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Well?

Oswald. I saw her blush, and she said: "Yes, I should like to
very much." "All right." I said, "I daresay it might be managed"-
-or something of that sort.

Mrs. Alving. And then?

Oswald. I naturally had forgotten all about it; but the day
before yesterday I happened to ask her if she was glad I was to
be so long at home--

Mrs. Alving. Well?

Oswald. --and she looked so queerly at me, and asked: "But what
is to become of my trip to Paris? "

Mrs. Alving. Her trip!

Oswald. And then I got it out of her that she had taken the thing
seriously, and had been thinking about me all the time, and had
set herself to learn French--

Mrs. Alving. So that was why--

Oswald. Mother--when I saw this fine, splendid, handsome girl
standing there in front of me--I had never paid any attention to
her before then--but now, when she stood there as if with open
arms ready for me to take her to myself--

Mrs. Alving. Oswald!

Oswald. --then I realised that my salvation lay in her, for I saw
the joy of life in her!

Mrs. Alving (starting back). The joy of life--? Is there
salvation in that?

Regina (coming in from the dining-room with a bottle of
champagne). Excuse me for being so long; but I had to go to the
cellar. (Puts the bottle down on the table.)

Oswald. Bring another glass, too.

Regina (looking at him in astonishment). The mistress's glass is
there, sir.

Oswald. Yes, but fetch one for yourself, Regina (REGINA starts,
and gives a quick shy glance at MRS. ALVING.) Well?

Regina (in a low and hesitating voice). Do you wish me to, ma'am?

Mrs. Alving. Fetch the glass, Regina. (REGINA goes into the
dining-room.)

Oswald (looking after her). Have you noticed how well she walks?-
-so firmly and confidently!

Mrs. Alving. It cannot be, Oswald.

Oswald. It is settled. You must see that. It is no use forbidding
it. (REGINA comes in with a gloss, which she holds in her hand.)
Sit down, Regina. (REGINA looks questioningly at MRS. ALVING.)

Mrs. Alving. Sit down. (REGINA sits down on a chair near the
dining-room door, still holding the glass in her hand.) Oswald,
what was it you were saying about the joy of life?

Oswald. Ah, mother--the joy of life! You don't know very much
about that at home here. I shall never realise it here.

Mrs. Alving. Not even when you are with me?

Oswald. Never at home. But you can't understand that.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed I almost think I do understand you now.

Oswald. That--and the joy of work. They are really the same thing
at bottom. Put you don't know anything about that either.

Mrs. Alving. Perhaps you are right. Tell me some more about it,
Oswald.

Oswald. Well, all I mean is that here people are brought up to
believe that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that
life is a state of wretchedness and that the sooner we can get
out of it the better.

Mrs. Alving. A vale of tears, yes. And we quite conscientiously
make it so.

Oswald. But the people over there will have none of that. There
is no one there who really believes doctrines of that kind any

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