Rebecca. Believe me, it was best for him. Mr. Rosmer was never meant to be surrounded by crying children.
Mrs. Helseth. Little children do not cry at Rosmersholm, Miss West.
Rebecca (looking at her). Not cry?
Mrs. Helseth. No. In this house, little children have never been known to cry, as long as any one can remember.
Rebecca. That is very strange.
Mrs. Helseth. Yes, isn"t it, miss? But it runs in the family. And there is another thing that is just as strange; when they grow up they never laugh--never laugh, all their lives.
Rebecca. But that would be extraordinary
Mrs. Helseth. Have you ever once heard or seen Mr. Rosmer laugh, miss?
Rebecca. No--now that I think of it, I almost believe you are right.
But I fancy most of the folk hereabouts laugh very little.
Mrs. Helseth. That is quite true. People say it began at Rosmersholm, and I expect it spread like a sort of infection.
Rebecca. You are a sagacious woman, Mrs. Helseth!
Mrs. Helseth. Oh, you mustn"t sit there and make game of me, miss.
(Listens.) Hush, hush--Mr. Rosmer is coming down. He doesn"t like to see brooms about. (Goes out by the door on the right. ROSMER, with his stick and hat in his hand, comes in from the lobby.)
Rosmer. Good-morning, Rebecca.
Rebecca. Good-morning, dear. (She goes on working for a little while in silence.) Are you going out?
Rosmer. Yes.
Rebecca. It is such a lovely day.
Rosmer. You did not come up to see me this morning.
Rebecca. No--I didn"t. Not to-day.
Rosmer. Don"t you mean to do so in future, either? Rebecca. I cannot say 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 (putting down his hat and stick). Is there anything--?
Rebecca. Yes.
Rosmer. And you did not send it up to me
Rebecca. You will read it quite soon enough.
Rosmer. Well, let us see. (Takes up the paper and stands by the table reading it.) What!--"cannot p.r.o.nounce too emphatic a warning against unprincipled deserters." (Looks at her.) They call me a deserter, Rebecca.
Rebecca. They mention no names at all.
Rosmer. It comes to the same thing. (Goes on reading.) "Secret traitors to the good cause."--"Judas-like creatures, who shamelessly confess their apostasy as soon as they think the most opportune and most profitable moment has arrived."--"A reckless outrage on the fair fame of honoured ancestors"--"in the expectation that those who are enjoying a brief spell of authority will not disappoint them of a suitable reward." (Lays the paper down on the table.) And they write that of me--these men who have known me so long and so intimately--write a thing that they do not even believe themselves! They know there is not a single word of truth in it--and yet they write it.
Rebecca. There is more of it yet.
Rosmer (taking up the paper again). "Make some allowance for inexperience and want of judgment"--"a pernicious influence which, very possibly, has extended even to matters which for the present we will refrain from publicly discussing or condemning." (Looks at her.) What does that mean?
Rebecca. That is a hit at me, obviously.
Rosmer (laying down the paper). Rebecca, this is the conduct of dishonourable men.
Rebecca. Yes, it seems to me they have no right to talk about Mortensgaard.
Rosmer (walking up and down the room). They must be saved from this sort of thing. All the good that is in men is destroyed, if it is allowed to go on. But it shall not be so! How happy--how happy I should feel if I could succeed in bringing a little light into all this murky ugliness.
Rebecca (getting up). I am sure of it. There is something great, something splendid, for you to live for!
Rosmer. Just think of it--if I could wake them to a real knowledge of themselves--bring them to be angry with and ashamed of themselves--induce them to be at one with each other in toleration, in love, Rebecca!
Rebecca. Yes! Give yourself up entirely to that task, and you will see that you will succeed.
Rosmer. I think it might be done. What happiness it would be to live one"s life, then! No more hateful strife--only emulation; every eye fixed on the same goal; every man"s will, every man"s thoughts moving forward-upward--each in its own inevitable path Happiness for all--and through the efforts of all! (Looks out of the window as he speaks, then gives a start and says gloomily:) Ah! not through me.
Rebecca. Not--not through you?
Rosmer. Nor for me, either.
Rebecca. Oh, John, have no such doubts.
Rosmer. Happiness, dear Rebecca, means first and foremost the calm, joyous sense of innocence.
Rebecca (staring in front of her). Ah, innocence--
Rosmer. You need fear nothing on that score. But I--
Rebecca. You least of all men!
Rosmer (pointing out of the window). The mill-race.
Rebecca. Oh, John!--(MRS. HELSETH looks in in through the door on the left.)