Scene 6
Clara (alone).
Close, close, my heart! Crush in upon thyself. Let not a drop of blood escape, to fire anew the waning life in my veins. There again something like a hope arose in thee. I realise it now. I thought (laughing)—“That’s too much for any man.” And if—isn’t it too much for you? Would you have courage to seize a hand that——? No, no, you would not have such base courage. You would have to bolt yourself into your prison, if they tried to open the gate from without. For ever—Oh, why does it stop, why doesn’t it go on grinding for ever, why is there a pause now and then? That’s why it seems so long. The tortured one thinks he is having a rest because the torturer has to stop and take breath; you breathe again, like a drowning man in the waves, when the whirlpool that is sucking him down, throws him up again, only to lay hold of him afresh. All he gains from it is a redoubled death-struggle.
“Well, Clara.” Yes, father, I’ll go, I’ll go! Your daughter won’t drive you to suicide. I shall soon be his wife, or—O God, no! I’m not begging for happiness, I’m begging for misery, the deepest misery—surely you’ll grant me my misery. Away!—where is the letter? (Taking it.) There are three wells on the road to him. Let me stop at none of them. You have no right to, yet. (Goes out.)