All these crack-brained episodes are, however, far surpassed by the scene in Rosmersholm, where Rebecca confesses to the doughty Rosmer that she is consumed by ardent passion for him:—
Rosmer. What have you felt? Speak so that I can understand you.
Rebecca. It came over me—this wild, uncontrollable desire—oh, Rosmer!
Rosmer. Desire? You! For what?
Rebecca. For you.
Rosmer (tries to spring up). What is this? [Idiot!]
Rebecca (stops him). Sit still, dear; there is more to tell.
Rosmer. And you mean to say—that you love me—in that way?
Rebecca. I thought that it should be called love. Yes, I thought it was love; but it was not. It was what I said. It was a wild, uncontrollable desire.... It came upon me like a storm on the sea. It was like one of the storms we sometimes have in the North in the winter-time. It seizes you—and sweeps you along with it—whither it will. Resistance is out of the question.’