Hjalmar. No. In that decisive moment I gained the victory over myself. I went on living. But, believe me, it needed courage to choose life under such conditions.
Gregers. It depends on the point of view.
Hjalmar. Yes, entirely. But it was better so; for now I shall soon make the invention; and then Doctor Relling believes, as I do, myself, that father will get leave to wear his uniform again. I shall ask this as my sole reward.
Gregers. So it’s the uniform that he——?
Hjalmar. Yes; it is that that he most hankers and pines after. You can not imagine how this cuts me to the heart for his sake. Whenever we have a little family feast here—such as Gina’s and my wedding-day, or anything of that sort—the old man comes in here dressed in his lieutenant uniform of happier days. But as soon as there’s a knock at the door—for he mustn’t show himself before strangers you know—he hurries off to his room again as fast as his old legs will carry him. It lacerates a filial heart to see that!
Gregers. And when do you think your invention’ll be ready?
Hjalmar. Now, really you mustn’t ask me about such details as to time. An invention is a thing which doesn’t allow a man to be wholly and solely master of himself. It depends a good deal on inspiration—on an idea—and it’s well-nigh impossible to calculate beforehand when that will come.
Gregers. But it’s making progress?
Hjalmar. Of course it’s making progress. I work every blessed day at the invention, which fills my whole being. Every afternoon when I’ve dined, I lock myself up in my sitting-room, there I can ponder in peace. Only I mustn’t be driven, for that is no earthly use whatever; Relling says so, too.
Gregers. And don’t you find that all those contrivances in there in the loft, take you away and distract you too much?