Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 11).djvu/450

 I call him remorse for a forfeited life. He sits there and dips his fingers in the purling stream—to wash them clean—and he is gnawed and tortured by the thought that never, never will he succeed. Never in all eternity will he attain to freedom and the new life. He will remain for ever prisoned in his hell.

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[Hardly and coldly.] Poet!

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Why poet?

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Because you are nerveless and sluggish and full of forgiveness for all the sins of your life, in thought and in act. You have killed my soul—so you model yourself in remorse, and self-accusation, and penance—[Smiling.]—and with that you think your account is cleared.

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[Defiantly.] I am an artist, Irene. And I take no shame to myself for the frailties that perhaps cling to me. For I was born to be an artist, you see. And, do what I may, I shall never be anything else.

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[''Looks at him with a lurking evil smile, and says gently and softly.''] You are a poet, Arnold. [Softly strokes his hair.] You dear, great, mid