Генрик Ибсен: Ghosts

OSWALD. No, thanks. I will do it myself.

[REGINA goes out again.]

MRS. ALVING. [Sits down by the table.] What was it you meant—that I musn't deny you?

OSWALD. [Busy opening the bottle.] First let us have a glass—or two.

[The cork pops; he pours wine into one glass, and is about to pour it into the other.]

MRS. ALVING. [Holding her hand over it.] Thanks; not for me.

OSWALD. Oh! won't you? Then I will!

[He empties the glass, fells, and empties it again; then he sits down by the table.]

MRS. ALVING. [In expectancy.] Well?

OSWALD. [Without looking at her.] Tell me—I thought you and Pastor Manders seemed so odd—so quiet—at dinner to–day.

MRS. ALVING. Did you notice it?

OSWALD. Yes. H'm—[After a short silence.] Tell me: what do you think of Regina?

MRS. ALVING. What do I think?

OSWALD. Yes; isn't she splendid?

MRS. ALVING. My dear Oswald, you don't know her as I do—

OSWALD. Well?

MRS. ALVING. Regina, unfortunately, was allowed to stay at home too long. I ought to have taken her earlier into my house.

OSWALD. Yes, but isn't she splendid to look at, mother? [He fills his glass.]

MRS. ALVING. Regina has many serious faults—

OSWALD. Oh, what does that matter? [He drinks again.]

MRS. ALVING. But I am fond of her, nevertheless, and I am responsible for her. I wouldn't for all the world have any harm happen to her.

OSWALD. [Springs up.] Mother, Regina is my only salvation!

MRS. ALVING. [Rising.] What do you mean by that?

OSWALD. I cannot go on bearing all this anguish of soul alone.

MRS. ALVING. Have you not your mother to share it with you?

OSWALD. Yes; that's what I thought; and so I came home to you. But that will not do. I see it won't do. I cannot endure my life here.

MRS. ALVING. Oswald!

OSWALD. I must live differently, mother. That is why I must leave you. I will not have you looking on at it.

MRS. ALVING. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, while you are so ill as this—

OSWALD. If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, mother, you may be sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not?

OSWALD. [Wanders restlessly about.] But it's all the torment, the gnawing remorse—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh—that awful dread!

MRS. ALVING. [Walking after him.] Dread? What dread? What do you mean?

OSWALD. Oh, you mustn't ask me any more. I don't know. I can't describe it.

MRS. ALVING. [Goes over to the right and pulls the bell.]

OSWALD. What is it you want?

MRS. ALVING. I want my boy to be happy—that is what I want. He sha'n't go on brooding over things [To REGINA, who appears at the door:] More champagne—a large bottle. [REGINA goes.]

OSWALD. Mother!

MRS. ALVING. Do you think we don't know how to live here at home?

OSWALD. Isn't she splendid to look at? How beautifully she's built! And so thoroughly healthy!

MRS. ALVING. [Sits by the table.] Sit down, Oswald; let us talk quietly together.

OSWALD. [Sits.] I daresay you don't know, mother, that I owe Regina some reparation.

MRS. ALVING. You!

OSWALD. For a bit of thoughtlessness, or whatever you like to call it—very innocent, at any rate. When I was home last time—

MRS. ALVING. Well?

OSWALD. She used often to ask me about Paris, and I used to tell her one thing and another. Then I recollect I happened to say to her one day, "Shouldn't you like to go there yourself?"

MRS. ALVING. Well?

OSWALD. I saw her face flush, and then she said, "Yes, I should like it of all things." "Ah, well," I replied, "it might perhaps be managed"—or something like that.

MRS. ALVING. And then?

OSWALD. Of course I had forgotten all about it; but the day before yesterday I happened to ask her whether she was glad I was to stay at home so long—

MRS. ALVING. Yes?

OSWALD. And then she gave me such a strange look, and asked, "But what's to become of my trip to Paris?"

MRS. ALVING. Her trip!

OSWALD. And so it came out that she had taken the thing seriously; that she had been thinking of me the whole time, and had set to work to learn French—

MRS. ALVING. So that was why—!

OSWALD. Mother—when I saw that fresh, lovely, splendid girl standing there before me—till then I had hardly noticed her—but when she stood there as though with open arms ready to receive me—

MRS. ALVING. Oswald!

OSWALD.—then it flashed upon me that in her lay my salvation; for I saw that she was full of the joy of life.

MRS. ALVING. [Starts.] The joy of life? Can there be salvation in that?

REGINA. [From the dining room, with a bottle of champagne.] I'm sorry to have been so long, but I had to go to the cellar. [Places the bottle on the table.]

OSWALD. And now bring another glass.

REGINA. [Looks at him in surprise.] There is Mrs. Alving's glass, Mr. Alving.

OSWALD. Yes, but bring one for yourself, Regina. [REGINA starts and gives a lightning–like side glance at MRS. ALVING.] Why do you wait?

REGINA. [Softly and hesitatingly.] Is it Mrs. Alving's wish?

MRS. ALVING. Bring the glass, Regina.

[REGINA goes out into the dining–room.]

OSWALD. [Follows her with his eyes.] Have you noticed how she walks?—so firmly and lightly!

MRS. ALVING. This can never be, Oswald!

OSWALD. It's a settled thing. Can't you see that? It's no use saying anything against it.

[REGINA enters with an empty glass, which she keeps in her hand.]

OSWALD. Sit down, Regina.

[REGINA looks inquiringly at MRS. ALVING.]

MRS. ALVING. Sit down. [REGINA sits on a chair by the dining room door, still holding the empty glass in her hand.] Oswald—what were you saying about the joy of life?

OSWALD. Ah, the joy of life, mother—that's a thing you don't know much about in these parts. I have never felt it here.

MRS. ALVING. Not when you are with me?

OSWALD. Not when I'm at home. But you don't understand that.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I think I almost understand it—now.

OSWALD. And then, too, the joy of work! At bottom, it's the same thing. But that, too, you know nothing about.

MRS. ALVING. Perhaps you are right. Tell me more about it, Oswald.

OSWALD. I only mean that here people are brought up to believe that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is something miserable, something; it would be best to have done with, the sooner the better.

MRS. ALVING. "A vale of tears," yes; and we certainly do our best to make it one.

OSWALD. But in the great world people won't hear of such things. There, nobody really believes such doctrines any longer. There, you feel it a positive bliss and ecstasy merely to draw the breath of life. Mother, have you noticed that everything I have painted has turned upon the joy of life?—always, always upon the joy of life?—light and sunshine and glorious air–and faces radiant with happiness. That is why I'm afraid of remaining at home with you.

MRS. ALVING. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me?

OSWALD. I'm afraid lest all my instincts should be warped into ugliness.

MRS. ALVING. [Looks steadily at him.] Do you think that is what would happen?

OSWALD. I know it. You may live the same life here as there, and yet it won't be the same life.

MRS. ALVING. [Who has been listening eagerly, rises, her eyes big with thought, and says:] Now I see the sequence of things.

OSWALD. What is it you see?

MRS. ALVING. I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak.

OSWALD. [Rising.] Mother, I don't understand you.

REGINA. [Who has also risen.] Perhaps I ought to go?

MRS. ALVING. No. Stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my boy, you shall know the whole truth. And then you can choose. Oswald! Regina!