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—thoughshould 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 to
Oh, 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!