Rosmer. You may be sure she did not fail to notice that we read the same books; that we sought one another's company, and discussed every new topic together. But I cannot understand it—because I was always so careful to spare her. When I look back, it seems to me that I did everything I could to keep her apart from our lives. Or did I not, Rebecca?
Rebecca. Yes, yes—undoubtedly you did.
Rosmer. And so did you, too. And notwithstanding that—! Oh, it is horrible to think of! To think that here she was—with her affection all distorted by illness—never saying a word—watching us—noticing everything and—and—misconstruing everything.
Rebecca (wringing her hands). Oh, I never ought to have come to Rosmersholm.
Rosmer. Just think what she must have suffered in silence! Think of all the horrible things her poor diseased brain must have led her to believe about us and store up in her mind about us! Did she never speak to you of anything that could give you any kind of clue?
Rebecca (as if startled). To me! Do you suppose I should have remained here a day longer, if she had?
Rosmer. No, no—that is obvious. What a fight she must have fought—and fought alone, Rebecca! In despair, and all alone. And then, in the end, the poignant misery of her victory—which was also her accusation of us—in the mill-race! (Throws himself into a chair, rests his elbows on the table, and hides his face in his hands.)
Rebecca (coming quietly up behind him). Listen to me, John. If it were in your power to call Beata back—to you—to Rosmersholm—would you do it?
Rosmer. How can I tell what I would do or what I would not do! I have no thoughts for anything but the one thing which is irrevocable.
Rebecca. You ought to be beginning to live now, John. You were beginning. You had freed yourself completely on all sides. You were feeling so happy and so light-hearted