MRS. ALVING. If it should ever be necessary. But it will never be necessary. No, no; it is impossible.
OSWALD. Well, let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. Thank you, mother. [He seats himself in the arm-chair which MRS. ALVING has moved to the sofa. Day is breaking. The lamp is still burning on the table.]
MRS. ALVING. [Drawing near cautiously.] Do you feel calm now?
OSWALD. Yes.
MRS. ALVING. [Bending over him.] It has been a dreadful fancy of yours, Oswald—nothing but a fancy. All this excitement has been too much for you. But now you shall have a long rest; at home with your mother, my own blessëd boy. Everything you point to you shall have, just as when you were a little child.—There now. The crisis is over. You see how easily it passed! Oh, I was sure it would.—And do you see, Oswald, what a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine! Now you can really see your home. [She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. Sunrise. The glacier and the snow-peaks in the background glow in the morning light.]
OSWALD. [Sits in the arm-chair with his back towards the landscape, without moving. Suddenly he says:] Mother, give me the sun.
MRS. ALVING. [By the table, starts and looks at him.] What do you say?
OSWALD. [Repeats, in a dull, toneless voice.] The sun. The sun.
MRS. ALVING. [Goes to him.] Oswald, what is the matter with you?
OSWALD. [Seems to shrink together to the chair; all his muscles relax; his face is expressionless, his eyes have a glassy stare.]