Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 11).djvu/442

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[Bows his head.] And laying my life waste.

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[Suddenly firing up.] It was just that I wanted! Never, never should you create anything again—after you had created that only child of ours.

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Was it jealousy that moved you, then?

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[Coldly.] I think it was rather hatred.

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Hatred? Hatred for me?

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[Again vehemently.] Yes, for you—for the artist who had so lightly and carelessly taken a warm-blooded body, a young human life, and worn the soul out of it—because you needed it for a work of art.

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And you can say that—you who threw yourself into my work with such saint-like passion and such ardent joy?—that work for which we two met together every morning, as for an act of worship.

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[Coldly, as before.] I will tell you one thing, Arnold.