Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald! 

 Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. I am not exactly ill—not ill in the usual sense. (Takes his head in his hands.) Mother, it's my mind that has broken down—gone to pieces—I shall never be able to work anymore! (Buries his face in his hands and throws himself at her knees in an outburst of sobs.) 

 Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it isn't true! 

 Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be able to work anymore! Never—never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so horrible! 

 Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing happened? 

 Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must believe that of me, mother, I have never done that. 

 Mrs. Alving. I haven't a doubt of it, Oswald. 

 Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible disaster! 

 Mrs. Alving. Oh, but it will all come right again, my dear precious boy. It is nothing but overwork. Believe me, that is so. 

 Oswald (dully). I thought so too, at first; but it isn't so. 

 Mrs. Alving. Tell me all about it. 

 Oswald. Yes, I will. 

 Mrs. Alving. When did you first feel anything? 

 Oswald. It was just after I had been home last time and had got back to Paris. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head—mostly at the back, I think. It was as if a tight band of iron was pressing on me from my neck upwards. 

 Mrs. Alving. And then? 

 Oswald. At first I thought it was nothing but the headaches I always used to be so much troubled with while I was growing. 

 Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes. 

 Oswald. But it wasn't; I soon saw that. I couldn't work any longer. I would try and start some 

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