- movable fact, Rebecca. And that is what I can
never get over.
Rebecca.
Oh, think of nothing but the great, beautiful task you have devoted your life to.
Rosmer.
[Shakes his head.] It can never be accomplished, dear. Not by me. Not after what I have come to know.
Rebecca. Why not by you?
Rosmer.
Because no cause ever triumphs that has its origin in sin.
Rebecca.
[Vehemently.] Oh, these are only ancestral doubts—ancestral fears—ancestral scruples. They say the dead come back to Rosmersholm in the shape of rushing white horses. I think this shows that it is true.
Rosmer.
Be that as it may; what does it matter, so long as I cannot rid myself of the feeling? And believe me, Rebecca, it is as I tell you. The cause that is to win a lasting victory must have for its champion a happy, an innocent man.
Rebecca. Is happiness so indispensable to you, Rosmer?
Rosmer. Happiness? Yes, dear,—it is.
