Mrs. Alving.
Then this is the dread!
Oswald.
Yes—it's so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it had only been an ordinary mortal disease! For I'm not so afraid of death—though
should like to live as long as I can.
Mrs. Alving.
Yes, yes, Oswald, you must!
Oswald.
But this is so unutterably loathsome. To become a little baby again! To have to be fed! To have toOh, it's not to be spoken of!
Mrs. Alving.
The child has his mother to nurse him.
Oswald.
[Springs up.] No, never that! That is just what I will not have. I can't endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many years—and get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and leave me. [Sits in Mrs. Alving's chair.] For the doctor said it wouldn't necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the brain—or something like that. [Smiles sadly.] I think that expression sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry-coloured velvet—something soft and delicate to stroke.
Mrs. Alving.
[Shrieks.] Oswald!
