RITA. Oh--vapid, nauseous phrases--nothing else! No, Alfred, I am not to
be put off like that. I was fitted to become the child's mother, but not
to be a mother to him. You must take me as I am, Alfred.
ALLMERS. And yet you used to be so fond of Eyolf.
RITA. I was so sorry for him--because you troubled yourself so little
about him. You kept him reading and grinding at books. You scarcely even
saw him.
ALLMERS. [Nodding slowly.] No; I was blind. The time had not yet come
for me--
RITA. [Looking in his face.] But now, I suppose, it has come?
ALLMERS. Yes, at, last. Now I see that the highest task I can have in
the world is to be a true father to Eyolf.
RITA. And to me?--what will you be to me?
ALLMERS. [Gently.] I will always go on caring for you--with calm, deep
tenderness. [ He tries to take her hands.]
RITA. [Evading him.] I don't care a bit for your calm, deep tenderness.
I want you utterly and entirely--and alone! Just as I had you in the
first rich, beautiful days. [Vehemently and harshly.] Never, never will
I consent to be put off with scraps and leavings, Alfred!
ALLMERS. [In a conciliatory tone.] I should have thought there was
happiness in plenty for all three of us, Rita.
RITA. [Scornfully.] Then you are easy to please. [Seats herself at the
table on the left.] Now listen to me.
ALLMERS. [Approaching.] Well, what is it?
RITA. [Looking up at him with a veiled glow in her eyes.] When I got
your telegram yesterday evening--
ALLMERS. Yes? What then?