GUSTAV.  By land.  But—­I am not going to stay, as—­

TEKLA.  Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn’t.—­Well, it was some time ago—­

GUSTAV.  Yes, some time.

TEKLA.  You have changed a great deal.

GUSTAV.  And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, if anything.  Excuse me, however—­I am not going to spoil your happiness by my presence.  And if I had known you were here, I should never—­

TEKLA.  If you don’t think it improper, I should like you to stay.

GUSTAV.  On my part there could be no objection, but I fear—­well, whatever I say, I am sure to offend you.

TEKLA.  Sit down a moment.  You don’t offend me, for you possess that rare gift—­which was always yours—­of tact and politeness.

GUSTAV.  It’s very kind of you.  But one could hardly expect—­that your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light as you.

TEKLA.  On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very sympathetic terms.

GUSTAV.  Oh!—­Well, everything becomes covered up by time, like names cut in a tree—­and not even dislike can maintain itself permanently in our minds.

TEKLA.  He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you.  And as for me, I have always cherished a dream—­that of seeing you come together as friends—­or at least of seeing you meet for once in my presence—­of seeing you shake hands—­and then go your different ways again.

GUSTAV.  It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I used to love more than my own life—­to make sure that she was in good hands.  And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and am familiar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked, before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take good care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession.  In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must have developed instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peace and humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live through the rest of my sorrowful days.

TEKLA.  You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood me.  I thank you for it!

GUSTAV.  Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been too insignificant to keep you in the shadow.  My monotonous way of living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons—­all that could not satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty.  I admit it.  But you understand—­you who have searched the human soul—­what it cost me to make such a confession to myself.

TEKLA.  It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one’s own shortcomings—­and it’s not everybody that’s capable of it. [Sighs] But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable nature—­one that I had to respect—­but—­

GUSTAV.  Not always—­not at that time!  But suffering purifies, sorrow ennobles, and—­I have suffered!

TEKLA.  Poor Gustav!  Can you forgive me?  Tell me, can you?