget, that the Captain became Chamberlain while
she was in service here.

Recina. Poor mother! you led her a wretched life,
often enough.

Enostranp (turns on his heel). Oh! of course. 1
am to be blamed for everything.

Recina (turns away; half aloud). Ugh! and that
leg too!

ENGSTRAND. What do you say, my dear child?

Recina. Pied de mouton |

Encstranp. Is that English, eh ?

Recina. Yes.

Enestranp. Oh, ah; learning you ave got out
here ; and that may come in useful now, Regina.

Reoina (after a short silence). And what were you
wanting with me, down in the town?

ENGSTRAND. Can you ask what a father wants with
his only child? Ain’t I a lonely and forsaken widower ?

Recina. Oh! don’t come to me with nonsense like
that! What'do-you want me down there for?

ENGSTRAND. Well, I'll tell you. I have been think-
ing I would start on a new line of business.
6 GHOSTS.

 

Recina (whistles). You've tried that often, and
you've never done any good with it.

Encstranp. Yes, but this time you shall just see,
Regina! The devil take me

REGINA (stamps). Don’t swear !

Encsrranp. Gently, gently; you are always so
right about that, darling child. This was the only
thing I wanted to say. I have laid by a very tidy
little sum of money from the work I’ve done for
the new Orphanage here.

Recina., Have you? That is a very good thing for
you,

ENGSTRAND, What can a man spend his shillings
on, out here in the country ?

Recina. Well, and so?

EncsTRAND. Well, look you, then, I’d thought of
putting the money out in something that would pay
me. It should be a sort of entertainment for the sea-

 

faring people.

Recina. Horrid!

ENGSTRAND. A thoroughly genteel eating-house, of
course ; not anything of a mere pigstye for common
sailors. No! damn it! it would be for ships’ cap-
tains and pilots, and—and—quite gentlefolks, you
know.

Reocina. And I should—— ? :

Encsrranp. You should help in it, to be sure.
Only for the appearance sake, you may trust me.
You shan’t have a stroke of damned hard work to
GHOSTS. 7

do, darling child. You san do exactly what you
like about it,

Recina. Well, and then?

ENGSTRAND. But there must be some women folk
in the house. That’s as clear as daylight. For I want
‘it to be a little merry in the evenings, with singing and
dancing and the like. You may be certain there are
plenty of fine men at sea, all the world over. (Vearer.)
Now don’t be stupid, and stand in your own light,
Regina. What is likely to become of you out here ?
Can it be any use to you, if your lady has given you a
lot of learning? You're to attend to the children at _—
the new Orphanage, I hear. Is that to your advantage,
eh? Are you so very hot upon .going and wearing
yourself out for the sake of the dirty brats ?

Recina. No; if all went as I could wish, then——.
Well, it may well come. It may well come.

ENGSTRAND. What is it, that ‘may come?

Recina. Never you mind. Is it a great deal of
money that you've saved up here?

EncsTranp. What with one thing and another, it
may be a matter of forty,—fifty pounds.

Recina., That’s not so bad.

EncstRanb. It’s enough to make a start with, dar-
ling child. |

Recina. Weren't you thinking of giving me any of
that money ?

Encstranp. No, damn it if I was! No.

Recina. Weren’t you thinking of sending me so
8 GHOSTS.

much as one miserable piece of stuff for a new dress,
once in a way?

Encstranp. If you'll come down to the town with
me, you shall have dress enough.

Recina. Oh! rubbish! I can get all that for
myself, if I want to.

EncsTRaNnp. No, but under a father’s guiding hand
it is far better, Regina. Now I can have a neat house
in Little Harbour Street. It won’t need much ready
money, and it could be a sort of seaman’s home,
you know.

Recina. But I will not come and live with you. I
have nothing whatever to do with you. Be off!

EnGsTRAND. You wouldn’t be long in my house,
darling child. That wouldn’t be at all a good
place. If you knew how to show yourself off,—a
fine girl like you’ve grown in the last couple of
years,—

Recina, Well?

Encstranp. It wouldn’t be long before some pilot
came along, or it might even be a captain.

Recina. I will not marry any man of that sort.
Men in the seafaring line have no savoir vivre.

ENGsTRaNnp. What is it they have not got?

Recina. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They
are not the style of men for one to marry.

ENGSTRAND. Then never mind about marrying them.
You can do just as ‘well for yourself without. (dore
confidentially.) He—the Englishman, the one with
GHOSTS. 9

 

the yacht,—he gave £60, he did, and she was not a
bit handsomer than you are, she wasn’t.

REGINA (going towards him). Get away with you.

ENcGsTranp (falling back). Nay, nay; you won't
really strike me, I know.

Recina. Yes, if you begin to talk about mother,
I shall strike. Get away-with yeu, I say. (Drives
him up against the garden door.) And don’t make
the doors bang. Young Mr. Alving—

Encstranp. He’s asleep. Yes, I know. It’s
curious how you do trouble yourself about young Mr.
Alving. (dere softly.) Oh! oh! it never could be
that he

Recina. Be off, and that quickly; you're losing
your head, you wretched creature. No, don’t go that
way. Mr. Manders is coming. Go down the kitchen
stairs !

Encstranp (towards the right). Ves, yes, I shall
go that way. But just you talk to him, who is coming
up yonder. He is the man to tell you what a child
owes to its father. For I am your father, anyhow, you
know. I can prove it from the church register. .

(He goes out through the other door, which Regina
has opened, and fastens again after him.)

(Regina glanceshastily at herself in the mirror, dusts
herself with her pocket-handkerchief, and settles her
collar , then she busies herself attending to the flowers.)

Mr. Manpers (ia an overcoat, with an umbrella, .
and a small tranuelling-bag on a strap over his shoulder,

 

 

at
10 GHOSTS.

 

comes through the garden door into the conservatory).
Good morning, Miss Engstrand,

Recina (turning round, pleased and surprised), No,
really |! Good morning, Mr. Manders. Is the steamer
in?

Mr. Manvers. She is just in. (Goes into the sitting-
room.) We've really been having dismal rainy weather
lately.

Reoina ( follows him). It is such fortunate weather
for the farmers, sir.

Mr. Manpers. Well, you’re right there. We towns-
people think so little about that. (He begins to take
his overcoat off.)

Recina, Oh! mayn’t I help you? There, that’s
right. Why! how wet it is! Now I shall just hang
it up in the hall. And your umbrella, too. I will open
it, so that it can dry.

(She goes out with the things, through the second door
on the right. Mr. Manders takes his travelling-bag off
and lays it and his hat on a chair. Meanwhile Regina
comes in again.)

- Mr. Manners. Ah! it was a comfort to get safe
into the house. Well, and is all going on well here ?

Recina. Yes, thank you, sir.

Mr. Manpers. But you're all excessively busy, I
expect, in preparation for to-morrow ?

Recina. Yes, there’s plenty to do, of course.

Mr. Manpers. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I
trust >
GHOSTS. 1

 

Recina. Oh, dear, yes. She’s only upstairs taking
chocolate to the young gentleman.

Mr. Manpers. Ah, just tell me. I heard down at
the pier, that Oswald was come.

Recina. Yes, he came the day before yesterday.
We did not expect him before to-day.

Mr. Manpers. Quite strong and well, I hope.

Recina. Yes, thank you, he is ; but dreadfully tired
with the journey. He has come in one go, all the way
from Paris. I mean he came the whole route, in one
and the same train. I believe he is sleeping a little
now; so perhaps we had better be just a little bit
quiet in talking.

Mr. Manvers. Hush! We will be ever so quiet.

Recina (as she moves an arm-chair straight beside
the table). Now do be so kind as to sit down, dear
Mr. Manders ; and make yourself at home. (/e sits
down ; she puts a footstool under his feet.) There! are
you comfortable now, sir?

Mr. Manpers. Thank you, thank you, I could not
be more so. (Looks at her.) Isay, Miss Engstrand,
do you know, I positively think you have grown, since
I last saw you.

Recina. Do you really, sir? Mrs. Alving thinks
I’ve grown stouter, too.

Mr. Manpers. Grown stouter? No,—well, per-
haps a little; just enough. (Short pause.)

Recina. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here?

Mr. Manpers. Thanks, thanks, there’s no hurry,
12 GHOSTS.

 

my dear child. But, by the bye, Regina, my dear, just
tell me, how is your father getting on out here ?

Recina. Oh, thank you, he is getting on well
enough.

Mr. Manvers. He looked in at my house, last
time he came to the town.

Recrna. No; did he really? He is always so glad
when he gets a chance of talking to you.

Mr. Manpers. And you’ve been looking after him
very carefully lately, I dare say ?

Recina. 1? Oh! to be sure I do, when I get a
moment

Mr. Manvers. Your father is by no means a strong-
minded person, Miss Engstrand. He yearns so in-
tensely for a guiding hand.

Reoina. Oh, yes; that is very likely,—very.

Mr. Manvers. He longs to have some one near
‘him, whom he can care for, and on whose judgment
he can lay weight. He recognized that so frankly,
when he last came up to see me.

Recrna. Yes, he has talked to me something like
that. But I don’t know whether Mrs. Alving wil
spare me; especially now, just as we have got the
Orphanage to manage. And then I should be so
terribly grieved to go away from Mrs. Alving ; for she
has always been so kind to me.

Mr. Manpers. But a daughters duty, my dear
girl—. Naturally, we must first secure the consent of
Mrs. Alving,

 
|

GHOSTS. 13

Recina. But I don’t know whether it would be a
suitable thing for me, at my age, to keep house for an
unmarried man.

Mr. Manpers. What! But, my dear Miss Eng-
strand! it is your Gwn father who is the man in
question. ,

Recina. Yes, that may be, but all the same—.
Well, if it were in a good house, and with a gentle-
man who was really well off—. ‘

Mr. Manvers. Yes, but, my dear, good child ——.

Recina. ——one towards whom I could feel devo-
tion, and to whom I could look up, and to whom I

“could stand in a daughter's place . . .

Mr. Manpers. Yes, but, my dear, good
child ——.

Recina. For I should be glad enough to go into
the town. Out here, it is dreadfully lonely ; and you
know very well, sir, what it means to be alone in the
world. And this I ought to say for myself, that I am
both quick and obliging. Don’t you know any place
likely to suit me, sir?

Mr. Manvers. I? No. Most assuredly I do not.

Recina. But, dear, dear sir, do just think of me,
when I——

Mr. Manpers (rising). Yes, I certainly will, Miss
Engstrand.

Recina. Yes, forif I...

Mr. Manvers. Will you be so good as to fetch

your mistress?
B
14 GHOSTS.

 

Recina. She will come at once, sir, now. (She
goes out to the left.)

Mr. MANDERS (goes a few steps up and down the
room, stands a moment in the background with hts
hands behind his back, and looks out over the garden.
Then he comes back to the table, takes a book and looks
at the title-page; starts, and looks at several more), _
Hm— indeed !

(Mrs. Alving comes in through the door on the left ;
she is followed by Regina, who immediately Soes out
through the further door on the right.)

Mrs. ALviNG (offering her hand). I am glad to see
you, Mr. Manders.

Mr. Manvers. How do you do, Mrs. Alving?
Here I am, as I promised.

Mrs. Atvinc. Always punctual to the minute.

Mr. Manpers. But you may imagine it was a tight
fit for me to get away. All the innumerable Boards
and Committees I sit on——_1!

Mrs. Atvinc. That makes it all the kinder of you
to come so early. Now we can get all our arrange-
ments made before dinner. But where is your
luggage ?

Mr. Manvers (guickly). I left it down at the
general shop. I stay there to-night.

Mrs. ALVING (suppressing a smile). Are you really
not to be persuaded to spend’ the night under my roof
this time, either?

Mr. Manpers. No, no, thank you, Mrs, Alving; I
GHOSTS. 15

 

am greatly obliged to you. I shall stay down there,
as usual. It is so convenient for getting on board the
steamer again.

Mrs, ALVING. Well, you must have your own way.
But otherwise, I really should have thought that we
two old people——

Mr. Manpers. Oh, dear Mrs. Alving, you're
joking, I see, Ah! to be sure! you are exceedingly
happy to-day: first, to have the Festival to-morrow,
and then, to have got Oswald home again.

Mrs. Atvinec. Yes, thank you; what a delight it is
tome! It is now more than two years since he was
last home. And now he has promised to stay with
me all through the winter.

Mr. Manpers. No, has he really? That was
indeed right of him, and what a good son should do.

- For I can well believe there is far more attraction in
. living at Rome.and Paris.

Mrs. Atvinc. True. But here at home, he has
his mother, you see. Oh! my dear, darling boy,
he has still some heart left for his mother; bless
him !

Mr. Manpers. It would indeed be too grievous, if
absence and being busy with things like Art, were to
blunt such natural feelings. .

Mrs. ALvinc. Yes, you may well say so. But there
is nothing of that sort to fear in him. Oh! I shall
really be quite amused to see, if you can recognize
him again- He will come down presently. Just now,
16 GHOSTS.

 

he is lying down upstairs, resting a little on the sofa.
But, do sit down, dear Mr. Manders.

Mr. Manners. Thank you. Then it really suits
you...?

Mrs. ALvING. Most certainly it does. (She sits dy
the table.)

Mr. ManpeErs. Very well. Then you shall see. . .
(Ze goes to the chair where the travelling-bag lies, takes
out a packet of papers, sits down on the opposite side of
the table, and tries to find a clear space for the papers.)
Now, to begin with, here is . . . (Breaking off)—Tell
me, Mrs. Alving, how do these books come
here?

Mrs. Atvinc. The books? They are books I
read.

Mr. Manvers. Do you read writings of that sort ?

Mrs. Atvine. Yes, certainly I do.

Mr. Manvers. Do you feel, that you are better or
happier for reading of that kind?

Mrs. Atvinc. I think I seem to get surer for it. °

Mr. Manpers. That is strange. How is it?

Mrs. ALvinc. Well, I seem to get cleamess and
strength about many and many a thing I myself have
been thinking. Yes; for that is the wonderful part of
it, Mr. Manders ; there is really nothing new in these
books. There is nothing in them but what most people
think and believe. The only point is, that most people

do not account for it in themselves, or will not keep
to it.
ee GHOSTS. 17

 

_~

| Mr. Manpers. You do surprise me! Do you
seriously believe that most people...
| Mrs. Atvine. Yes, I do indeed.

Mr. Manners, Yes, but not actually here in this
country? Not here, in our part? > “

Mrs. ALVING. Yes, to be sure! In our part, too.

Mr. Manpers. Well, then, I really must say -——

Mrs. ALVING. But what besides have you really got
to bring against the books?

Mr. Manvers. Bring against them? You really
don’t suppose, that 1 occupy myself with examining
such productions?

Mrs. Atvinc. That is to say, you know nothing of
what you are condemning.

Mr. Manpers. I have read enough adout these
writings to disapprove of them.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes; but your own opinion...

Mr. Manvers. Dear Mrs. Alving, there are many
occasions in life, where one must rely upon others.
Once for all, it is so, in this world; and it is a
good thing. How could societies of men get on
otherwise ?

Mrs. ALvinG. No, no; I daresay you are right
there.

Mr. Manpers. On the other hand, I do not of
course deny, that there may be something attractive in
such writings. Nor can I think ill of you for wishing
to make yourself acquainted with the spiritual currents
which, by what I hear, are to be found out there, in
18 GHOSTS.

 

the great world.—where you have let your son travel
for so long, you know. But

Mrs. ALvinc. But?

Mr. Manvers (/owering his voice). But one doesn’t
talk about that, Mrs. Alving. One is certainly not
bound to account to everybody, for what one reads
and thinks within one’s own four walls.

Mrs. ALvinc. No, of course not; that is just my
idea.

Mr. Manpers. Only think, now, what considera-
tion you owe to that Orphanage, which you decided
on founding, at a time when your opinions on spiritual
matters were strikingly different from what they are
now,—so far as I can guess.

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh, yes ; I quite admit that. But it
was about the Orphanage .

Mr. Manpers. It was about the Orphanage we
were to speak; yes. Then—pridence, dear madam.
And now we will pass on to our business. (Opens the
case and takes out a number of papers.) Do you see
these ?

Mrs. Atvinc. Are those the documents ?

Mr. Manpvers. All. And they are all complete.
You can understand it was hard work to get them in
time, I had to put a good deal of pressure on. The
authorities really are almost painfully conscientious,
when they are asked for a final settlement. But now
we've got them all, at last. (Zooks through the pile.)
See! here is the legal gift of the parcel of ground

 
GHOSTS. 19

 

known as Sunnyside on the Manor of Rosedene, with
all the newly constructed domestic buildings, school-
rooms, master’s house and chapel. And here is the
official acceptance of your gift and of the Regula-
tions of the Institution. Will you just see? (Reads)
“ Regulations for the Children’s Home, to be known
as ‘Captain Alving’s foundation.’” _

Mrs. Atvine (/ooks long at the paper). So there
it is.

Mr. Manpers. I have chosen the name ‘ Captain’
and not ‘Chamberlain.’ ‘Captain’ looks less pre-
tentious.

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh, yes; just as you think best.

Mr. Manpers. And here you have the Banking
Account of the capital lying at interest, which is
set aside to cover the cutrent expenses of the
Orphanage.

Mrs. ALvinc. Thank you. But please be so kind
as to keep it, for convenience sake.

Mr. Manpers. Very gladly. I think we will leave
the money in the Bank, just at first. The interest on
it is certainly not very enticing,—four per cent. and
six months’ notice of withdrawal. Ifa good mortgage
could be found later on,—of course it m:"‘ be a first
mortgage and offer undoubted security,—(hen we
could talk it over together.

Mrs. ALVING. Yes, to be sure, dear Mr. Manders.
But you will judge best about all that.

Mr. Manvers. I will keep my eyes open, at any
20 GHOSTS.

 

rate. But now there is one thing more, which I have
been intending to ask you about several times.

Mrs. Atvinc. And what is that ?

Mr. Manvers. Shall the Orphanage buildings be
insured, or not?

Mrs. ALvING. Yes, of course they must be insured.

Mr. Manpers. Well, stop a minute, Mrs. Alving.
Let us look into the matter a little more closely.

Mrs. ALvING. I have everything insured ; buildings
and moveables and stock and labourers.

Mr. Manvers. Of cours: you have,—on your own
estate. And so have I,—of course. But here, you
see, it is quite another matter. The Orphanage is to
be consecrated, as it were, for the purpose of a higher
life.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, but even if—

Mr. Manpers. For my own part, I really should
not see the smallest impropriety in making secure
against all contingencies.

Mrs. Atvinc. No. That is precisely what I think,
too.

Mr. Manpers. But how will that suit the general
feeling of the people, just round—out here? You
know it better than I.

Mrs. Atvinc. H’m—the general feeling of the
people ?

Mr. Manpers. Have you any sufficient number of
people, whose opinions deserve consideration,—really
deserve it,—who might be scandalized at that ?
GHOSTS. at

 

Mrs. ALyiInG. Well, what do you actually. mean by
‘really deserving consideration’ ?

Mr. Manpers. Well, I am thinking chiefly of men
in positions so independent and influential, that one
cannot help giving some weight to their opinions,

Mrs. Atvinc. There are some such here, who
would very likely be shocked, in case——

Mr. Manpers. There now! you see! In the town,
we have many of that kind. Think only of all the
adherents of my brothers in office. It would be so
terribly easy for them to conclude, that neither you
nor I had the right trust in a Higher Guidance.

Mrs. ALvinc. But so far as concerns yourself, dear
Mr. Manders; you know, in any case, that you,
yourself-

Mr. Manners. Yes, I know,—I know ; I have the
fullest conviction ; that is true enough. But never-
theless, we should not be able to prevent a distorted,
disadvantageous construction being put upon the
Insurance. And such a construction might, in its
turn, act as a hindrance to the Orphanage itself.

Mrs. Atvinc. Well, if that were te be the case,
then

Mr. Manpers. Nor can I quite lose sight of the
difficult,—and I may frankly say, the painful position,
I might perhaps get into. In the chief circles of the
town, there is a good deal of talk going on, about this
Orphanage affair. The Orphanage is certainly founded
to some extent as a gain to the town, too; and itis to

 

 
22 GHOSTS.

 

be hoped, that it will result in lightening our Poor
Rates, in no inconsiderable degree. But as I have
been your adviser, and have managed the business
connected with it, I may well dread, lest I should be
the first person for the jealous to fasten upon

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh! you ought not to expose your-
self to that.

Mr. Manpers. To say nothing of the attacks that
would be sure to be made upon me in certain papers
and periodicals, which——

Mrs. ALVING. It is quite enough, dear Mr. Manders,
That consideration is quite decisive.

Mr. Manpers. Then you do not wish the Orphan-
age insured ?

Mrs. Atvinc. No. We will let it be.

Mr. Manvers (leaning back in his chair). But if
misfortune were to befall it, now ;—one can never tell.
Would you be able to make good the damage ?

Mrs. ALvING. No ; I tell you plainly, I never would
do anything of the kind.

Mr. ManDexs. Well, but I tell you what, Mrs.
Alving, it is, after all, a considerable responsibility we
are taking upon ourselves.

Mrs. Atvinc. But does it seem to you we can do
anything else ?

Mr. Manvers. No, that is just the thing; we
really cannot do anything else. We must not expose
ourselves to an absurd prejudice; and we have no
kind of right to arouse scandal in public opinion.

 
GHOSTS. 23

 

Mrs. Atvinc. You, as a clergyman, should not at
any rate.

Mr. Manpers. And I really think, too, we may
rely upon an Institution of the kind having good
fortune on its side; in fact, that it stands under
Special Protection.

Mrs. Atvinc. Let us hope so, Mr. Manders.

Mr. Manvers. Then we will let the matter alone
for the present ?

Mrs. A.vinc. Yes, certainly.

Mr. Manvers. Very well. Just as you think best.
(Makes notes.) Then,—no Insurance.

Mrs. Atvinc. It was really rather curious, that you
should come to speak about it to-day, of all days——

Mr. Manvers. I have often thought of asking you
about it——

Mrs. ALVING.
there yesterday.

Mr. Manp_ers. You don’t say so !

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh! after all there was nothing in it.

for we nearly had a fire down

 

A heap of shavings had ‘caught fire in the carpenter’s .

workshop.

Mr. Manvers. Where Engstrand works ?

Mrs. ALvinc. Yes. They say he is often very
careless with matches.

“Mr. Manvers. He has so many things in his head,
that man. His mind seems so beset. Thank God,
he is now preparing himself to lead a decent life, I
hear.

(
24 GHOSTS.

 

Mrs, Atvinc. Indeed? who says so?

Mr. Manpers. He himself assures me, that he
means to. And he certainly is a capital workman.

Mrs. Atvinc. Ah! yes; so long as he is sober—

Mr. Manners. Yes, that painful weakness. But
he often needs that; for the sake of his suffering leg,
he says. Last time he was in the town, I was really
touched by him. He came up to me, and thanked
me so warmly for having got him work here, so that
he might be where Regina was.

Mrs. Atvinc. He doesn’t take much notice of
her.

Mr. Manvers. Oh! yes. He has some talk with
her every day. He said so himself, and told me
about it.

Mrs. Atvinc. Ah! well; it may be so.

Mr. Manpvers. He feels so strongly, that he is
yearning for some one who can hold him back when
temptation comes. That is the lovable part of Jacob
Engstrand: his coming completely helpless to you,
and complaining of himself and acknowledging his
own weakness. Lately, he was up in the town talking
to me ;—look ‘here, Mrs. Alving, supposing it were a
heartfelt need with him to have Regina home with
him once more—

Mrs. ALVING (rising hastily). Regina !

Mr. MANDERS. —you should not set yourself
against it, —

Mrs. Atvinc. Indeed, I certainly shall set myself
*
GHOSTS. 25

 

against it. And besides, Regina is to have a position
at the Orphanage. ,

Mr. Manpers. But, consider, he really is her
father— .

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh! I know best what sort of a
father he has been to her. No! to him she shall
never go with my good will.

Mr. Manpers (rising). My dear lady, don’t take
the matter so impetuously. It is quite grievous to see
how you do misjudge Engstrand. It really is as
though you were downright terrified—

Mrs. ALVING (more quietly). It doesn’t matter. 1
have taken Regina into my house, and with me she
shall stay. (Zéstens.) Hush, dear Mr. Manders ;
don’t talk any more about it. (Happiness lights up
her face.) Listen! there is Oswald on the stairs. Now
we will only think of him.

(Oswald Alving, 7% @ light overcoat, hat in hand and
smoking a large meersthaum, comes in through the left
door.)

Oswatp (standing in the doorway). Oh! I beg your
pardon; I thought you were sitting in the office.
(Comes nearer.) Good morning, sir.

Mr. Manners (staring). Ah! it was remarkable—

_Mrs. ALVING. Well, now what do you say to this
young man, Mr. Manders?

Mr. Manpers. I say—I say—why! is that
really ?—

Oswatp. Yes. it is really the Prodigal Son, sir ~~
a

26 GHOSTS.

 

Mr. Manpers. But, my dear young friend,—

OswaLp. Well, then, the Son come home.

Mrs. Atvinc. Oswald is thinking of the time,
when you were so much opposed to his being a
painter.

Mr. Manvers. To our human gaze, many a step
looks inadvisable, which, later on, nevertheless—
(Wrings his hand.) Anyhow, welcome home! Why,
my dear Oswald,—by the bye, I suppose I may call
you by your Christian name, still?

Oswa.p. Yes; what else should you call me?

Mr. MAnpDERs. Very good. This is what I wanted
to say to you, my dear Oswald—you must not believe
it of me, that I condemn an artist’s profession un-
reservedly. I admit that there are many persons who
can preserve their inner life uninjured, even in that
profession.

OswaLp. Let us hope so.

Mrs. ALvING (eaming with delight). 1 know one
who has preserved both his inner and his outer life
uninjured. Only look at him, Mr. Manders.

“ Oswatp (walking about the room). Yes, yes, mother
dear ; let’s say no more about it.

Mr. Manpers. No; most assuredly ;—it cannot
be denied. And you have begun to make a name for
yourself already. The newspapers have often spoken
of you, and most favourably. Well, that is to say,—
just lately they have not said so much about it, I
fancy.
GHOSTS. 27

 

OswaLp (up among the flowers). I have not been
able to paint so much, just lately.

Mrs. Atvinc. And then, an artist needs a little
rest between times.

Mr. Manners. I can quite believe it. And by
that means he gathers up his forces, and prepares
himself for some great work. _

Oswatp. Yes.—Mother, are we going to dine
soon ?

Mrs. Atvinc. In less than half an hour, He has
plenty of appetite, thank God.

Mr. Manpers, And a taste for tobacco, too.

Oswap. I found my father’s pipe in my room,
and so—

Mr. Manvers. Ah! ha! then that accounts for it.

Mrs. Atvinc. For what?

Mr. Manvers. When Oswald came in at the door,
with the pipe in his mouth, it seemed as though it
were his father, large as life.

Oswa.p. No, really?

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh! how can vou say so? Oswald
takes after my family.

Mr. Manpers. Yes, but there is an expression
about the corners ef the mouth,—something in the
lips, which reminds me so exactly of Alving ;—now
he is smoking, anyhow.

Mrs, ALVING. Not in the least. Oswald has some-
thing about his mouth that is far more like a clergy-
man’s, I think.
28 GHOSTS.

 

Mr. Manpzrs. Oh, ah! Oh, ah! Some of my
.\ brethren in office have a look very like it.

Mrs. ALvinc. But put your pipe away, my dear
lad; I will not have smoking in here.

OswaLp (does so). Gladly. I only wanted to try
it; for I once smoked it, when I was a child

Mrs, Atvinc. You?

Oswa.p. Yes, I was quite small at the time. And
I recollect, I came up into the room to father one
evening, when he was so happy and merry.

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh! you don’t recollect anything of
those years.

OswaLp. Yes. I recollect distinctly, he took me
up on his knee, and let me smoke from the pipe.
‘Smoke, boy,” he said; “smoke away, boy.” And
I smoked as much as I wanted, until I felt I was
growing quite pale, and the perspiration stood in
great drops on my foréhead. Then he burst ozt
laughing so heartily,—

Mr. ManvERs. That was most extraordinary.

Mrs. Atvinc. My dear friend, it is only something
Oswald has dreamt.

Oswatp. No, mother, I have not dreamt it, most
positively. For,—can’t you recollect that >—then you
came in, and carried me out into the nursery, Then
I was sick, and I saw that you were crying.—Did
father often play such tricks?

Mr. Manpers. In his youth, he was a remarkably
gay, merry man,—
'

GHOSTS. 29

 

Oswap. And nevertheless he got so much done in
this world; so much that was good and useful; and
-he died so young, too.

Mr. Manners. Yes, you have indeed an active and
worthy man’s name as an inheritance, my dear Oswald
Alving. Well, it will act as a spur to you, let us hope.

Oswa.p. It ought,to be so, indeed.

Mr. Manpers. Your coming home for the day
which is to commemorate him, certainly showed very
proper feeling.

Oswatp. Less than that I could not do for my
father.

Mrs, Atvinc. And that I am to keep him so long!
that shows the most proper feeling of all, in him.

Mr. ManpDeErS. Yes; you are to stay at home
through the winter, I hear.

OswaLp. My stay at home is for an_indefinite-
period, sir.—Oh ! but it really is very charming to be

1) 1. at home again.

Mrs. ALVING (deaming). Yes, now isn't it, dear?

Mr. Manpers (looking sympathetically at him).
You went out into the world early, my dear Oswald.

OswaLp. I did. At times, I wonder whether it was |
not too early.

_Mrs. Atvinc, Oh! not at all. A sharp boy is all
the better for it; and especially when he is an only
child. A child Tike that ought not to stay at-home
with mother and father, and get spoilt,

Mr. Manpers. It is a very vexed question, Mrs.
©
30 GHOSTS.

Tet Sea ee
Alving. A child’s proper place is, and must be, in
his father’s home.

Oswa.p. I can’t help agreeing with Mr. Manders
in that.

Mr. Manpers. Only look at your own son ;—yes,
we can speak just as freely in his presence ;—What
has the consequence been for him? He is six or

 

seven and twenty, and has never once had the
opportunity of learning to know what a real home
is.

OswaLp. I beg your pardon, sir; you are quite
mistaken there.

Mr. Manpers. Indeed? I thought you had
been roaming about among artistic people, almost
exclusively.

Oswap. And so I have.

Mr. Manpers, And chiefly among the younger
artists, ,

OswaLp. Oh! certainly.

Mr. Manpers. But I thought that most people of
that sort could not afford to found a family and build
up a home.

OswaLp. There are some among them who cannot
afford to marry, sir.

Mr. Manpers. Yes, that’s just what I'm saying.

OswaLp. But in spite of that, they can have a
home. And that is just what they have, one and
another of them ; and a very orderly home, and a very
comfortable one, too.
GHOSTS. 3

 

(Mrs. Alving follows with breathless interest ; nods,
but says nothing.)

Mr. Manners. But I am not talking of a bachelor’s
home. By a ‘home,’ I understand a family home,
where a man lives with his wife and children.

Oswatp. Yes; or with his children and his
children’s mother.

Mr. Manners (starts; clasps his hands together).
But merciful—

OswaLp. Well?

Mr. Manvers. Lives with—his children’s mother !

OswaLp. Yes. Would you prefer his turning his
children’s mother out of doors?

Mr. Manpers. Then it is about illicit relations you
are talking! About these irregular marriages, as people
call them !

Oswatp. I have never noticed anything especially
irregular about the life these people lead together.

Mr. Manvers. But how is it possible that a—a
young man who has been properly brought up, no
matter where, or a young woman either, can accom-
modate theniselves to living in that way ?—before
everybody’s eyes!

OswaLp. But what are they to do? A poor
young artist—a poor young girl. It costs a good
deal of money to get married. What are they to
do?

Mr. Manpers. What are they to do? Ah! Mr.
Alving, I will tell you what they ought to do. They
32 GHOSTS.

 

shenld avoid one another from the very beginning ;
that’s what they should do.

Oswatp. If you talked in that style, you wouldn’t
make much way among young, warm-hearted people,
desperately in love with each other.

Mrs. Atvinc. No. You wouldn’t make any way
at all with thera.

Mr. Manpers (continuing). And that the authorities
should put up with such things! That they can be
allowed to go on in the light of day ! (Zo Mrs. Alving.)
Had I not good cause to be intensely concerned abont
your son? In circles, where unconcealed immorality
prevails, and has even some prestige—!

Oswatp. I will tell you something, sir; I have
been a constant Sunday visitor, in a few such irregular
homes— ;

Mr. Manvers. And on Sunday, too!

OswaLp. Yes, that is just when people want to
amuse themselves. But never have I heard an offen-
sive word there; and still less have I ever witnessed
anything which could be called immoral. No. Do
you know when and where I have found immorality in
artistic circles ?

Mr. Manpers. No! God be praised !

OswaLp. Well, then, allow me to inform you. I
have found immorality, when one or other of your
pattern husbands and fathers came down there, to
look about a little for himself; and so did the artists
the honour of visiting them, in their poor little clubs.
GHOSTS. 33

 

Then we were able to obtain accurate information.
Those gentlemen knew how to tell us about places
and things we had never dreamt of.

Mr. Manpers. What! Do youintend to say, that
honourable men trom this country, here, would—?

Oswatp. Have you never heard these honourab‘e
men talking when they got home again? Have you
never heard them express themselves, about the way
in which immorality was getting the upper hand
abroad ?

Mr. Manpers, Yes, to be sure.

Mrs. Atvinc. I have heard that, too.

OswaLp. Yes, you may well believe what they say.
There are. men among them, who know ali about it.
(Grasps his head with both hands.) Oh! that the
beautiful, glorious life of liberty abroad—that it should
be soiled in that way !

Mrs. AL'inc. You must not get angry, Oswald. we
It does you no good.

Oswap. No: you are quite right, mother. It is
by no means good for me. It is that wretched over-
fatigue, you see. Well, now I think I’ll go for a little
turn before dinner. Excuse me, sir,—you can scarcely
realize it yourself; but it came over me so powerfully.
(He goes through the second door to the right.)

Mrs. ALVING. My poor boy!

Mr. Manpers. Ah! you may well say so. Then
it has gone so far as all that with him!

(Mrs. Alving Jooks at him and is silent.)
34 GHOSTS.

Mr. Manners (walking up and down). He called
himself the Prodigal Son. Yes! alas! alas!

(Mrs. Alving continues looking at him.)

Mr. Manpers. And what do you say to all that?

Mrs. Atvine. I say that Oswald was right in every
word he spoke.

Mr. Manners (stands sti//). Right? Right in such
principles !

Mrs, Atvinc. Here, in my loneliness, I have come
to think the same things, Mr. Manders. But I have
never dared to stir up the matter. Well! now my
boy shall speak for me.

_Mr. Manpers. You are a pitiable woman, Mrs.
Alving. But now I will speak a few serious words to
you. And now it is no longer your business manager
and adviser, the early friend of yourself and your late
husband, who is standing before you. It is the clergy-
man, just as he stood before you, in the wildest
moment of your life.

Mrs. Atvinc. And what is it, that the clergyman
has to say to me?

Mr. Manoers. I will first revive your recollections
a little. The time is well chosen. To-morrow, it
will be tea years since your husband died. To-
morrow, the monument will be opened, which is to
commemorate him who is gone. . To-morrow, I shall
be addressing the whole assembled congregation.
But to-day, I will speak to you alone.

Mrs. ALvING. Very well. Speak.
pee GHOSTS. 35

; i

Mr. Manpers. Do you remember, that after

— scarcely a year of married life, you stood on the very
verge of the precipice? That yeu forsook your house
and home? -That you fled from your husband? Yes,
Mrs. Alving—fled, fled, and refused to return to him,
however much he begged and prayed of you?

Mrs. Atvinc. Have you forgotten how boundlessly
wretched I felt in that first year?

Mr. Manpers. It is nothing but the spirit of |
rebellion, which causes that craving for happiness in |
this life. What right have we human beings to happi
ness? No; we are to » do our duty. And your duty |
was to hold firmly to the man you had once chosen,
and to whom you were bound by a holy tie.

Mrs. Atvinc. You know very well what sort of a
life Mr. Alving led at that time ; of what excesses he
was guilty.

Mr. Manpvers. I know sadly well what reports
there were about him ; and I am one who least of al)
approves the life he led in his young days, if rumour
described them truly. But_a wife is not to be her’
husband’s judge. It would have been your duty to
bear with humility the cross, which a Higher Power
had thought suitable,for you. But instead of that,
you cast away the cross in rebellion;. left the
stumbling man whom you should have supported ;
went and risked your good name and reputation; and
—were nearly ruining other people’s reputation, into
the bargain.

 
36 GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. ALvinc. Other people’s? One other person’s,
you mean.

Mr. Manpers. It was to the sast degree incon-
siderate of you to seek refuge with me.

Mrs. Atvinc. At our clergyman’s? At our intimate
friend’s ?

Mr. Manvers. Most of all, on that account. Ves,
you may thank your God that my firmness was equal
to the occasion ; that I dissuaded you from carrying
out your exaggerated intentions, and that it was
granted me to lead you back on the path of duty,
and home to your lawful husband.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, Mr. Manders, it was certainly
your work.

Mr. Manvers. I was but a poor instrument in a
Higher Hand. And has it not turned out a great
blessing for you, all the rest of your life, that I did
get you to submit to duty and loyalty? Did it not
all happen as I foretold you? Did not Alving turn
his back on his wild ways, as a man should? Did he
not live, from that time, lovingly and blamelessly with
you all his days? Did he not become a benefactor
to the whole district? And did he not raise you up
to him, so that you gradually became a partner in all
his undertakings ?—And a first-rate partner, too. Ah!
I know it, Mrs. Alving ; that praise I must give you.
—But this brings me-to the next great false step in.
your life.

Mrs. ALvinc. What do you mean?
GHOSTS. 37

 

Mr. ManpbeErs. Just as you once disowned a wife's
duty, so you have since disowned a mother’s,

Mrs. Atvinc. Ah! 2

Mr. Manpers. You have been all your life, under

 

the dominion of a most unfortunate spirit of Self-will.
All your efforts have been bent towards what was un-
constrained and lawless. , You have never been willing
to endure any bond. Everything which has burdened
you in life, you have cast away inconsiderately, and
unconscientiously, like a burden you had control over.
You were not pleased to be a wife any longer, and
you went away from your husband. You found. it
troublesome to be a mother, and you placed your
child out among strangers. _

~ Mrs, Atvinc. Yes. That is true. I did so.

Mr. Manpers. And thus you have become a
stranger to him.

Mrs. Atvinc. No! no! I am not.

Mr. Manpers. Yes, you are; you cannot help it.
And how have you got him back again? Think it
well over, Mrs. Alving. You have sinned greatly
against your husband ;—that you recognize by raising
that Foundation yonder, to his memory. Recognize

_now, also, in what you have sinned against your son.
There may yet be time to lead him back from the
paths of error. Turn back yourself 3 and raise up
what may yet be in him, that can be raised up.
For (with a forefinger raised) verily, Mrs, Alving,
you are a mother whcse guilt is heavy. This much
38 GHOSTS.

 

I have considered it my duty to say to you.
(Stlence.)

Mrs. Atvine (slowly wid with self-control). Now
you have spoken, Mr. Manders ; and to-morrow, you
will speak publicly in memory of my husband. I shall
not speak to-morrow. But now I will speak to you
a little, just as you have spoken to me.

Mr. Manpers. To be sure. You want to bring

‘fcrward excuses for your conduct.

Mrs, Atvinc. No. I only want to tell you a
story.

Mr. Manners. Well?

Mrs. A.vinc, All that you have just said here,
about me and my husband, and our life together,
after you had led me back to the path of duty,—as

you call it,—all that is a matter about which you

know nothing, from your own observation. From
that moment, you who had been our’ intimate friend,
day after day, never set foot in our house again.

Mr. Manpers. Why! You and your husband left
the town soon after. ;

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes. And in my husband’s life
time, you never came out to us here. It was business
which obliged you to visit me, when you had to do
with the affairs of the Orphanage.

Mr. MAnpDERS ‘(g gently and uncertainly). Helen, if
that is meant as a reproach, I would beg you to bear
in mind—

Mrs. Atvinc, ——the regard you owed to your
GHOSTS. 39

 

position; yes. And that [ was a runaway wile.
One can never hold aloof too carefully from such
reckless women.

‘Mr. Manpers. Dear—Mrs. Alving, that'l is such a:
dreadful exaggeration

Mrs. Atvinc. There, there, there, never mind!
The only thing I wanted to say was, that when you:
judge about my married life, you simply rely upon
current public opinion, without any further evidence.

Mr. Manners, Well; certainly. And what then?

Mrs. Atvinc. But now, Mr. Manders, I will tell
you the truth. I have sworn to myself, that some
day you should know it, you alone!

Mr. Manvers. And what is the truth, then?

Mrs. ALvinc. The truth is, that my husband died
as profligate as he had lived all his days.

Mr. Manpers (feeling after a chair). What did
you say?

Mrs. Atvinc. After nineteen years of marriage, as
profligate in his pleasures, at any rate,—as he was

 

before you married us.

Mr. Manvers. And those—those wild oats, those
ir egularities, those excesses if you like, you call ‘a
profligate life’ ?

Mrs. ALvinc. Our doctor used the expression.

Mr. Manners. I don’t understand you. .

Mrs. Atvinc. Nor need you. :

Mr. Manpers. It almost makes me giddy. All
your marriage, all that life with your husband for
40 GHOSTS.

 

so many years, was nothing more than a hidden
abyss.

Mrs. ALvinG. Not a particle of difference between
the two things. Now you know.

Mr. Manpers. That . .. It takes me a long
while to master that, I can’t grasp it. I can’t get
hold of it. But, then, how was it possible to?...
How could such a state of things be kept concealed ?

Mrs. Atvinc. That is precisely what my ceaseless
struggle consisted in, day after day. After Oswald’s
birth, I thought Mr. Alving seemed to go on a little
better. But it did not last long. And then I had to
struggle twice as hard, fight as for life and death, so
that nobody should get to know what sort of a man
my child’s father was. And you know what power of
winning people’s hearts Mr. Alving had. Nobody
seemed able to believe anything but good of him.
He was one of those people whose life does not pick
holes in their reputation. But at last,—and you
must know this too,—the most horrible thing of all
happened.

Mr. Manpers. More horrible than those?

Mrs. Atvinc. I had overlooked a great deal,
although I knew so well what went on out of doors in
secret. But when the offence came within our own
four walls . .. 2.

Mr. Manners. You don’t say so! Here!

Mrs. ALvinc. Yes; here in our own home. It
was in there, (Jointing towards the first door to the
GHOSTS. 4!

 

right) in the dining-room, that I first got to know of
it. I had something I was busy about in there; and
the door stood ajar. Then I heard our housemaid
come up from the garden, with water for the flowers
in the conservatory yonder.

Mr. Manvers. Well, and then? '

Mrs. ALvinc. A little while after, I heard that Mr.
Alving had come also. I could hear that he was
saying something softly to her. And then I heard—
(with a short laugh) oh! it still sounds in my ears, as
though it was tearing me to pieces, and yet.so laugh-
able—I heard my own servant-maid whisper, “Let.
me go, sir, Let me_be.”_

ir,

Mr. Manpers. What. unbecoming levity on his
part! Oh! but it never could“have been more than
levity, Mrs. Alving; I feel sure.

Mrs. Atvinc. I soon got to know what it was I had
to feel sureof. Mr. Alving got his way with the girl;
and that connection had consequences, Mr. Manders.

Mr. ManveErs (as though petrified). And all that
happened in this house! in this house!

Mrs, Atvinc. I had suffered a great deal in this
house. To keep him at home in the evenings and at
night, I had to make myself his companion in his
secret orgies up in his room. ‘There I have had to
sit all alone with him, to chink glasses and'drink with
him, and listen to his ribald, silly talk. I have had
to fight hand to hand with him, to get him to tumble
into bed

 
42 GHOSTS.

Mr. Manpers (distressed). And you were able to
bear all that!

Mrs. Atvinc. I had my little son to bear it for.
But when the last insult was added; when my own
servant-naid . . . then I vowed to myself: this shall
come to anend. And so I took the upper hand in
the house,—the whole power, both over him and over
all the rest. For now I had a weapon against him, you
see; he dared not grumble. That was the time when
I placed Oswald out among strangers. He was getting
on for seven years old, and was beginning to observe
and ask questions, as children do. All that I could
not bear. It seemed to me the child might get
poisoned, by merely breathing the air in that~dis-
honoured home. That was why I placed him out.

And now you can see, also, why he never was allowed
to set his foot inside his home, here, as long as his
father lived. There is no one who knows what that
has cost me.

Mr. Manpers. You have indeed had a life of
trial.

Mrs. Atvinc. I could never have held out so Ions,
unless I had had my work. Yes; for I may well say,
that I have worked. All these additions to the estate ®
all the improvements; all the useful contrivances
which won Mr. Alving praise and celebrity—do you
suppose Ze ever carried out such things?—Why! he
used to lie all day on the sofa and read an cld
almanack! No; indeed. And I will tell you, more- _
GHOSTS. 43

 

over, that it was I, who urged lim onwards when he
had his brighter intervals 3 it was I, who had to drag
the whore load, when he began his bad ways again, or
telapsed into querulousness and misery.

Mr. MANpDERS. And it is over that man you are
raising a monument? tti—i—<—S~S™S

—Mrs. ALVING. It only shows what power a bad
conscience has.

Tr. Manpers. A bad ..? What do you mean?

Mrs. ALvinc. It was always before my eyes, tl.at
it was impossible but that the truth must come out
and be believed. So the Asylum was to destroy all
evil rumours, and banish all doubts fcr ever.

Mr. Manpers. In that. you have certainly not
missed your mark, Mrs. Alving.

Mrs. Atvinc. And besides, I had one more reason.
I did not wish that Oswald, my own boy, should
inherit anything whatever from his father.

Mr. Manpers. Then it is Alving’s fortune that...?

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes. The sums which I have laid
by for the Orphanage, year by year, make up the
sum—I have reckoned it up precisely,—the sum
which made Lieutenant Alving a good match, in his
day.

Mr. Manpers. I ave quite understand .

Mrs. ALvinc. It was. the purchase-money. ‘I do
not choose that money to pass into Oswald’s hands.
My son shall have everything from me ;—everything.
(Oswald Alving comes through the second docr to the
44: GHOSTS.

 

right » he has taken off his hat and overcoat in the halt.
Mrs. Alving goes towards him.) Is it you come back
again? my dear, dear boy!

OswaLp. Yes. What can a fellow do out of doors
in this eternal rain? But I hear we are to have dinner.
That’s capital !

Recina (with a parcel from the dining-room). A
parcel has come for you, Mrs. Alving. (Hands it to
her.)

Mrs. ALVING (with a glance at Mr. Manders). Pro-
bably the songs for to-morrow’s festival.

Mr. Manpers. H’m

Recina. And now dinner is ready.

Mrs. ALVING. Very well. We will come presently.
I will just . . . (Begins to open the parcel.)

Recina (/o Oswald). Would Mr. Alving like red or
white wine ?

Oswatp. Both, please, Miss Engstrand.

Recina. Bien. Very well, Mr. Alving. (She goes
into the dining-room.)

Oswatp. I may as well help uncork it.

(He goes into the dining-room whose door swings half
to, behind him.)

Mrs. ALVING (who has opened the parcel). Yes. I
am quite right. Here are the songs for to-morrow’s
festivity, Mr. Manders.

Mr. Manvers (with folded hands). How can I
possibly deliver my discourse to-morrow with a free
mind, that

 
GHOSTS. 45

 

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh! you will get through that quite
well.

Mr. Manners (softly, so as not to be heard in the
dining-room). Yes; it would not do to provoke
scandal.

Mrs. ALVING (under her breath but firmly). No.
But then this long, hateful comedy will be at an end
for ever. From the day after to-morrow, it shall be
for me as though the dead man had never lived in
this house. No one else shall be here, but my boy
and his mother.

(From within the dining-roam, comes the noise of a
chair overturned, and at the same moment is heard)

Recina (sharply but whispering). Oswald! I say}
are you mad? Let me go!

Mrs. ALVING (starts in terror). Au! (She stares
distractedly towards the half-opened door. Oswald is
heard coughing and humming inside. A bottle is
uncorked.)

Mr. Manpers (excited). But what in the world is
happening? What is it, Mrs. Alving ?

Mrs. ALvING (hoarsely). GHOSTS/ The couple
from the conservatory is walking about again.

Mr. Manpers. What! Isit- possible? Regina ?.

Ts she—?
~ Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, Come. Not another word!
(She seizes Mr. Manders dy the arm and walks un-
steadily towards the dining-room.)

D
46 GHOSTS.

ACT II.

(The same room. The mist continues heavy over the
whole landscape.)

Mr. Manders avd Mrs. Alving: come out from the
dining-room.

Mrs. Atvine (still in the doorway). May your
dinner do you good, Mr. Manders.1 (Speaks within
the dining-room.) Aren’t you coming too, Oswald ?

OswaLp (from within). No, thank you. I think
I shall go out a little.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, do. The weather seems brighter
now. (Ske shuts the dining-room door, and goes out to the
door into the hall, and calls) Regina !

Recina (outside). Yes, Mrs. Alving.

Mrs, Atvinc. Go down into the laundry, and help
with the garlands,

Recina. I'll go directly, Mrs. Alving.

(Mrs. Alving assures herself that Regina goes; then
shuts the door.)

Mr. Manpers. I suppose he can’t hear anything
we say in there?

‘Mrs. Atvinc. He can’t, now the door is shut.
Besides he is just going out.

' The old-fashioned custom of exchanging greetings afler
meal still exists in Scandinavia,
GHOSTS. 47

 

Mr. Manvers, I am still as one bewildered. I
can’t think how I could get down a bit of dinner.

Mrs. ALvING (se/fcontrolled, but disturbed, walking
up and down). Nor can I, either. But what is to be
done now?

Mr. Manpers. Yes; what is to be done? Upon
my honour, I don’t know. I am so entirely inexperi-
enced in matters of this sort.

Mrs. ALvinc. I am quite convinced, that no mis-
chief has been done so far.

Mr. Manpers. No; heaven forbid! But it is an
xinscemly state of things, nevertheless.

Mrs. ALvinc. The whole thing is an idle fancy of
Oswa!d’s. You may be sure of that.

Mr. Manpers. Well, 1 am, as I was saying, not
familiar with affairs of the kind. But still, 1 should
certainly think

Mrs. ALvinc. Out of the house she must go, and
that immediately. It is as clear as daylight.

Mr. Manpers, Yes, of course she must.

Mrs. ALvinc. But where to? We can’t in that
case protect

Mr. Manpers. Where to? Home to her father,
of course.

Mrs. Atvinc. To whom, did you say?

Mr. Manvers. To her—. No, but surely Eng-
strand is not—? But, good God, Mrs Alving,
how is that possible? You may be mistaken after
all.

 

 
48 ’ GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. ALvinc. Alas! I’m mistaken in nothing.
Johanna had to confess her doings to me, and Mr.
’ Alving could not deny it. So that there was really
nothing to be done, except to keep the matter hushed
up.

Mr. Manpers. No. That was all you could do.

Mrs. Atvinc. The girl left our service at once, and
got rather a large sum of money, to hold her tongue
for the time being. The rest she managed for herself,
when she got into the town. She renewed her old
acquaintence with Engstrand, the carpenter; circu-
lated plenty of reports, I’ve no doubt, as to how much
money she had got; and told him some tale about a
foreigner, who put in here with a yachtinsummer. So
she and Engstrand got married in hot haste. Why!
you married them yourself !

Mr. Manvers. But how can I account, then, for—?
I recollect distinctly when Engstrand came to
give notice of the marriage. He was so dreadfully
depressed, and b!amed himself so bitterly for the light
behaviour of which he and his betrothed had been
guilty.

Maras. Atvinc. Yes; of course he had to take the
blame upon himself.

Mr. Manpers. But such a piece of dishonesty on
fis part! And towards me, too! I certainly never
could have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. Well! I
shall not fail to give him a serious talking to ; he may
get ready for that. And then the immorality of such
GHOSTS. 49

 

acounection! For money’s sake! How larze was
the sum the girl had given her?

Mrs. Atvinc. It was sixty pounds.

Mr. Manpers. There! only think! that fcr a
miserable sixty pounds, a man should go and get
married to a fallen woman !

Mrs. ALvinG. Then what have you to say of me?
I went and got married to a fallen man.

Mr. Manpers. But—God be merciful to us!—
what are you talking about? A fallen man!

Mrs. ALviNG. Perhaps you consider Mr. Alving ~
was purer, when I went with him to the altar, than
Johanna was, when Engstrand got married to her?

Mr. Manvers. Well, but the two things are as
different as Heaven and Earth ;

Mrs. ALvinc. Not so very different after all. There
was certainly a great difference in the price ;—a miser-
able sixty pounds, and a whole fortune.

Mr. Manpers. But how can you place two such
different things side by side? You had takva counsel
with your own heart and with all your friends.

Mrs. ALVING (without looking at him). 1 thought
you understood where what you call my heart, had
wandered to, at the time.

Mr. ManpeErs (distantly). Had I understood any-
thing of the kind, I should not have continued a daily
guest in your husband’s house.

Mrs, ALvING. Well, the fact remains, that with
myself I took no counsel whatever.

 
50 GHOSTS.

 

Mr. Manpers. Well, then, with your nearest rela-
tives,—just as it is directed you should ;—with your ©
mother and both your aunts,

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, that is true. Those three cast
up the sum forme. Oh! no one would believe how
clearly they made out, that it would be downright
madness to refuse such an offer. If.mother could but
look up now, and know what all the splendour had
brought along with it!

Mr. Manvers. Nobody can be considered respon.
sible for the result. This much remains clear, after
all that’s said and done: your marriage was sanctioned
by every lawful authority.

Mrs, ALvine (towards the window). Oh! what
nonsense all that is about law and order. I often
think it is that which causes all the miseries there are
in the world.

Mr. Manvers. Mrs, Alving, now you are doinz
wrong.

Mrs. ALvinG. Well, I dare say I am; but I can’t
endure all these bonds and considerations any longer.
{ can't. I must work my way out to freedom.

Mr. Manpers. What do you mean by that?

Mrs. ALVING (drumming her fingers on the window
sill). I ought never to have concealed the facts of
Mr. Alving’s life. But I dared do nothing else at
that time,—not for my own sake, either. I was such
a coward.

Mr. Manpers, A coward ?
GHOSTS. st

 

Mrs. ALvinc. It people had got to know it, they
would have talked somewhat in this way: “ Poor
man ! no wonder he is fast, when he has a wife who
has run away from him.”

Mr. Manvers. Something of the sort might have
been said, with a certain show of right.

Mrs. Atvine (looking steadily at him). If I were
what I ought to be, I should set Oswald before me
and say: ‘ Listen, my boy; your father was a fallen
creature——” .

Mr. Manpers. Good gracious |——.

Mrs. ALVING. and then I should tell him all 1
have told you,—straight through.

Mr. Manpvers. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs.
Alving.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes; I know that. I know that
very well. I am shocked myself at the thought of it
all. (Goes away from the window.) I am such a
coward.

Mr. Manpers. And you call it ‘cowardice’ to do
what your plain duty and obligations dictate? Have
you forgotten, that a child is to honour his father and
mothér ?

Mrs. ALVING. Don’t let us take that in general
terms. Let us ask: Shall Oswald honour and love
Chamberlain Alving ?

Mr. Manpers. Is there no voice in your mother’s
heart, which forbids you to knock down your son's
ideals ? !

 

 
52 GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes. But what about the truth ?

Mr. Manpers. Yes. But what about the ideals?

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh!’ Ideals! Ideals! If only I
were not such a coward, as I am!

Mr. Manpers. Do not find fault with ideals, Mrs.
Alving ; for it is hard to raise them up again; and
especially in Oswald’s case. Oswald has not so very
many ideals as it is, the more’s the pity. But this
much I have been able to see: his father stands before
him as one such ideal.

Mrs, Atvinc. You are quite right.

Mr. Manpers. And these notions of his you have
yourself excited and kept alive, by your letters.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes; I was bound by Duty and Con-
siderations ; and therefore I lied for my boy, year
after year. Oh! how cowardly, how cowardly I have
been !

Mr. Manpers. You have founded a happy illusion
in your son's heart, Mrs. Alving, and most assuredly
you ought not to prize it lightly.

Mrs. Atvinc. H’m; who knows whether it was the
right thing, now, after all? But any entanglement
with Regina, I will have nothing to do with. He
shall not go and get the poor girl into trouble.

‘Mr. Manpers, No; good gracious! that would be
dreadful !

Mrs. Atvinc. If I knew he was in earnest, and
that it would be for his happiness

Mr. Manpers. How? What then?

 
GHOSTS. 53

 

Mrs. ALvING. But it would not turn out so; for
I’m sorry to say Regina is not one of that sort.

Mr. Manpers. Well, what then? How do you
mean ?

Mrs. Atvinc. If I were not such a deplorable
coward as I am, I would say to him: “ Marry her, or
arrange it between yourselves as you please, oaly don't
let us have any deception in the inatter.”

Mr. Manpers. But good heavens! even a lawful
marriage! anything so dreadful ! so unheard-of !

Mrs. ALVING. Well, do you really mean ‘unheard-
of’? Put your hand on your heart, and tell me.
Don’t you suppose, that in all the country round,
there are some married couples who are as nearly
related as they ?

Mr. Manpers. I do not in the very least under-
stand you.

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh! dear me, yes; you do.

Mr. Manpers. Well, you are imagining the possi-
ble circumstance of,—Yes! alas! family life is not
always so pure as it ought to be. But such a matter
as you point towards, one can never know ;—at least,
with any certainty. Here, on the other hand,
That you, a mother, could be willing to consent that-
your son— !

Mrs. ALVING. But that is just what I will not do,—
I will not have it at any price the world could offer,
me; that is precisely what I am saying.

Mr. Manpers, No, because you are a ‘ coward,’ as

 
54 GHOSTS.

 

you express yourself. But suppose you were not a
‘coward’? Good God! a connection so shock-
ing !

Mrs. ALvinc. Well, so far as that goes, we have all
sprung from connections of that sort, it is said. And
who is it, who established such things in the world,
Mr. Manders ?

Mr. Manpers. Questions of that sort I must de-
cline to thresh out with you, Mrs. Alving; you are
far from having the right frame of mind to approach
them with. But that you should dare to say it is
‘cowardly’ of you!

Mrs. ALvinc. Now you shall just hear how J mean
that. I am afraid and timid, because there is in me
something of that Ghost-like, inherited tendency, I can
never quite get rid of.

Mr. Manpers, What name did you give it?

Mrs. ALvinc. Ghost-like. When I heard Regina
and Oswald in there, it was as though I saw Ghosts
before me. But J almost think we are all of us Ghosts.
It is not only what we have inherited from father and
mother, that walks again in us. It is all kinds of dead
opinions, and all manner of dead old beliefs and things
of that sort. It is not living matter in us; but it stays
there, all the same, and we can’t getridofit. IfIdo
but take up a newspaper to read, it is as though I saw
Ghosts come sneaking in between the lines. There
must be Ghosts all the country over. They must be
as thick as the sand of the sea, I should think. And
GHOSTS. 55

 

that is why we are, one and all, so dreadfully afraid of
Light.

Mr. Manpers. Ah! now we get the outcome of
your reading ! Exquisite fruits, upon my word! Oh!
those horrible, agitating, free-thinking writings !

Mrs. Atvinc. You are mistaken, dear sir. You
yourself are the man who drove me to think ; and for
so doing, you shall have full credit.

Mr. Manpers. I!

Mrs, Atvinc. Yes. When you forced me under
the yoke, which you called Duty and Obligation ; when
you praised as right and proper, what all my senses
rebelled at, as at something abhorrent. It was then :
that I began to examine your teaching in the seams.
I only wished to undo asingle stitch; but when I had
got that undone, the whole thing came to pieces. And
then I found that it was all chain-stitch sewing-machine
work.

Mr. MANnDERS (shaken, distressed). And was that
to be the gain of my life’s hardest battle ?

Mps. Atvinc. Call it rather your most miserable
defeat.

Mr. Manpers. It was the greatest victory of my
life, Helen—the victory over myself.

Mrs. ALVING. It was a crime towards us both.

Mr. DMfanpDERS. That I commanded you, saying:
Woman, go home to your lawful husband,” when
you came to me wildly and cried, “Here I am; take
me ; ”—was that a crime? _
o

56 GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, I think so.

Mr. Manpers. We two don’t understand each
other.

Mrs, Atvinc. We no longer do so now, at any
rate.

Mr. Manpers. Never—never once, in my most
secret thoughts, have I regarded you otherwise than
as another’s wife.

Mrs, Atvinc. Oh, indeed ?

Mr. Manpers. Helen!

Mrs, ALviNnG. People so easily pass from their own
memories.

Mr. Manpers. I do not. I am what I always
was.

Mrs. ALVING (/urning the conversation). Well, well,
we:l, don’t let us talk of old times any longer. You
are now over head and ears in Commissions and
Boards of Direction, and I am here, fighting with
Ghosts, both within and without.

Mr. Manvers. Those without I shall readily help
you to master. After all that I have been so horrified
to hear from you to-day, I cannot, in all conscience,
bear the responsibility of letting a young girl who is
not betrothed, remain in your house.

Mrs. Atvinc. Do you not think it would be the
best plan to get her prov:ded for ?—I mean, bra good
marriage.

Mr. Manpers. No doubt it would. I consider it
would be desirable for her, in every respect. Regina
GHOSTS. 57

 

is just now of an age when Well, I really under-
stand so little about these things, but

Mrs. ALVING. Regina matured very ear'y.

Mr. Manpers. Yes! did she not? It seems to —
foat before me as a sort of vision, that she was strik-
ingly well developed in physical appearance, when I
prepared her for Confirmation. But first of .all, she
must be off home, anyhow, under her father’s eye—
Ah! but Engstrand is not—. That he—that he could
so hide the truth from me!

(There is knocking at the door into the hall.)

Mrs. Atvinc. Who can that be? Come in!

ENGSTRAND (i Sunday clothes, in the doorway). 1
beg your pardon humbly, but—

Mr. Manpers. Ah! H’m—

Mrs Atvine. Is that you, Engstrand ?

ENGSTRAND. —there was none of the servants
- about, and so I took upon myself the liberty of just
knocking.

Mrs, Atvinc. Oh! very well. Come in. Do you
want to speak to me about something ?

ENGSTRAND (comes in). No; I’m greatly obliged to
you ; it was with his Reverence I wanted to have a
word or two. :

Mr. Manvers (walking up and down the room).
H’m—indeed? You want to speak to me, do you?

Encstranp. Yes, I should be particular glad.

Mr. Manners (stands still in front of him). Well.
May I ask what it is you want?

 

 

 
58 GHOSTS.

 

ENGSTRAND. Well, now, it was this, your Rever-
ence ; we’ve just done clearing up, down yonder,—
my grateful thanks to you, ma’am—. And now, we’ve
got everything ready; and so I’ve been thinking, it
would be but right and proper, if we, that have been
working so hearty-like all the time ;—well, I was
thinking as we ought to end it up with a bit of a
service to-night.

Mr. Manpers. A service? Down at the Orphan-
ageP

ENGSTRAND. Yes. Perhaps your Reverence don’t
think it quite proper——

Mr. Manpers. Oh! dear, yes! I do, but—H’m—

Encstranp. I’ve been in the habit of having a little
service down there in the evenings, myself.

Mrs. Atvinc. Have you?

ENGsTRAND. Yes, once in a way—a kind of small
building up of ourselves, you might call it. But I am
@ poor common man, and have no gifts that way, God
help me aright ; and so thinks I, that as the Reverend

, Mr. Manders was just out here, I’d

| Mr. Manners. Well, just look here, Engstrand. I
must first ask you a question. Are you in the right
frame of mind for a meeting of that kind? Do you
feel your conscience clear and at ease ?

ENcstranp. Oh! God help us all! your Rever-
ence, I don’t deserve to talk about the conscience.

Mr. Manpers. Ah! then that’s just what we will
talk about. Why do you answer in that way?

 
GHOSTS. 59

 

ENGSTRAND. Av,—the conscience, it can be bad
sometimes.

Mr Manpvers. Well, then, you recognize that, in
any case. But will you make a clean breast of it, and
tall just how things are about Regina?

Mrs. AtvinG (guickly). Mr. Manders |

Mr. Manpvers (soothingly). Just let me——

Encstranp. About Regina! Lord! how you
frightened me then! (Zooks at Mrs. Alving.) There’s
nothing wrong up, about Regina, is there ?

Mr. Manpers. We will hope not. But I mean:
how do you and Regina stand to each other? You
pass everywhere for her father, eh ?

ENGSTRAND (uncertain). Well—h’m—your Rever-
ence knows how matters were with me and poor
Johanna.

Mr. Manpers. Now! no perversion of the truth
any longer! Your dead wife told Mrs. Alving the
whole story, before quitting her service.

ENGSTRAND. Oh! very well, then——. Now did
she really ?

Mr. Manpsrs. So you are detected, Engstrand.

Encsrranp. And she who took her Bible oath
and swore——.

Mr. Manvers. Did she swear?

ENGSTRAND, No; she only took her Bible oath;
but she said it so thoroughly honest.

Mr. Manpers. And you have hidden the truth
from me, all these years? Hidden it from me! when
60 GHOSTS.

I have trusted you without reserve, through thick and
thin!

Encstranp. Yes, alas! your Reverence, I have.

Mr. Manpers. Have I deserved it of you, Eng-
strand? Haven't I always stood ready to join hands
with you, in word and deed, so far as was in my
power? Answerme. Have I not? ,

ENGSTRAND. It would have been a poor look-out
for me many a time, if I hadn’t had the Reverend Mr.
Manders for me.

Mr. Manvers. And then you reward me for it all
in this way! You cause mre to enter things in the
Church Register, which I cannot afterwards correct;
and you withhold from me, through many long years,
the explanations, which you owed alike to me and to
truth. Your conduct has been wholly inexcusable,
Engstrand ; and from this time forward, all is over
between us.

ENGSTRAND (zith a sigh). Yes! I reckon it must
be so.

Mr. Manpers. Ay! for how can you possibly
justify yourself ?

Encstranp. But ought she to have gone about
and disgraced herself worse by talking about it? Will
your Reverence just fancy you were in the same
trouble as poor Johanna was——.

Mr. Manpers. I!

ENcstTranp. Lawk a mercy! I don’t mean so

exact as all that. But I mean, that if your Reverence
GHOSTS. 61

 

had anything to be ashamed of in other folks’ eyes,
as they say. We men didn’t ought to judge a poor
wench too strict, your Reverence.
Mr. Manpers. But I’m not doing so, by any
means. It is you I am reproaching.
ENGSTRAND. Might I make so bold as to ask your
Reverence a bit of a question ?
Mr. Manpers. Well, well, you can ask it.
ENGSTRAND. Ain’t it right and proper in a man to
raise up them that are fallen?
Mr. MANDERS. Most certainly it is.
Encstranpb. And ain’t a.man bound to keep his
word, honest and faithful ?
Mr. MANDERS. Why! of course he is; but...
ENGSTRAND. The time when Johanna had got into
trouble through that Englishman, or it might have
been an American or a Russian, as they call ’em—
well, it were then she came down into thetown. Poor
‘body ! she’d sent me about my business, once or twice
before: for she couldn’t abear the sight of anything
but what was handsome ; and I’d got this here limping
in my leg. Your Reverence recollects, you know, I’d
been venturing up in a dancing-hall, where sea-going
sailors used to be shouting with their drink and their
intoxication, as the saying is. And then, when I was
for giving them a bit of an admonition to lead a new
life é
Mrs. ALVING (from the window). H'm——.

Mr. Manpers. I know all about that, Engstrand ;
Q

 
62 GHOSTS.

those rough people threw you down the stairs. You
told me that occurrence before. Your limp does you
honour.

Encstranp. I am not puffed up about it, your
Reverence. But what I just wanted to tell was, that
then she came, and put all her trust in me, weeping
dreadful and gnashing of her teeth. I can tell your
Reverence it was downright grievous to listen to.

Mr. Manvers. Now was it really, Engstrand?
Well; and then?

Encstranp. Ay! so I says toher: “The American
he’s roving about, somewhere over the seas, I dare say
we is. And as for you, Johanna,” says I, “ you’ve gore
and committed a grievous sin, and you're a fallen
creature. But Jacob Engstrand,” says I, “ he’s got two
good legs of his own to stand upon, Ze has” well,
you know, your Reverence, I meant that as a kind of
a allegory, your Reverence.

Mr. Manpers. I understand you quite well. Just
go on with your tale.

ENGSTRAND. Well, that was how I raised her up,
and married her, and made an honest woman of her,
so as folks shouldn't get to now how wild she’d been
carrying on with foreigners.

Mr. Manpers. All that was very handsomely done
on your part. The only thing which I can’t approve
of is, that you should stoop to take money 3

oe ENGsTRAND. Money? I? Nota farthing !
Mr. MANvERs (enguiringly to Mrs. Alving). But.

 

 
GHOSTS. 63

 

Encstranp. Oh! ay! wait a minute; now I re-
collect, Johanna had a matter of a few shillings by her.
But I wouldn’t know nothing of that. “For shame!”
says I, “ Mammon is the price of sin, it is. That evil
gold—or notes cr whatever it were—we'll just fling

‘that back to the American,” says I. But he was gone
far out of sight, over the stormy sea, your Reverence.

Mr. Manvers. Now was he really, Engstrand, my
good fellow?

Encstranp. Ay! sir. So Johanna and me, we
came to an agreement, that the{money should go to
the child’s" education ; and so it did, andI can give
account for every blessed shilling of it.

Mr Manpvers. Come,now! This alters the whole
thing considerably. ,

ENGsTRAND. That’s just how it stands, your Rever-
ence. And I may make so bold as to say I’ve been
an honest father to Regina, so far as my poor strength
went ; for I’m but a poor creature, worse luck !

Mr. Manvers. Oh! no, no, my good fellow——.

ENGSTRAND. But I may make so bold as to say,
that I have brought up the child, and lived kind with
poor Johanna, and been faithful as a steward over my
own house, as the Scripture has it. But it never
would ha’ struck me to go up to your Reverence and
puff myself up, and be proud, because I done a good
action for once ina way ; the likes of me. No, sir;
when anything of that sort happens to Jacob Eng-
strand, he holds his tongue about it. And it don't
64 GHOSTS.

 

happen so very often, I dare say. And whenever I do
come to see your Reverence, I find a mortal deal to
say about what’s wicked and weak. For I do say,—
as I was a-saying just now,—the conscience can get
evil, every now and then.

Mr. Manpers. Shake hands with me, Jacob
Engstrand.

Encstranp. Oh! Lord bless us! your Rever-
ence. ...

Mr. Manpers. No getting out of it. (Wrings his
hand.) There we are!

Encstranp. And if I might.beg your Reverence’s
pardon ever so humbly ——

Mr. Manpers. You? No, on the contrary, it is I,
who ought to beg your pardon.

ENGSTRAND. Lor’, sir; not a bit of it.

Mr. Manpers. Yes, certainly. And I do it with
all my heart. Forgive me for misunderstanding you
so. And if there is any way, in which I could possibly
show you any token whatever of my complete trust
and my goodwill towards you—

ENGSTRAND. Would your Reverence?

Mr. ManpERS. With the greatest pleasure in life.

ENGsTRaND. Well! then there’s just the very
opportunity now. With the money I’ve saved here.
I was thinking I might begin a kind of a Sailor’s
Home, down in the town.

Mrs. Atvinc. Do you want to?

ENGSTRAND. Yes ; it might be a sort of Asylum, as
GHOSTS. 65

 

you might say. There's a many temptations for sea-
faring folk, when they’re ashore. But in this here
little house o’ mine, a man might feel as safe as if he |
was under his own father’s eye, I was thinking. :

Mr. Manpers. What do you say to this, Mrs.
Alving ?

ENGSTRAND. It ain’t a big sum as I’ve got to start
with, the Lord help me! But if I could only get a
kind, helping hand, why...

Mr. Manpvers. Yes, yes; let us weigh the matter
more carefully. Your undertaking appears to me
deserving of special approbation. But now go before
me, and make everything in readiness; and get the
lamps lit, so that it may look a little cheerful. And
then we will pass an edifying hour together, my good
fellow ; for now I quite believe you are in the right
frame of mind.

Encstranpb. I think I am, too. And so I'll say
good-bye, ma’am, and thank you kindly ; and please
to, take care most particular of Regina for me,—(wipes
a tear from his eye)—poor Johanna’s child ; h’m, now,
that’s an odd thing, it is ; but it’s just as if she’d grown
into the very core of my heart.: Ay, it is'indeed. (He
bows and goes out through the hall.)

Mr. ManveErs. Well, what do you say about the
man now, Mrs. Alving? That was a totally different
explanaticn we got then, wasn’t it?

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, it most certainly was,

Mr. Manners. It only shows you how excessively
66 GHOSTS.

 

careful one must be, in judging a fellow-creature. But
it gives one a most heartfelt feeling of gladness, too,
when one ascertains one has been mistaken. Or.
what do you say?

Mrs. Atvinc. I say that you are a great baby,
Mr. Manders, and will remain so.

Mr. Manpers. I?

Mrs. Atvine (laying both her hands upon his
shoulders), And I say,.that I have half a mind to
throw my arms round your neck.

Mr. Manpers (stepping back hastily). No, no; God
bless you ; such whims—

Mrs. ALVING (with a smile). Oh! you need not be
afraid of me.

Mr. Manpers (by the table). You have such an
exaggerated way of expressing yourself, sometimes.
Now, before I do anything else, I will collect the
various documents and put them in my bag. (He
does so.) There, then. And now, farewell, for the
present. Keep your eyes open, when Oswald comes
back. I shall look in upon you later. (He takes his
hat and goes out through the hall door.)

Mrs. ALvING (heaves a sigh, looks a moment out of
the window, sets the room in order a little, and is about
to go into the dining-room ; but stands still and calls
out in an undertone) Oswald, are you still at
table?

Oswap (i the dining-room). I am only finishing
my cigar.
GHOSTS. 67

Mrs. ALvING. I thought you had gone a short walk
on the road.

Oswatp. In such weather as this ?

(A glass clinks. Mrs. Alving leaves the door open,
and sits down on the sofa by the window with her
Rnitting.)

OswaLp.( from within). Wasn't that Mr. Manders,
who went away just now?

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes; hé went down to the Orphanage.

Oswatp. H’m. (The glass and decanter clink again.)

Mrs. ALVING (with a troubled glance). Dear Oswald,
you should take care what you are about, with that
liqueur. It is strong. ,

Oswa Lp. It isa good thing against damp.

.Mrs. ALviING. Wouldn’t you rather:come in to me?

OswaLp. I mayn’t smoke in there.

Mrs. Atvinc. You know quite well, that you may
smoke cigars.

Oswatp. Ch! all right then; I'll come in. Just
a tiny drop more first! There! now, I’ve done. (He
comes into the room with his cigar and shuts the door
after him. A short silence.) Where’s Manders gone
to? /

Mrs. ALvING. I’ve just told you ; he went down to
the Orphanage.

OswaLp. Oh! ah; ‘so you did.

Mrs. Atvinc. You shouldn’t sit so long at table,
after dinner, Oswald.

Oswatp (holding his cigar behind him). But I think

 
68 GHOSTS.

 

that’s just what’s so comfortable, mother. (Strokes
and pats her.) Just think what it is for me to come
home, ard sit at mother’s own table, in mother’s room,
and eat mother’s delicious dinner.

Mrs. ALvinc. My dear, dear boy!

OswaLp (walks about somewhat impatiently and
smokes). And what on earth else can I set. myself to,
here? I can’t occupy myself with anything.

Mrs. Atvinc. Why can’t you?

Qswa.p. In such weather as this? Without a single
ray of sunlight the whole day? (Walks away across
the floor.) Oh! that’s just it; not being able to
work !

Mrs, Atvinc. Perhaps it was not quite wise of you
to come home. -

OswaLp. No, mother; I’d no choice.

Mrs. Atvinc. Why! I would rather forego the
joy of having you ten times over, than that you
should...

Oswa.p (stands still by the table). But now just tell
me, mother ; does it really make you so very happy to
have me home again?

Mrs, ALvinc. Doesn’t it just make me happy >—
that’s all!

OswaLp (crumpling up a newspaper). 1 should have
thought it must be pretty much the same for you,
whether T was here or not.

Mrs. Atvinc. And have you the heart to say that
to your mother, Oswald?
GHOSTS. 69

 

OswaLp. But you’ve been able to live very well
without me, all this time.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes ; I have lived without you. That
is quite true. (Silence. Twilight begins gradually.
Oswald walks to and fro across the floor. He has laid
his cigar down.)

Oswa Lp (stands by Mrs. Alving). Mother, may I sit
down on the sofa by you?

Mrs. Atvinc (makes room for him). Yes; do, my
dear boy.

Oswatp (sits down). Now there is something F
must tell you, mother.

Mrs. ALVING (anxtously). Very well, dear.

Oswa Dp (looks wildly before him). For I can’t go on
Bearing it any longer. —

Mrs. Atvinc. Bearing what? What is the matter ?

CswaLp (as before). I was never able to make my-
self write to you about it; and since I’ve come
home...

Mrs. ALVING (seizes him by the arm). Oswald, what
ts the matter?

OswaLp (as before). Both yesterday and to-day I
have tried to put the thoughts away from me, . . . to
get free from them. But it won’t do.

Mrs. ALVING (77sing). Now you must speak out,
Oswald.

OswaLp (draws her down to the sofa again). Sit
still; and then I will try to tell it you. I complained
so of fatigue, after my journey here.
70 GHOSTS.

Mrs, Atvinc. Yes, you did. Well, what then?

Oswaxp. But it isn’t that which is the matter with
me; it isn’t any general state of fatigue. ...

Mrs. ALVING (¢vies fo jump up). Then you're not
ill, Oswald !

Oswatp (draws her down again). Do sit still,
mother. Only take it quietly. I am not downright
il, either; not what is commonly called ‘ill.’ (Puts
his hands together over his head.) Mother, I am broken
down in mind,—ruined,—I shall never be able to work
again. (With his hands before his face, he throws

| himself down into her lap and breaks into bitter
| sobbing.)

Mrs. ALVING (white and trembling). Oswald ! Look
at me! No, no, it isn’t true.

CswaLp (looks up with despairing eyes). Never be
able to work again. Never, never! It will be like
living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so
cerrible ?

Mrs. Atvinc. My poor boy! How has that terri-
ble thing come over you?

Oswatp (sits upright). Ah! that’s just what I can’t
possibly grasp or understand. I have never led an
unsteady life——never, in any respect. You must
never believe it of me, mother. I have never done
that.

Mrs. Atvinc. And I don’t believe it, Oswald.

Oswatp. And yet this has come over me, just the
same,—this awful misfortune !
%

GHOSTS. 71

 

Mrs. ALvinc. Oh! but it will right itself, my dear,
darling boy. It is nothing but over-exertior. You
may believe I am right in saying so.

OswaLp (sad/y). I thought so too, at first; but it
isn’t so.

Mrs. Atvinc. Tell me the whole story, from be:
ginning to end. -

OswaLp. Well, I will.

Mrs. Atvinc. At what time did you first notice it?

OswaLp. It was directly after I had been home
last time, and had got back to Paris again. I began
to feel the most severe pains in my head,—chiefly in
the back of my head, I thought. It was as though an
iron ring, which was too tight, was being screwed
round my neck and upwards.

Mrs. Atvinc. Well, and then ?

Oswa tp. At first, I thought it was nothing but the
old headache I had been so plagued with, when I was
growingup...

Mrs. ALvinc. Yes, yes...

Oswa.p. But it was not that. I soon found that
out. I could not go on working. I wanted to begin
upon a large new picture ; but it was as though my
powers failed me: all my strength was crippled: I
could not collect my thoughts to form any fixed im-
pressions: it all swam before me,—ran round and
round. Oh! it was an awful state to be in. At last
I-had to send for a doctor, and from him I got to
know the truth.
72 GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. Atvinc. What do you mean ?

Oswa.p. He was one of the first physicians down
there. I had to tell him how I had been feeling ; and
then he set to work, and began asking me a heap of
questions, which I didn’t think had anything on earth
to do with the matter. I couldn’t imagine what the
man was after . .

Mrs. ALvinc. Well?

Oswatp. At last he said: ‘From your birth there
has been some canker at the very root of your being” ;
he even used the words right out, ‘‘Eaten up with
disease.” [Vermoulu.]

Mrs, ALvING (breathlessly). What did he mean by
that ?

Oswa.p. I didn’t understand either, and begged of
him to give me a clearer explanation. And then the
old cynic said, (clenching his fist) Oh!—

Mrs. Atvinc. What did he say?

OswaLp. He said, “The father’s sins are visited
upon the children.”

Mrs. ALvinG (7ising slowly). The father’s sins... !

Oswan, I very nearly struck him in the face...

Mrs. ALvinc (walks away across the floor). The
father’s sins!

Oswatp (smiles sadly). Yes; what do you think of
that? Of course I assured him, that there could not
possibly be the slightest foundation for any such tale.
But do you think he gave in, when I said that? Not
a bit; he stuck to it; and it was only when I took
GHOSTS. 73

 

out your letters, and translated to him the passages
which related to father—

Mrs. Atvinc. But then?

Oswarp. Then he was of course bound to admit,
that he was on the wrong track ; and so I got to know
the truth—the incomprehensible truth: It was from
that merry, happy young life with my fellow-students,
I ought to have kept aloof. It had been too exciting
for my powers. So I had brought it upon myself.

Mrs. ALvinc. Oswald! Oh! no; don’t believe
it.

Oswa.p. There was no other explanation possible,
he said. That is the awful part of it. Incurably

_ ruined for my whole life—by my own heedlessness !
All that I wanted to carry out in the world...
Fancy ! I can never dare to think of it again. I am
not ad/e to think of it. Oh! if I could but live it all
over again, and undo all that I have done! (He
throws himself down on his face on the sofa.)

(Mrs. Alving wrings her hands and walks, in silent
struggle, backwards and forwards. Oswald, after a
while, looks up and remains half-lying upon his elbow.)
—If it had only been something inherited, something
that one couldn’t be supposed responsible for! But
this! To think that in such a disgracefully thought- _
less, light-minded way, one threw away ore’s own
happiness, one’s own health, everything in the world
—one’s future, one’s very life!

Mrs. ALvinc. No, no, my dear, darling boy! It
74 GHOSTS.

 

is impossible. (Bends over him.) Things are not. so
desperate with you as you believe.

OswaLp. Oh! you don’t know. (Springs up.) And
then to think, mother, that I have to cause you all
this sorrow! Many a timc gave I almost wished and
hoped, that at the bottom, you did not care so very
much about me.

Mrs. Atvinc. I, Oswald? my only boy! The
only person I have for my own, in the world! The
only thing I do care about !

Oswa pn (seézes both her hands and kisses them). Ves,
yes, I see it well enough. When I am at home, I see
it, of course. And that is the hardest part for me.
‘ But now you know all about it, too. And now we
won't talk any more about it to-day. I can’t think
about it for long together. (Walks across the room.)
Get me something to drink, mother.

Mrs. Atvinc. Drink? What do you want to drink
now?

Oswatp. Oh! anything you like, I dare say you've
got some cold punch in the house.

Mrs. ALvinc. Yes; but, my dear Oswald . . .

Oswa.p. Don’t make a fuss about it, mother. Do
be nice about it, now. I must have something to
clear away these worrying thoughts. (Goes up into
the conservatory.) And then .. . it is so dark here!
(Mrs. Alving pulls a bell-rope on her right.) And then
there’s this ceaseless rain! It may go on, week after
week,for months together. Never get a glimpse of
GHOSTS. 75

 

the sun! All the times I have been at home, I don’t
recollect ever seeing the sun shine.

Mrs. Atvinc. Oswald, you are thinking of going
away from me.

OsvaLp. H’m. (Drawing a deep breath.) don’t
think 2bout anything. Can’¢ think about anything.
(Zn @ low voice) I am obtiged to let that alone.

Recina (from the dining-room). Did you ring,
ma’am ?

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes; let us have the lamp in.

Recina. I will, directly. It is ready lighted.
(Goes out.)

Mrs, ALvinG (goes across to Oswald). Oswald,
don’t be reserved with me.

OswaLp. I am not, mother. (Goes across to the
table.) I think I have told you so much.

(Regina brings the lamp and sets it upon the table.)

Mrs. Atvinc. Regina, just fetch us a half-bottle of
champagne.

Recina. Very well, ma’am. (Goes out.)

Oswatp (puts his hands round Mrs. Alving’s face).
That’s just what I wanted. I knew very well mother
wouldn’t let her boy be thirsty.

Mrs. ALvinc. My own, poor, darling Oswald, how
could I have in my heart to deny you anything now ?

Oswatp (érightly). Is that true. mother? Do you
mean it?

Mrs, Atvinc. How? What?

OswaLp. That you wouldn’t be able to deny me
anything. .

’
76 GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. Auvinc. But, dear Oswald...

Oswacp. Hush! ; Fe

Recina (Srings a tray with a half-bottle of cham
pagne and twa glasses, whith she sets on the table)
Shall I open it. 4

Oswatp. No, thanks, I'll do it myself. (Regina
goes out again.)

Mrs. ALvine (sits down by the table). What was it
you meant,—which I couldn’t deny you?

OswaLp (busy opening the bottle). A glass or two,
first. (Zhe cork pops; he pours wine into one glass,
and is about to pour it into the other.

Mrs. Atvine (holding her hand over it), Thanks;
not for me.

Oswatp. Oh! won’t you? Then I will! (He
empties the glass, fills it again, and empties it again ;
then he sits down by the table.)

Mrs. ALVING (én expectation). Now then ?

OswaLp (without looking at her). Look here, just
tell me ;—I thought you and Manders looked so odd,
—well, so awfully quiet, at dinner-time.

Mrs, Atvinc. Did you notice it?

Oswatp. Yes, I did. H’m. (After a short Silence.)
Tell me what you think of Regina.

Mrs. ALvING., What I think?

Oswatp. Yes; isn’t she beautiful ?

Mrs. Atvinc. Dear Oswald, you don’t know her so
well as I do.

OswaLp. Well?

Mrs. ALvinc. I am sorry to say Regina was allowed
GHOSTS. 7

 

to stay at home too long. I ought to have taken her
earlier into my house.

Oswatp. Yes, but isn’t she lovely to look at,
mother? (He fills his glass.)

Mrs. Atvinc, Regina has many serious faults.

Oswatp. Oh! I dare say. What does it matter?
(He drinks again.)

Mrs. Atvinc. But I am fond of her, nevertheless,
and I have made myself responsible for her. I
wouldn’t have any harm happen to her for all the
world.

Oswaxp (springs up). Mother! Regina is my only
salvation.

Mrs. ALvING (stands up). What do you mean by
saying so?

Oswatp. I can’t go about and bear all this misery
of mind alone.

Mrs. Atvinc. Have you not got your mother to
bear it with?

Oswa.p. Yes; that is just what I thought; and so
I came home to you. But that won't do. I see that ;
it won’t do. I can’t endure my life here.

Mrs, Atvinc. Oswald !

OswaLp. I must live in a different way, mother.
That’s why I must go away from you. I won't have
you looking on at it.

Mrs, ALvinc. My miserable boy! Oh! but,
Oswald, while you are so ill as you are at present—

Oswa.p. If it were only illness, I should stay with

F
78 GHOSTS.

 

you, mother, you may be sure; for you are the best
friend I have in the world.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, isn’t it so»Oswald? I should
think I was!

Oswa.p (throws himself about restlessly). But it is
all the pains; something,—regret ; and besides that,
the great, deadly anxiety. Oh! that awful anxiety!

Mrs. ALviInG (walking after him). Anxiety ; what
anxlety ? What do you mean?

Oswatp. Oh! you mustn’t ask me any more
closely. I don’t know. I can’t describe it to you.
(Mrs. Alving goes over to the right and pulls the bell.)
What is it you want?

Mrs. Atvinc. I want my boy to be happy,—that
is what I want. He ought not to walk about racking
his brains. (Zo Regina, who comes in the door.) More
champagne ;—a whole bottle. (Regina goes.)

OswaLp. Mother !

Mrs. ALvinc. Don’t you think that we know how
to live, out here in the country, as well as people do
anywhere else?

Oswa.p. Isn’t she lovely to look at? How beauti-
fully built she is! And so strong, and healthy to the
core |

Mrs. ALvING (sits down by the table). Sit down,
Oswald, and let us talk quietly together.

Oswatp (sits down). You don’t know, mother; but
the fact is, I owe Regina compensation for a wrong I
did her,
GHOSTS. 79

 

Mrs. ALvinc. You !

OswaLp. Or a little bit of thoughtlessness,—call it
what you like ;—very innocent, anyhow. When I was
home last time—

Mrs. ALvinc. Well? :

Oswa.Lp. —she used so often to ask me about Paris,
and I used to tell her a little about things down there
Then I recollect, that it led to my saying to her one
day: ‘Wouldn't you like to come down there
yourself ?”

Mrs. Atvinc. Well ?

Oswa.p. I saw that she blushed deeply, and then
she said: “ Yes, I should like that very much.” “ Ah!
well,” I replied, “that might be managed. some time,”
—or something like it.

Mrs, Atvinc. Well, then?

Oswatp. Of course I had forgotten the whole
thing; but the day before yesterday, when I began
asking her whether she was glad I was to stay at
home so long—

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes?

OswaLp. —she looked so strangely atime, and
asked directly : “ But then, what is to become of my
journey to Paris?”

Mrs. Atvinc. Her journey!

Oswatp. And so I got out of her, that she had
taken the thing seriously; that she had gone about
here, thinking of me the whole time; and had set to
work to learn French.

Mrs, ALviNG. So that was why she did it!
80 GHOSTS.

Oswatp. Mother! when I saw that lovely, grace-
ful, fresh girl standing there before me,—and really
till then I had hardly noticed her,—but now when
she stood there, as though with open arms, and ready
to welcome me—

Mrs. Atvinc. Oswald !
OswaLp. —then it struck me suddenly, that sal-

vation was in her; for I saw, that she is full of the
enjoyment of life,

Mrs. Atvine (starts). Enjoyment of life? Can
there be salvation in that?

Recina (from the. dining-room with a bottle of cham-
pagne). I hope you'll pardon my having been so long,
but I had to go into the cellar. (Puts the bottle on the
table.)

Oswatp. And now go and fetch another glass.

Recrna (looks at him in surprise), There is my
mistress’s glass, Mr. Alving.

Oswatp. Yes, but fetch one for yourself, Regina.
(Regina recovers herself, and darts a shy side glauce at
Mrs. Alving.) Well?

Recina (softly and hesitatingly). Is it with my
mistress’s consent?

Mrs. Atvinc. Fetch the glass. Regina. (Regina
goes out into the dining-room.)

Oswai (follows her with his eyes). Have you ever
noticed how she walks ?—so firmly and lightly !

Mrs. ALvinc. It can never be, Oswald.

Oswa Lp. It’s a settled thing. Of course you can
see that. It is no use for you to say anything against
GHOSTS. ot

 

it. (Regina enters with an empty glass, which she keeps
in her hand.) Sit down, Regina. (Regina looks
exguiringly at Mrs. Alving.) .

Mrs. Atvinc. You may sit down. (Regina sits
down on a chair by the dining-room door, and
continues holding the empty glass in her hand.)
Oswald, what was it you were saying about enjoy-
ing life?

Oswatp, Ah! enjoying life, mother; that’s a thing
you people up here don’t know much about. I never
feel anything of it, up here.

Mrs. ALvinc. Not when you are with me?

Oswa.p. Not when I’m at home. But you don’t
understand that.

Mrs. ALvinG. Yes, yes; I believe I almost under-
stand it,—now.

OswaLp. That, and in the same way enjoying work.
Why! at the bottom, it’s the same thing. But that’s
another matter you know nothing about, either.

Mrs. Atvinc. You may be very likely right as to
that, Oswald ; let me hear more about it.

Oswa.p. Well, I merely mean, that in this part of
the world, people are brought up to believe, that work
is a curse and a punishment for sin; and that life is
something miserable; something it is best for us to
get done with, the sooner, the better.

Mrs. ALvinG. “ A valley of tribulation.” Yes; and
we set about doing it, as honourably and simply as
possible.
82 GHOSTS.

 

Oswa.p. But out in the wide world, people won’t
hear of any such things. There is nobody there who
really believes teaching of that sort any longer. Down
there, it is possible to regard the mere fact of being
in the world as something ecstatically happy. Mother,
have you noticed, that everything I have painted has
turned upon the enjoyment of life? always and pér-
petually upon enjoyment of life? There are light, and
sunshine, and perfect air, and faces of people beaming
with pleasure. That is why I am afraid of remaining
at home here, with you.

Mrs. Atvinc. Afraid? What are you afraid of
here, with me?

Oswarp. I am afraid, that everything which is
brimming over within me, would degenerate into
some ugly form, up here.

Mrs. ALvinc (looks steadily at him). Do vou
believe that would happen?

Oswa.p. I know it so surely. You might live the
same life here at home as away yonder, and yet it
would not be the same life.

Mrs. ALvING (who has been listening breathlessly,
stands up, her eyes beaming with thankfulness, and
says) Now I see how it all goes together.

OswaLp. What is it you see?

Mrs. Avinc. Now I see it for the first time. And
now I can speak.

OswaLp (standing up). Mother, I don’t understand
you.
GHOSTS. 83

 

Rezcina (who has also stood up), Perhaps you would
like me to go?

Mrs. Atvinc. No. Stay here. Now I can speak.
Now, my boy, you shall know the whole thing. And
then you can choose. Oswald! Regina!

OswaLp. Don’t say any more. Here’s Manders.

Mr. Manpers (comes in through the hall door).
There! now, We've had a hearty hour of comfort
down there.

OswaLp. So have we.'

Mr. Manpers. Engstrand should be helped with
that Sailors’ Home. Regina should go away to him
and help him

Recina. No, I thank you, sir.

Mr. Manvers (noticing her for the first time).
What? Here? and with a glass in your hand!

Recina (hastily putting the glass down). Pardon {

Oswatp. Regina is going away with me, Mr.
Manders.

Mr. Manpers, Going away! with you!

Oswatp. Yes; as my wife,—if she wishes it,

Mr. MANDERS. But, good God!

Recta. It’s no fault of mine, sir.

Oswatp. Or she will stay here, if I stay.

Recina (involuntarily), Here! 1

Mr. Manpers, I am petrified by your conduct
Mrs, Alving.

Mrs, ALVING. Neither of the events will happen;
for now I can speak out plainly.

 
84 GHOSTS.

 

Mr. Manpers, But you surely won't do that! No,
no, no.

Mrs. ALvinc. Yes. I can speak, and I will. And
no ideal shall be destroyed, after all.

OswaLp. Mother! What is it, that is being hidden
from me?

Reoma (listening). Oh! ma’am! Listen! There
are people screaming outside there. (She goes up into
the conservatory and looks out.)

Oswatp (a? the left window). What is going on?
Where does the light come from?

Recina (cries out), The Orphanage is on fire !

Mrs. ALVING (towards the window). On fire |

Mr. Manpers. On fire? Impossible! I have
just been down there.

OswaLp. Where’s my hat? Well,—never mind it;
—father’s Orphanage! (He rushes out through the
garden door.)

Mrs. Atvinc. My handkerchief, Regina! It is
blazing.

Mr. Manpers. Terrible! Mrs. Alving, it pro-
claims that a judgment is being sent upon this abode
of disorder.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, of course. Come, Regina.
(She and Regina disappear through the hail.)

Mr. Manpers (folds his hands together). And
uninsured! (He goes out the same way.)
GHOSTS. 85

 

ACT III.

(Zhe room as before. All the doors stand open. The
lamp is still burning on the table. It is dark out of
doors ; there ts only a faint glimmer of fire in the
background to the left.)

(Mrs. Alving, with a large handkerchief over her head,
ts standing up in the conservatory and looking out.
Regina, also with a handkerchief over her head, is
standing a little behind her.)

Mrs. Axvinc. It’s all burnt. Down to the ground !

ReEcina. It’s burning in the cellars still.

Mrs. Atvinc. How is it Oswald doesn’t come up
here? There’s nothing whatever to save.

Recina. Would you like me to go down to him,
with his hat?

Mrs. Atvinc. Hasn't he got his hat with him?

REGINA (pointing to the hall), No; there it hangs.

Mrs. Atvinc. Let it be. He must come up now.
I will go and look for myself. (She goes out through
the garden. door.)

Mr. Manpers (comes in from the hall), Isn't Mrs.
Alving here?

Reina. She’s just this. moment gone down into
the garden. .

f
86 GHOSTS.

 

Mr. Manners. This is the most terrible night I
ever livéd through.

Recina. Yes; isn’t it a dreadful misfortune, sir ?

Mr. Manpers. Oh! don’t talk about it! I can
hardly bear to think of it.

Recrina. But how can it have happened ?

Mr. Manpers. Don’t ask me, Regina! How
should I know that? And do you, too?—Isn’t it
enough for your father ?

Recina. What about him?

Mr. Manpers. Oh! he has turned my head per.
fectly giddy |!

ENGSTRAND (comes through the hall). Your Rever-
ence |

Mr. Manners (¢urns round in terror). Are you
after me here, too?

Encstranp. Yes, the Lord strike me dead! Oh!

‘gracious me! But it’s an awfully ugly business, your
Reverence.

Mr. Manvers (walks to and fro). Alas! alas!

Recina. What is the matter ?

ENGSTRAND. Why, it all came of that there prayer-
meeting, you see. (Softly.) The bird’s caught now,
my child. (A/oud.) And to think that it’s my fault,
that it’s his Reverence’s fault !

Mr. Manners. But I assure you, Engstrand——

ENGSTRAND. But there wasn’t another soul, except

your Reverence, who had anything to do with lights
in there.

 

‘
|

GHOSTS. 87

 

Mr. Manpers (stands still). Ah! so you persist
in saying. But I certainly can’t recollect, that I ever
had a light in my hand.

ENGSTRAND. And I saw so certain and clear, that \
your Reverence took the light, and snuffed it with ©
your fingers, and threw away what you snuffed among :
the shavings.

Mr. Manvers. And you actually saw that ?

ENGSTRAND. Yes. I saw it as plain as a pike-staff.

Mr. Manvers. It is quite beyond my comprehen-
sion. Besides, it has never been my habit to snuff a
light with my fingers.

Encstranp. And a beastly dirty trick it looked,
that it did! But can it turn out such a dangerous
job, your. Reverence ?

Mr. Manvers (zalks restlessly to and fro). Oh!
don’t ask me.

ENGSTRAND (walks-with him). And your Reverence-
hadn’t insured it, neither ?

Mr. Manpers (continuing to walk up and down),
No, no, no; you’ve heard that already.

EnNGSTRAND ( following him). It ain’t insured. And
then he goes right down there, and sets a light to the
whole lot of it. Oh! lor’, Oh! lor, what a mis-
fortune !

Mr. MANDERS (wifes the perspiration from his fore-
head). Ay, you may well say that, Engstrand.

EncostTranp. And to think that the likes of it could
happen with a benevolent Institution, that was to be
88 GHOSTS.

 

of use to town and country, as the sayin’ is! The
newspapers won’t handle your Reverence very gentle,
T don’t expect.

Mr. Manpers. No; that’s just what I am turning
over in my mind. That’s almost the worst feature
in the whole thing. All those hateful attacks
and accusations! Oh! the mere thought of it is
terrible |
| Mrs, ALvING (comes in from the garden). He can’t
. be persuaded to go away till the fire is quite out.

‘Mr. Manpers. Ah! there you are, Mrs. Alving !

Mrs. Atvinc. So you have got out of preaching
your discourse on the Festival, Mr. Manders.

Mr. Manpers. Oh! I should so gladly—

Mrs. ALVING (in an undertone). It was best that it
happened as it did. That Orphanage would have
turned out no blessing to anybody.

Mr. Manpers. Don’t you think so?

Mrs. Atvinc. Do you think it would?

Mr. Manpers. But it was an enormoxs pity all the
same,

Mrs. ALvING. We will speak of it in plain lan-
guage, as a piece of business.—Are you waiting for
Mr. Manders, Engstrand ?

ENGSTRAND (af the hall door), Ay, ma'am; indeed
Tam.

Mrs. Atvinc. Then sit down meanwhile.

EncsTranp. I thank you kindly, ma’am; I can
easy stand.
GHOSTS. 89

 

Mrs, ALVING (to Mr. Manders). I suppose you are
going away now by the steamer?

Mr. Manners. Yes, it goes in an hour’s time.

Mrs. Atvinc. Be so good as to take all the papers
with you again. I won’t hear another word about that
affair. I have got other matters to think about. P

Mr. Manpers. Mrs, Alving

Mrs, Atvinc. Later on, I shall send you a Power
of Attorney to settle everything as you yourself please.

Mr. Manpers. That I shall be most sincerely glad
to take upon myself. The original destination of the
gift must now be completely changed, alas !

Mrs. ALvinc. Of course it must.

Mr. Manpers. Well, I think, first of all, I shall
arrange that the part of the estate known as Sunnyside
shall become part of the parish lands. The road can-
not he said to be wholly valueless in any part. It will
always be able to be turned to account for some
purpose or other. And the current account which
lies at the Savings Bank, I could perhaps suitably
apply to support some undertaking or other, whith
might be said to be a gain for the town.

Mrs. Axvinc. Do exactly as youl please. The
whole matter is now one of complete indifference

 

to me.
ENGSTRAND. Give a thought to my Sailor’s Home,
your Reverence.
Mr. Manpers. Yes, that’s not a bad suggestion.
Well, that must be considered.
go GHOSTS.

 

Encstranp. Damn considerin’ it—Oh ! lor’!

Mr. Manvers (with a sigh). And I’m sorry to say
I don’t know how long I shall be able to remain
mixed up with these things,—whether public opinion
may not compel me to retire. It entirely depends
upon the result of the evidence given on the enquiry
into the fire—

Mrs. Atvinc. What are you talking about ?

Mr. Manpers, —and the result can by no means
be known beforehand.

ENGSTRAND (comes nearer). Ay, ay, but in course it
can. For here stands Jacob Engstrand and me.

Mr. Manpers. Well, well, but——?

ENGSTRAND (more softly). And Jacob Engstrand
ain’t the man to desert a worthy benefactor in the
hour of need, as the sayin’ is.

Mr. Manpers. Yes, but, my dear fellow—how—?

ENGsTRAND. Jacob Engstrand ought to be con-
sidered as a guardian angel, he ought, your Rever.
ence.

Mr. Manvers. No, no, I certainly can’t accevt
that.

ENGSTRAND. Oh! it'll turn out 80, all the same. I
know a party, as has taken the blame on “himself for
other parties before now, I do.

Mr. ManpErs. Jacob! (Wrings his hand) you
are a rare character. Well, you shall be helped to get
your Sailors’ Home. That you may rely upon,
(Engstrand ‘ries fo thank him, but cannot, for emotion.
GHOSTS. g!

 

Mr. Manders hangs his travelling bag over his shoulders.)
And now let’s be off. We two are journeying together.

ENGSTRAND (at the dining-room door, softly to
Regina). You come along too, girl, You shall live
as snug as the yolk in an egg. .

Recina (throws her head back). Merci!

(She goes out into the hail and fetches Mr. Manders’
travelling coat.) .

Mr. Manpers. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! and may
the spirit of Order and Law make its entry into this
dwelling, and that right soon !

Mrs. Atvinc. Good-bye, Mr. Manders.

(She goes up towards the conservatory, as she sees
Oswald coming in through the garden door.)

ENGSTRAND (while he and Regina help Mr. Manders
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. (So/fly.) Little Harbour
Street. H’m! (Zo Mrs. Alving anzd Oswald.)
And the house for travelling sailors shall be called
‘Chamberlain Alving’s Home,’ that it shall! And if
I'm spared to carry on that house after my own pattern,
I dare venture to say, that it shall be worthy of the
poor dear gentleman’s name.

Mr. Manners (tx the doorway). H'm—H’m—Now
come, my dear Engstrand. Good-bye! Good-bye!

(He and Engstrand go out through the hall.)

Oswa.p (walks away towards the table), What sort
of a house was it, he was talking about?
92 GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. ALVING. Oh! it was only a kind of Home,
that he and Mr. Manders want to set up.
| Oswap. It will get burnt down, like that one
yonder.

(Mrs. ALvinc. What makes you think so?
| Oswatp. Everything will get burnt. There won’t
remain a single thing that is in memory of father.
- Here am I, too, going about and bu burning up.
(Regina Jooks amazed at him.)
| Mrs. Atvinc. Oswald! you ought not. to have
' remained so long down there, my poor boy !
| Oswatp (sits down by the table). 1 almost think you
“must be right.

Mrs. ALvING. Let me dry your face, Oswald, you
are quite wet.

(She dries him with her pocket-handkerchief.)

Oswatp (stares indifferently in front of him). Thanks,
mother.

Mrs. Atvinc. Are you not tired, Oswald? I dare
say you would like to go to sleep ?

OswaLp (trembling with fear). No, no—not sleep.
I never sleep. I only pretend to. (Sad/y.) That
will come soon enough.

Mrs. ALvING (looking anxiously at him). Ohi you
really are ill, whatever else you may choose to say,
my darling boy.

Recina (4reathlessly), Is Mr. Alving ill ?

OswALD (¢mpatently). Oh! do shut all the doors!
This deadly fear...

ce
GHOSTS. 93

—

Mrs. Atvinc. Shut them, Regina.

(Regina shuts them and remains standing by the hall
door. Mrs. Alving takes her handkerchief off.. Regina
does the same. Mrs. Alving draws a chair across to
Oswald's and sits by him.)

Mrs, ALvinc. There! now; I am going to sit by
you.

Oswatp. Ah! do. And Regina shall stay in here,
too. Regina shall always be with me. You'll give
me a helping hand, Regina, won’t you?

Reeina. I don’t understand ——

Mrs. Atvinc. A helping hand?

Oswatp. Yes, when there is any need for it.

Mrs. Atvinc. Oswald, have you not your mother
to give you a helping hand?

OswaLp. You? (Smiles.) No, mother; that help-
ing hand you will never give me. (Laughs sadly.)
You! ha! ha! (Looks earnestly at her.) Otherwise
you ought to be the one to do it. (Jmpetuously.)
Why can’t you come and speak to me, Regina?
[“ Why can’t you call me Thou.” This is what
he really says. ‘Thou’ in most modern languages
implies intimacy.] Why don’t you call me ‘Os-
wald’?

RecINa (softly). I don’t think my mistress would
like it.

Mrs. Atvinc. In a little while, you shall have leave
to do it. And come over here, too, and sit down
by us.

a

G
94 GHOSTS.

 

(Regina sits down quietly and hesitatingly, on the
other side of the table.)

Mrs. Atvinc. And now, my poor suffering boy, I
am going to take the burdens off your mind.

Oswaxp. You, mother ?

Mrs. Atvinc. All that you were calling remorse
and repentance and reproaches.

Oswap. And you believe you can do it, do you?

Mrs, ALvinG. Yes, now I can, Oswald. You got
talking before, about enjoying life; and at that
' moment, it was as though a fresh light had been shed
\ for me, over all things throughout my whole life.

OswaLp (shakes his head). I don’t know anything
about all that.

Mrs. Atvinc. You ought to have known your
father when he was quite a young lieutenant. There
was a power of enjoying life brimming over in him,
indeed !

OswaLp. Yes, I know there was.

Mrs. ALvinc. It was like a fine day only to look
at him. And then that unmanageable strength and
fulness of life that there was in him.

OswaLp. Well?

Mrs. ALvinc. And then such a child of enjoyment
as he was, for he was like achild at that time—had to
go and live here at home, in a poky little town, where
there was nothing happy to enjoy, but only amuse-
ments ; he had to do without an object in life 3 he had
only an official post ; he could see no work into which

i
GHOSTS. 95

 

he could throw himself, heart and soul; he had only

business details to attend to; he had not a aingle!
comrade capable of feeling what sort of thing enjoy-

ment of life is,—only loungers and boon cae
panions——

OswaLp. Mother ! :

Mrs. ALvinc. . . and so that happened, which
was sure to happen.

Oswa.p. And what was sure to happen then ?

Mrs. ALvinc. You said yourself, earlier this even-
ing, how it would be with you, if you stayed at home.

OswaLp. Do you mean to.say by that, that
father ?

Mrs. Atvinc. Your poor father found no outlet for
the overpowering vigour of enjoyment which was in
him. Nor did I bring any brightness into his home,
either.

Oswa.p. Nor you, either?

Mrs. Atvinc. They. had taught me something
about Duties and so on, which I had always accepted
as true. Everything was marked out into Duties,—
into my Duties and his Duties; and—I am afraid I
made home intolerable for your poor father, Oswald.

Oswatp. Why did you never write me anything
about all this?

Mrs. Atvinc. Never before have I seen it in such
a way, that I could stir up the matter with you, who
were his son.

Oswarp. And how did you sce it, then ?

4
I

 
95 GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. ALvING (slowly). I saw only the ene thing,
that your father was a broken-down man before you
were born.

OswaLp (in a choked voice). Ah! (He rises and
walks away to the window.)

Mrs. Atvinc. And so, day and night, I dwelt on
the one thought, that by rights, Regina belonged here
in the house,—just like my own son.

OswaLp (turning round quickly). Regina!

REcINA (gasps and asks with bated breath) 1?

Mrs. ALvinc. Yes, now you know it, both of you.

OswaLp. Regina!

Recina (to herse/f). So mother was one of that
kind, after all.

Mrs. ALvinc. Your mother was good in many
ways, Regina.

Recina. Yes, but she was one of that kind, all the
same. Oh! often enough I’ve thought she must have
been ;—but,—. Well, if you: please, ma’am, may I
be allowed to go away at once, this very moment ?

Mrs. Atvinc. Do you really wish it, Regina ?

Reoina. Yes, indeed I do.

Mrs. Atvinc. Of course you can do as you will;
but...

OswaLp (walks towards Regina). Go away now?
You belong here, of course.

Recina. Merc, Mr. Alving ;—Yes, now I may be
allowed to say ‘Oswald.’ But it certainly wasn’t in
that way I meant to do it.
GHOSTS. 97

 

Mrs. Atvinc. Regina, I have not been frank with
you.

Recina. No; it would be a sin to say you had.,
If ’'d known that Oswald was ill, why . . . And now,
too, that it mever can come to be anything serious
between us . . . Oh! I really can’t stay out here in
the country, and wear myself out, nursing sick people.

OswaLp. Can’t you for one who is so near to you?.

Recina. No; that I can’t! A poor girl must make
the best of her young days, or she may come to fin
herself without a rag to her back, before she knows
where she is. And I have power of enjoying life in
me, too, ma’am !

Mrs. Auvinc: Yes, alas! you have. But only
don’t throw yourself away, tRegina.

Recina. Oh! if it turns out so, it will turn out so.
If Oswald takes after his father, I take after my
mo“her, I dare say. May I ask, ma’am, if Mr. Manders
knows this about me?

Mrs. ALvinc. Mr. Manders knows all about it.

Recina (puts on her handkerchief hastily). Well,
then, I’d better set to work, and get away from this
place by the steamer, as fast as I can. Mr. Manders
is so nice to deal with; and I must say I think I’m as
likely to get hold of a little of that money as he is—
that brute of a carpenter.

Mrs. Atvinc. You are heartily welcome to it,
Regina.

Recina (looks stifiy at her). You might just as well
have brought me up as the child of a man in a good
position, ma’am, it would have been more suitable for
me. (Throws her head back.) But it’s done now ; it
doesn’t matter! (With a. bitter side-glance at the
corked bottle.) All the same, I may still come to
drink champagne with people of position,—that I
may, yet.
Mrs. Atvinc. And if you ever need a home, Regina,
come to me.
\ Recina. No, ma’am, Many thanks. Mr. Manders
‘ wiil look after me nicely, I know. And if there’s any ©
\ trouble up, I know of one house, where I’ve a right to
belong.
Mrs, ALvinc. Which is that?
~~ Recrna. ‘Chamberlain Alving’s Home.
Mrs. Atvinc. Regina—now I see it—you’re going
to your ruin.
Rezcina. Oh, stuff! Good-bye. (She nods and goes
out through the hall.)
OswaLp (stands at the window and looks out). Is
she gone?
Mrs. Atvinc. Yes,
OswaLp (murmuring aside to himself). Ah, now!
that was a pity.
. Mrs. ALVING (goes behind him and lays her hands on
his shoulders). Oswald, my dear boy; has it shaken
you very much?
OswaLp (turns his face towards fer). All that
about father, do you mean ?
GHOSTS. 99

 

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, about your unhappy father.
I am so afraid it will have been too much for
you.

Oswa.p. Why should you fancy it will? Of course
it came upon me as an immense surprise ; but it can’t
matter much to me, after all that’s said and done.

Mrs. Atvine (takes her hands off him). Can’t
matter! That your father was so awfully wretched !

OswaLp. Of course I can feel sympathy for him as
I could for anybody else ; but——

Mrs. ALvinc. Nothing else? For your own father!

OswaLp (¢mpatiently). Oh, there! ‘father,’ ‘father’!
After all, I never knew anything of father. I don’t
remember anything about him, except—that he once
made me sick.

Mrs. ALvinc. That’s an awful thought! Should
not a child feel love for his father, all the same?

OswaLD. What! when a child has nothing to\
thank his father for? has never known him? Do you
really cling to the old superstition ?—you, who are |
so enlightened in every other direction ?

Mrs. ALvinc. And can it be nothing but super-
stition ?

OswaLp. Yes; you can easily see it for yourself,
mother. It is just one of those opinions which are set
going in the world and so

Mrs. ALvING (deeply moved). Guosts !

Oswap (crossing the floor). Yes; you might call
them Ghosts.

 
Toe GHOSTS.

 

Mrs. ALvinG (in an outburst). Oswald! then you
don’t love me, either !

OswaLp. You, I do know, at any rate.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, you know me; but is that
all?

Oswa.p. And of course I know how fond you are
of me, and for that I ought to be very much obliged
to you. And you can be so extremely useful to me,
now that I am ill.

Mrs, ALvinc. Yes, can’t I, Oswald? Oh! I could
almost bless your illness, which drove you home to me.
For I can see very plainly I don’t possess you; you
have yet to be won.

OswaLp (cmpatiently). Yes, yes, yes ; all those are
just so many phrases. You must recollect I am a sick
man, mother. I can’t be so taken up with other
pedple; I have enough to do in thinking about
myself.

Mrs. Atvine (in a low tone). I shall be easily
satisfied and patient.

Oswa.p. And cheerful, too, mother.

Mrs. ALvinc. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite
right. (Goes towards him.) Wave I taken all remorse
and self-reproach from you now?

Oswaup. Yes; you have done that. But who's to
take the anxiety now?

Mrs. ALvING. The anxiety ?

OswaLp (walks across the floor). One could have
got Regina to do it for a kind word.
GHOSTS. ror

 

Mrs. Atvinc. I don’t understand you. What is all
this about anxiety—and Regina ?

Oswa Lp. Is it very late at night, mother?

Mrs. Atvine. It is early morning. (She looks out
in the conservatory.) The day is beginning to dawn
over the hills. And the weather is fine, Oswald. In
a little while, you will see the sun.

Oswatp. I’m glad of that. Oh! there may be
many things and much for me to be glad about and
live for

Mrs. Atvinc. I should think there would, indeed !

OswaLp. Even if I can’t work, so

Mrs. Atvinc. Oh! you will soon be able to work
again, my boy. Why! now you have no longer got
all those remorseful and depressing thoughts to go
brooding over.

OswaLp. Well, it was a good thing, that you were
able to roll all those fancies away. And when I have
only got that one thing more, over. (Sits on the sofa.)
Now we will have a little chat, mother.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, let us. (She pushes an arm-
chair towards the sofa and sits down close to
him.)

Oswatp. And meantime the sun is rising. And
now you know that. And so I haven’t that anxiety
any longer.

Mrs. ALvinG. What is that I know?

OswaLp (without listening to her). Mother, wasn’t
this what you said earlier this evening ; that there was

 

 
102 GHOSTS.

 

Not a single thing in the world you would not do
for me, if I asked you to do it?

Mrs. ALvING. Yes, to be sure I said it.

Oswatp. And you'll stick to it, mother?

Mrs. Atvinc. You may rely on that, my dear and
only boy! TI live for nothing in the world, but you
only.

Oswatp. All right, then. Now you shall hear.
Mother, you have a strong and powerful mind, I
know. Now you are to sit quite still when you hear
what it is.

Mrs. Atvinc. But what dreadful thing can it
be?

OswaLp. You are not to scream out. Do you
hear? Do you promise me that? We'll sit and
chat about it quite quietly. Do you promise me
this, mother?

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, yes: I promise you that. But
only tell me.

Oswa.p. Well, now you must know that all that
about fatigue, and that about my not being able to
bear to think about work—all that is not the illness
itself —— :

Mrs. Atvinc. Then what is the illness itself?

_ Oswatp. Thé disease I have inherited—that (Ze
points to his forehead and adds very softly)—that is
seated here.

Mrs. ALvInG (almost voiceless). Oswald! No, no!

OswaLp. Don’t scream. I can’t bear it. | Yes, you
, GHOSTS. 104

 

know, it sits here—waiting. And it may break out
any day and hour whatever.

Mrs, Atvinc. Oh! what a dread!

OswaLp. Now, do only just be quiet. That’s how
it stands with me——

Mrs. ALvING (jumps up). This isn’t true, Oswald.
It is impossible. It can’t be so,

OswaLp. I have had one attack, down there,
abroad. It was soon over. But when I got to know
what had been the matter with me, then the anxiety
tame over me so madly, and it seemed to pursue
me; and then I set off home to you, as fast as 1
could.

Mrs. ALvinG. Then this was the anxiety.

OswaLp. Yes, for it’s so indescribably awful, you
know. Oh! if it had been merely an ordinary mortal
illness! For I am not so afraid of dying, though of
course I should like to live as long as I can.

Mrs. Atvinc. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must do so.

OswaLp. But this is so awfully terrible! To be

turned into a weak baby again! To have to be fed !.

To have—— Oh! it is past all telling !

Mrs, Atvinc. The child has his mother to wait on
him.

Oswatp (jumps up). No, never; that’s just what I
won’t have. I can’t endure to think, that perhaps I
should lie in that state for many years,—get old and
gray. And you might perhaps die yourself, mean-
while. (S¢és iz Mrs. Alving’s chair.) For the doctor
104 GHOSTS.

 

said it would not necessarily prove mortal immedi-
ately. He called it a sort of softening of the brain;x—
or something of the kind. (Smiles sadly.) I think
that expression sounds so nice. It always sets me
thinking of cherry-coloured silk drapery,—something
that is soft to stroke down.

Mrs. ALVING (cries out). Oswald !

OswaLp (jumps up and paces the room). And now
you have taken Regina from me. If I’d only had
her! She would have given me the helping hand, I
know.

Mrs. ALVING (goes to him). What do you mean by
that, my dearly-loved son? Is there any helping
hand in the world, that I woulda’t give you?

Oswap. When I was recovering after my attack
in Paris, the doctor told me, that when it came

_ again—and it will come again,—there was no more-
hope. PEER Gy

Mrs. ALvING. And he was heartless enough to——.
Oswa.p. I wished him to tell me. I told him I
had preparations to make. (He smiles cunningly.)

And so I had. (He takes a little box from his breast.

coat pocket). Mother, do you see these? © '

Mrs. Atvinc. What is that ?

OswaLp. Morphia powder.

Mrs. ALviNG (looks frightened at him). Oswald, my
boy ?

Oswatp. I have accumulated the contents of twelve
capsules, and put them together.
GHOSTS. 105

 

_ Mrs. ALVING (suatches at it), Give me the box,
Oswald, 47S ~Sluect

Oswatp. Not yet, mother. (Hé hides the box again
in his pocket.) 5(.9007 4, Mir Oe

Mrs. ALvinG. I shall never survive this. Dae San

Oswatp. It must be survived. Now if I had had s
Regina here, I should have told her how it was with
me, and asked her for the last helping hand. She
would have helped me. I’m certain she would.

Mrs. ALviInG. Never.

OswaLp. When the dreadful thing had come upon
me, and she saw me lying there, helpless as a little
new-born baby, beyond all help, lost, hopeless, past all
saving-——

Mrs. Atvinc. Never, for all the world, would
Regina have done this.

OswaLp. Regina would have done it. Regina was
so gloriously light-hearted. And she would soon have . , -
wearied of nursing such a sick person as I——

Mrs. Atvinc. Then Heaven be praised, that
Regina is not here!

OswaLp. Well, then, you must be the one to give
me the helping hand. :

Mrs. ALvING (cries aloud). 1!

OswaLp. Who should do it, if not you ?

Mrs. Atvinc. I, your mother?

OswaLp. That’s the very reason why.

Mrs. Atvine. I, who gave you life !

Oswatp. I never asked you to give me life. And \
we 1D
106 GHOSTS.

 

what sort of a life is it that you have given me? I
will not have it, You shall take it back again.
Mrs. Atvinc. Help! help! (She russ out into the

hall)! a ONE Ee .
OswaLp (going after her). Don’t go away from me.
Where do you want to go to? - : fb i*

Mrs. ALvINnG (2x the hall). ds fetch the doctor to
you, Oswald. Let me go out. -
» Oswatp (in the hall, too). You will not go out.
And no one shall come in. (4 hey ts turned in a lock.)

Mrs. ALVING (comes in agaia). Danald--Osvald
—mychild!  f-. '- F et

Oswa tp (follows her). Have you a mother’s heart
for me, and yet can see me suffer all this unspeakable

anxiety ? 8
Mrs, ALVvING (after a moment's silence, says calmly).
Here is my hand upon it. “7 hy BG ap

Oswatp. Will you?

Mrs. ALvING. If it becomes necessary. But it will
not become necessary. No; no; it will never become
a possibility.

Oswa.p. Well, let us hope so. And let us live
together as long as we can, then. Thank you, mother.
(He sits down in the arm-chair whith Mrs. Alving
moved to the sofa. Day is can The lamp is

. still burning on the table.)

Mrs. ALvING (drawing near cautiously). Do you
feel calm, now?
Oswatp. Yes.

on
a GHOSTS. 107

 

Mrs. ALvING (bending over him). It has been a
dreadful fancy of yours, Oswald. Nothing but a fancy.
“You have not been able to bear all that harrowing
story. But now you shall rest a bit, at home with
your own mother, my own darling boy. Everything
you point to you shall have, just as when you were a
little boy. There now! The attack is over now.
You see how quickly it went by. Oh! I was sure it
would. And do you see, Oswald, what an exquisite day
we are going to have? The brightest sunshine! Now ,
you will really be able to see your home. (She goes
to the table and puts the lamp out. Sunrise. The
‘glacier mountain tops in the background lie in a flood
of morning light.)

Oswatp (sits in the arm-chair with his back towards ;
the background, without mins Suddenly he ot);
Mother, give me the sun. _

Mrs. ALVING (ay the table, looks in amazement at
him). What do you say?
OswaLp (repeats stupidly and voicelessly), The sun,
the sun!

Mrs. Alving (goes to him). Oswald, what is the +
matter with you? (Oswald seems to fall into a heap
in the chair; all his muscles give way; his face is
expressionless, his eyes stare dully. Mrs. Alving otters
with fear.) Whatisthis? (Cries out) Oswald, what
is the matter with you? (falls on her knees beside.
him and shakes him.) Oswald, Oswald! Look at me!
Don’t you know me?

 
108 GHOSTS.

Oswatp (fonelessly as before). The sun, the sun!

Mrs, ALVING (springs up in despair, thrusts her
hands into her hair and screams). 1 can’t bear it.
(Whispers as though petrified) 1 can’t bear it! Never!
(Suddenly.) Where has he put them? (Quick as an
“arrow she feels over his breast.) Here! (Shrinks
back a few steps and screams) No, no, no! Yes! No»
no! (She stands a few steps from him with her hands
buried in her hair, and stares at him in speechless
terror.)

Oswatp (sits motionless as before and says) The
sun! The sun!

THE END.
  
 
 
 

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