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 pass 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.