Mrs. Alving (taping on the window panes). I ought never to have concealed what sort of a life my husband led. But I had not the courage to do otherwise then—for my own sake, either. I was too much of a coward. 

 Manders. A coward? 

 Mrs. Alving. If others had known anything of what happened, they would have said: "Poor man, it is natural enough that he should go astray, when he has a wife that has run away from him." 

 Manders. They would have had a certain amount of justification for saying so. 

 Mrs. Alving (looking fixedly at him). If I had been the woman I ought, I would have taken Oswald into my confidence and said to him: "Listen, my son, your father was a dissolute man"— 

 Manders. Miserable woman. 

 Mrs. Alving. —and I would have told him all I have told you, from beginning to end. 

 Manders. I am almost shocked at you, Mrs. Alving. 

 Mrs. Alving. I know. I know quite well! I am shocked at myself when I think of it. (Comes away from the window.) I am coward enough for that. 

 Manders. Can you call it cowardice that you simply did your duty? Have you forgotten that a child should love and honour his father and mother? 

 Mrs. Alving. Don't let us talk in such general terms. Suppose we say: "Ought Oswald to love and honour Mr. Alving?" 

 Manders. You are a mother—isn't there a voice in your heart that forbids you to shatter your son's ideals? 

 Mrs. Alving. And what about the truth? 

 Manders. What about his ideals? 

 Mrs. Alving. Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward as I am! 

 Manders. Do not spurn ideals, Mrs. Alving—they have a way of avenging themselves cruelly. Take Oswald's own case, now. He hasn't many ideals, more's the pity. But this much I have seen, that his father is something of an ideal to him. 

 Mrs. Alving. You are right there. 

 Manders. And his conception of his father is what you inspired and encouraged by your letters. 

 Mrs. Alving. Yes, I was swayed by duty and consideration for 

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