Oswald. You, mother?
Mrs. Alving. —all that you call remorse and regret and self-reproach.
Oswald. And you think you can do that?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you were talking about the joy of life, and what you said seemed to shed a new light upon everything in my whole life.
Oswald (shaking his head). I don't in the least understand what you mean.
Mrs. Alving. You should have known your father in his young days in the army. He was full of the joy of life, I can tell you.
Oswald. Yes, I know.
Mrs. Alving. It gave me a holiday feeling only to look at him, full of irrepressible energy and exuberant spirits.
Oswald. What then?
Mrs. Alving, Well, then this boy, full of the joy of life—for he was just like a boy, then—had to make his home in a second-rate town which had none of the joy of life to offer him, but only dissipations. He had to come out here and live an aimless life; he had only an official post. He had no work worth devoting his whole mind to; he had nothing more than official routine to attend to. He had not a single companion capable of appreciating what the joy of life meant; nothing but idlers and tipplers...