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! 

 Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it. 

 Manders. I don't understand what you mean. 

 Mrs. Alving. It is not necessary that you should. 

 Manders. It makes my brain reel. To think that your marriage—all the years of wedded life you spent with your husband—were nothing but a hidden abyss of misery. 

 Mrs. Alving. That and nothing else. Now you know. 

 Manders. This—this bewilders me. I can't understand it! I can't grasp it! How in the world was it possible? How could such a state of things remain concealed? 

 Mrs. Alving. That was just what I had to fight for incessantly, day after day. When Oswald was born, I thought I saw a slight improvement. But it didn't last long. And after that I had to fight doubly hard—fight a desperate fight so that no one should know what sort of a man my child's father was. You know quite well what an attractive manner he had; it seemed as if people could believe nothing but good of him. He was one of those men whose mode of life seems to have no effect upon their reputations. But at last, Mr. Manders—you must hear this too—at last something happened more abominable than everything else. 

 Manders. More abominable than what you have told me! 

 Mrs. Alving. I had borne with it all, though I knew only too well what he indulged in in secret, when he was out of the house. But when it came to the point of the scandal coming within our four walls— 

 Manders. Can you mean it! Here? 

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