Mother. Merciful heavens, what are you saying! Father. Compose yourself; let me talk to him. What do you mean, sir? Axel. Laura does not love me-- Laura. Yes, that is what he says! Axel. She hasn't the least idea what love means, and will never learn as long as she is in her father's house. Mother and Father. Why? Axel. Because she lives only for her parents; me, she looks upon merely as an elder brother who is to assist her in loving them. Mother. Is that so distasteful to you, then? Axel. No, no. I am devoted to you and grateful to you, and I am proud of being your son; but it is only through her that I am that--and she has never yet really taken me to her heart. I am quite at liberty to go away or to stay, as I please; _she_ is a fixture here. There is never one of her requests to me, scarcely a single wish she expresses--indeed, scarcely a sign of endearment she shows me, that she has not first of all divided up into three portions; and I get my one-third of it, and get it last or not at all. Mother. He is jealous--and of us! Father. Jealous of us! Laura. Yes, indeed he is, mother. Father. This is mere fancy, Axel--a ridiculous idea. Do not let any one else hear you saying that. Axel. No, it is neither mere fancy nor is it ridiculous. It colours the whole of our relations to one another; it gnaws at my feelings, and then I torment her, make you angry, and lead an idle, empty, ill-tempered existence-- Father. You are ill, there is no doubt about it. Axel. I am, and you have made me ill. Father and Mother (together). We have? Father. Please be a little-- Axel. You allow her to treat me simply as the largest sized of all the dolls you have given her to play with. You cannot bear to see her give away any more of her affection than she might give to one of her dolls. Father. Please talk in a more seemly manner! Please show us a proper respect-- Axel. Forgive me, my dear parents, if I don't. What I mean is that a child cannot be a wife, and as long as she remains with you she will always be a child. Mother. But, Axel, did we not tell you she was only a child-- Father. We warned you, we asked you to wait a year or two-- Mother. Because we could not see that she loved you sufficiently. Father. But your answer was that it was just the child in her that you loved. Mother. Just the child's innocence and simplicity. You said you felt purer in her presence; indeed, that she sometimes made you feel as if you were in church. And we, her father and mother, understood that, for we had felt it ourselves. Father. We felt that just as much as you, my son. Mother. Do you remember one morning, when she was asleep, that you said her life was a dream which it would be a sin to disturb? Father. And said that the mere thought of her made you tread more softly for fear of waking her.