At bottom, it's the same thing. But that too you know nothing about. . . . Here people are brought up to believe that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is something miserable, something we want to be done with, the sooner the better. . . . Have you noticed that everything I have painted has turned upon the joy of life? always, always upon the joy of life?—light and sunshine and glorious air, and faces radiant with happiness? That is why I am afraid of remaining at home with you.
Mrs. Alving. Oswald, you spoke of the joy
of life; and at that word a new light burst for me over my life and all it has contained. . . . You ought to have known your father when he was a young lieutenant. He was brimming over with the joy of life! . . . He had no object in life, but only an official position. He had no work into which he could throw himself heart and soul; he had only business. He had not a single comrade that knew what the joy of life meant—only loafers and boon companions—— . . . So that happened which was sure to happen. . . . Oswald, my dear boy; has it shaken you very much?
Oswald. Of course it came upon me as a great
surprise, but, after all, it can't matter much to me.
Mrs. Alving. Can't matter! That your father
was so infinitely miserable!
Oswald. Of course I can pity him as I would
anybody else; but——
Mrs. Alving. Nothing more? Your own father!
Oswald. Oh, there! "Father," "father"!
I never
