Mother. With a mother's authority I command you to leave my son's house, the threshold of which you have defiled.
Christine. As a housewife I open my door to whom I may choose to receive. I should have closed it to you, had I been able to guess what language you would use.
Mother. Big words, indeed! I command you to leave!
Christine. With what right do you force yourself into this house in order to drive me out of my own home? You have borne a son, and raised him—that was your duty, your mission, and you may thank your God for being permitted to fill that mission so well, which is a good fortune not granted to everybody. Now you have reached the edge of the grave. Why not resign yourself before the end comes? Or have you raised your son so poorly that he is still a child and needs your guidance? If you want gratitude, come and look for it, but not in this way. Or do you think it is the destiny of a child to sacrifice its own life merely to show you gratitude? His mission is calling: "Go!" And you cry to him: "Come to me, you ingrate!" Is he to go astray—is he to waste his powers, that belong to his country, to mankind—merely for the satisfaction of your private little selfishness? Or do you imagine that the fact of having borne and raised him does even entitle you to gratitude? Did not your life's mission and destiny lie in that? Should you not thank the Lord for being given such a high mission? Or did you do it only that you might spend the rest of your life clamoring for gratitude? Don't you see that by using that word "gratitude" you tear down all that you have built up before? And what makes you presume that you have rights over me? Is marriage to mean a mortgaging of my free will to anybody whom nature has made the mother or father of my husband—who unfortunately could not exist without either? You are not my mother. My troth was not pledged to you when I took Olof as my husband. And I have sufficient respect for my husband not to permit anybody to insult him, even if it be his own mother. That's why I have spoken as I have!
Mother. Alas, such are the fruits borne by the teachings of my son!
Christine. If you choose to revile your son, it had better be in his presence. (She goes to the door and calls.) Olof!
Mother. Such guile already!
Christine. Already? It's nothing new, I think, although I didn't know I had it until it was needed.
[Enter Olof.]
Olof. Mother! I am right glad to see you!