SOLNESS (seriously). Have you ever noticed, Hilda,
how the impossible—how it seems to whisper and call to you?
HILDA (reflecting). The impossible? (Vivaciously.)
Oh yes! You know it too?
SOLNESS. Yes.
HILDA. Then I guess there’s—something of a troll in you as
well?
SOLNESS. Why a troll?
HILDA. Well, what would you call it then?
SOLNESS (getting up). Hm, yes, could be. (Furiously.)
But why shouldn’t the troll be in me—the way things go for me all the time, in
everything! In everything!
HILDA. What do you mean?
SOLNESS (hushed and inwardly stirred). Pay attention
to what I tell you, Hilda. All I’ve been given to do, to build and shape into
beauty, security, a good life—into even a kind of splendor—(Knotting his
fists.) Oh, how awful just to think of it—!
HILDA. What’s so awful?
SOLNESS. That I’ve got to make up for it all. Pay up. Not with money, but with human happiness. And not just my own happiness. With others’, too. You understand, Hilda! That’s the price my name as an artist has cost me—and others. And every single day I’ve got to look on here and see that price being paid for me again and again—over and over and over, endlessly!