Oswald (from within the room). In weather like this? (A glass is heard clinking. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down with her knitting on the couch by the window.) Wasn't that Mr. Manders that went out just now?
Mrs. Alving. Yes, he has gone over to the Orphanage.
Oswald. Oh. (The clink of a bottle on a glass is heard again.)Mrs. Alving (with an uneasy expression.) Oswald, dear, you should be careful with that liqueur. It is strong.
Oswald. It's a good protective against the damp.
Mrs. Alving. Wouldn't you rather come in here?
Oswald. You know you don't like smoking in there.
Mrs. Alving. You may smoke a cigar in here, certainly.
Oswald. All right; I will come in, then. Just one drop more.
There! (Comes in, smoking a cigar, and shuts the door after him.
A short silence.) Where has the parson gone?
Mrs. Alving. I told you he had gone over to the Orphanage.
Oswald. Oh, so you did.
Mrs. Alving. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald, Oswald (holding his cigar behind his back). But it's so nice and cosy, mother dear. (Caresses her with one hand.) Think what it means to me--to have come home; to sit at my mother's own table, in my mother's own room, and to enjoy the charming meals she gives me.
Mrs. Alving. My dear, dear boy!
Oswald (a little impatiently, as he walks tip and down smoking.)And what else is there for me to do here? I have no occupation--Mrs. Alving. No occupation?
Oswald. Not in this ghastly weather, when there isn't a blink of sunshine all day long. (Walks up and down the floor.) Not to be able to work, it's--!
Mrs. Alving. I don't believe you were wise to come home.
Oswald. Yes, mother; I had to.
Mrs. Alving. Because I would ten times rather give up the happiness of having you with me, sooner than that you should--Oswald (standing still by the table). Tell me, mother--is it really such a great happiness for you to have me at home?
Mrs. Alving. Can you ask?
Oswald (crumpling up a newspaper). I should have thought it would have been pretty much the same to you whether I were here or away.
Mrs. Alving. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald?
Oswald. But you have been quite happy living without me so far.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, I have lived without you--that is true.
(A silence. The dusk falls by degrees. OSWALD walks restlessly up and down. He has laid aside his cigar.) Oswald (stopping beside MRS. ALVING). Mother, may I sit on the couch beside you?
Mrs. Alving. Of course, my dear boy.
Oswald (sitting down). Now I must tell you something mother.
Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What?
Oswald (staring in front of him). I can't bear it any longer.
Mrs. Alving. Bear what? What do you mean?
Oswald (as before). I couldn't bring myself to write to you about it; and since I have been at home--Mrs. Alving (catching him by the arm). Oswald, what is it?
Oswald. Both yesterday and today I have tried to push my thoughts away from me--to free myself from them. But I can't.
Mrs. Alving (getting up). You must speak plainly, Oswald!
Oswald (drawing her down to her seat again). Sit still, and Iwill try and tell you. I have made a great deal of the fatigue Ifelt after my journey--
Mrs. Alving. Well, what of that?
Oswald. But that isn't what is the matter. It is no ordinary fatigue--Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald!
Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. I am not exactly ill--not ill in the usual sense. (Takes his head in his hands.) Mother, it's my mind that has broken down--gone to pieces--I shall never be able to work anymore!
(Buries his face in his hands and throws himself at her knees in an outburst of sobs.)Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it isn't true!
Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be able to work anymore! Never--never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so horrible!
Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing happened?
Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must believe that of me, mother, I have never done that.
Mrs. Alving. I haven't a doubt of it, Oswald.
Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible disaster!
Mrs. Alving. Oh, but it will all come right again, my dear precious boy. It is nothing but overwork. Believe me, that is so.
Oswald (dully). I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so.
Mrs. Alving. Tell me all about it.
Oswald. Yes, I will.
Mrs. Alving. When did you first feel anything?
Oswald. It was just after I had been home last time and had got back to Paris. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head--mostly at the back, I think. It was as if a tight band of iron was pressing on me from my neck upwards.
Mrs. Alving. And then?
Oswald. At first I thought it was nothing but the headaches Ialways used to be so much troubled with while I was growing.
Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes.
Oswald. But it wasn't; I soon saw that. I couldn't work any longer. I would try and start some big new picture; but it seemed as if all my faculties had forsaken me, as if all my strengths were paralysed. I couldn't manage to collect my thoughts; my head seemed to swim--everything went round and round. It was a horrible feeling! At last I sent for a doctor--and from him Ilearned the truth.
Mrs. Alving. In what way, do you mean?
Oswald. He was one of the best doctors there. He made me describe what I felt, and then he began to ask me a whole heap of questions which seemed to me to have nothing to do with the matter. I couldn't see what he was driving at--Mrs. Alving. Well?
Oswald. At last he said: "You have had the canker of disease in you practically from your birth"--the actual word he used was "vermoulu"...
Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What did he mean by that? Oswald. Icouldn't understand, either--and I asked him for a clearer explanation, 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 on the children."Mrs. Alving (getting up slowly). The sins of the fathers--!
