Mrs. Alving. A vale of tears, yes. And we quite conscientiously
make it so.
Oswald. But the people over there will have none of that. There
is no one there who really believes doctrines of that kind any
longer. Over there the mere fact of being alive is thought to be
a matter for exultant happiness. Mother, have you noticed that
everything I have painted has turned upon the joy of life?--
always upon the joy of life, unfailingly. There is light there,
and sunshine, and a holiday feeling--and people's faces beaming
with happiness. That is why I am afraid to stay at home here with
you.
Mrs. Alving. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me?
Oswald. I am afraid that all these feelings that are so strong in
me would degenerate into something ugly here.
Mrs. Alving (looking steadily at him). Do you think that is what
would happen?
Oswald. I am certain it would. Even if one lived the same life at
home here, as over there--it would never really be the same life.
Mrs. Alving (who has listened anxiously to him, gets up with a
thoughtful expression and says:) Now I see clearly how it all
happened.
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