to have done in the world—I never dare think of it again—I'm not able to think of it. Oh! if I could only live over again, and undo all I have done! [He buries his face in the sofa.
Mrs. Alving.
[Wrings her hands and walks, in silent struggle, backwards and forwards.]
Oswald.
[After a while, looks up and remains resting upon his elbow.] If it had only been something inherited—something one wasn't responsible for! But this! To have thrown away so shamefully, thoughtlessly, recklessly, one's own happiness, one's own health, everything in the world—one's future, one's very life!
Mrs. Alving.
No, no, my dear, darling boy; this is impossible! [Bends over him.] Things are not so desperate as you think.
Oswald.
Oh, you don't know[Springs up.] And then, mother, to cause you all this sorrow! Many a time I have almost wished and hoped that at bottom you didn't care so very much about me.
Mrs. Alving.
I, Oswald? My only boy! You are all I have in the world! The only thing I care about!
Oswald.
[Seizes both her hands and kisses them.] Yes, yes, I see it. When I'm at home, I see it, of course;
