“I had to come to you, mother, because Hel is no longer alive....”
“And of what did she die?”
“I know: of me.... You have made it clear to me, mother, often and cruelly, and you have said I had poured boiling wine into a crystal. Then the most beautiful of glass must crack. But I do not repent it, mother. No, I do not repent it.... For Hel was mine....”
“And died of it....”
“Yes. Had she never been mine perhaps she would still be alive. Better that she should be dead.”
“She is, Joh. And Freder is her son.”
“What do you mean by that, mother?”
“If you did not know just as well as I, Joh, you would not have come to me to-day.”
Joh Fredersen was silent. Through the open window, the rustling of the walnut tree was to be heard, a dreamy, touching sound.
“Freder often comes to you, mother, doesn’t he?” asked Joh Fredersen.