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?
