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Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true; I did that.

Menders. And that is why you have become a stranger 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 you only!

Manders. And what may the truth be?

Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as
great a profligate as he had been all his life.

Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying?

Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as
profligate--in his desires at all events--as he was before you
married us.

Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions--his
irregularities--his excesses, if you like--as a profligate life!

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