Генрик Ибсен: Ghosts

OSWALD. Not even one who is so near to you?

REGINA. No, that I can't. A poor girl must make the best of her young days, or she'll be left out in the cold before she knows where she is. And I, too, have the joy of life in me, Mrs. Alving!

MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately, you leave. But don't throw yourself away, Regina.

REGINA. Oh, what must be, must be. If Oswald takes after his father, I take after my mother, I daresay.—May I ask, ma'am, if Pastor Manders knows all this about me?

MRS. ALVING. Pastor Manders knows all about it.

REGINA. [Busied in putting on her shawl.] Well then, I'd better make haste and get away by this steamer. The Pastor is such a nice man to deal with; and I certainly think I've as much right to a little of that money as he has—that brute of a carpenter.

MRS. ALVING. You are heartily welcome to it, Regina.

REGINA. [Looks hard at her.] I think you might have brought me up as a gentleman's daughter, ma'am; it would have suited me better. [Tosses her head.] But pooh—what does it matter! [With a bitter side glance at the corked bottle.] I may come to drink champagne with gentlefolks yet.

MRS. ALVING. And if you ever need a home, Regina, come to me.

REGINA. No, thank you, ma'am. Pastor Manders will look after me, I know. And if the worst comes to the worst, I know of one house where I've every right to a place.

MRS. ALVING. Where is that?

REGINA. "Chamberlain Alving's Home."

MRS. ALVING. Regina—now I see it—you are going to your ruin.

REGINA. Oh, stuff! Good–bye. [She nods and goes out through the hall.]

OSWALD. [Stands at the window and looks out.] Is she gone?

MRS. ALVING. Yes.

OSWALD. [Murmuring aside to himself.] I think it was a mistake, this.

MRS. ALVING. [Goes up behind him and lays her hands on his shoulders.] Oswald, my dear boy—has it shaken you very much?

OSWALD. [Turns his face towards her.] All that about father, do you mean?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have been too much for you.

OSWALD. Why should you fancy that? Of course it came upon me as a great surprise; but it can make no real difference to me.

MRS. ALVING. [Draws her hands away.] No difference! That your father was so infinitely unhappy!

OSWALD. Of course I can pity him, as I would anybody else; but—

MRS. ALVING. Nothing more! Your own father!

OSWALD. [Impatiently.]Oh, "father,"—"father"! I never knew anything of father. I remember nothing about him, except that he once made me sick.

MRS. ALVING. This is terrible to think of! Ought not a son to love his father, whatever happens?

OSWALD. When a son has nothing to thank his father for? has never known him? Do you really cling to that old superstition?—you who are so enlightened in other ways?

MRS. ALVING. Can it be only a superstition—?

OSWALD. Yes; surely you can see that, mother. It's one of those notions that are current in the world, and so—

MRS. ALVING. [Deeply moved.] Ghosts!

OSWALD. [Crossing the room.] Yes; you may call them ghosts.

MRS. ALVING. [Wildly.] Oswald—then you don't love me, either!

OSWALD. You I know, at any rate—

MRS. ALVING. Yes, you know me; but is that all!

OSWALD. And, of course, I know how fond you are of me, and I can't but be grateful to you. And then you can be so useful to me, now that I am ill.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, cannot I, Oswald? Oh, I could almost bless the illness that has driven you home to me. For I see very plainly that you are not mine: I have to win you.

OSWALD. [Impatiently.] Yes yes yes; all these are just so many phrases. You must remember that I am a sick man, mother. I can't be much taken up with other people; I have enough to do thinking about myself.

MRS. ALVING. [In a low voice.] I shall be patient and easily satisfied.

OSWALD. And cheerful too, mother!

MRS. ALVING. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. [Goes towards him.] Have I relieved you of all remorse and self–reproach now?

OSWALD. Yes, you have. But now who will relieve me of the dread?

MRS. ALVING. The dread?

OSWALD. [Walks across the room.] Regina could have been got to do it.

MRS. ALVING. I don't understand you. What is this about dread—and Regina?

OSWALD. Is it very late, mother?

MRS. ALVING. It is early morning. [She looks out through the conservatory.] The day is dawning over the mountains. And the weather is clearing, Oswald. In a little while you shall see the sun.

OSWALD. I'm glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and live for—

MRS. ALVING. I should think so, indeed!

OSWALD. Even if I can't work—

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you'll soon be able to work again, my dear boy—now that you haven't got all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to brood over any longer.

OSWALD. Yes, I'm glad you were able to rid me of all those fancies. And when I've got over this one thing more—[Sits on the sofa.] Now we will have a little talk, mother—

MRS. ALVING. Yes, let us. [She pushes an arm–chair towards the sofa, and sits down close to him.]

OSWALD. And meantime the sun will be rising. And then you will know all. And then I shall not feel this dread any longer.

MRS. ALVING. What is it that I am to know?

OSWALD. [Not listening to her.] Mother, did you not say a little while ago, that there was nothing in the world you would not do for me, if I asked you?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I said so!

OSWALD. And you'll stick to it, mother?

MRS. ALVING. You may rely on that, my dear and only boy! I have nothing in the world to live for but you alone.

OSWALD. Very well, then; now you shall hear—Mother, you have a strong, steadfast mind, I know. Now you're to sit quite still when you hear it.

MRS. ALVING. What dreadful thing can it be—?

OSWALD. You're not to scream out. Do you hear? Do you promise me that? We will sit and talk about it quietly. Do you promise me, mother?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I promise. Only speak!

OSWALD. Well, you must know that all this fatigue—and my inability to think of work—all that is not the illness itself—

MRS. ALVING. Then what is the illness itself?

OSWALD. The disease I have as my birthright—[He points to his forehead and adds very softly]—is seated here.

MRS. ALVING. [Almost voiceless.] Oswald! No—no!

OSWALD. Don't scream. I can't bear it. Yes, mother, it is seated here waiting. And it may break out any day—at any moment.

MRS. ALVING. Oh, what horror—!

OSWALD. Now, quiet, quiet. That is how it stands with me—

MRS. ALVING. [Springs up.] It's not true, Oswald! It's impossible! It cannot be so!

OSWALD. I have had one attack down there already. It was soon over. But when I came to know the state I had been in, then the dread descended upon me, raging and ravening; and so I set off home to you as fast as I could.

MRS. ALVING. Then this is the dread—!

OSWALD. Yes—it's so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it had only been an ordinary mortal disease—! For I'm not so afraid of death—though I should like to live as long as I can.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must!

OSWALD. But this is so unutterably loathsome. To become a little baby again! To hive to be fed! To have to—Oh, it's not to be spoken of!

MRS. ALVING. The child has his mother to nurse him.

OSWALD. [Springs up.] No, never that! That is just what I will not have. I can't endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many years—and get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and leave me. [Sits in MRS. ALVING'S chair.] For the doctor said it wouldn't necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the brain—or something like that. [Smiles sadly.] I think that expression sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry–coloured velvet—something soft and delicate to stroke.