MRS. ALVING. Yes; I have got on without you. That is true.
[A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces to and fro across the room. He has laid his cigar down.]
OSWALD. [Stops beside MRS. ALVING.] Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside you?
MRS. ALVING. [Makes room for him.] Yes, do, my dear boy.
OSWALD. [Sits down.] There is something I must tell you, mother.
MRS. ALVING. [Anxiously.] Well?
OSWALD. [Looks fixedly before him.] For I can"t go on hiding it any longer.
MRS. ALVING. Hiding what? What is it?
OSWALD. [As before.] I could never bring myself to write to you about it; and since I"ve come home--
MRS. ALVING. [Seizes him by the arm.] Oswald, what is the matter?
OSWALD. Both yesterday and to-day I have tried to put the thoughts away from me--to cast them off; but it"s no use.
MRS. ALVING. [Rising.] Now you must tell me everything, Oswald!
OSWALD. [Draws her down to the sofa again.] Sit still; and then I will try to tell you.--I complained of fatigue after my journey--
MRS. ALVING. Well? What then?
OSWALD. But it isn"t that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary fatigue--
MRS. ALVING. [Tries to jump up.] You are not ill, Oswald?
OSWALD. [Draws her down again.] Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly.
I"m not downright ill, either; not what is commonly called "ill."
[Clasps his hands above his head.] Mother, my mind is broken down--ruined--I shall never be able to work again! [With his hands before his face, he buries his head in her lap, and breaks into bitter sobbing.]
MRS. ALVING. [White and trembling.] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; it"s not true.
OSWALD. [Looks up with despair in his eyes.] Never to be able to work again! Never!--never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so horrible?
MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! How has this horrible thing come upon you?
OSWALD. [Sitting upright again.] That"s just what I cannot possibly grasp or understand. I have never led a dissipated life never, in any respect. You mustn"t believe that of me, mother! I"ve never done that.
MRS. ALVING. I am sure you haven"t, Oswald.
OSWALD. And yet this has come upon me just the same--this awful misfortune!
MRS. ALVING. Oh, but it will pa.s.s over, my dear, blessed boy. It"s nothing but over-work. Trust me, I am right.
OSWALD. [Sadly.] I thought so too, at first; but it isn"t so.
MRS. ALVING. Tell me everything, from beginning to end.
OSWALD. Yes, I will.
MRS. ALVING. When did you first notice it?
OSWALD. It was directly after I had been home last time, and had got back to Paris again. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head--chiefly in the back of my head, they seemed to come. It was as though a tight iron ring was being screwed round my neck and upwards.
MRS. ALVING. Well, and then?
OSWALD. At first I thought it was nothing but the ordinary headache I had been so plagued with while I was growing up--
MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes--
OSWALD. But it wasn"t that. I soon found that out. I couldn"t work any more. I wanted to begin upon a big new picture, but my powers seemed to fail me; all my strength was crippled; I could form no definite images; everything swam before me--whirling round and round. Oh, it was an awful state! At last I sent for a doctor--and from him I learned the truth.
MRS. ALVING. How do you mean?
OSWALD. He was one of the first doctors in Paris. I told him my symptoms; and then he set to work asking me a string of questions which I thought had nothing to do with the matter. I couldn"t imagine what the man was after--
MRS. ALVING. Well?
OSWALD. At last he said: "There has been something worm-eaten in you from your birth." He used that very word--_vermoulu_.
MRS. ALVING. [Breathlessly.] What did he mean by that?
OSWALD. I didn"t understand either, and begged him to explain himself more clearly. And then the old cynic said--[Clenching his fist] Oh--!
MRS. ALVING. What did he say?
OSWALD. He said, "The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children."
MRS. ALVING. [Rising slowly.] The sins of the fathers--!
OSWALD. I very nearly struck him in the face--
MRS. ALVING. [Walks away across the room.] The sins of the fathers--
OSWALD. [Smiles sadly.] Yes; what do you think of that? Of course I a.s.sured him that such a thing was out of the question. But do you think he gave in? No, he stuck to it; and it was only when I produced your letters and translated the pa.s.sages relating to father--
MRS. ALVING. But then--?
OSWALD. Then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong track; and so I learned the truth--the incomprehensible truth! I ought not to have taken part with my comrades in that lighthearted, glorious life of theirs. It had been too much for my strength. So I had brought it upon myself!
MRS. ALVING. Oswald! No, no; do not believe it!
OSWALD. No other explanation was possible, he said. That"s the awful part of it. Incurably ruined for life--by my own heedlessness! All that I meant 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.]