The present—what does it mean anyhow? Are we then locked breast to breast with the moment as with a friend whom we embrace—or an enemy who is pressing us? Has not the word that just rings out turned to memory already? Is not the note that starts a melody reduced to memory before the song is ended? Is your coming to this garden anything but a memory, Johanna? Are not your steps across that meadow as much a matter of the past as are the steps of creatures dead these many years?
JOHANNA
No, it mustn't be like that. It makes me sad.
SALA (with a return to present things)
Why?... It shouldn't, Johanna. It is in hours like those we know, that we have lost nothing, and that in reality we cannot lose anything.
JOHANNA
Oh, I wish you had lost and forgotten everything, so that I might be everything to you!
SALA (somewhat astonished)
Johanna....
JOHANNA (passionately)