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?
Oswald.
At last he said: "There has been something worm-eaten in you from your birth." He used that very word—vermoulu.
Mrs. Alving.
[Breathlessly.] What did he mean by that?
Oswald.
I didn't understand either, and begged him to explain himself more clearly. 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 upon the children."
