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ruin!

Regina. Pooh!--goodbye.

(She bows to them and goes out through the hall.)

Oswald (standing by the window and looking out). Has she gone?

Mrs. Alving. Yes.

Oswald (muttering to himself). I think it's all wrong.

Mrs. Alving (going up to him from behind and putting her hands
on his shoulders). Oswald, my dear boy--has it been a great shock
to you?

Oswald (turning his face towards her). All this 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. What makes you think that? Naturally it has taken me
entirely by surprise; but, after all, I don't know that it
matters much to me.

Mrs. Alving (drawing back her hands). Doesn't matter!--that your
father's life was such a terrible failure!

Oswald. Of course I can feel sympathy for him, just as I would
for anyone else, but--

Mrs. Alving. No more than that! For your own father!

Oswald (impatiently). Father--father! I never knew anything of my
father. I don't remember anything else about him except that he
once made me sick.

Mrs. Alving. It is dreadful to think of!--But surely a child
should feel some affection for his father, whatever happens?

Oswald. When the child has nothing to thank his father for? When
he has never known him? Do you really cling to that antiquated
superstition--you, who are so broad-minded in other things?

Mrs. Alving. You call it nothing but a superstition!

Oswald. Yes, and you can see that for yourself quite well,
mother. It is one of those beliefs that are put into circulation
in the world, and--

Mrs. Alving. Ghosts of beliefs!

Oswald (walking across the room). Yes, you might call them
ghosts.

Mrs. Alving (with an outburst of feeling). Oswald! then you don't
love me either!

Oswald. You I know, at any rate--

Mrs. Alving. You know me, yes; but is that all?

Oswald. And I know how fond you are of me, and I ought to be
grateful to you for that. Besides, you can be so tremendously
useful to me, now that I am ill.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, can't I, Oswald! I could almost bless your
illness, as it has driven you home to me. For I see quite well
that you are not my very own yet; you must be won.

Oswald (impatiently). Yes, yes, yes; all that is just a way of
talking. You must remember I am a sick man, mother. I can't
concern myself much with anyone else; I have enough to do,
thinking about myself.

Mrs. Alving (gently). I will be very good and patient.

Oswald. And cheerful too, mother!

Mrs. Alving. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. (Goes up to
him.) Now have I taken away all your remorse and self-reproach?

Oswald. Yes, you have done that. But who will take away the fear?

Mrs. Alving. The fear?

Oswald (crossing the room). Regina would have done it for one
kind word.

Mrs. Alving. I don't understand you. What fear do you mean--and
what has Regina to do with it?

Oswald. Is it very late, mother?

Mrs. Alving. It is early morning. (Looks out through the
conservatory windows.) The dawn is breaking already on the

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