A new life? A life so entirely new? Why, Mary, it is still the old life, only more beautiful. It is still the dear old tree under which we are sitting, only it is in bloom now.
MARY.
Besides, the thought that I am to leave my father and my mother! The old I see passing away, the new I do not see coming; the old I must leave, the new I cannot reach.
ROBERT.
Must you indeed leave your father? Do we not all remain together? Has not my father for this very reason bought the estate of Düsterwalde?
SOPHY.
That is the anxiety which comes over one in spring; one knows not whence it comes, nor why. And yet in spring one knows that everything will become more and more beautiful, and still one feels anxious. One is merely afraid of happiness. Now that my dearest wishes are about to be fulfilled—do I not experience the same sensation? I might almost wish that a roast were burnt, or that a piece of the fine china were broken. Happiness is like the sun: There must be a little shade if man is to be comfortable. I will just go to see whether a little shade of that sort has not been cast in the kitchen.
[Exit to the left.]
MARY (after she and ROBERT have been standing in silence facing each other).
Is anything wrong with you, Robert?