Ghosts by Henrik Ibsen (best novels of all time .TXT) 📕

epub:type="z3998:persona">Oswald I cannot go on bearing all this anguish of soul alone. Mrs. Alving Have you not your mother to share it with you? Oswald Yes; that’s what I thought; and so I came home to you. But that will not do. I see it won’t do. I cannot endure my life here. Mrs. Alving Oswald! Oswald I must live differently, Mother. That is why I must leave you. I will not have you looking on at it. Mrs. Alving My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, while you are so ill as this⁠— Oswald If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, Mother, you may be sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world. Mrs. Alving Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not? Oswald Wanders restlessly about. But it’s all the torment, the gnawing remorse⁠—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh⁠—that awful dread! Mrs. Alving Walking after him. Dread? What dread? What do you mean? Oswald Oh, you mustn’t ask me any more. I don’t know. I can’t describe it. Mrs. Alving Goes over to the right and pulls the bell. Oswald What is it you want? Mrs. Alving I want my boy to be happy⁠—that is what I want. He shan’t go on brooding over things. To Regina, who appears at the door: More champagne⁠—a large bottle. Regina goes. Oswald Mother! Mrs. Alving Do you think we don’t know how to live here at home? Oswald Isn’t she splendid to look at? How beautifully she’s built! And so thoroughly healthy! Mrs. Alving Sits by the table. Sit down, Oswald; let us talk quietly together. Oswald Sits. I daresay you don’t know, Mother, that I owe Regina some reparation. Mrs. Alving You! Oswald For a bit of thoughtlessness, or whatever you like to call it⁠—very innocent, at any rate. When I was home last time⁠— Mrs. Alving Well? Oswald She used often to ask me about Paris, and I used to tell her one thing and another. Then I recollect I happened to say to her one day, “Shouldn’t you like to go there yourself?” Mrs. Alving Well? Oswald I saw her face flush, and then she said, “Yes, I should like it of all things.” “Ah, well,” I replied, “it might perhaps be managed”⁠—or something like that. Mrs. Alving And then? Oswald Of course I had forgotten all about it; but the day before yesterday I happened to ask her whether she was glad I was to stay at home so long⁠— Mrs. Alving Yes? Oswald And then she gave me such a strange look, and asked, “But what’s to become of my trip to Paris?” Mrs. Alving Her trip! Oswald And so it came out that she had taken the thing seriously; that she had been thinking of me the whole time, and had set to work to learn French⁠— Mrs. Alving So that was why⁠—! Oswald Mother⁠—when I saw that fresh, lovely, splendid girl standing there before me⁠—till then I had hardly noticed her⁠—but when she stood there as though with open arms ready to receive me⁠— Mrs. Alving Oswald! Oswald —then it flashed upon me that in her lay my salvation; for I saw that she was full of the joy of life. Mrs. Alving Starts. The joy of life? Can there be salvation in that? Regina From the dining room, with a bottle of champagne. I’m sorry to have been so long, but I had to go to the cellar. Places the bottle on the table. Oswald And now bring another glass. Regina Looks at him in surprise. There is Mrs. Alving’s glass, Mr. Alving. Oswald Yes, but bring one for yourself, Regina. Regina starts and gives a lightning-like side glance at Mrs. Alving. Why do you wait? Regina Softly and hesitatingly. Is it Mrs. Alving’s wish? Mrs. Alving Bring the glass, Regina. Regina goes out into the dining room. Oswald Follows her with his eyes. Have you noticed how she walks?⁠—so firmly and lightly! Mrs. Alving This can never be, Oswald! Oswald It’s a settled thing. Can’t you see that? It’s no use saying anything against it. Regina enters with an empty glass, which she keeps in her hand. Oswald Sit down, Regina. Regina looks inquiringly at Mrs. Alving. Mrs. Alving Sit down. Regina sits on a chair by the dining room door, still holding the empty glass in her hand. Oswald⁠—what were you saying about the joy of life? Oswald Ah, the joy of life, Mother⁠—that’s a thing you don’t know much about in these parts. I have never felt it here. Mrs. Alving Not when you are with me? Oswald Not when I’m at home. But you don’t understand that. Mrs. Alving Yes, yes; I think I almost understand it⁠—now. Oswald And then, too, the joy of work! At bottom, it’s the same thing. But that, too, you know nothing about. Mrs. Alving Perhaps you are right. Tell me more about it, Oswald. Oswald I only mean that here people are brought up to believe that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is something miserable, something it would be best to have done with, the sooner the better. Mrs. Alving “A vale of tears,” yes; and we certainly do our best to make it one. Oswald But in the great world people won’t hear of such things. There, nobody really believes such doctrines any longer. There, you feel it a positive bliss and ecstasy merely to draw the breath of life. Mother, 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’m afraid of remaining at home with you. Mrs. Alving Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me? Oswald I’m afraid lest all my instincts should be warped into ugliness. Mrs. Alving Looks steadily at him. Do you think that is what would happen? Oswald I know it. You may live the same life here as there, and yet it won’t be the same life. Mrs. Alving Who has been listening eagerly, rises, her eyes big with thought, and says: Now I see the sequence of things. Oswald What is it you see? Mrs. Alving I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak. Oswald Rising. Mother, I don’t