judge. It was your duty to bear with humility the cross which a Higher Power had, in its wisdom, laid upon you. But instead of that you rebelliously throw away the cross, desert the backslider whom you should have supported, go and risk your good name and reputation, and⁠—nearly succeed in ruining other people’s reputation into the bargain. Mrs. Alving Other people’s? One other person’s, you mean. Manders It was incredibly reckless of you to seek refuge with me. Mrs. Alving With our clergyman? With our intimate friend? Manders Just on that account. Yes, you may thank God that I possessed the necessary firmness; that I succeeded in dissuading you from your wild designs; and that it was vouchsafed me to lead you back to the path of duty, and home to your lawful husband. Mrs. Alving Yes, Pastor Manders, that was certainly your work. Manders I was but a poor instrument in a Higher Hand. And what a blessing has it not proved to you, all the days of your life, that I induced you to resume the yoke of duty and obedience! Did not everything happen as I foretold? Did not Alving turn his back on his errors, as a man should? Did he not live with you from that time, lovingly and blamelessly, all his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the whole district? And did he not help you to rise to his own level, so that you, little by little, became his assistant in all his undertakings? And a capital assistant, too⁠—oh, I know, Mrs. Alving, that praise is due to you.⁠—But now I come to the next great error in your life. Mrs. Alving What do you mean? Manders Just as you once disowned a wife’s duty, so you have since disowned a mother’s. Mrs. Alving Ah⁠—! Manders You have been all your life under the dominion of a pestilent spirit of self-will. The whole bias of your mind has been towards insubordination and lawlessness. You have never known how to endure any bond. Everything that has weighed upon you in life you have cast away without care or conscience, like a burden you were free to throw off at will. It did not please you to be a wife any longer, and you left your husband. You found it troublesome to be a mother, and you sent your child forth among strangers. Mrs. Alving Yes, that is true. I did so. Manders And thus you have become a stranger to him. Mrs. Alving No! no! I am not. Manders Yes, you are; you must be. And in what state of mind has he returned to you? Bethink yourself well, Mrs. Alving. You sinned greatly against your husband;⁠—that you recognise by raising yonder memorial to him. Recognise now, also, how you have sinned against your son⁠—there may yet be time to lead him back from the paths of error. Turn back yourself, and save what may yet be saved in him. For With uplifted forefinger verily, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilt-laden mother! This I have thought it my duty to say to you. Silence. Mrs. Alving Slowly and with self-control. You have now spoken out, Pastor Manders; and tomorrow you are to speak publicly in memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But now I will speak frankly to you, as you have spoken to me. Manders To be sure; you will plead excuses for your conduct⁠— Mrs. Alving No. I will only tell you a story. Manders Well⁠—? Mrs. Alving All that you have just said about my husband and me, and our life after you had brought me back to the path of duty⁠—as you called it⁠—about all that you know nothing from personal observation. From that moment you, who had been our intimate friend, never set foot in our house again. Manders You and your husband left the town immediately after. Mrs. Alving Yes; and in my husband’s lifetime you never came to see us. It was business that forced you to visit me when you undertook the affairs of the Orphanage. Manders Softly and hesitatingly. Helen⁠—if that is meant as a reproach, I would beg you to bear in mind⁠— Mrs. Alving —the regard you owed to your position, yes; and that I was a runaway wife. One can never be too cautious with such unprincipled creatures. Manders My dear⁠— Mrs. Alving, you know that is an absurd exaggeration⁠— Mrs. Alving Well well, suppose it is. My point is that your judgment as to my married life is founded upon nothing but common knowledge and report. Manders I admit that. What then? Mrs. Alving Well, then, Pastor Manders⁠—I will tell you the truth. I have sworn to myself that one day you should know it⁠—you alone! Manders What is the truth, then? Mrs. Alving The truth is that my husband died just as dissolute as he had lived all his days. Manders Feeling after a chair. What do you say? Mrs. Alving After nineteen years of marriage, as dissolute⁠—in his desires at any rate⁠—as he was before you married us. Manders And those⁠—those wild oats⁠—those irregularities⁠—those excesses, if you like⁠—you call “a dissolute life”? Mrs. Alving Our doctor used the expression. Manders I do not understand you. Mrs. Alving You need not. Manders It almost makes me dizzy. Your whole married life, the seeming union of all these years, was nothing more than a hidden abyss! Mrs. Alving Neither more nor less. Now you know it. Manders This is⁠—this is inconceivable to me. I cannot grasp it! I cannot realise it! But how was it possible to⁠—? How could such a state of things be kept secret? Mrs. Alving That has been my ceaseless struggle, day after day. After Oswald’s birth, I thought Alving seemed to be a little better. But it did not last long. And then I had to struggle twice as hard, fighting as though for life or death, so that nobody should know what sort of man my child’s father was. And you know what power Alving had of winning people’s hearts. Nobody seemed able to believe anything but good of him. He was one of those people whose life does not bite upon their reputation. But at last, Mr. Manders⁠—for you must know the whole story⁠—the most repulsive thing of all