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Ibsen, Henrik, 1828-1906

"Rosmersholm"


Rosmer. Tell me more of it--all that you can.
Rebecca. There is not much more to tell. Only that this was how
love grew up in my heart--a great, self-denying love--content
with such a union of hearts as there has been between us two.
Rosmer. Oh, if only I had had the slightest suspicion of all this!
Rebecca. It is best as it is. Yesterday, when you asked me if I
would be your wife, I gave a cry of joy--
Rosmer. Yes, it was that, Rebecca, was it not! I thought
that was what it meant.
Rebecca. For a moment, yes-I forgot myself for a moment. It was
my dauntless will of the old days that was struggling to be free
again. But now it has no more strength--it has lost it for ever.
Rosmer. How do you explain what has taken place in you?
Rebecca. It is the Rosmer attitude towards life-
or your attitude towards life, at any rate--that has infected
my will.
Rosmer. Infected?
Rebecca. Yes, and made it sickly--bound it captive under laws
that formerly had no meaning for me. You--my life together with
you--have ennobled my soul--
Rosmer. Ah, if I dared believe that to be true!
Rebecca. You may believe it confidently. The Rosmer attitude
towards life ennobles. But-(shakes her head)-but-but--
Rosmer. But? Well?
Rebecca. But it kills joy, you know.
Rosmer. Do you say that, Rebecca?
Rebecca. For me, at all events.
Rosmer. Yes, but are you so sure of that? If I asked you
again now--? Implored you--?
Rebecca.


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