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, blessëd boy.
