harmless creature would have succumbed to self-contempt and despair many a long year ago. And then the old lieutenant! But he has hit upon his own cure, you see.
Gregers,
Lieutenant Ekdal? What of him?
Relling.
Just think of the old bear-hunter shutting himself up in that dark garret to shoot rabbits! I tell you there is not a happier sportsman in the world than that old man pottering about in there among all that rubbish. The four or five withered Christmas-trees he has saved up are the same to him as the whole great fresh Höidal forest; the cock and the hens are big game-birds in the fir-tops; and the rabbits that flop about the garret floor are the bears he has to battle with—the mighty hunter of the mountains!
Gregers.
Poor unfortunate old man! Yes; he has indeed had to narrow the ideals of his youth.
Relling.
While I think of it, Mr. Werle, junior—don't use that foreign word: ideals. We have the excellent native word: lies.
Gregers.
Do you think the two things are related?
Relling.
Yes, just about as closely as typhus and putrid fever.
