ALLMERS. [Yielding.] No, no--I will not. Only let me alone.
ASTA. [Leading him back to the table.] You must rest from your thoughts, Alfred. Come here and sit down.
ALLMERS. [Making as if to seat himself on the bench.] Well, well--as you please.
ASTA. No, I won"t let you sit there.
ALLMERS. Yes, let me.
ASTA. No, don"t. For then you will only sit looking out--[Forces him down upon a chair, with his back to the right.] There now. Now that"s right. [Seats herself upon the bench.] And now we can talk a little again.
ALLMERS. [Drawing a deep breath audibly.] It was good to deaden the sorrow and heartache for a moment.
ASTA. You insist do so, Alfred.
ALLMERS. But don"t you think it is terribly weak and unfeeling of me--to be able to do so?
ASTA. Oh, no--I am sure it is impossible to keep circling for ever round one fixed thought.
ALLMERS. Yes, for me it is impossible. Before you came to me, here I sat, torturing myself unspeakably with this crushing, gnawing sorrow--
ASTA. Yes?
ALLMERS. And would you believe it, Asta--? H"m--
ASTA. Well?
ALLMERS. In the midst of all the agony, I found myself speculating what we should have for dinner to-day.
ASTA. [Soothingly.] Well, well, if only it rests you to--
ALLMERS. Yes, just fancy, dear--it seemed as if it did give me rest.
[Holds out, his hand to her across the table.] How good it is, Asta, that I have you with me. I am so glad of that. Glad, glad--even in my sorrow.
ASTA. [Looking earnestly at him.] You ought most of all to be glad that you have Rita.
ALLMERS. Yes, of course I should. But Rita is no kin to me--it isn"t like having a sister.
ASTA. [Eagerly.] Do you say that, Alfred?
ALLMERS. Yes, our family is a thing apart. [Half jestingly.] We have always had vowels for our initials. Don"t you remember how often we used to speak of that? And all our relations--all equally poor. And we have all the same colour of eyes.
ASTA. Do you think I have--?
ALLMERS. No, you take entirely after your mother. You are not in the least like the rest of us--not even like father. But all the same--
ASTA. All the same--?
ALLMERS. Well, I believe that living together has, as it were, stamped us in each other"s image--mentally, I mean.
ASTA. [With warm emotion.] Oh, you must never say that, Alfred. It is only I that have taken my stamp from you; and it is to you that I owe everything--every good thing in the world.
ALLMERS. [Shaking his head.] You owe me nothing, Asta. On the contrary--
ASTA. I owe you everything! You must never doubt that. No sacrifice has been too great for you--
ALLMERS. [Interrupting.] Oh, nonsense--sacrifice! Don"t talk of such a thing.--I have only loved you, Asta, ever since you were a little child.
[After a short pause.] And then it always seemed to me that I had so much injustice to make up to you for.
ASTA. [Astonished.] Injustice? You?
ALLMERS. Not precisely on my own account. But--
ASTA. [Eagerly.] But--?
ALLMERS. On father"s.
ASTA. [Half rising from the bench.] On--father"s! [Sitting down again.]
What do you mean by that, Alfred?
ALLMERS. Father was never really kind to you.
ASTA. [Vehemently.] Oh, don"t say that!
ALLMERS. Yes, it is true. He did not love you--not as he ought to have.
ASTA. [Evasively.] No, perhaps not as he loved you. That was only natural.
ALLMERS. [Continuing.] And he was often hard to your mother, too--at least in the last years.
ASTA. [Softly.] Mother was so much, much younger than he--remember that.
ALLMERS. Do you think they were not quite suited to each other?
ASTA. Perhaps not.
ALLMERS. Yes, but still--. Father, who in other ways was so gentle and warm-hearted--so kindly towards every one--
ASTA. [Quietly.] Mother, too, was not always as she ought to have been.
ALLMERS. Your mother was not!
ASTA. Perhaps not always.
ALLMERS. Towards father, do you mean?
ASTA. Yes.