Manders. You are; you must be. And what sort of a son is it that you have got back? Think over it seriously, Mrs. Alving. You erred grievously in your husband's case--you acknowledge as much, by erecting this memorial to him. Now you are bound to acknowledge how much you have erred in your son's case; possibly there may still be time to reclaim him from the path of wickedness. Turn over a new leaf, and set yourself to reform what there may still be that is capable of reformation in him. Because (with uplifted forefinger) in very truth, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilty mother!--That is what I have thought it my duty to say to you.
(A short silence.)
Mrs. Alving (speaking slowly and with self-control). You have had your say, Mr. Manders, and tomorrow you will be making a public speech in memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But now I wish to speak to you for a little, just as you have been speaking to me.
Manders. By all means; no doubt you wish to bring forward some excuses for your behaviour.
Mrs. Alving. No. I only want to tell you something--Manders. Well?
Mrs. Alving. In all that you said just now about me and my husband, and about our life together after you had, as you put it, led me back into the path of duty--there was nothing that you knew at first hand. From that moment you never again set foot in our house--you, who had been our daily companion before that.
Manders. Remember that you and your husband moved out of town immediately afterwards.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, and you never once came out here to see us in my husband's lifetime. It was only the business in connection with the Orphanage that obliged you to come and see me.
Manders (in a low and uncertain voice). Helen--if that is a reproach, I can only beg you to consider--Mrs. Alving. --the respect you owed by your calling?--yes. All the more as I was a wife who had tried to run away from her husband. One can never be too careful to have nothing to do with such reckless women.
Manders. My dear--Mrs. Alving, you are exaggerating dreadfully.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,--very well. What I mean is this, that when you condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon than ordinary public opinion.
Manders. I admit it. What then?
Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you the truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day--you, and you only!
Manders. And what may the truth be?
Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as great a profligate as he had been all his life.
Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying?
Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as profligate--in his desires at all events--as he was before you married us.
Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions--his irregularities--his excesses, if you like--as a profligate life!
Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it.
Manders. I don't understand what you mean.
Mrs. Alving. It is not necessary that you should.
Manders. It makes my brain reel. To think that your marriage--all the years of wedded life you spent with your husband--were nothing but a hidden abyss of misery.
Mrs. Alving. That and nothing else. Now you know.
Manders. This--this bewilders me. I can't understand it! I can't grasp it! How in the world was it possible? How could such a state of things remain concealed?
Mrs. Alving. That was just what I had to fight for incessantly, day after day. When Oswald was born, I thought I saw a slight improvement. But it didn't last long. And after that I had to fight doubly hard--fight a desperate fight so that no one should know what sort of a man my child's father was. You know quite well what an attractive manner he had; it seemed as if people could believe nothing but good of him. He was one of those men whose mode of life seems to have no effect upon their reputations. But at last, Mr. Manders--you must hear this too--at last something happened more abominable than everything else.
Manders. More abominable than what you have told me!
Mrs. Alving. I had borne with it all, though I knew only too well what he indulged in in secret, when he was out of the house. But when it came to the point of the scandal coming within our four walls--Manders. Can you mean it! Here?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, here, in our own home. It was in there (pointing to the nearer door on the right) in the dining-room that I got the first hint of it. I had something to do in there and the door was standing ajar. I heard our maid come up from the garden with water for the flowers in the conservatory.
Manders. Well--?
Mrs. Alving. Shortly afterwards I heard my husband come in too. Iheard him say something to her in a low voice. And then I heard--(with a short laugh)--oh, it rings in my ears still, with its mixture of what was heartbreaking and what was so ridiculous--Iheard my own servant whisper: "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!"Manders. What unseemly levity on his part! But surely nothing more than levity, Mrs. Alving, believe me.
