Engstrand. That's how it will be, all the same. I know someone who has taken the blame for someone else on his shoulders before now, I do.
Manders. Jacob! (Grasps his hand.) You are one in a thousand! You shall have assistance in the matter of your Sailors' Home, you may rely upon that.
(ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but is prevented by emotion.)Manders (hanging his wallet over his shoulder). Now we must be off. We will travel together.
Engstrand (by the dining-room door, says aside to REGINA). Come with me, you hussy! You shall be as cosy as the yolk in an egg!
Regina (tossing her head). Merci!
(She goes out into the hall and brings back MANDERS' luggage.)Manders. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! And may the spirit of order and of what is lawful speedily enter into this house.
Mrs. Alving. Goodbye, Mr. Manders.
(She goes into the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in by the garden door.)Engstrand (as he and REGINA are helping MANDERS on with his coat). Goodbye, my child. And if anything should happen to you, you know where Jacob Engstrand is to be found. (Lowering his voice.) Little Harbour Street, ahem--! (To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD.) And my house for poor seafaring men shall be called the "Alving Home," it shall. And, if I can carry out my own ideas about it, I shall make bold to hope that it may be worthy of bearing the late Mr. Alving's name.
Manders (at the door). Ahem--ahem! Come along, my dear Engstrand.
Goodbye--goodbye!
(He and ENGSTRAND go out by the hall door.)
Oswald (going to the table). What house was he speaking about?
Mrs. Alving. I believe it is some sort of a Home that he and Mr. Manders want to start.
Oswald. It will be burned up just like this one.
Mrs. Alving. What makes you think that?
Oswald. Everything will be burned up; nothing will be left that is in memory of my father. Here am I being burned up, too.
(REGINA looks at him in alarm.)
Mrs. Alving. Oswald! You should not have stayed so long over there, my poor boy.
Oswald (sitting down at the table). I almost believe you are right.
Mrs: Alving. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are all wet.
(Wipes his face with her handkerchief.)
Oswald (looking straight before him, with no expression in his eyes). Thank you, mother.
Mrs. Alving. And aren't you tired, Oswald? Don't you want to go to sleep?
Oswald (uneasily). No, no--not to sleep! I never sleep; I only pretend to. (Gloomily.) That will come soon enough.
Mrs. Alving (looking at him anxiously). Anyhow you are really ill, my darling boy.
Regina (intently). Is Mr. Alving ill?
Oswald (impatiently). And do shut all the doors! This deadly fear--Mrs. Alving. Shut the doors, Regina. (REGINA shuts the doors and remains standing by the hall door. MRS, ALVING takes off her shawl; REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws up a chair near to OSWALD'S and sits down beside him.) That's it! Now I will sit beside you--Oswald. Yes, do. And Regina must stay in here too; Regina must always be near me. You must give me a helping hand, you know, Regina. Won't you do that?
Regina. I don't understand--
Mrs. Alving. A helping hand?
Oswald. Yes--when there is need for it.
Mrs: Alving. Oswald, have you not your mother to give you a helping hand?
Oswald. You? (Smiles.) No, mother, you will never give me the kind of helping hand I mean. (Laughs grimly.) You! Ha, ha! (Looks gravely at her.) After all, you have the best right.
(Impetuously.) Why don't you call me by my Christian name, Regina? Why don't you say Oswald?
Regina (in a low voice). I did not think Mrs. Alving would like it.
Mrs. Alving. It will not be long before you have the right to do it. Sit down here now beside us, too. (REGINA sits down quietly and hesitatingly at the other side of the table.) And now, my poor tortured boy, I am going to take the burden off your mind--Oswald. You, mother?
Mrs. Alving. --all that you call remorse and regret and self-reproach.
Oswald. And you think you can do that?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you were talking about the joy of life, and what you said seemed to shed a new light upon everything in my whole life.
Oswald (shaking his head). I don't in the least understand what you mean.
Mrs. Alving. You should have known your father in his young days in the army. He was full of the joy of life, I can tell you.
Oswald. Yes, I know.
Mrs. Alving. It gave me a holiday feeling only to look at him, full of irrepressible energy and exuberant spirits.
Oswald. What then?
Mrs. Alving, Well, then this boy, full of the joy of life--for he was just like a boy, then--had to make his home in a second-rate town which had none of the joy of life to offer him, but only dissipations. He had to come out here and live an aimless life;he had only an official post. He had no work worth devoting his whole mind to; he had nothing more than official routine to attend to. He had not a single companion capable of appreciating what the joy of life meant; nothing but idlers and tipplers...
Oswald. Mother--!
Mrs. Alving. And so the inevitable happened!
Oswald. What was the inevitable?
Mrs. Alving. You said yourself this evening what would happen in your case if you stayed at home.
Oswald. Do you mean by that, that father--?
Mrs. Alving. Your poor father never found any outlet for the overmastering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no holiday spirit into his home, either.
Oswald. You didn't, either?
Mrs. Alving. I had been taught about duty, and the sort of thing that I believed in so long here. Everything seemed to turn upon duty--my duty, or his duty--and I am afraid I made your poor father's home unbearable to him, Oswald.
Oswald. Why didn't you ever say anything about it to me in your letters?
Mrs. Alving. I never looked at it as a thing I could speak of to you, who were his son.
Oswald. What way did you look at it, then?
Mrs. Alving. I only saw the one fact, that your father was a lost man before ever you were born.
