Ghosts, Henrik Ibsen [books to read for 13 year olds .txt] 📗

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?