ELINE.
Ja, dengang, du! Da leved jeg vel et dejligt liv i eventyr og i mine egne tanker! Kan det være troligt, at stranden dengang var så nøgen som nu? Var den det, så mærked jeg det ikke. Dernede var det jeg helst gik og digted alle de fagre krøniker; mine helte kom langvejs fra og foer over havet igen; jeg selv leved iblandt dem og fulgte med, når de drog bort. (synker ned på en stol.) Nu kender jeg mig så mat og træt; mine eventyr kan ikke nære mig længer; – de er kun – eventyr. (rejser sig heftigt.) Bjørn, – véd du, hvad der har gjort mig syg? En sandhed. En styg, styg sandhed, som nager mig nat og dag.
ELINA.
Ah, then, Biörn! Then I lived a glorious life in the fable-land of my own imaginings. Can it be that the sea-strand was naked then as now? If it were so, I did not know it. It was there I loved to go, weaving all my fair romances; my heroes came from afar and sailed again across the sea; I lived in their midst, and set forth with them when they sailed away. (Sinks on a chair.) Now I feel so faint and weary; I can live no longer in my tales. They are only--tales. (Rises hastily.) Biörn, do you know what has made me sick? A truth; a hateful, hateful truth, that gnaws me day and night.