S. 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 to-morrow you are to speak publicly in memory of my
husband. I shall not speak to-morrow. 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 gain.

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.