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?