Ghosts - Henrik Ibsen (e reader books txt) 📗
- Author: Henrik Ibsen
Book online «Ghosts - Henrik Ibsen (e reader books txt) 📗». Author Henrik Ibsen
door with a half-suppressed cry. Oswald, are you still at table?
Oswald
In the dining room. I’m only finishing my cigar.
Mrs. Alving
I thought you had gone for a little walk.
Oswald
In such weather as this?
A glass clinks. Mrs. Alving leaves the door open, and sits down with her knitting on the sofa by the window.
Oswald
Wasn’t that Pastor Manders that went out just now?
Mrs. Alving
Yes; he went down to the Orphanage.
Oswald
H’m. The glass and decanter clink again.
Mrs. Alving
With a troubled glance. Dear Oswald, you should take care of that liqueur. It is strong.
Oswald
It keeps out the damp.
Mrs. Alving
Wouldn’t you rather come in here, to me?
Oswald
I mayn’t smoke in there.
Mrs. Alving
You know quite well you may smoke cigars.
Oswald
Oh, all right then; I’ll come in. Just a tiny drop more first. There! He comes into the room with his cigar, and shuts the door after him. A short silence. Where has the pastor gone to?
Mrs. Alving
I have just told you; he went down to the Orphanage.
Oswald
Oh, yes; so you did.
Mrs. Alving
You shouldn’t sit so long at table, Oswald.
Oswald
Holding his cigar behind him. But I find it so pleasant, Mother. Strokes and caresses her. Just think what it is for me to come home and sit at mother’s own table, in mother’s room, and eat mother’s delicious dishes.
Mrs. Alving
My dear, dear boy!
Oswald
Somewhat impatiently, walks about and smokes. And what else can I do with myself here? I can’t set to work at anything.
Mrs. Alving
Why can’t you?
Oswald
In such weather as this? Without a single ray of sunshine the whole day? Walks up the room. Oh, not to be able to work—!
Mrs. Alving
Perhaps it was not quite wise of you to come home?
Oswald
Oh, yes, Mother; I had to.
Mrs. Alving
You know I would ten times rather forgo the joy of having you here, than let you—
Oswald
Stops beside the table. Now just tell me, Mother: does it really make you so very happy to have me home again?
Mrs. Alving
Does it make me happy!
Oswald
Crumpling up a newspaper. I should have thought it must be pretty much the same to you whether I was in existence or not.
Mrs. Alving
Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald?
Oswald
But you’ve got on very well without me all this time.
Mrs. Alving
Yes; I have got on without you. That is true.
A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. Oswald paces to and fro across the room. He has laid his cigar down.
Oswald
Stops beside Mrs. Alving. Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside you?
Mrs. Alving
Makes room for him. Yes, do, my dear boy.
Oswald
Sits down. There is something I must tell you, Mother.
Mrs. Alving
Anxiously. Well?
Oswald
Looks fixedly before him. For I can’t go on hiding it any longer.
Mrs. Alving
Hiding what? What is it?
Oswald
As before. I could never bring myself to write to you about it; and since I’ve come home—
Mrs. Alving
Seizes him by the arm. Oswald, what is the matter?
Oswald
Both yesterday and today I have tried to put the thoughts away from me—to cast them off; but it’s no use.
Mrs. Alving
Rising. Now you must tell me everything, Oswald!
Oswald
Draws her down to the sofa again. Sit still; and then I will try to tell you.—I complained of fatigue after my journey—
Mrs. Alving
Well? What then?
Oswald
But it isn’t that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary fatigue—
Mrs. Alving
Tries to jump up. You are not ill, Oswald?
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 overwork. 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.
Oswald
Yes, I will.
Mrs. Alving
When did you first notice it?
Oswald
It was directly after I had been home last time, and had got back to Paris again. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head—chiefly in the back of my head, they seemed to come. It was as though a tight iron ring was being screwed round my neck and upwards.
Mrs. Alving
Well, and then?
Oswald
At first I thought it was nothing but the ordinary headache I had been so plagued with while I was growing up—
Mrs. Alving
Yes, yes—
Oswald
But it wasn’t that. I soon found that out. I couldn’t work any more. I wanted to begin upon a big new picture, but my powers seemed to fail me; all my strength was crippled; I could form no definite images; everything swam before me—whirling round and round. Oh, it was an awful state! At last I sent for a doctor—and from him I learned the truth.
Mrs. Alving
How do you mean?
Oswald
He was one of the first doctors in Paris. I told him my symptoms; and then he set to work asking me a string of questions which I thought had nothing to do with the matter. I couldn’t imagine what the man was after—
Mrs. Alving
Well?
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