Chapter III: Part 3

ROSMER.

Ah—indeed.

MORTENSGÅRD.

A marked man, Pastor Rosmer. You, above all men, should remember that; for I have chiefly you to thank for the scandal that branded me.

ROSMER.

If I had then stood where I stand now, I should have dealt more gently with your offence.

MORTENSGÅRD.

That I don’t doubt. But it is too late now. You have branded me once for all—branded me for life. I suppose you can scarcely understand what that means. But now you may perhaps come to feel the smart of it yourself, Pastor Rosmer.

ROSMER.

I?

MORTENSGÅRD.

Yes. You surely don’t suppose that Rector Kroll and his set will ever forgive a desertion like yours? I hear the “County News” is going to be very savage in future. You too may find yourself a marked man before long.

ROSMER.

In personal matters, Mr. Mortensgård, I feel myself secure from attack. My life is beyond reproach.

MORTENSGÅRD.

[_With a sly smile._] That’s a large word, Mr. Rosmer.

ROSMER.

Perhaps; but I have a right to use it.

MORTENSGÅRD.

Even if you were to scrutinise your conduct as closely as you once scrutinised mine?

ROSMER.

Your tone is very curious. What are you hinting at? Anything definite?

MORTENSGÅRD.

Yes, something definite. Only one thing. But _that_ might be bad enough, if malicious opponents got wind of it.

ROSMER.

Will you have the kindness to let me hear what it is?

MORTENSGÅRD.

Cannot you guess for yourself, Pastor?

ROSMER.

No, certainly not. I have not the slightest idea.

MORTENSGÅRD.

Well well, I suppose I must come out with it then.—I have in my possession a strange letter, dated from Rosmersholm.

ROSMER.

Miss West’s letter, do you mean? Is it so strange?

MORTENSGÅRD.

No, there’s nothing strange about that. But I once received another letter from this house.

ROSMER.

Also from Miss West?

MORTENSGÅRD.

No, Mr. Rosmer.

ROSMER.

Well then, from whom? From whom?

MORTENSGÅRD.

From the late Mrs. Rosmer.

ROSMER.

From my wife! You received a letter from my wife!

MORTENSGÅRD.

I did.

ROSMER.

When?

MORTENSGÅRD.

Towards the close of Mrs. Rosmer’s life. Perhaps about a year and a half ago. That is the letter I call strange.

ROSMER.

I suppose you know that my wife’s mind was affected at that time.

MORTENSGÅRD.

Yes; I know many people thought so. But I don’t think there was anything in the letter to show it. When I call it strange, I mean in another sense.

ROSMER.

And what in the world did my poor wife take it into her head to write to _you_ about?

MORTENSGÅRD.

I have the letter at home. She begins to the effect that she is living in great anxiety and fear; there are so many malicious people about here, she says; and they think of nothing but causing you trouble and injury.

ROSMER.

Me?

MORTENSGÅRD.

Yes, so she says. And then comes the strangest part of all. Shall I go on, Pastor Rosmer?

ROSMER.

Assuredly! Tell me everything, without reserve.

MORTENSGÅRD.

The deceased lady begs and implores me to be magnanimous. She knows, she says, that it was her husband that had me dismissed from my post as teacher; and she conjures me by all that’s sacred not to avenge myself.

ROSMER.

How did she suppose you could avenge yourself?

MORTENSGÅRD.

The letter says that if I should hear rumours of sinful doings at Rosmersholm, I am not to believe them; they are only spread abroad by wicked people who wish to make you unhappy.

ROSMER.

Is all that in the letter?

MORTENSGÅRD.

You may read it for yourself, sir, when you please.

ROSMER.

But I don’t understand——! What did she imagine the rumours to be about?

MORTENSGÅRD.

Firstly, that the Pastor had deserted the faith of his fathers. Your wife denied that absolutely—then. And next—h’m——

ROSMER.

Next?

MORTENSGÅRD.

Well, next she writes—rather confusedly—that she knows nothing of any sinful intrigue at Rosmersholm; that she has never been wronged in any way. And if any such rumours should get about, she implores me to say nothing of the matter in the “Beacon.”

ROSMER.

Is no name mentioned?

MORTENSGÅRD.

None.

ROSMER.

Who brought you the letter?

MORTENSGÅRD.

I have promised not to say. It was handed to me one evening, at dusk.

ROSMER.

If you had made inquiries at the time, you would have learnt that my poor unhappy wife was not fully accountable for her actions.

MORTENSGÅRD.

I did make inquiries, Pastor Rosmer. But I must say that was not the impression I received.

ROSMER.

Was it not?—But what is your precise reason for telling me now about this incomprehensible old letter?

MORTENSGÅRD.

To impress on you the necessity for extreme prudence, Pastor Rosmer.

ROSMER.

In my life, do you mean?

MORTENSGÅRD.

Yes. You must remember that from to-day you have ceased to be a neutral.

ROSMER.

Then you have quite made up your mind that I must have something to conceal?

MORTENSGÅRD.

I don’t know why an emancipated man should refrain from living his life out as fully as possible. But, as I said before, be exceedingly cautious in future. If anything should get abroad that conflicts with current prejudices, you may be sure the whole liberal movement will have to suffer for it.—Good-bye, Pastor Rosmer.

ROSMER.

Good-bye.

MORTENSGÅRD.

I shall go straight to the office and have the great news put into the “Beacon.”

ROSMER.

Yes; omit nothing.

MORTENSGÅRD.

I shall omit nothing that the public need know.

[_He bows and goes out._ ROSMER _remains standing in the doorway
while he goes down the stairs. The outer door is heard to
close._

ROSMER.

[_In the doorway, calls softly._] Rebecca! Re—— H’m. [_Aloud._] Madam Helseth,—is Miss West not there?

MADAM HELSETH.

[_From the hall._] No, Pastor Rosmer, she’s not here.

[_The curtain at the back is drawn aside._ REBECCA _appears in
the doorway._

REBECCA.

Rosmer!

ROSMER.

[_Turns._] What! Were you in my room? My dear, what were you doing there?

REBECCA.

[_Goes up to him._] I was listening.

ROSMER.

Oh, Rebecca, how could you?

REBECCA.

I could not help it. He said it so hatefully—that about my morning gown——

ROSMER.

Then you were there when Kroll——?

REBECCA.

Yes. I wanted to know what was lurking in his mind.

ROSMER.

I would have told you.

REBECCA.

You would scarcely have told me all. And certainly not in his own words.

ROSMER.

Did you hear everything, then?

REBECCA.

Nearly everything, I think. I had to go downstairs for a moment when Mortensgård came.

ROSMER.

And then you came back again——?

REBECCA.

Don’t be vexed with me, dear friend!

ROSMER.

Do whatever you think right. You are mistress of your own actions.—But what do you say to all this, Rebecca——? Oh, I seem never to have needed you so much before!

REBECCA.

Both you and I have been prepared for what must happen some time.

ROSMER.

No, no—not for this.

REBECCA.

Not for this?

ROSMER.

I knew well enough that sooner or later our beautiful, pure friendship might be misinterpreted and soiled. Not by Kroll—I could never have believed such a thing of him—but by all those other people with the coarse souls and the ignoble eyes. Oh yes—I had reason enough for keeping our alliance so jealously concealed. It was a dangerous secret.

REBECCA.

Oh, why should we care what all those people think! We know in our own hearts that we are blameless.

ROSMER.

Blameless? I? Yes, I thought so—till to-day. But now—now, Rebecca——?

REBECCA.

Well, what now?

ROSMER.

How am I to explain Beata’s terrible accusation?

REBECCA.

[_Vehemently._] Oh, don’t speak of Beata! Don’t think of Beata any more! You were just beginning to shake off the hold she has upon you, even in the grave.

ROSMER.

Since I have heard all this, she seems, in a ghastly sort of way, to be alive again.

REBECCA.

Oh no—not that, Rosmer! Not that!

ROSMER.

Yes, I tell you. We must try to get to the bottom of this. What can possibly have led her to misinterpret things so fatally?

REBECCA.

You are surely not beginning to doubt that she was on the very verge of insanity?

ROSMER.

Oh yes—that is just what I can’t feel quite certain of any longer. And besides—even if she was——

REBECCA.

If she was? Well, what then?

ROSMER.

I mean—where are we to look for the determining cause that drove her morbid spirit over the border-line of madness?

REBECCA.

Oh, why brood over problems no one can solve?

ROSMER.

I cannot help it, Rebecca. I cannot shake off these gnawing doubts, however much I may wish to.

REBECCA.

But it may become dangerous—this eternal dwelling upon one miserable subject.

ROSMER.

[_Walks about restlessly, in thought._] I must have betrayed myself in one way or another. She must have noticed how happy I began to feel from the time _you_ came to us.

REBECCA.

Yes but, dear, even if she did——?

ROSMER.

Be sure it didn’t escape her that we read the same books—that the interest of discussing all the new ideas drew us together. Yet I cannot understand it! I was so careful to spare her. As I look back, it seems to me I made it the business of my life to keep her in ignorance of all our interests. Did I not, Rebecca?

REBECCA.

Yes, yes; certainly you did.

ROSMER.

And you too. And yet——! Oh, it’s terrible to think of! She must have gone about here—full of her morbid passion—saying never a word—watching us—noting everything—and misinterpreting everything.

REBECCA.

[_Pressing her hands together._] Oh, I should never have come to Rosmersholm!

ROSMER.

To think of all she must have suffered in silence! All the foulness her sick brain must have conjured up around us! Did she never say anything to you to put you at all on the alert?

REBECCA.

[_As if startled._] To me! Do you think I should have stayed a day longer if she had?

ROSMER.

No, no, of course not.—Oh, what a battle she must have fought! And alone too, Rebecca; desperate and quite alone!—and then, at last, that heart-breaking, accusing victory—in the mill-race.

[_Throws himself into the chair by the writing-table, with his
elbows on the table and his face in his hands._

REBECCA.

[_Approaches him cautiously from behind._] Listen, Rosmer. If it were in your power to call Beata back—to you—to Rosmersholm—would you do it?

ROSMER.

Oh, how do I know what I would or would not do? I can think of nothing but this one thing—that cannot be recalled.

REBECCA.

You were just beginning to live, Rosmer. You _had_ begun. You had freed yourself—on every side. You felt so buoyant and happy——

ROSMER.

Oh yes—I did indeed.—And now this crushing blow falls on me.

REBECCA.

[_Behind him, rests her arms on the chair-back._] How beautiful it was when we sat in the twilight, in the room downstairs, helping each other to lay out our new life-plans! You were to set resolutely to work in the world—the living world of to-day, as you said. You were to go as a messenger of emancipation from home to home; to win over minds and wills; to create noble-men around you in wider and wider circles. Noble-men.

ROSMER.

Happy noble-men.

REBECCA.

Yes—happy.

ROSMER.

For it is happiness that ennobles, Rebecca.

REBECCA.

Should you not say—sorrow as well? A great sorrow?

ROSMER.

Yes—if one can get through it—over it—away from it.

REBECCA.

_That_ is what you must do.

ROSMER.

[_Shakes his head gloomily._] I shall never get over this—wholly. There will always be a doubt—a question left. I can never again know that luxury of the soul which makes life so marvellously sweet to live!

REBECCA.

[_Bends over his chair-back, and says more softly_:] What is it you mean, Rosmer?

ROSMER.

[_Looking up at her._] Peaceful, happy innocence.

REBECCA.

[_Recoils a step._] Yes. Innocence.

[_A short pause._

ROSMER.

[_With his elbow on the table, leaning his head on his hand, and looking straight before him._] And what extraordinary penetration she showed! How systematically she put all this together! First she begins to doubt my orthodoxy——How _could_ that occur to her? But it did occur to her; and then it grew to be a certainty. And then—yes, then of course it was easy for her to think all the rest possible. [_Sits up in his chair and runs his hands through his hair._] Oh, all these horrible imaginings! I shall never get rid of them. I feel it. I know it. At any moment they will come rushing in upon me, and bring back the thought of the dead!

REBECCA.

Like the White Horse of Rosmersholm.

ROSMER.

Yes, like that. Rushing forth in the darkness—in the silence.

REBECCA.

And because of this miserable figment of the brain, you will let slip the hold you were beginning to take upon the living world?

ROSMER.

You may well think it hard. Yes, hard, Rebecca. But I have no choice. How could I ever leave this behind me?

REBECCA.

[_Behind his chair._] By entering into new relations.

ROSMER.

[_Surprised, looks up._] New relations?

REBECCA.

Yes, new relations to the outside world. Live, work, act. Don’t sit here brooding and groping among insoluble enigmas.

ROSMER.

[_Rises._] New relations? [_Walks across the floor, stops at the door and then comes back._] One question occurs to me. Has it not occurred to you too, Rebecca?

REBECCA.

[_Drawing breath with difficulty._] Let me—hear—what it is?

ROSMER.

What form do you think _our_ relations will take after to-day?

REBECCA.

I believe our friendship will endure—come what may.

ROSMER.

That is not exactly what I meant. The thing that first brought us together, and that unites us so closely—our common faith in a pure comradeship between man and woman——

REBECCA.

Yes, yes—what of that?

ROSMER.

I mean, that such a relation—as this of ours—does it not presuppose a quiet, happy, peaceful life——?

REBECCA.

What then?

ROSMER.

But the life I must now look forward too is one of struggle and unrest and strong agitations. For I _will_ live my life, Rebecca! I will not be crushed to earth by horrible possibilities. I will not have my course of life forced upon me, either by the living or by—any one else.

REBECCA.

No, no—do not! Be an absolutely free man, Rosmer!

ROSMER.

But can you not guess what is in my mind? Do you not know? Don’t you see how I can best shake off all gnawing memories—all the unhappy past?

REBECCA.

How?

ROSMER.

By opposing to it a new, a living reality.

REBECCA.

[_Feeling for the chair-back._] A living——What do you mean?

ROSMER.

[_Comes nearer._] Rebecca—if I were to ask you—will you be my second wife?

REBECCA.

[_For a moment speechless, then cries out with joy._] Your wife! Your——! I!

ROSMER.

Come; let us try it. We two will be one. The place of the dead must stand empty no longer.

REBECCA.

I—in Beata’s place——!

ROSMER.

Then she will be out of the saga—completely—for ever and ever.

REBECCA.

[_Softly, trembling._] Do you believe that, Rosmer?

ROSMER.

It must be so! It _must_! I cannot—I will not go through life with a dead body on my back. Help me to cast it off, Rebecca. And let us stifle all memories in freedom, in joy, in passion. You shall be to me the only wife I have ever had.

REBECCA.

[_With self-command._] Never speak of this again. I will never be your wife.

ROSMER.

What! Never! Do you not think you could come to love me? Is there not already a strain of love in our friendship?

REBECCA.

[_Puts her hands over her ears as if in terror._] Don’t speak so, Rosmer! Don’t say such things!

ROSMER.

[_Seizes her arm._] Yes, yes—there is a growing promise in our relation. Oh, I can see that you feel it too. Do you not, Rebecca?

REBECCA.

[_Once more firm and calm._] Listen to me. I tell you—if you persist in this, I will go away from Rosmersholm.

ROSMER.

Go away! You! You cannot. It is impossible.

REBECCA.

It is still more impossible that I should be your wife. Never in this world can I marry you.

ROSMER.

[_Looks at her in surprise._] You say “can”; and you say it so strangely. Why can you not?

REBECCA.

[_Seizes both his hands._] Dear friend—both for your own sake and for mine—do not ask why. [_Lets go his hands._] Do not, Rosmer.

[_Goes towards the door on the left._

ROSMER.

Henceforth I can think of nothing but that one question—why?

REBECCA.

[_Turns and looks at him._] Then it is all over.

ROSMER.

Between you and me?

REBECCA.

Yes.

ROSMER.

It will never be all over between us two. You will never leave Rosmersholm.

REBECCA.

[_With her hand on the door-handle._] No, perhaps I shall not. But if you ask me again—it is all over.

ROSMER.

All over? How———?

REBECCA.

For then I will go the way that Beata went. Now you know it, Rosmer.

ROSMER.

Rebecca——?

REBECCA.

[_In the doorway, nods slowly._] Now you know it.

[_She goes out._

ROSMER.

[_Stares, thunderstruck, at the door, and says to himself._] What—is—this?

ACT THIRD.

_The sitting-room at Rosmersholm. The window and the entrance door are
open. The sun is shining outside. Forenoon._

REBECCA WEST, _dressed as in the first Act, stands at the window,
watering and arranging the flowers. Her crochet-work lies in the
arm-chair._ MADAM HELSETH _is moving about, dusting the furniture
with a feather-brush._

REBECCA.

[_After a short silence._] I can’t understand the Pastor remaining so long upstairs to-day.

MADAM HELSETH.

Oh, he often does that. But he’ll soon be down now, I should think.

REBECCA.

Have you seen anything of him?

MADAM HELSETH.

I caught a glimpse of him when I went upstairs with his coffee. He was in his bedroom, dressing.

REBECCA.

I asked because he was a little out of sorts yesterday.

MADAM HELSETH.

He didn’t look well. I wonder if there isn’t something amiss between him and his brother-in-law.

REBECCA.

What do you think it can be?

MADAM HELSETH.

I couldn’t say. Perhaps it’s that Mortensgård that has been setting them against each other.

REBECCA.

Likely enough.—Do you know anything of this Peter Mortensgård?

MADAM HELSETH.

No indeed. How could you think so, Miss? A fellow like him.

REBECCA.

Do you mean because he edits such a low paper?

MADAM HELSETH.

Oh, it’s not only _that_.—You must have heard, Miss, that he had a child by a married woman that had been deserted by her husband?

REBECCA.

Yes, I have heard of it. But it must have been long before I came here.

MADAM HELSETH.

It’s true he was very young at the time; and she should have known better. He wanted to marry her too; but of course he couldn’t do that. And I don’t say he hasn’t paid dear for it.—But, good Lord, Mortensgård has got on in the world since those days. There’s a many people run after him now.

REBECCA.

Yes, most of the poor people bring their affairs to him when they’re in any trouble.

MADAM HELSETH.

Ah, and others too, perhaps, besides the poor folk——

REBECCA.

[_Looks at her furtively._] Indeed.

MADAM HELSETH.

[_By the sofa, dusting away vigorously._] Perhaps the last people you would think likely to, Miss.

REBECCA.

[_Busy with the flowers._] Come now, that’s only an idea of yours, Madam Helseth. You can’t be _sure_ of what you’re saying.

MADAM HELSETH.

You think I can’t, Miss? But I can tell you I am. Why—if you _must_ know it—I once took a letter in to Mortensgård myself.

REBECCA.

[_Turning._] No—did you?

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes, indeed I did. And a letter that was written here at Rosmersholm too.

REBECCA.

Really, Madam Helseth?

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes, that it was. And it was on fine paper, and there was a fine red seal on it too.

REBECCA.

And it was given to you to deliver? Then, my dear Madam Helseth, it’s not difficult to guess who wrote it.

MADAM HELSETH.

Well?

REBECCA.

It must have been something that poor Mrs. Rosmer, in her morbid state——

MADAM HELSETH.

It’s you that say _that_, Miss, not me.

REBECCA.

But what was in the letter? Oh, I forgot——_you_ can’t know that.

MADAM HELSETH.

H’m; what if I did know it, all the same?

REBECCA.

Did she tell you what she was writing about?

MADAM HELSETH.

No, she didn’t exactly do that. But Mortensgård, when he’d read it, he began questioning me backwards and forwards and up and down, so that I soon guessed what was in it.

REBECCA.

Then what do you think it was? Oh my dear good Madam Helseth, do tell me.

MADAM HELSETH.

Oh no, Miss. Not for the whole world.

REBECCA.

Oh you can surely tell me. We two are such good friends.

MADAM HELSETH.

Lord preserve me from telling you anything about _that_, Miss. I can only tell you that it was something horrible that they’d got the poor sick lady to believe.

REBECCA.

Who had got her to believe it?

MADAM HELSETH.

Wicked people, Miss West. Wicked people.

REBECCA.

Wicked——?

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes, I say it again. They must have been real wicked people.

REBECCA.

And who do you think it could have been?

MADAM HELSETH.

Oh, I know well enough what to think. But Lord forbid _I_ should say anything. To be sure there’s a certain lady in the town—h’m!

REBECCA.

I can see that you mean Mrs. Kroll.

MADAM HELSETH.

Ah, she’s a fine one, she is. She has always been the great lady with me. And she’s never had any too much love for you neither.

REBECCA.

Do you think Mrs. Rosmer was in her right mind when she wrote that letter to Mortensgård?

MADAM HELSETH.

It’s a queer thing a person’s mind, Miss. Clean out of her mind I don’t think she was.

REBECCA.

But she seemed to go distracted when she learned that she must always be childless. It was _that_ that unsettled her reason.

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes, poor lady, that was a dreadful blow to her.

REBECCA.

[_Takes up her crochet and sits in a chair by the window._] But after all—don’t you think it was a good thing for the Pastor, Madam Helseth?

MADAM HELSETH.

What, Miss?

REBECCA.

That there were no children. Don’t you think so?

MADAM HELSETH.

H’m, I’m sure I don’t know what to say about that.

REBECCA.

Oh yes, believe me, it was fortunate for him. Pastor Rosmer is not the man to have crying children about his house.

MADAM HELSETH.

Ah, Miss, little children don’t cry at Rosmersholm.

REBECCA.

[_Looks at her._] Don’t cry?

MADAM HELSETH.

No. As long as people can remember, children have never been known to cry in this house.

REBECCA.

That’s very strange.

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes; isn’t it? But it runs in the family. And then there’s another strange thing. When they grow up, they never laugh. Never, as long as they live.

REBECCA.

Why, how extraordinary——

MADAM HELSETH.

Have you ever once heard or seen the Pastor laugh, Miss?

REBECCA.

No—now that I think of it, I almost believe you are right. But I don’t think any one laughs much in this part of the country.

MADAM HELSETH.

No, they don’t. They say it began at Rosmersholm. And then I suppose it spread round about, as if it was catching-like.

REBECCA.

You are a very wise woman, Madam Helseth.

MADAM HELSETH.

Oh, Miss, you mustn’t sit there and make fun of me. [_Listens._] Hush, hush—here’s the Pastor coming down. He doesn’t like to see dusting going on.

[_She goes out to the right._

JOHANNES ROSMER, _with his hat and stick in his hand, enters
from the hall._

ROSMER.

Good morning, Rebecca.

REBECCA.

Good morning, dear. [_A moment after—crocheting._] Are you going out?

ROSMER.

Yes.

REBECCA.

It’s a beautiful day.

ROSMER.

You didn’t look in on me this morning.

REBECCA.

No, I didn’t. Not to-day.

ROSMER.

Do you not intend to in future?

REBECCA.

Oh, I don’t know yet, dear.

ROSMER.

Has anything come for me?

REBECCA.

The “County News” has come.

ROSMER.

The “County News”?

REBECCA.

There it is on the table.

ROSMER.

[_Puts down his hat and stick._] Is there anything——?

REBECCA.

Yes.

ROSMER.

And you didn’t send it up?

REBECCA.

You will read it soon enough.

ROSMER.

Oh, indeed? [_Takes the paper and reads, standing by the table._]—What!—“We cannot warn our readers too earnestly against unprincipled renegades.” [_Looks at her._] They call me a renegade, Rebecca.

REBECCA.

They mention no names.

ROSMER.

That makes no difference. [_Reads on._] “Secret traitors to the good cause.”—“Judas-natures, who make brazen confession of their apostasy as soon as they think the most convenient and—profitable moment has arrived.” “Ruthless befouling of a name honoured through generations”—“in the confident hope of a suitable reward from the party in momentary power.” [_Lays down the paper on the table._] And they can say such things of me!—Men who have known me so long and so well! Things they themselves don’t believe. Things they know there is not a word of truth in—they print them all the same.

REBECCA.

That is not all.

ROSMER.

[_Takes up the paper again._] “Inexperience and lack of judgment the only excuse”—“pernicious influence—possibly extending to matters which, for the present, we do not wish to make subjects of public discussion or accusation.” [_Looks at her._] What is this?

REBECCA.

It is aimed at me, plainly enough.

ROSMER.

[_Lays down the paper._] Rebecca,—this is the conduct of dishonourable men.

REBECCA.

Yes, they need scarcely be so contemptuous of Mortensgård.

ROSMER.

[_Walks about the room._] Something _must_ be done. All that is good in human nature will go to ruin, if this is allowed to go on. But it _shall_ not go on! Oh, what a joy—what a joy it would be to me to let a little light into all this gloom and ugliness!

REBECCA.

[_Rises._] Ah yes, Rosmer. In that you have a great and glorious object to live for.

ROSMER.

Only think, if I could rouse them to see themselves as they are; teach them to repent and blush before their better natures; bring them together in mutual forbearance—in love, Rebecca!

REBECCA.

Yes, put your whole strength into that, and you _must_ succeed.

ROSMER.

I think success must be possible. Oh, what a delight it would be then to live one’s life! No more malignant wrangling; only emulation. All eyes fixed on the same goal. Every mind, every will pressing forward—upward—each by the path its nature prescribes for it. Happiness for all—through all. [_Happens to look out of the window, starts, and says sadly._] Ah! Not through me.

REBECCA.

Not——? Not through you?

ROSMER.

Nor for me.

REBECCA.

Oh Rosmer, do not let such doubts take hold of you.

ROSMER.

Happiness—dear Rebecca—happiness is above all things the calm, glad certainty of innocence.

REBECCA.

[_Looks straight before her._] Yes, innocence——

ROSMER.

Oh, _you_ cannot know what guilt means. But I——

REBECCA.

You least of all!

ROSMER.

[_Points out of the window._] The mill race.

REBECCA.

Oh Rosmer——!

MADAM HELSETH _looks in at the door._

MADAM HELSETH.

Miss West!

REBECCA.

Presently, presently. Not now.

MADAM HELSETH.

Only a word, Miss.

[REBECCA _goes to the door._ MADAM HELSETH _tells her something.
They whisper together for a few moments._ MADAM HELSETH
_nods and goes out._

ROSMER.

[_Uneasily._] Was it anything for me?

REBECCA.

No, only something about the house-work.—You ought to go out into the fresh air, dear Rosmer. You should take a good long walk.

ROSMER.

[_Takes up his hat._] Yes, come. Let us go together.

REBECCA.

No, dear, I can’t just now. You must go alone. But shake off all these gloomy thoughts. Promise me.

ROSMER.

I am afraid I shall never shake them off.

REBECCA.

Oh, that such baseless fancies should take so strong a hold of you——!

ROSMER.

Not so baseless I am afraid, Rebecca. I lay awake all night thinking it over and over. Perhaps Beata saw clearly after all.

REBECCA.

In what?

ROSMER.

In her belief that I loved you, Rebecca.

REBECCA.

Right in _that_!

ROSMER.

[_Lays his hat down on the table._] The question that haunts me is this: were we two not deceiving ourselves all the time—when we called our relation friendship?

REBECCA.

You mean that it might as well have been called——?

ROSMER.

——love. Yes, Rebecca, that is what I mean. Even while Beata was alive, all my thoughts were for you. It was you alone I longed for. It was when you were by my side that I felt the calm gladness of utter content. If you think it over, Rebecca—did we not feel for each other from the first a sort of sweet, secret child-love—desireless, dreamless? Was it not so with you? Tell me.

REBECCA.

[_Struggling with herself._] Oh—I don’t know what to answer.

ROSMER.

And it was this close-linked life in and for each other that we took for friendship. No, Rebecca—our bond has been a spiritual marriage—perhaps from the very first. That is why there is guilt on my soul. I had no right to such happiness—it was a sin against Beata.

REBECCA.

No right to live happily? Do you believe that, Rosmer?

ROSMER.

She looked at our relation with the eyes of her love—judged it after the fashion of _her_ love. Inevitably. Beata could not have judged otherwise than she did.

REBECCA.

But how can you accuse yourself because of Beata’s delusion?

ROSMER.

It was love for me—_her_ kind of love—that drove her into the mill race. That is an immovable fact, Rebecca. And that is what I can never get over.

REBECCA.

Oh, think of nothing but the great, beautiful task you have devoted your life to.

ROSMER.

[_Shakes his head._] It can never be accomplished, dear. Not by me. Not after what I have come to know.

REBECCA.

Why not by you?

ROSMER.

Because no cause ever triumphs that has its origin in sin.

REBECCA.

[_Vehemently._] Oh, these are only ancestral doubts—ancestral fears—ancestral scruples. They say the dead come back to Rosmersholm in the shape of rushing white horses. I think this shows that it is true.

ROSMER.

Be that as it may; what does it matter, so long as I cannot rid myself of the feeling? And believe me, Rebecca, it is as I tell you. The cause that is to win a lasting victory must have for its champion a happy, an innocent man.

REBECCA.

Is happiness so indispensable to you, Rosmer?

ROSMER.

Happiness? Yes, dear,—it is.

REBECCA.

To you, who can never laugh?

ROSMER.

Yes, in spite of that. Believe me, I have a great capacity for happiness.

REBECCA.

Now go for your walk, dear. A good long walk. Do you hear?—See, here is your hat. And your stick too.

ROSMER.

[_Takes both._] Thanks. And you won’t come with me?

REBECCA.

No, no; I can’t just now.

ROSMER.

Very well, then. You are with me none the less.

[_He goes out by the entrance door._ REBECCA _waits a moment,
cautiously watching his departure from behind the open door;
then she goes to the door on the right._

REBECCA.

[_Opens the door, and says in a low tone._] Now, Madam Helseth. You can show him in now.

[_Goes towards the window._

_A moment after_ RECTOR KROLL _enters from the right. He bows
silently and formally, and keeps his hat in his hand._

KROLL.

He has gone out?

REBECCA.

Yes.

KROLL.

Does he usually stay out long?

REBECCA.

Yes, he does. But one cannot count on him to-day. So if you don’t care to meet him——

KROLL.

No, no. It is you I want to speak to,—quite alone.

REBECCA.

Then we had better not lose time. Sit down, Rector.

[_She sits in the easy-chair by the window._ RECTOR KROLL _sits
on a chair beside her._

KROLL.

Miss West—you can scarcely imagine how deeply and painfully I have taken this to heart—this change in Johannes Rosmer.

REBECCA.

We expected it would be so—at first.

KROLL.

Only at first?

REBECCA.

Rosmer was confident that sooner or later you would join him.

KROLL.

I?

REBECCA.

You and all his other friends.

KROLL.

Ah, there you see! That shows the infirmity of his judgment in all that concerns men and practical life.

REBECCA.

But after all—since he feels it a necessity to emancipate himself on all sides——

KROLL.

Yes, but wait—that is just what I do not believe.

REBECCA.

What _do_ you believe then?

KROLL.

I believe that _you_ are at the bottom of it all.

REBECCA.

It is your wife who has put that in your head, Rector Kroll.

KROLL.

No matter who has put it in my head. What is certain is that I feel a strong suspicion—an exceedingly strong suspicion—when I think things over, and piece together all I know of your behaviour ever since you came here.

REBECCA.

[_Looks at him._] I seem to recollect a time when you felt an exceedingly strong _faith_ in me, dear Rector. I might almost call it a _warm_ faith.

KROLL.

[_In a subdued voice._] Whom could you not bewitch—if you tried?

REBECCA.

Did I try——?

KROLL.

Yes, you did. I am no longer such a fool as to believe that there was any feeling in the matter. You simply wanted to get a footing at Rosmersholm—to strike root here—and in that I was to serve you. Now I see it.

REBECCA.

You seem utterly to have forgotten that it was Beata who begged and implored me to come out here?

KROLL.

Yes, when you had bewitched her to. Can the feeling she came to entertain for you be called friendship? It was adoration—almost idolatry. It developed into—what shall I call it?—a sort of desperate passion.—Yes, that is the right word for it.

REBECCA.

Be so good as to recollect the state your sister was in. So far as I am concerned, I don’t think any one can accuse me of being hysterical.

KROLL.

No; that you certainly are not. But that makes you all the more dangerous to the people you want to get into your power. It is easy for you to weigh your acts and calculate consequences—just because your heart is cold.

REBECCA.

Cold? Are you so sure of that?

KROLL.

I am quite certain of it now. Otherwise you could never have lived here year after year without faltering in the pursuit of your object. Well, well—you have gained your end. You have got him and everything into your power. But in order to do so, you have not scrupled to make him unhappy.

REBECCA.

That is not true. It is not I—it is you yourself that have made him unhappy.

KROLL.

I?

REBECCA.

Yes, when you led him to imagine that he was responsible for Beata’s terrible end.

KROLL.

Does he feel that so deeply, then?

REBECCA.

How can you doubt it? A mind so sensitive as his——

KROLL.

I thought that an emancipated man, so called, was above all such scruples.—But there we have it! Oh yes—I admit I knew how it would be. The descendant of the men that look down on us from these walls—how could he hope to cut himself adrift from all that has been handed down without a break from generation to generation?

REBECCA.

[_Looks down thoughtfully._] Johannes Rosmer’s spirit is deeply rooted in his ancestry. That is very certain.

KROLL.

Yes, and you should have taken that fact into consideration, if you had felt any affection for him. But that sort of consideration was no doubt beyond you. There is such an immeasurable difference between your antecedents and his.

REBECCA.

What antecedents do you mean?

KROLL.

I am speaking of your origin—your family antecedents, Miss West.

REBECCA.

Oh, indeed! Yes, it is quite true that I come of very humble folk. Nevertheless——

KROLL.

I am not thinking of rank and position. I allude to your moral antecedents.

REBECCA.

Moral——? In what sense?

KROLL.

The circumstances of your birth.

REBECCA.

What do you mean?

KROLL.

I only mention the matter because it accounts for your whole conduct.

REBECCA.

I do not understand this. You must explain.

KROLL.

I really did not suppose you could require an explanation. Otherwise it would have been very odd that you should have let Dr. West adopt you——

REBECCA.

[_Rises._] Ah! Now I understand.

KROLL.

——and that you should have taken his name. Your mother’s name was Gamvik.

REBECCA.

[_Walks across the room._] My father’s name was Gamvik, Rector Kroll.

KROLL.

Your mother’s business must have brought her very frequently into contact with the parish doctor.

REBECCA.

Yes, it did.

KROLL.

And then he takes you into his house—as soon as your mother dies. He treats you harshly; and yet you stay with him. You know that he won’t leave you a halfpenny—as a matter of fact, you only got a case full of books—and yet you stay on; you bear with him; you nurse him to the last.

REBECCA.

[_Stands by the table, looking scornfully at him._] And you account for all this by assuming that there was something immoral—something criminal about my birth?

KROLL.

I attribute your care for him to involuntary filial instinct. Indeed I believe your whole conduct is determined by your origin.

REBECCA.

[_Vehemently._] But there is not a single word of truth in what you say! And I can prove it! Dr. West did not come to Finmark till after I was born.

KROLL.

Excuse me, Miss West. He settled there the year before. I have assured myself of that.

REBECCA.

You are mistaken, I say! You are utterly mistaken.

KROLL.

You told me the day before yesterday that you were nine-and-twenty—in your thirtieth year.

REBECCA.

Indeed! Did I say so?

KROLL.

Yes, you did. And I can calculate from that——

REBECCA.

Stop! You needn’t calculate. I may as well tell you at once: I am a year older than I give myself out to be.

KROLL.

[_Smiles incredulously._] Really! I am surprised! What can be the reason of that?

REBECCA.

When I had passed twenty-five, it seemed to me I was getting altogether too old for an unmarried woman. And so I began to lie about my age.

KROLL.

You? An emancipated woman! Have you prejudices about the age for marriage?

REBECCA.

Yes, it was idiotic of me—idiotic and absurd. But some folly or other will always cling to us, not to be shaken off. We are made so.

KROLL.

Well, so be it; but my calculation may be right, none the less. For Dr. West was up there on a short visit the year before he got the appointment.

REBECCA.

[_With a vehement outburst._] It is not true!

KROLL.

Is it not true?

REBECCA.

No. My mother never spoke of any such visit.

KROLL.

Did she not?

REBECCA.

No, never. Nor Dr. West either; not a word about it.

KROLL.

Might not that be because they both had reasons for suppressing a year? Just as you have done, Miss West. Perhaps it is a family foible.

REBECCA.

[_Walks about clenching and wringing her hands._] It is impossible. You want to cheat me into believing it. This can never, never be true! It cannot! Never in this world——!

KROLL.

[_Rises._] My dear Miss West—why in heaven’s name are you so terribly excited? You quite frighten me! What am I to think—to believe——?

REBECCA.

Nothing! You are to think and believe nothing.

KROLL.

Then you must really tell me how you can take this affair—this possibility—so terribly to heart.

REBECCA.

[_Controlling herself._] It is perfectly simple, Rector Kroll. I have no wish to be taken for an illegitimate child.

KROLL.

Indeed! Well well, let us be satisfied with that explanation—in the meantime. But in that case you must still have a certain—prejudice on that point too?

REBECCA.

Yes, I suppose I have.

KROLL.

Ah, I fancy it is much the same with most of what you call your “emancipation.” You have read yourself into a number of new ideas and opinions. You have got a sort of smattering of recent discoveries in various fields—discoveries that seem to overthrow certain principles which have hitherto been held impregnable and unassailable. But all this has only been a matter of the intellect, Miss West—a superficial acquisition. It has not passed into your blood.

REBECCA.

[_Thoughtfully._] Perhaps you are right.

KROLL.

Yes, look into your own mind, and you will see! And if this is the case with you, one may easily guess how it must be with Johannes Rosmer. It is sheer, unmitigated madness—it is running blindfold to destruction—for him to think of coming openly forward and confessing himself an apostate! Only think—a man of his sensitive nature! Imagine him disowned and persecuted by the circle of which he has always formed a part—exposed to ruthless attacks from all the best people in the community! He is not—he never can be the man to endure all that.

REBECCA.

He _must_ endure it! It is too late now for him to retreat.

KROLL.

Not at all too late. By no means. What has happened can be hushed up—or at least explained away as a mere temporary aberration, however deplorable. But—one measure is certainly indispensable.

REBECCA.

And what is that?

KROLL.

You must get him to legalise the position, Miss West.

REBECCA.

His position towards me?

KROLL.

Yes. You must make him do that.

REBECCA.

Then you absolutely cannot clear your mind of the idea that our position requires to be—legalised, as you call it?

KROLL.

I would rather not go into the matter too closely. But I believe I have noticed that it is nowhere easier to break through all so-called prejudices than in—h’m——

REBECCA.

In the relation between man and woman, you mean?

KROLL.

Yes,—to speak plainly—I think so.

REBECCA.

[_Wanders across the room and looks out at the window._] I could almost say—I wish you were right, Rector Kroll.

KROLL.

What do you mean by that? You say it so strangely.

REBECCA.

Oh, well—please let us drop the subject. Ah,—there he comes.

KROLL.

Already! Then I will go.

REBECCA.

[_Goes towards him._] No—please stay. There is something I want you to hear.

KROLL.

Not now. I don’t feel as if I could bear to see him.

REBECCA.

I beg you to stay. Do! If not, you will regret it by-and-by. It is the last time I shall ask you for anything.

KROLL.

[_Looks at her in surprise and puts down his hat._] Very well, Miss West—so be it, then.

_A short silence. Then_ JOHANNES ROSMER _enters from the hall._

ROSMER.

[_Sees the_ RECTOR, _and stops in the doorway._] What!—Are _you_ here?

REBECCA.

He did not wish to meet you, dear.[11]

KROLL.

[_Involuntarily._] “Dear!”

REBECCA.

Yes, Rector Kroll, Rosmer and I say “dear” to each other. That is one result of our “position.”

KROLL.

Was _that_ what you wanted me to hear?

REBECCA.

That—and a little more.

ROSMER.

[_Comes forward._] What is the object of this visit?

KROLL.

I wanted to try once more to stop you and win you back to us.

ROSMER.

[_Points to the newspaper._] After what appears in that paper?

KROLL.

I did not write it.

ROSMER.

Did you make the slightest effort to prevent its appearance?

KROLL.

That would have been to betray the cause I serve. And, besides, it was not in my power.

REBECCA.

[_Tears the paper into shreds, crushes up the pieces and throws them behind the stove._] There! Now it is out of sight. And let it be out of mind too. For there will be nothing more of that sort, Rosmer.

KROLL.

Ah, if you could only make sure of _that_!

REBECCA.

Come, let us sit down, dear. All three of us. And then I will tell you everything.

ROSMER.

[_Seats himself mechanically._] What has come over you, Rebecca? This unnatural calmness—what is it?

REBECCA.

The calmness of resolution. [_Seats herself._] Pray sit down too, Rector.

[RECTOR KROLL _seats himself on the sofa._

ROSMER.

Resolution, you say? What resolution?

REBECCA.

I am going to give you back what you require in order to live your life. Dear friend, you shall have your happy innocence back again!

ROSMER.

What can you mean?

REBECCA.

I have only to tell you something. That will be enough.

ROSMER.

Well!

REBECCA.

When I came down here from Finmark—along with Dr. West—it seemed to me that a great, wide new world was opening up before me. The Doctor had taught me all sorts of things—all the fragmentary knowledge of life that I possessed in those days. [_With a struggle and in a scarcely audible voice._] And then——

KROLL.

And then?

ROSMER.

But Rebecca—I know all this.

REBECCA.

[_Mastering herself._] Yes, yes—you are right. You know enough about this.

KROLL.

[_Looks hard at her._] Perhaps I had better go.

REBECCA.

No, please stay where you are, my dear Rector. [_To_ ROSMER.] Well, you see, this was how it was—I wanted to take my share in the life of the new era that was dawning, with all its new ideas.—Rector Kroll told me one day that Ulric Brendel had had great influence over you while you were still a boy. I thought it must surely be possible for me to carry on his work.

ROSMER.

You came here with a secret design——?

REBECCA.

We two, I thought, should march onward in freedom, side by side. Ever onward. Ever farther and farther to the front. But between you and perfect emancipation there rose that dismal, insurmountable barrier.

ROSMER.

What barrier do you mean?

REBECCA.

I mean this, Rosmer: You could grow into freedom only in the clear, fresh sunshine—and here you were pining, sickening in the gloom of such a marriage.

ROSMER.

You have never before spoken to me of my marriage in _that_ tone.

REBECCA.

No, I did not dare to, for I should have frightened you.

KROLL.

[_Nods to_ ROSMER.] Do you hear _that_?

REBECCA.

[_Goes on._] But I saw quite well where your deliverance lay—your only deliverance. And then I went to work.

ROSMER.

Went to work? In what way?

KROLL.

Do you mean that——?

REBECCA.

Yes, Rosmer—— [_Rises._] Sit still. You too, Rector Kroll. But now it must out. It was not you, Rosmer. You are innocent. It was _I_ that lured—that ended in luring Beata out into the paths of delusion——

ROSMER.

[_Springs up._] Rebecca!

KROLL.

[_Rises from the sofa._] The paths of delusion!

REBECCA.

The paths—that led to the mill race. Now you know it, both of you.

ROSMER.

[_As if stunned._] But I don’t understand——What is it she is saying? I don’t understand a word——!

KROLL.

Oh yes, Rosmer, I am beginning to understand.

ROSMER.

But what did you do? What can you possibly have told her? There was nothing—absolutely nothing to tell!

REBECCA.

She came to know that you were working yourself free from all the old prejudices.

ROSMER.

Yes, but that was not the case at that time.

REBECCA.

I knew that it soon would be.

KROLL.

[_Nods to_ ROSMER.] Aha!

ROSMER.

And then? What more? I must know all now.

REBECCA.

Some time after—I begged and implored her to let me go away from Rosmersholm.

ROSMER.

Why did you want to go—then?

REBECCA.

I did not want to go; I wanted to stay here, where I was. But I told her that it would be best for us all—that I should go away in time. I gave her to understand that if I stayed here any longer, I could not—I could not tell—what might happen.

ROSMER.

Then this is what you said and did!

REBECCA.

Yes, Rosmer.

ROSMER.

_This_ is what you call “going to work.”

REBECCA.

[_In a broken voice._] I called it so, yes.

ROSMER.

[_After a pause._] Have you confessed all now, Rebecca?

REBECCA.

Yes.

KROLL.

Not all.

REBECCA.

[_Looks at him in fear._] What more should there be?

KROLL.

Did you not at last give Beata to understand that it was necessary—not only that it would be wisest, but that it was necessary—both for your own sake and Rosmer’s, that you should go away somewhere—as soon as possible?—Well?

REBECCA.

[_Low and indistinctly._] Perhaps I did say something of the sort.

ROSMER.

[_Sinks into the arm-chair by the window_] And this tissue of lies and deceit she—my unhappy, sick wife believed in! Believed in it so firmly! So immovably! [_Looks up at_ REBECCA.] And she never turned to me. Never said one word to me! Oh, Rebecca,—I can see it in your face—you dissuaded her from it!

REBECCA.

She had conceived a fixed idea that she, as a childless wife, had no right to be here. And then she imagined that it was her duty to you to efface herself.

ROSMER.

And you—you did nothing to disabuse her of the idea?

REBECCA.

No.

KROLL.

Perhaps you confirmed her in it? Answer me! Did you not?

REBECCA.

I believe she may have understood me so.

ROSMER.

Yes, yes—and in everything she bowed before your will. And she did efface herself! [_Springs up._] How could you—how could you play this ghastly game!

REBECCA.

It seemed to me I had to choose between your life and hers, Rosmer.

KROLL.

[_Severely and impressively._] That choice was not for _you_ to make.

REBECCA.

[_Vehemently._] You think then that I was cool and calculating and self-possessed all the time! I was not the same woman then that I am now, as I stand here telling it all. Besides, there are two sorts of will in us I believe! I wanted Beata away, by one means or another; but I never really believed that it would come to pass. As I felt my way forward, at each step I ventured, I seemed to hear something within me cry out: No farther! Not a step farther! And yet I _could_ not stop. I had to venture the least little bit farther. Only one hair’s-breadth more. And then one more—and always one more.—And then it happened.—That is the way such things come about.

[_A short silence._

ROSMER

[_To_ REBECCA.] What do you think lies before _you_ now? After this?

REBECCA.

Things must go with me as they will. It doesn’t greatly matter.

KROLL.

Not a word of remorse! Is it possible you feel none?

REBECCA.

[_Coldly putting aside his question._] Excuse me, Rector Kroll—that is a matter which concerns no one but me. I must settle it with myself.

KROLL.

[_To_ ROSMER.] And this is the woman you are living under the same roof with—in the closest intimacy! [_Looks round at the pictures._] Oh if those that are gone could see us now!

ROSMER.

Are you going back to town?

KROLL.

[_Takes up his hat._] Yes. The sooner the better.

ROSMER.

[_Does the same._] Then I will go with you.

KROLL.

Will you! Ah yes, I was sure we had not lost you for good.

ROSMER.

Come then, Kroll! Come!

[_Both go out through the hall without looking at_ REBECCA.

[_After a moment,_ REBECCA _goes cautiously to the window and
looks out through the flowers._

REBECCA.

[_Speaks to herself under her breath._] Not over the foot-bridge to-day either. He goes round. Never across the mill race. Never. [_Leaves the window._] Well, well, well!

[_Goes and pulls the bell-rope; a moment after,_ MADAM HELSETH
_enters from the right._

MADAM HELSETH.

What is it, Miss?

REBECCA.

Madam Helseth, would you be so good as to have my trunk brought down from the garret?

MADAM HELSETH.

Your trunk?

REBECCA.

Yes—the brown sealskin trunk, you know.

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes, yes. But, Lord preserve us—are you going on a journey, Miss?

REBECCA.

Yes—now I am going on a journey, Madam Helseth.

MADAM HELSETH.

And immediately!

REBECCA.

As soon as I have packed up.

MADAM HELSETH.

Well, I’ve never heard the like of that! But you’ll come back again soon, Miss, of course?

REBECCA.

I shall never come back again.

MADAM HELSETH.

Never! Dear Lord, what will things be like at Rosmersholm when you’re gone, Miss? And the poor Pastor was just beginning to be so happy and comfortable.

REBECCA.

Yes, but I have taken fright to-day, Madam Helseth.

MADAM HELSETH.

Taken fright! Dear, dear! how was that?

REBECCA.

I thought I saw something like a glimpse of white horses.

MADAM HELSETH.

White horses! In broad daylight!

REBECCA.

Oh, they are abroad early and late—the white horses of Rosmersholm. [_With a change of tone._] Well,—about the trunk, Madam Helseth.

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes, yes. The trunk. [_Both go out to the right._

-----

Footnote 11:

In the original, Rebecca here addresses Rosmer as “_du_” for the first
time in Kroll’s presence.

ACT FOURTH.

_The sitting-room at Rosmersholm. Late evening. A lighted lamp, with a
shade over it, on the table._

REBECCA WEST _stands by the table, packing some small articles in a
hand-bag. Her cloak, hat, and the white crocheted shawl are
hanging over the back of the sofa._

MADAM HELSETH _enters from the right._

MADAM HELSETH.

[_Speaks in a low voice and appears ill at ease._] All your things have been taken down, Miss. They are in the kitchen passage.

REBECCA.

Very well. You have ordered the carriage?

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes. The coachman wants to know what time he ought to be here.

REBECCA.

About eleven o’clock, I think. The steamer starts at midnight.

MADAM HELSETH.

[_Hesitates a little._] But the Pastor? If he shouldn’t be home by that time?

REBECCA.

I shall go all the same. If I don’t see him, you can tell him that I will write to him—a long letter. Tell him that.

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes, writing—that may be all very well. But, poor Miss West—I do think you should try to speak to him once more.

REBECCA.

Perhaps so. And yet—perhaps not.

MADAM HELSETH.

Well—that I should live to see this! I never thought of such a thing.

REBECCA.

What did you think then, Madam Helseth?

MADAM HELSETH.

Well, I certainly thought Pastor Rosmer was a more dependable man than this.

REBECCA.

Dependable?

MADAM HELSETH.

Yes, that’s what _I_ say.

REBECCA.

Why, my dear Madam Helseth, what do you mean?