It’s only what I—I’ve known it all along.
Mrs Buchner.
I come to you, William, I speak to you frankly;—it has all come upon me so suddenly. All at once I am so terribly anxious about Ida.
William.
I must confess—only just now—
Mrs Buchner.
I know well you love the child. Nobody could love her more truly! I know that with all your strength you will try to make my daughter happy;—it won’t be your will that will fail, but now I have—I have seen and discovered so many things. It’s only now that I really understand much—much of what you told me. I didn’t understand you; I took you for a pessimist—in some things I scarcely took you seriously!—I came here with a firm, happy faith. I’m really ashamed! The confidence I had in myself!—I, to fancy I could influence such natures!—a weak, simple creature like me! But now I’m uneasy about it all—now all at once I feel my heavy responsibility. I am responsible for my child—for my Ida. Every mother is responsible for her child! Only tell me, William, tell me yourself, that it will all come right—Say to me, “we shall be happy,” you and Ida. Convince me that my fear, my dread, is needless—William—
[A pause.
William.
Why did you let it go so far?—I warned you—and warned you. What did I say to you? I said, all of us, every one in this family, are sick, incurables—I most of all. That we all drag with us—“Don’t give your daughter to a maimed creature,” I said to you—Why wouldn’t you believe?