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.