Aloft the sun is burning,
The fishes, glancing, turning,
Circle about their guest.
CLARA.
Why do I not do it then? Shall I never do it? Am I going to continue putting it off from day to day, as I am now doing from one minute to the next, until—certainly! Then, away! Away! And yet I stand still! I have a feeling as if imploring hands were raised in my womb, as if eyes—[She sits down on a chair.] What does it mean? Am I too weak to do it? Then ask yourself if you are strong enough to see your father with his throat cut!—[She rises.] No! No!—Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—God! God! My poor head! I cannot even pray! Brother! Brother! Help me!
CARL.
What's the matter with you
CLARA.
The Lord's Prayer!
[She bethinks herself.]
It seemed to me as if I were already lying in the water and sinking, and had not yet prayed! I [suddenly]—Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us! That is it! Yes! Yes! Certainly I forgive him! I shall think no more of him!—Good night, Carl!