ger to him.

Mrs. Alving. No, no, I am not that!

Manders. You are; you must be. And what sort of a son is it that you
have got back? Think over it seriously, Mrs. Alving. You erred
grievously in your husband's case--you acknowledge as much, by erecting
this memorial to him. Now you are bound to acknowledge how much you
have erred in your son's case; possibly there may still be time to
reclaim him from the path of wickedness. Turn over a new leaf, and set
yourself to reform what there may still be that is capable of
reformation in him. Because (with uplifted forefinger) in very truth,
Mrs. Alving, you are a guilty mother!--That is what I have thought it
my duty to say to you.

(A short silence.)

Mrs. Alving (speaking slowly and with self-control). You have had your
say, Mr. Manders, and tomorrow you will be making a public speech in
memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But now I wish to
speak to you for a little, just as you have been speaking to me.

Manders. By all means; no doubt you wish to bring forward some excuses
for your behaviour.

Mrs. Alving. No. I only want to tell you something--

Manders. Well?

Mrs. Alving. In all that you said just now about me and my husband, and
about our life together after you had, as you put it, led me back into
the path of duty--there was nothing that you knew at first hand. From
that moment you never again set foot in our house--you, who had been
our daily companion before that.

Manders. Remember that you and your husband moved out of town
immediately afterwards.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, and you never once came out here to see us in my
husband's lifetime. It was only the business in connection with the
Orphanage that obliged you to come and see me.

Manders (in a low and uncertain voice). Helen--if that is a reproach, I
can only beg you to consider--

Mrs. Alving. --the respect you owed by your calling?--yes. All the more
as I was a wife who had tried to run away from her husband. One can
never be too careful to have nothing to do with such reckless women.

Manders. My dear--Mrs. Alving, you are exaggerating dreadfully.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,--very well. What I mean is this, that when you
condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon than
ordinary public opinion.

Manders. I admit it. What then?

Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you the
truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day--you, and