Ghosts [14]
sake of the money--! What sum was it that the girl had?
Mrs. Alving. It was seventy pounds.
Manders. Just think of it--for a paltry seventy pounds to let yourself be bound in marriage to a fallen woman!
Mrs. Alving. What about myself, then?--I let myself be bound in marriage to a fallen man.
Manders. Heaven forgive you! What are you saying? A fallen man?
Mrs. Alving. Do you suppose my husband was any purer, when I went with him to the altar, than Joanna was when Engstrand agreed to marry her?
Manders. The two cases are as different as day from night.
Mrs. Alving. Not so very different, after all. It is true there was a great difference in the price paid, between a paltry seventy pounds and a whole fortune.
Manders. How can you compare such totally different things! I presume you consulted your own heart--and your relations.
Mrs. Alving (looking away from him). I thought you understood where what you call my heart had strayed to at that time.
Manders (in a constrained voice). If I had understood anything of the kind, I would not have been a daily guest in your husband's house.
Mrs. Alving. Well, at any rate this much is certain-- I didn't consult myself in the matter at all.
Manders. Still you consulted those nearest to you, as was only right--your mother, your two aunts.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true. The three of them settled the whole matter for me. It seems incredible to me now, how clearly they made out that it would be sheer folly to reject such an offer. If my mother could only see what all that fine prospect has led to!
Manders. No one can be responsible for the result of it. Anyway there is this to be said, that the match was made in complete conformity with law and order.
Mrs. Alving (going to the window). Oh, law and order! I often think it is that that is at the bottom of all the misery in the world,
Manders. Mrs. Alving, it is very wicked of you to say that.
Mrs. Alving. That may be so; but I don't attach importance to those obligations and considerations any longer. I cannot! I must struggle for my freedom.
Manders. What do you mean?
Mrs. Alving (taping on the window panes). I ought never to have concealed what sort of a life my husband led. But I had not the courage to do otherwise then--for my own sake, either. I was too much of a coward.
Manders. A coward?
Mrs. Alving. If others had known anything of what happened, they would have said: "Poor man, it is natural enough that he should go astray, when he has a wife that has run away from him."
Manders. They would have had a certain amount of justification for saying so.
Mrs. Alving (looking fixedly at him). If I had been the woman I ought, I would have taken Oswald into my confidence and said to him: "Listen, my son, your father was a dissolute man"--
Manders. Miserable woman.
Mrs. Alving. --and I would have told him all I have told you, from beginning to end.
Manders. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs. Alving.
Mrs. Alving. I know. I know quite well! I am shocked at myself when I think of it. (Comes away from the window.) I am coward enough for that.
Manders. Can you call it cowardice that you simply did your duty? Have you forgotten that a child should love and honour his father and mother?
Mrs. Alving. Don't let us talk in such general terms. Suppose we say: "Ought Oswald to love and honour Mr. Alving?"
Manders. You are a mother--isn't there a voice in your heart that forbids you to shatter your son's ideals?
Mrs. Alving. And what about the truth?
Manders. What about his ideals?
Mrs: Alving. Oh--ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward as I am!
Manders. Do not spurn ideals, Mrs. Alving--they have a way of avenging themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's own case, now. He hasn't many ideals, more's the pity. But this much I have seen, that his father is something of an ideal to him.
Mrs. Alving. You are right there.
Manders. And his conception of his father is what you inspired and encouraged by your letters.
Mrs: Alving. Yes, I was swayed by duty
Mrs. Alving. It was seventy pounds.
Manders. Just think of it--for a paltry seventy pounds to let yourself be bound in marriage to a fallen woman!
Mrs. Alving. What about myself, then?--I let myself be bound in marriage to a fallen man.
Manders. Heaven forgive you! What are you saying? A fallen man?
Mrs. Alving. Do you suppose my husband was any purer, when I went with him to the altar, than Joanna was when Engstrand agreed to marry her?
Manders. The two cases are as different as day from night.
Mrs. Alving. Not so very different, after all. It is true there was a great difference in the price paid, between a paltry seventy pounds and a whole fortune.
Manders. How can you compare such totally different things! I presume you consulted your own heart--and your relations.
Mrs. Alving (looking away from him). I thought you understood where what you call my heart had strayed to at that time.
Manders (in a constrained voice). If I had understood anything of the kind, I would not have been a daily guest in your husband's house.
Mrs. Alving. Well, at any rate this much is certain-- I didn't consult myself in the matter at all.
Manders. Still you consulted those nearest to you, as was only right--your mother, your two aunts.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true. The three of them settled the whole matter for me. It seems incredible to me now, how clearly they made out that it would be sheer folly to reject such an offer. If my mother could only see what all that fine prospect has led to!
Manders. No one can be responsible for the result of it. Anyway there is this to be said, that the match was made in complete conformity with law and order.
Mrs. Alving (going to the window). Oh, law and order! I often think it is that that is at the bottom of all the misery in the world,
Manders. Mrs. Alving, it is very wicked of you to say that.
Mrs. Alving. That may be so; but I don't attach importance to those obligations and considerations any longer. I cannot! I must struggle for my freedom.
Manders. What do you mean?
Mrs. Alving (taping on the window panes). I ought never to have concealed what sort of a life my husband led. But I had not the courage to do otherwise then--for my own sake, either. I was too much of a coward.
Manders. A coward?
Mrs. Alving. If others had known anything of what happened, they would have said: "Poor man, it is natural enough that he should go astray, when he has a wife that has run away from him."
Manders. They would have had a certain amount of justification for saying so.
Mrs. Alving (looking fixedly at him). If I had been the woman I ought, I would have taken Oswald into my confidence and said to him: "Listen, my son, your father was a dissolute man"--
Manders. Miserable woman.
Mrs. Alving. --and I would have told him all I have told you, from beginning to end.
Manders. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs. Alving.
Mrs. Alving. I know. I know quite well! I am shocked at myself when I think of it. (Comes away from the window.) I am coward enough for that.
Manders. Can you call it cowardice that you simply did your duty? Have you forgotten that a child should love and honour his father and mother?
Mrs. Alving. Don't let us talk in such general terms. Suppose we say: "Ought Oswald to love and honour Mr. Alving?"
Manders. You are a mother--isn't there a voice in your heart that forbids you to shatter your son's ideals?
Mrs. Alving. And what about the truth?
Manders. What about his ideals?
Mrs: Alving. Oh--ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward as I am!
Manders. Do not spurn ideals, Mrs. Alving--they have a way of avenging themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's own case, now. He hasn't many ideals, more's the pity. But this much I have seen, that his father is something of an ideal to him.
Mrs. Alving. You are right there.
Manders. And his conception of his father is what you inspired and encouraged by your letters.
Mrs: Alving. Yes, I was swayed by duty