Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (203 page)

Must we, then, wholly dissent from Björnson’s judgment? I think not. In a historical, if not in an aesthetic, sense,
Ghosts
may well rank as Ibsen’s greatest work. It was the play which first gave the full measure of his technical and spiritual originality and daring. It has done far more than any other of his plays to “move boundary-posts.” It has advanced the frontiers of dramatic art and implanted new ideals, both technical and intellectual, in the minds of a whole generation of playwrights. It ranks with
Hernani
and
La Dame aux Camélias
among the epoch-making plays of the nineteenth century, while in point of essential originality it towers above them. We cannot, I think, get nearer to the truth than Georg Brandes did in the above-quoted phrase from his first notice of the play, describing it as not, perhaps, the poet’s greatest work, but certainly his noblest deed. In another essay, Brandes has pointed to it, with equal justice, as marking Ibsen’s final breach with his early-one might almost say his hereditary romanticism. He here becomes, at last, “the most modern of the moderns.” “This, I am convinced,” says the Danish critic, “is his imperishable glory, and will give lasting life to his works.”

CHARACTERS
.

MRS. HELEN ALVING, widow of Captain Alving, late Chamberlain to
 
the King.
[Note: Chamberlain (Kammerherre) is the only title of
 
honour now existing in Norway. It is a distinction conferred by the
 
King on men of wealth and position, and is not hereditary.]

OSWALD ALVING, her son, a painter.

PASTOR MANDERS.

JACOB ENGSTRAND, a carpenter.

REGINA ENGSTRAND, Mrs. Alving’s maid.

The action takes place at Mrs. Alving’s country house, beside one of the large fjords in Western Norway.

ACT FIRST
.

[A spacious garden-room, with one door to the left, and two doors to the right. In the middle of the room a round table, with chairs about it. On the table lie books, periodicals, and newspapers. In the foreground to the left a window, and by it a small sofa, with a worktable in front of it. In the background, the room is continued into a somewhat narrower conservatory, the walls of which are formed by large panes of glass. In the right-hand wall of the conservatory is a door leading down into the garden. Through the glass wall a gloomy fjord landscape is faintly visible, veiled by steady rain.]

[ENGSTRAND, the carpenter, stands by the garden door. His left leg is somewhat bent; he has a clump of wood under the sole of his boot. REGINA, with an empty garden syringe in her hand, hinders him from advancing.]

REGINA.
[In a low voice.]
What do you want? Stop where you are. You’re positively dripping.

ENGSTRAND. It’s the Lord’s own rain, my girl.

REGINA. It’s the devil’s rain,
I
say.

ENGSTRAND. Lord, how you talk, Regina.
[Limps a step or two forward into the room.]
It’s just this as I wanted to say —

REGINA. Don’t clatter so with that foot of yours, I tell you! The young master’s asleep upstairs.

ENGSTRAND. Asleep? In the middle of the day?

REGINA. It’s no business of yours.

ENGSTRAND. I was out on the loose last night —

REGINA. I can quite believe that.

ENGSTRAND. Yes, we’re weak vessels, we poor mortals, my girl —

REGINA. So it seems.

ENGSTRAND. — and temptations are manifold in this world, you see. But all the same, I was hard at work, God knows, at half-past five this morning.

REGINA. Very well; only be off now. I won’t stop here and have
rendezvous’s
[Note: This and other French words by Regina are in that language in the original]
with you.

ENGSTRAND. What do you say you won’t have?

REGINA. I won’t have any one find you here; so just you go about your business.

ENGSTRAND.
[Advances a step or two.]
Blest if I go before I’ve had a talk with you. This afternoon I shall have finished my work at the school house, and then I shall take to-night’s boat and be off home to the town.

REGINA.
[Mutters.]
Pleasant journey to you!

ENGSTRAND. Thank you, my child. To-morrow the Orphanage is to be opened, and then there’ll be fine doings, no doubt, and plenty of intoxicating drink going, you know. And nobody shall say of Jacob Engstrand that he can’t keep out of temptation’s way.

REGINA. Oh!

ENGSTRAND. You see, there’s to be heaps of grand folks here to-morrow. Pastor Manders is expected from town, too.

REGINA. He’s coming to-day.

ENGSTRAND. There, you see! And I should be cursedly sorry if he found out anything against me, don’t you understand?

REGINA. Oho! is that your game?

ENGSTRAND. Is what my game?

REGINA.
[Looking hard at him.]
What are you going to fool Pastor Manders into doing, this time?

ENGSTRAND. Sh! sh! Are you crazy? Do
I
want to fool Pastor Manders? Oh no! Pastor Manders has been far too good a friend to me for that. But I just wanted to say, you know — that I mean to be off home again to-night.

REGINA. The sooner the better, say I.

ENGSTRAND. Yes, but I want you with me, Regina.

REGINA.
[Open-mouthed.]
You want me — ? What are you talking about?

ENGSTRAND. I want you to come home with me, I say.

REGINA.
[Scornfully.]
Never in this world shall you get me home with you.

ENGSTRAND. Oh, we’ll see about that.

REGINA. Yes, you may be sure we’ll see about it! Me, that have been brought up by a lady like Mrs Alving! Me, that am treated almost as a daughter here! Is it me you want to go home with you? — to a house like yours? For shame!

ENGSTRAND. What the devil do you mean? Do you set yourself up against your father, you hussy?

REGINA.
[Mutters without looking at him.]
You’ve sail often enough I was no concern of yours.

ENGSTRAND. Pooh! Why should you bother about that —

REGINA. Haven’t you many a time sworn at me and called me a — ?
Fi donc
!

ENGSTRAND. Curse me, now, if ever I used such an ugly word.

REGINA. Oh, I remember very well what word you used.

ENGSTRAND. Well, but that was only when I was a bit on, don’t you know? Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina.

REGINA. Ugh!

ENGSTRAND. And besides, it was when your mother was that aggravating — I had to find something to twit her with, my child. She was always setting up for a fine lady.
[Mimics.]
“Let me go, Engstrand; let me be. Remember I was three years in Chamberlain Alving’s family at Rosenvold.”
[Laughs.]
Mercy on us! She could never forget that the Captain was made a Chamberlain while she was in service here.

REGINA. Poor mother! you very soon tormented her into her grave.

ENGSTRAND.
[With a twist of his shoulders.]
Oh, of course! I’m to have the blame for everything.

REGINA.
[Turns away; half aloud.]
Ugh — ! And that leg too!

ENGSTRAND. What do you say, my child?

REGINA.
Pied de mouton
.

ENGSTRAND. Is that English, eh?

REGINA. Yes.

ENGSTRAND. Ay, ay; you’ve picked up some learning out here; and that may come in useful now, Regina.

REGINA.
[After a short silence.]
What do you want with me in town?

ENGSTRAND. Can you ask what a father wants with his only child? A’n’t I a lonely, forlorn widower?

REGINA. Oh, don’t try on any nonsense like that with me! Why do you want me?

ENGSTRAND. Well, let me tell you, I’ve been thinking of setting up in a new line of business.

REGINA.
[Contemptuously.]
You’ve tried that often enough, and much good you’ve done with it.

ENGSTRAND. Yes, but this time you shall see, Regina! Devil take me —

REGINA.
[Stamps.]
Stop your swearing!

ENGSTRAND. Hush, hush; you’re right enough there, my girl. What I wanted to say was just this — I’ve laid by a very tidy pile from this Orphanage job.

REGINA. Have you? That’s a good thing for you.

ENGSTRAND. What can a man spend his ha’pence on here in this country hole?

REGINA. Well, what then?

ENGSTRAND. Why, you see, I thought of putting the money into some paying speculation. I thought of a sort of a sailor’s tavern —

REGINA. Pah!

ENGSTRAND. A regular high-class affair, of course; not any sort of pig-sty for common sailors. No! damn it! it would be for captains and mates, and — and — regular swells, you know.

REGINA. And I was to — ?

ENGSTRAND. You were to help, to be sure. Only for the look of the thing, you understand. Devil a bit of hard work shall you have, my girl. You shall do exactly what you like.

REGINA. Oh, indeed!

ENGSTRAND. But there must be a petticoat in the house; that’s as clear as daylight. For I want to have it a bit lively like in the evenings, with singing and dancing, and so on. You must remember they’re weary wanderers on the ocean of life.
[Nearer.]
Now don’t be a fool and stand in your own light, Regina. What’s to become of you out here? Your mistress has given you a lot of learning; but what good is that to you? You’re to look after the children at the new Orphanage, I hear. Is that the sort of thing for you, eh? Are you so dead set on wearing your life out for a pack of dirty brats?

REGINA. No; if things go as I want them to — Well there’s no saying — there’s no saying.

ENGSTRAND. What do you mean by “there’s no saying”?

REGINA. Never you mind. — How much money have you saved?

ENGSTRAND. What with one thing and another, a matter of seven or eight hundred crowns.
[A “krone” is equal to one shilling and three-halfpence.]

REGINA. That’s not so bad.

ENGSTRAND. It’s enough to make a start with, my girl.

REGINA. Aren’t you thinking of giving me any?

ENGSTRAND. No, I’m blest if I am!

REGINA. Not even of sending me a scrap of stuff for a new dress?

ENGSTRAND. Come to town with me, my lass, and you’ll soon get dresses enough.

REGINA. Pooh! I can do that on my own account, if I want to.

ENGSTRAND. No, a father’s guiding hand is what you want, Regina. Now, I’ve got my eye on a capital house in Little Harbour Street. They don’t want much ready-money; and it could be a sort of a Sailors’ Home, you know.

REGINA. But I will not live with you! I have nothing whatever to do with you. Be off!

ENGSTRAND. You wouldn’t stop long with me, my girl. No such luck! If you knew how to play your cards, such a fine figure of a girl as you’ve grown in the last year or two —

REGINA. Well?

ENGSTRAND. You’d soon get hold of some mate — or maybe even a captain —

REGINA. I won’t marry any one of that sort. Sailors have no
savoir vivre
.

ENGSTRAND. What’s that they haven’t got?

REGINA. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They’re not the sort of people to marry.

ENGSTRAND. Then never mind about marrying them. You can make it pay all the same.
[More confidentially.]
He — the Englishman — the man with the yacht — he came down with three hundred dollars, he did; and she wasn’t a bit handsomer than you.

REGINA.
[Making for him.]
Out you go!

ENGSTRAND.
[Falling back.]
Come, come! You’re not going to hit me, I hope.

REGINA. Yes, if you begin talking about mother I shall hit you. Get away with you, I say!
[Drives him back towards the garden door.]
And don’t slam the doors. Young Mr. Alving —

ENGSTRAND. He’s asleep; I know. You’re mightily taken up about young Mr. Alving —
[More softly.]
Oho! you don’t mean to say it’s him as — ?

REGINA. Be off this minute! You’re crazy, I tell you! No, not that way. There comes Pastor Manders. Down the kitchen stairs with you.

ENGSTRAND.
[Towards the right.]
Yes, yes, I’m going. But just you talk to him as is coming there. He’s the man to tell you what a child owes its father. For I am your father all the same, you know. I can prove it from the church register.

[He goes out through the second door to the right, which REGINA has opened, and closes again after him. REGINA glances hastily at herself in the mirror, dusts herself with her pocket handkerchief; and settles her necktie; then she busies herself with the flowers.]

[PASTOR MANDERS, wearing an overcoat, carrying an umbrella, and with a small travelling-bag on a strap over his shoulder, comes through the garden door into the conservatory.]

MANDERS. Good-morning, Miss Engstrand.

REGINA.
[Turning round, surprised and pleased.]
No, really! Good morning, Pastor Manders. Is the steamer in already?

MANDERS. It is just in.
[Enters the sitting-room.]
Terrible weather we have been having lately.