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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 big new picture; but it seemed
as if all my faculties had forsaken me, as if all my strengths
were paralysed. I couldn't manage to collect my thoughts; my head
seemed to swim--everything went round and round. It was a
horrible feeling! At last I sent for a doctor--and from him I
learned the truth.

Mrs. Alving. In what way, do you mean?

Oswald. He was one of the best doctors there. He made me describe
what I felt, and then he began to ask me a whole heap of
questions which seemed to me to have nothing to do with the
matter. I couldn't see what he was driving at--

Mrs. Alving. Well?

Oswald. At last he said: "You have had the canker of disease in
you practically from your birth"--the actual word he used was "vermoulu"...

Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What did he mean by that? Oswald. I
couldn't understand, either--and I asked him for a clearer
explanation, And then the old cynic said--(clenching his fist).
Oh!

Mrs. Alving. What did he say?

Oswald. He said: "The sins of the fathers are visited on the
children."

Mrs. Alving (getting up slowly). The sins of the fathers--!

Oswald. I nearly struck him in the face.

Mrs. Alving (walking across the room). The sins of the fathers--!

Oswald (smiling sadly). Yes, just imagine! Naturally I assured
him that what he thought was impossible. But do you think he paid
any heed to me? No, he persisted in his opinion; and it was only
when I got out your letters and translated to him all the
passages that referred to my father--

Mrs. Alving. Well, and then?

Oswald. Well, then of course he had to admit that he was on the
wrong track; and then I learned the truth-- the incomprehensible
truth! I ought to have had nothing to do with the joyous happy
life I had lived with my comrades. It had been too much for my
strength. So it was my own fault!

Mrs. Alving. No, no, Oswald! Don't believe that--

Oswald. There was no other explanation of it possible, he said.
That is the most horrible part of it. My whole life incurably
ruined--just because of my own imprudence. All that I wanted to do
in the world-=not to dare to think of it any more--not to be able
to think of it! Oh! if only I could live my life over again--if
only I could undo what I have done! (Throws himself on his face
on the couch. MRS. ALVING wrings her hands, and walks up and down
silently fighting with herself.)

Oswald (looks up after a while, raising himself on his elbows).
If only it had been something I had inherited--something I could

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