Yes, but if it is all the work of these helpers and servers---?
SOLNESS.
Who called for the helpers and servers? It was I! And they came
and obeyed my will. [In increasing excitement.] That is what people
call having the luck on your side; but I must tell you what this
sort of luck feels like! It feels like a great raw place here on
my breast. And the helpers and servers keep on flaying pieces of
skin off other people in order to close my sore!--But still the sore
is not healed--never, never! Oh, if you knew how it can sometimes
gnaw and burn!
HILDA.
[Looks attentively at him.] You are ill, Mr. Solness. Very ill, I
almost think.
SOLNESS.
Say mad; for that is what you mean.
HILDA.
No, I don't think there is much amiss with your intellect.
SOLNESS.
With what then? Out with it!
HILDA.
I wonder whether you were not sent into the world with a sickly
conscience.
SOLNESS.
A sickly conscience? What devilry is that?
HILDA.
I mean that your conscience is feeble--too delicately built, as it
were--hasn't strength to take a grip of things--to lift and bear
what is heavy.
SOLNESS.
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