Ghosts [17]
how you frightened me! (Looks at MRS ALVING.) There is nothing wrong with Regina, is there?
Manders. Let us hope not. What I want to know is, what is your relationship to her? You pass as her father, don't you?
Engstrand (unsteadily): Well--hm!--you know, sir, what happened between me and my poor Joanna.
Manders. No more distortion of the truth! Your late wife made a full confession to Mrs. Alving, before she left her service...
Engstrand. What!--do you mean to say--? Did she do that after all?
Manders. You see it has all come out, Engstrand.
Engstrand. Do you mean to say that she, who gave me her promise and solemn oath--
Manders. Did she take an oath?
Engstrand. Well, no--she only gave me her word, but as seriously as a woman could.
Manders. And all these years you have been hiding the truth from me--from me, who have had such complete and absolute faith in you.
Engstrand. I am sorry to say I have, sir.
Manders. Did I deserve that from you, Engstrand? Haven't I been always ready to help you in word and deed as far as lay in my power? Answer me! Is it not so?
Engstrand. Indeed there's many a time I should have been very badly off without you, sir.
Manders. And this is the way you repay me--by causing me to make false entries in the church registers, and afterwards keeping back from me for years the information which you owed it both to me and to your sense of the truth to divulge. Your conduct has been absolutely inexcusable, Engstrand, and from today everything is at an end between us.
Engstrand (with a sigh). Yes, I can see that's what it means.
Manders. Yes, because how can you possibly justify what you did?
Engstrand. Was the poor girl to go and increase her load of shame by talking about it? Just suppose, sir, for a moment that your reverence was in the same predicament as my poor Joanna.
Manders. I!
Engstrand. Good Lord, sir, I don't mean the same predicament. I mean, suppose there were something your reverence was ashamed of in the eyes of the world, so to speak. We men ought not judge a poor woman too hardly, Mr. Manders.
Manders. But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming.
Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small question?
Manders. Ask away.
Engstrand. Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up the fallen?
Manders. Of course it is.
Engstrand. And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honour?
Manders. Certainly he is; but--
Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this Englishman--or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they call 'em--well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had refused me once or twice before; she only had eyes for good- looking men in those days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your reverence will remember how I had ventured up into a dancing- saloon where seafaring men were revelling in drunkenness and intoxication, as they say. And when I tried to exhort them to turn from their evil ways--
Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem!
Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know--the rough brutes threw you downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The affliction to your leg is a credit to you.
Engstrand. I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence. But what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided in me with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it went to my heart to hear her.
Manders. Did it, indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then?
Engstrand. Well, then I said to her: "The American is roaming about on the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna," I said, "you have committed a sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands Jacob Engstrand," I said, "on two strong legs"--of course that was only speaking in a kind of metaphor, as it were, your reverence.
Manders. I quite understand. Go on.
Engstrand. Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her my lawful wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she had carried on with the stranger.
Manders. That was all very kindly done. The only
Manders. Let us hope not. What I want to know is, what is your relationship to her? You pass as her father, don't you?
Engstrand (unsteadily): Well--hm!--you know, sir, what happened between me and my poor Joanna.
Manders. No more distortion of the truth! Your late wife made a full confession to Mrs. Alving, before she left her service...
Engstrand. What!--do you mean to say--? Did she do that after all?
Manders. You see it has all come out, Engstrand.
Engstrand. Do you mean to say that she, who gave me her promise and solemn oath--
Manders. Did she take an oath?
Engstrand. Well, no--she only gave me her word, but as seriously as a woman could.
Manders. And all these years you have been hiding the truth from me--from me, who have had such complete and absolute faith in you.
Engstrand. I am sorry to say I have, sir.
Manders. Did I deserve that from you, Engstrand? Haven't I been always ready to help you in word and deed as far as lay in my power? Answer me! Is it not so?
Engstrand. Indeed there's many a time I should have been very badly off without you, sir.
Manders. And this is the way you repay me--by causing me to make false entries in the church registers, and afterwards keeping back from me for years the information which you owed it both to me and to your sense of the truth to divulge. Your conduct has been absolutely inexcusable, Engstrand, and from today everything is at an end between us.
Engstrand (with a sigh). Yes, I can see that's what it means.
Manders. Yes, because how can you possibly justify what you did?
Engstrand. Was the poor girl to go and increase her load of shame by talking about it? Just suppose, sir, for a moment that your reverence was in the same predicament as my poor Joanna.
Manders. I!
Engstrand. Good Lord, sir, I don't mean the same predicament. I mean, suppose there were something your reverence was ashamed of in the eyes of the world, so to speak. We men ought not judge a poor woman too hardly, Mr. Manders.
Manders. But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming.
Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small question?
Manders. Ask away.
Engstrand. Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up the fallen?
Manders. Of course it is.
Engstrand. And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honour?
Manders. Certainly he is; but--
Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this Englishman--or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they call 'em--well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had refused me once or twice before; she only had eyes for good- looking men in those days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your reverence will remember how I had ventured up into a dancing- saloon where seafaring men were revelling in drunkenness and intoxication, as they say. And when I tried to exhort them to turn from their evil ways--
Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem!
Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know--the rough brutes threw you downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The affliction to your leg is a credit to you.
Engstrand. I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence. But what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided in me with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it went to my heart to hear her.
Manders. Did it, indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then?
Engstrand. Well, then I said to her: "The American is roaming about on the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna," I said, "you have committed a sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands Jacob Engstrand," I said, "on two strong legs"--of course that was only speaking in a kind of metaphor, as it were, your reverence.
Manders. I quite understand. Go on.
Engstrand. Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her my lawful wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she had carried on with the stranger.
Manders. That was all very kindly done. The only