Rosmer. I see. Then you would not risk having anything to do with me if I were to confess my apostasy openly?
Mortensgaard (shaking his head). I should not like to, Mr.
Rosmer. Lately I have made it a rule never to support anybody or anything that is opposed to the interests of the Church.
Rosmer. Have you, then, entered the fold of the Church again lately?
Mortensgaard. That is another matter altogether.
Rosmer. Oh, that is how it is. Yes, I understand you now.
Mortensgaard. Mr. Rosmer--you ought to remember that I, of all people, have not absolute freedom of action.
Rosmer. What hampers you?
Mortensgaard. What hampers me is that I am a marked man.
Rosmer. Ah--of course.
Mortensgaard. A marked man, Mr. Rosmer. And you, of all people, ought to remember that--because you were responsible, more than any one else, for my being branded.
Rosmer. If I had stood then where I stand now, I should have handled the affair more judiciously.
Mortensgaard. I think so too. But it is too late now; you have branded me, once for all--branded me for life. I do not suppose you can fully realise what such a thing means. But it is possible that you may soon feel the smart of it yourself now, Mr. Rosmer.
Rosmer. I?
Mortensgaard. Yes. You surely do not suppose that Mr. Kroll and his gang will be inclined to forgive a rupture such as yours? And the "County News" is going to be pretty bloodthirsty, I hear. It may very well come to pass that you will be a marked man, too.
Rosmer. On personal grounds, Mr. Mortensgaard, I feel myself to be invulnerable. My conduct does not offer any point of attack.
Mortensgaard (with a quiet smile). That is saying a good deal, Mr. Rosmer.
Rosmer. Perhaps it is. But I have the right to say as much.
Mortensgaard. Even if you were inclined to overhaul your conduct as thoroughly as you once overhauled mine?
Rosmer. You say that very strangely. What are you driving at?--is it anything definite?
Mortensgaard. Yes, there is one definite thing--no more than a single one. But it might be quite awkward enough if malicious opponents got a hint of it.
Rosmer. Will you have the kindness to tell me what on earth it is?
Mortensgaard. Can you not guess, Mr. Rosmer?
Rosmer. No, not for a moment.
Mortensgaard. All right. I must come out with it, then. I have in my possession a remarkable letter, that was written here at Rosmersholm.
Rosmer. Miss West's letter, you mean? Is it so remarkable?
Mortensgaard. No, that letter is not remarkable. But I received a letter from this house on another occasion.
Rosmer. From Miss West?
Mortensgaard. No, Mr. Rosmer.
Rosmer. Well, from whom, then? From whom?
Mortensgaard. From your late wife.
Rosmer. From my wife? You had a letter from my wife?
Mortensgaard. Yes, I did.
Rosmer. When?
Mortensgaard. It was during the poor lady's last days. It must be about a year and a half ago now. And that is the letter that is so remarkable.
Rosmer. Surely you know that my wife's mind was affected at that time?
Mortensgaard. I know there were a great many people who thought so. But, in my opinion, no one would have imagined anything of the kind from the letter. When I say the letter is a remarkable one, I mean remarkable in quite another way.
Rosmer. And what in the world did my poor wife find to write to you about?
Mortensgaard. I have the letter at home. It begins more or less to the effect that she is living in perpetual terror and dread, because of the fact that there are so many evilly disposed people about her whose only desire is to do you harm and mischief.
Rosmer. Me?
Mortensgaard. Yes, so she says. And then follows the most remarkable part of it all. Shall I tell you, Mr. Rosmer?
Rosmer. Of course! Tell me everything, without any reserve.
Mortensgaard. The poor lady begs and entreats me to be magnanimous. She says that she knows it was you, who got me dismissed from my post as schoolmaster, and implores me most earnestly not to revenge myself upon you.
Rosmer. What way did she think you could revenge yourself, then?
Mortensgaard. The letter goes on to say that if I should hear that anything sinful was going on at Rosmersholm, I was not to believe a word of it; that it would be only the work of wicked folk who were spreading the rumours on purpose to do you harm.
Rosmer. Does the letter say that?
Mortensgaard. You may read it at your convenience, Mr. Rosmer.
Rosmer. But I cannot understand--? What did she imagine there could be any wicked rumours about?
Mortensgaard. In the first place, that you had broken away from the faith of your childhood. Mrs. Rosmer denied that absolutely--at that time. And, in the next place--ahem !
Rosmer. In the next place?
Mortensgaard. Well, in the next place she writes--though rather confusedly--that she has no knowledge of any sinful relations existing at Rosmersholm; that she has never been wronged in any way; and that if any rumours of that sort should get about, she entreats me not to allude to them in the "Searchlight".
Rosmer. Does she mention any names?
Mortensgaard. No.
Rosmer. Who brought you the letter?
Mortensgaard. I promised not to tell that. It was brought to me one evening after dark.
Rosmer. If you had made inquiries at the time, you would have learnt that my poor unhappy wife was not fully accountable for her actions.
Mortensgaard. I did make inquiries, Mr. Rosmer; but I must say Idid not get exactly that impression.
Rosmer. Not?--But why have you chosen this moment to enlighten me as to the existence of this old crazy letter?
Mortensgaard. With the object of advising you to be extremely cautious, Mr. Rosmer.
Rosmer. As to my way of life, do you mean?
Mortensgaard. Yes. You must remember that for the future you will not be unassailable.
Rosmer. So you persist in thinking that I have something to conceal here?
Mortensgaard. I do not see any reason why a man of emancipated ideas should refrain from living his life as fully as possible.
Only, as I have already said, you should be cautious in future.
