ts
together now. Shame on you! I don't want to sit at the same table
with you. [Moves her things to another table] That's why I must put
those hateful tulips on his slippers--because you love them.
[Throws the slippers on the floor] That's why we have to spend the
summer in the mountains--because you can't bear the salt smell of
the ocean; that's why my boy had to be called Eskil--because that
was your father's name; that's why I had to wear your colour, and
read your books, and eat your favourite dishes, and drink your
drinks--this chocolate, for instance; that's why--great heavens!--
it's terrible to think of it--it's terrible! Everything was forced
on me by you---even your passions. Your soul bored itself into mine
as a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate, and burrowed and
burrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a little
black dust. I wanted to run away from you, but I couldn't. You were
always on hand like a snake with your black eyes to charm me--I
felt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down--I was in the
water, with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with my
arms, the further down I went--down, down, till I sank to the
bottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me with
your claws--and now I'm there! Shame on you! How I hate you, hate
you, hate you! But you, you just sit there, silent and calm and
indifferent, whether the moon is new or full; whether it's
Christmas or mid-summer; whether other people are happy or unhappy.
You are incapable of hatred, and you don't know how to love. As a
cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there!--you can't
drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwait
it. Here you sit in this corner--do you know they've nicknamed it
"the mouse-trap" on your account? Here you read the papers to see
if anybody is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be discharged
from the theatre. Here you watch your victims and calculate your
chances and take your tributes. Poor Amelia! Do you know, I pity
you all the same, for I know you are unhappy--unhappy as one who
has been wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. I ought to
be angry with you, but really I can't--you are so small after all--
and as to Bob, why that does not bother me in the least. What does
it matter to me anyhow? If you or somebody else taught me to drink
chocolate--what of that? [Takes a spoonful of chocolate; then
sententiously] They say chocolate