eside him.)

Oswald. The sun is rising--and you know all about it; so I don't feel
the fear any longer.

Mrs. Alving. I know all about what?

Oswald (without listening to her). Mother, isn't it the case that you
said this evening there was nothing in the world you would not do for
me if I asked you?

Mrs. Alving. Yes, certainly I said so.

Oswald. And will you be as good as your word, mother?

Mrs. Alving. You may rely upon that, my own dear boy. I have nothing
else to live for, but you.

Oswald. Yes, yes; well, listen to me, mother, You are very
strong-minded, I know. I want you to sit quite quiet when you hear what
I am going to tell you.

Mrs. Alving. But what is this dreadful thing--?

Oswald. You mustn't scream. Do you hear? Will you promise me that? We
are going to sit and talk it over quite quietly. Will you promise me
that, mother?

Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, I promise--only tell me what it is.

Oswald. Well, then, you must know that this fatigue of mine--and my mot
being able to think about my work--all that is not really the illness
itself--

Mrs. Alving. What is the illness itself?

Oswald. What I am suffering from is hereditary; it--(touches his
forehead, and speaks very quietly)--it lies here.

Mrs. Alving (almost speechless). Oswald! No--no!

Oswald. Don't scream; I can't stand it. Yes, I tell you, it lies here,
waiting. And any time, any moment, it may break out.

Mrs. Alving. How horrible--!

Oswald. Do keep quiet. That is the state I am in--

Mrs. Alving (springing up). It isn't true, Oswald! It is impossible! It
can't be that!

Oswald. I had one attack while I was abroad. It passed off quickly. But
when I learned the condition I had been in, then this dreadful haunting
fear took possession of me.

Mrs. Alving. That was the fear, then--

Oswald. Yes, it is so indescribably horrible, you know If only it had
been an ordinary mortal disease--. I am not so much afraid of dying;
though, of course, I should like to live as long as I can.

Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must!

Oswald. But this is so appallingly horrible. To become like a helpless
child again--to have to be fed, to have to be--. Oh, it's unspeakable!

Mrs. Alving. My child has his mother to tend him.

Oswald (jumping up). No, never; that is just what I won't endure! I
dare not think what it would mean to linger on like that for years--to
get old and grey like that. And you might die before I did. (Sits down
in