him. I am sure of that; for he does not know how to call for the helpers—no, nor for the servers, either. [Rises in unrest.] So you see, Hilda—it is my fault, after all, that the lives of the two little boys had to be sacrificed. And do you think it is not my fault, too, that Aline has never been the woman she should and might have been—and that she most longed to be?
Hilda. Yes, but if it is all the work of those 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.
