INGOLF. Kristrun! Is it quite impossible to talk seriously with
you? Is there nothing so sacred to you that you wouldn't ridicule
it?
KRISTRUN. Well--?
INGOLF. No, I suppose there is not.
KRISTRUN. ... Perhaps more than you think.
INGOLF. Why do you let me suffer, then? Haven't I confessed my
love to you?
KRISTRUN. No, you haven't.
INGOLF [sits down at her side. While he speaks she sits erect in
the chair, her hands folded in her lap, her head raised. A bright
smile plays on her half-open lips. It is as if she were listening
to a beautiful tale]. Are you waiting for me to say just the
words: I love you! Weren't there moments when I made a greater
confession, when one sigh, one glance, told you more than these
words? But you are not satisfied with hearing a love like the
fluttering of wings in the dead of night, you want to hear it
sound like a clarion call in your ears: I love you, I love you!
... To-day I saw you standing at the piano, there; each feature in
your face was in repose, each move blended softly into fine lines.
I saw you as one of those works of art of an ancient master, which
could lure the infidel to believe in the resurrection of the body.
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