Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 7).djvu/315

 Mrs. Alving.

[Goes up behind him and lays her hands on his shoulders.] Oswald, my dear boy—has it shaken you very much?

Oswald

[Turns his face towards her.] All that about father, do you mean?

Mrs. Alving.

Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have been too much for you.

Oswald.

Why should you fancy that? Of course it came upon me as a great surprise; but it can make no real difference to me.

Mrs. Alving.

[Draws her hands away.] No difference! That your father was so infinitely unhappy!

Oswald.

Of course I can pity him, as I would anybody else; but

Mrs. Alving.

Nothing more! Your own father!

Oswald.

[Impatiently.] Oh, "father,"—"father"! I never knew anything of father. I remember nothing about him, except that he once made me sick.

Mrs. Alving.

This is terrible to think of! Ought not a son to love his father, whatever happens?