Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 10).djvu/182

 Hedda.

[Collecting herself.] Oh well, of course—since you say so. But it sounded so improbable

Lövborg. It is true, all the same.

Mrs. Elvsted.

[Wringing her hands.] Oh God—oh God, Hedda—torn his own work to pieces!

Lövborg.

I have torn my own life to pieces. So why should I not tear my life-work too?

Mrs. Elvsted. And you did this last night?

Lövborg.

Yes, I tell you! Tore it into a thousand pieces—and scattered them on the fiord—far out. There there is cool sea-water at any rate—let them drift upon it—drift with the current and the wind. And then presently they will sink—deeper and deeper—as I shall, Thea.

Mrs. Elvsted.

Do you know, Lövborg, that what you have done with the book—I shall think of it to my dying day as though you had killed a little child.

Lövborg. Yes, you are right. It is a sort of child-murder.