Chapter 15

Manders

Thank you. Are you quite at liberty——?

Mrs. Alving.

Certainly.[She sits by the table.

Manders.

Very well. Then let me show you——[He goes to the chair where his travelling-bag lies, takes out a packet of papers, sits down on the opposite side of the table, and tries to find a clear space for the papers.] Now, to begin with, here is——[Breaking off.] Tell me, Mrs. Alving, how do these books come to be here?

Mrs. Alving.

These books? They are books I am reading.

Manders.

Do you read this sort of literature?

Mrs. Alving.

Certainly I do.

Manders.

Do you feel better or happier for such reading?

Mrs. Alving.

I feel, so to speak, more secure.

Manders.

That is strange. How do you mean?

Mrs. Alving.

Well, I seem to find explanation and confirmation of all sorts of things I myself have been thinking. For that is the wonderful part of it, Pastor Manders—there is really nothing new in these books, nothing but what most people thinkand believe. Only most people either don’t formulate it to themselves, or else keep quiet about it.

Manders.

Great heavens! Do you really believe that most people——?

Mrs. Alving.

I do, indeed.

Manders.

But surely not in this country? Not here among us?

Mrs. Alving.

Yes, certainly; here as elsewhere.

Manders.

Well, I really must say——!

Mrs. Alving.

For the rest, what do you object to in these books?

Manders.

Object to in them? You surely do not suppose that I have nothing better to do than to study such publications as these?

Mrs. Alving.

That is to say, you know nothing of what you are condemning?

Manders.

I have read enoughaboutthese writings to disapprove of them.

Mrs. Alving.

Yes; but your own judgment——

Manders.

My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one must rely upon others. Things are so ordered in this world; and it is well that they are. Otherwise, what would become of society?

Mrs. Alving.

Well, well, I daresay you’re right there.

Manders.

Besides, I of course do not deny that there may be much that is attractive in such books. Nor can I blame you for wishing to keep up with the intellectual movements that are said to be going on in the great world—where you have let your son pass so much of his life. But——

Mrs. Alving.

But?

Manders.

[Lowering his voice.] But one should not talk about it, Mrs. Alving. One is certainly not bound to account to everybody for what one reads and thinks within one’s own four walls.

Mrs. Alving.

Of course not; I quite agree with you.

Manders.

Only think, now, how you are bound to consider the interests of this Orphanage, which you decided on founding at a time when—if I understand you rightly—you thought very differently on spiritual matters.

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, yes; I quite admit that. But it was about the Orphanage——

Manders.

It was about the Orphanage we were to speak; yes. All I say is: prudence, my dear lady! And now let us get to business. [Opens the packet, and takes out a number of papers.] Do you see these?

Mrs. Alving.

The documents?

Manders.

All—and in perfect order. I can tell you it was hard work to get them in time. I had to put on strong pressure. The authorities are almost morbidly scrupulous when there is any decisive step to be taken. But here they are at last. [Looks through the bundle.] See! here is the formal deed of gift of the parcel of ground known as Solvik in the Manor of Rosenvold, with all the newly constructed buildings, schoolrooms, master’s house, and chapel. And here is the legal fiat for the endowment and for the Bye-laws of the Institution. Will you look at them? [Reads.] “Bye-laws for the Children’s Home to be known as ‘Captain Alving’s Foundation.’”

Mrs. Alving.

[Looks long at the paper.] So there it is.

Manders.

I have chosen the designation “Captain” rather than “Chamberlain.” “Captain” looks less pretentious.

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, yes; just as you think best.

Manders.

And here you have the Bank Account of the capital lying at interest to cover the current expenses of the Orphanage.

Mrs. Alving.

Thank you; but please keep it—it will be more convenient.

Manders.

With pleasure. I think we will leave the money in the Bank for the present. The interest is certainly not what we could wish—four per cent. and six months’ notice of withdrawal. If a good mortgage could be found later on—of course it must be a first mortgage and an unimpeachable security—then we could consider the matter.

Mrs. Alving.

Certainly, my dear Pastor Manders. You are the best judge in these things.

Manders.

I will keep my eyes open at any rate.—But now there is one thing more which I have several times been intending to ask you.

Mrs. Alving.

And what is that?

Manders.

Shall the Orphanage buildings be insured or not?

Mrs. Alving.

Of course they must be insured.

Manders.

Well, wait a moment, Mrs. Alving. Let us look into the matter a little more closely.

Mrs. Alving.

I have everything insured; buildings and movables and stock and crops.

Manders.

Of course you have—on your own estate. And so have I—of course. But here, you see, it is quite another matter. The Orphanage is to be consecrated, as it were, to a higher purpose.

Mrs. Alving.

Yes, but that’s no reason——

Manders.

For my own part, I should certainly not see the smallest impropriety in guarding against all contingencies——

Mrs. Alving.

No, I should think not.

Manders.

But what is the general feeling in the neighbourhood? You, of course, know better than I.

Mrs. Alving.

Well—the general feeling——

Manders.

Is there any considerable number of people—reallyresponsible people—who might be scandalised?

Mrs. Alving.

What do you mean by “really responsible people”?

Manders.

Well, I mean people in such independent and influential positions that one cannot help attaching some weight to their opinions.

Mrs. Alving.

There are several people of that sort here, who would very likely be shocked if——

Manders.

There, you see! In town we have many such people. Think of all my colleague’s adherents! People would be only too ready to interpret our action as a sign that neither you nor I had the right faith in a Higher Providence.

Mrs. Alving.

But for your own part, my dear Pastor, you can at least tell yourself that——

Manders.

Yes, I know—I know; my conscience would be quite easy, that is true enough. But nevertheless we should not escape grave misinterpretation; and that might very likely react unfavourably upon the Orphanage.

Mrs. Alving.

Well, in that case——

Manders.

Nor can I entirely lose sight of the difficult—I may even say painful—position in whichImight perhaps be placed. In the leading circles of the town, people take a lively interest in this Orphanage. It is, of course, founded partly for the benefit of the town, as well; and it is to be hoped it will, to a considerable extent, result in lightening our Poor Rates. Now, as I have been your adviser, and have had the business arrangements in my hands, I cannot but fear that I may have to bear the brunt of fanaticism——

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, you mustn’t run the risk of that.

Manders.

To say nothing of the attacks that would assuredly be made upon me in certain papers and periodicals, which——

Mrs. Alving.

Enough, my dear Pastor Manders. That consideration is quite decisive.

Manders.

Then you do not wish the Orphanage to be insured?

Mrs. Alving.

No. We will let it alone.

Manders.

[Leaning back in his chair.] But if, now, a disaster were to happen? One can never tell——Should you be able to make good the damage?

Mrs. Alving.

No; I tell you plainly I should do nothing of the kind.

Manders.

Then I must tell you, Mrs. Alving—we are taking no small responsibility upon ourselves.

Mrs. Alving.

Do you think we can do otherwise?

Manders.

No, that is just the point; we really cannot do otherwise. We ought not to expose ourselves to misinterpretation; and we have no right whatever to give offence to the weaker brethren.

Mrs. Alving.

You, as a clergyman, certainly should not.

Manders.

I really think, too, we may trust that such an institution has fortune on its side; in fact, that it stands under a special providence.

Mrs. Alving.

Let us hope so, Pastor Manders.

Manders.

Then we will let it take its chance?

Mrs. Alving.

Yes, certainly.

Manders.

Very well. So be it. [Makes a note.] Then—no insurance.

Mrs. Alving.

It’s odd that you should just happen to mention the matter to-day——

Manders.

I have often thought of asking you about it——

Mrs. Alving.

——for we very nearly had a fire down there yesterday.

Manders.

You don’t say so!

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, it was a trifling matter. A heap of shavings had caught fire in the carpenter’s workshop.

Manders.

Where Engstrand works?

Mrs. Alving.

Yes. They say he’s often very careless with matches.

Manders.

He has so much on his mind, that man—so many things to fight against. Thank God, he is now striving to lead a decent life, I hear.

Mrs. Alving.

Indeed! Who says so?

Manders.

He himself assures me of it. And he is certainly a capital workman.

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, yes; so long as he’s sober——

Manders.

Ah, that melancholy weakness! But he is often driven to it by his injured leg, he says. Last time he was in town I was really touched by him. He came and thanked me so warmly for having got him work here, so that he might be near Regina.

Mrs. Alving.

He doesn’t see much ofher.

Manders.

Oh, yes; he has a talk with her every day. He told me so himself.

Mrs. Alving.

Well, it may be so.

Manders.

He feels so acutely that he needs some one to keep a firm hold on him when temptation comes. That is what I cannot help liking about Jacob Engstrand: he comes to you so helplessly, accusing himself and confessing his own weakness. The last time he was talking to me——Believe me, Mrs. Alving, supposing it were a real necessity for him to have Regina home again——

Mrs. Alving.

[Rising hastily.] Regina!

Manders.

——you must not set yourself against it.

Mrs. Alving.

Indeed Ishallset myself against it. Andbesides—Regina is to have a position in the Orphanage.

Manders.

But, after all, remember he is her father——

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, I know very well what sort of a father he has been to her. No! She shall never go to him withmygoodwill.

Manders.

[Rising.] My dear lady, don’t take the matter so warmly. You sadly misjudge poor Engstrand. You seem to be quite terrified——

Mrs. Alving.

[More quietly.] It makes no difference. I have taken Regina into my house, and there she shall stay. [Listens.] Hush, my dear Mr. Manders; say no more about it. [Her face lights up with gladness.] Listen! there is Oswald coming downstairs. Now we’ll think of no one but him.

Oswald Alving, in a light overcoat, hat in hand, and smoking a large meerschaum, enters by the door on the left; he stops in the doorway.

Oswald.

Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought you were in the study. [Comes forward.] Good-morning, Pastor Manders.

Manders.

[Staring.] Ah——! How strange——!

Mrs. Alving.

Well now, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders?

Manders.

I—I—can it really be——?

Oswald.

Yes, it’s really the Prodigal Son, sir.

Manders.

[Protesting.] My dear young friend——

Oswald.

Well, then, the Lost Sheep Found.

Mrs. Alving.

Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so much opposed to his becoming a painter.

Manders.

To our human eyes many a step seems dubious, which afterwards proves——[Wrings his hand.] But first of all, welcome, welcome home! Do not think, my dear Oswald—I suppose I may call you by your Christian name?

Oswald.

What else should you call me?

Manders.

Very good. What I wanted to say was this, my dear Oswald—you must not think that I utterly condemn the artist’s calling. I have no doubt there are many who can keep their inner self unharmed in that profession, as in any other.

Oswald.

Let us hope so.

Mrs. Alvino.

[Beaming with delight.] I know one who has kept both his inner and his outer self unharmed. Just look at him, Mr. Manders.

Oswald.

[Moves restlessly about the room.] Yes, yes, my dear mother; let’s say no more about it.

Manders.

Why, certainly—that is undeniable. And you have begun to make a name for yourself already. The newspapers have often spoken of you, most favourably. Just lately, by-the-bye, I fancy I haven’t seen your name quite so often.

Oswald.

[Up in the conservatory.] I haven’t been able to paint so much lately.

Mrs. Alving.

Even a painter needs a little rest now and then.

Manders.

No doubt, no doubt. And meanwhile he can be preparing himself and mustering his forces for some great work.

Oswald.

Yes.—Mother, will dinner soon be ready?

Mrs. Alving.

In less than half an hour. He has a capital appetite, thank God.

Manders.

And a taste for tobacco, too.

Oswald.

I found my father’s pipe in my room——

Manders.

Aha—then that accounts for it!

Mrs. Alving.

For what?

Manders.

When Oswald appeared there, in the doorway, with the pipe in his mouth, I could have sworn I saw his father, large as life.

Oswald.

No, really?

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, how can you say so? Oswald takes after me.

Manders.

Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of the mouth—something about the lips—that reminds one exactly of Alving: at any rate, now that he is smoking.

Mrs. Alving.

Not in the least. Oswald has rather a clerical curve about his mouth, I think.

Manders.

Yes, yes; some of my colleagues have much the same expression.

Mrs. Alving.

But put your pipe away, my dear boy; I won’t have smoking in here.

Oswald.

[Does so.] By all means. I only wanted to try it; for I once smoked it when I was a child.

Mrs. Alving.

You?

Oswald.

Yes. I was quite small at the time. I recollect I came up to father’s room one evening when he was in great spirits.

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, you can’t recollect anything of those times.

Oswald.

Yes, I recollect it distinctly. He took me on his knee, and gave me the pipe. “Smoke, boy,” he said; “smoke away, boy!” And I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was growing quite pale, and the perspiration stood in great drops on my forehead. Then he burst out laughing heartily——

Manders.

That was most extraordinary.

Mrs. Alving.

My dear friend, it’s only something Oswald has dreamt.

Oswald.

No, mother, I assure you I didn’t dream it. For—don’t you rememberthis?—you came andcarried me out into the nursery. Then I was sick, and I saw that you were crying.—Did father often play such practical jokes?

Manders.

In his youth he overflowed with the joy of life——

Oswald.

And yet he managed to do so much in the world; so much that was good and useful; although he died so early.

Manders.

Yes, you have inherited the name of an energetic and admirable man, my dear Oswald Alving. No doubt it will be an incentive to you——

Oswald.

It ought to, indeed.

Manders.

It was good of you to come home for the ceremony in his honour.

Oswald.

I could do no less for my father.

Mrs. Alving.

And I am to keep him so long! That is the best of all.

Manders.

You are going to pass the winter at home, I hear.

Oswald.

My stay is indefinite, sir.—But, ah! it is good to be at home!

Mrs. Alving.

[Beaming.] Yes, isn’t it, dear?

Manders.

[Looking sympathetically at him.] You went out into the world early, my dear Oswald.

Oswald.

I did. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn’ttooearly.

Mrs. Alving.

Oh, not at all. A healthy lad is all the better for it; especially when he’s an only child. He oughtn’t to hang on at home with his mother and father, and get spoilt.

Manders.

That is a very disputable point, Mrs. Alving. A child’s proper place is, and must be, the home of his fathers.

Oswald.

There I quite agree with you, Pastor Manders.

Manders.

Only look at your own son—there is no reason why we should not say it in his presence—what has the consequence been for him? He is six or seven and twenty, and has never had the opportunity of learning what a well-ordered home really is.

Oswald.

I beg your pardon, Pastor; there you’re quite mistaken.

Manders.

Indeed? I thought you had lived almost exclusively in artistic circles.

Oswald.

So I have.

Manders.

And chiefly among the younger artists?

Oswald.

Yes, certainly.

Manders.

But I thought few of those young fellows could afford to set up house and support a family.

Oswald.

There are many who cannot afford to marry, sir.

Manders.

Yes, that is just what I say.

Oswald.

But they may have a home for all that. And several of them have, as a matter of fact; and very pleasant, well-ordered homes they are, too.

[Mrs. Alvingfollows with breathless interest; nods, but says nothing.

Manders.

But I’m not talking of bachelors’ quarters. By a “home” I understand the home of a family, where a man lives with his wife and children.

Oswald.

Yes; or with his children and his children’s mother.

Manders.

[Starts; clasps his hands.] But, good heavens——

Oswald.

Well?

Manders.

Lives with—his children’s mother!

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