Mrs. Stockmann.
Oh dear; and these are the best you have!
Dr. Stockmann.
A man should never put on his best trousers when he goes out to battle for freedom and truth. Well, I don’t care so much about the trousers; them you can always patch up for me. But that the mob, the rabble, should dare to attack me as if they were my equals—that is what I can’t, for the life of me, stomach!
Mrs. Stockmann.
Yes, they have behaved abominably to you here, Thomas; but is that any reason for leaving the country altogether?
Dr. Stockmann.
Do you think the plebeians aren’t just as insolent in other towns? Oh yes, they are, my dear; it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. Well, never mind; let the curs yelp; that’s not the worst; the worst is that every one, all over the country, is the slave of his party. Not that I suppose—very likely it’s no better in the free West either; the compact majority, and enlightened public opinion, and all the other devil’s trash is rampant there too. But you see the conditions are larger there than here; they may kill you, but they don’t slow-torture you; they don’t screw up a free soul in a vice, as they do at home here. And then, if need be, you can keep out of it all. [Walks up and down.] If I only knew of any primeval forest, or a little South Sea island to be sold cheap——
Mrs. Stockmann.
Yes, but the boys, Thomas.