Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 11).djvu/443

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Well?

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I never loved your art, before I met you.—Nor after either.

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But the artist, Irene?

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The artist I hate.

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The artist in me too?

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In you most of all. When I unclothed myself and stood for you, then I hated you, Arnold

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[Warmly.] That you did not, Irene! That is not true!

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I hated you, because you could stand there so unmoved

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[Laughs.] Unmoved? Do you think so?

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—at any rate so intolerably self-controlled. And because you were an artist and an artist only—not a man! [Changing to a tone full of warmth and feeling.] But that statue in the