Chapter IV: Part 4

So I am—so far as that goes. But then, every moment, all the rest comes rushing in upon me like a storm.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With a change of tone._] Tell me—you may as well tell me at once—for that is really what I have come for——

MRS. BORKMAN.

What?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Something I felt I must talk to you about.—Tell me—Erhart does not live out here with with—you others?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Harshly._] Erhart _cannot_ live out here with me. He has to live in town——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

So he wrote to me.

MRS. BORKMAN.

He must, for the sake of his studies. But he comes out to me for a little while every evening.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Well, may I see him then? May I speak to him at once?

MRS. BORKMAN.

He has not come yet; but I expect him every moment.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Why, Gunhild, surely he _must_ have come. I can hear his footsteps overhead.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With a rapid upward glance._] Up in the long gallery?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes. I have heard him walking up and down there ever since I came.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Looking away from her._] That is not Erhart, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Surprised._] Not Erhart? [_Divining._] Who is it then?

MRS. BORKMAN.

It is _he_.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Softly, with suppressed pain._] Borkman? John Gabriel Borkman?

MRS. BORKMAN.

He walks up and down like that—backwards and forwards—from morning to night—day out and day in.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I have heard something of this——

MRS. BORKMAN.

I daresay. People find plenty to say about us, no doubt.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Erhart has spoken of it in his letters. He said that his father generally remained by himself—up there—and you alone down here.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes; that is how it has been, Ella, ever since they let him out, and sent him home to me. All these long eight years.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I never believed it could really be so. It seemed impossible!

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Nods._] It is so; and it can never be otherwise.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Looking at her._] This must be a terrible life, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Worse than terrible—almost unendurable.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, it must be.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Always to hear his footsteps up there—from early morning till far into the night. And everything sounds so clear in this house!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, it is strange how clear the sound is.

MRS. BORKMAN.

I often feel as if I had a sick wolf pacing his cage up there in the gallery, right over my head. [_Listens and whispers._] Hark! Do you hear! Backwards and forwards, up and down, goes the wolf.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Tentatively._] Is no change possible, Gunhild?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With a gesture of repulsion._] He has never made any movement towards a change.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Could you not make the first movement, then?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Indignantly._] I! After all the wrong he has done me! No, thank you! Rather let the wolf go on prowling up there.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

This room is too hot for me. You must let me take off my things after all.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, I asked you to.

[_ELLA RENTHEIM takes off her hat and cloak and lays them on a chair
beside the door leading to the hall._

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Do you never happen to meet him, away from home?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With a bitter laugh._] In society, do you mean?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I mean, when he goes out walking. In the woods, or——

MRS. BORKMAN.

He never goes out.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Not even in the twilight?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Never.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With emotion._] He cannot bring himself to go out?

MRS. BORKMAN.

I suppose not. He has his great cloak and his hat hanging in the cupboard—the cupboard in the hall you know——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_To herself._] The cupboard we used to hide in when we were little——

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Nods._] And now and then—late in the evening—I can hear him come down as though to go out. But he always stops when he is halfway downstairs, and turns back—straight back to the gallery.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Quietly._] Do none of his old friends ever come up to see him?

MRS. BORKMAN.

He _has_ no old friends.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

He had so many—once.

MRS. BORKMAN.

H’m! He took the best possible way to get rid of them. He was a _dear_ friend to his friends, was John Gabriel.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Oh yes, that is true, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Vehemently._] All the same, I call it mean, petty, base, contemptible of them, to think so much of the paltry losses they may have suffered through him. They were only money losses, nothing more.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Not answering her._] So he lives up there quite alone. Absolutely by himself.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, practically so. They tell me an old clerk or copyist or something comes out to see him now and then.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Ah, indeed; no doubt it is a man called Foldal. I know they were friends as young men.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, I believe they were. But I know nothing about him. He was quite outside our circle—when we _had_ a circle——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

So he comes out to see Borkman now?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, he condescends to. But of course he only comes when it is dark.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

This Foldal—he was one of those that suffered when the bank failed.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Carelessly._] Yes, I believe I heard he had lost some money. But no doubt it was something quite trifling.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With slight emphasis._] It was all he possessed.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Smiling._] Oh, well; what he possessed must have been little enough—nothing to speak of.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

And he _did_ not speak of it—Foldal I mean—at the trial.

MRS. BORKMAN.

At all events, I can assure you Erhart has made ample amends for any little loss he may have suffered.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With surprise._] Erhart! How can Erhart have done _that_?

MRS. BORKMAN.

He has taken an interest in Foldal’s youngest daughter. He has taught her things, and put her in the way of getting employment, and some day providing for herself. I am sure that is a great deal more than her father could ever have done for her.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, I daresay her father can’t afford to do much.

MRS. BORKMAN.

And then Erhart has arranged for her to have lessons in music. She has made such progress already that she can come up to—to him in the gallery, and play to him.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

So he is still fond of music?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Oh yes, I suppose he is. Of course he has the piano you sent out here—when he was expected back——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

And she plays to him on it?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, now and then—in the evenings. That is Erhart’s doing, too.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Has the poor girl to come all the long way out here, and then back to town again?

MRS. BORKMAN.

No, she doesn’t need to. Erhart has arranged for her to stay with a lady who lives near us—a Mrs. Wilton——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With interest._] Mrs. Wilton?

MRS. BORKMAN.

A very rich woman. You don’t know her.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I have heard her name. Mrs. Fanny Wilton, is it not——?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, quite right.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Erhart has mentioned her several times. Does she live out here now?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, she has taken a villa here; she moved out from town some time ago.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With a slight hesitation._] They say she is divorced from her husband.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Her husband has been dead for several years.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, but they were divorced. He got a divorce.

MRS. BORKMAN.

He deserted her, that is what he did. I am sure the fault wasn’t hers.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Do you know her at all intimately, Gunhild?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Oh yes, pretty well. She lives close by here; and she looks in every now and then.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

And do you like her?

MRS. BORKMAN.

She is unusually intelligent; remarkably clear in her judgments.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

In her judgments of people, do you mean?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, principally of people. She has made quite a study of Erhart; looked deep into his character—into his soul. And the result is she idolises him, as she could not help doing.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With a touch of finesse._] Then perhaps she knows Erhart still better than she knows you?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, Erhart saw a good deal of her in town, before she came out here.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Without thinking._] And in spite of that she moved out of town?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Taken aback, looking keenly at her._] In spite of that! What do you mean?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Evasively._] Oh, nothing particular.

MRS. BORKMAN.

You said it so strangely—you _did_ mean something by it, Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Looking her straight in the eyes._] Yes, that is true, Gunhild! I did mean something by it.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Well, then, say it right out.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

First let me tell you, I think I too have a certain claim upon Erhart. Do you think I haven’t?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Glancing round the room._] No doubt—after all the money you have spent upon him.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Oh, not on that account, Gunhild. But because I love him.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Smiling scornfully._] Love _my_ son? Is it possible? _You?_ In spite of everything?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, it is possible—in spite of everything. And it is true. I love Erhart—as much as I can love any one—now—at my time of life.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Well, well, suppose you do: what then?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Why, then, I am troubled as soon as I see anything threatening him.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Threatening Erhart! Why, what should threaten him? Or who?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

You in the first place—in your way.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Vehemently._] I!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

And then this Mrs. Wilton, too, I am afraid.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Looks at her for a moment in speechless surprise._] And you can think such things of Erhart! Of my own boy! He, who has his great mission to fulfil!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Lightly._] Oh, his mission!

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Indignantly._] How dare you say that so scornfully?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Do you think a young man of Erhart’s age, full of health and spirits—-do you think he is going to sacrifice himself for—for such a thing as a "mission"?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Firmly and emphatically._] Erhart will! I know he will.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Shaking her head._] You neither know it nor believe it, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN.

I don’t believe it!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

It is only a dream that you cherish. For if you hadn’t that to cling to, you feel that you would utterly despair.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, indeed I should despair. [_Vehemently._] And I daresay that is what you would like to see, Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With head erect._] Yes, I would rather see that than see you “redeem” yourself at Erhart’s expense.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Threateningly._] You want to come between us? Between mother and son? You?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I want to free him from your power—your will—your despotism.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Triumphantly._] You are too late! You had him in your nets all those years—until he was fifteen. But now I have won him again, you see!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Then I will win him back from you! [_Hoarsely, half whispering._] We two have fought a life-and-death battle before, Gunhild—for a man’s soul!

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Looking at her in triumph._] Yes, and I won the victory.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With a smile of scorn._] Do you still think that victory was worth the winning?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Darkly._] No; Heaven knows you are right there.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

You need look for no victory worth the winning this time either.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Not when I am fighting to preserve a mother’s power over my son!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

No; for it is only _power_ over him that you want.

MRS. BORKMAN.

And you?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Warmly._] I want his affection—his soul—his whole heart!

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With an outburst._] That you shall never have in this world!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Looking at her._] You have seen to that?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Smiling._] Yes, I have taken that liberty. Could you not see that in his letters?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Nods slowly._] Yes. I could see you—the whole of you—in his letters of late.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Gallingly._] I have made the best use of these eight years, I have had him under my own eye, you see.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Controlling herself._] What have you said to Erhart about me? Is it the sort of thing you can tell me?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Oh yes, I can tell you well enough.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Then please do.

MRS. BORKMAN.

I have only told him the truth.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Well?

MRS. BORKMAN.

I have impressed upon him, every day of his life, that he must never forget that it is you we have to thank for being able to live as we do—for being able to live at all.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Is that all?

MRS. BORKMAN.

Oh, that is the sort of thing that rankles; I feel that in my own heart.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

But that is very much what Erhart knew already.

MRS. BORKMAN.

When he came home to me, he imagined that you did it all out of goodness of heart. [_Looks_ _malignly at her._] Now he does not believe that any longer, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Then what does he believe now?

MRS. BORKMAN.

He believes what is the truth. I asked him how he accounted for the fact that Aunt Ella never came here to visit us——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Interrupting._] He knew my reasons already!

MRS. BORKMAN.

He knows them better now. You had got him to believe that it was to spare me and—and him up there in the gallery——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

And so it was.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Erhart does not believe that for a moment, now.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

What have you put in his head?

MRS. BORKMAN.

He thinks, what is the truth, that you are ashamed of us—that you despise us. And do you pretend that you don’t? Were you not once planning to take him quite away from me? Think, Ella; you cannot have forgotten.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_With a gesture of negation._] That was at the height of the scandal—when the case was before the courts. I have no such designs now.

MRS. BORKMAN.

And it would not matter if you had. For in that case what would become of his mission? No, thank you. It is me that Erhart needs—not you. And therefore he is as good as dead to you—and you to him.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Coldly, with resolution._] We shall see. For now I shall remain out here.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Stares at her._] Here? In this house?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, here.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Here—with us? Remain all night?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I shall remain here all the rest of my days if need be.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Collecting herself._] Very well, Ella; the house is yours——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Oh, nonsense——

MRS. BORKMAN.

Everything is yours. The chair I am sitting in is yours. The bed I lie and toss in at night belongs to you. The food we eat comes to us from you.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

It can’t be arranged otherwise, you know. Borkman can hold no property of his own; for some one would at once come and take it from him.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, I know. We must be content to live upon your pity and charity.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Coldly._] I cannot prevent you from looking at it in that light, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN.

No, you cannot. When do you want us to move out?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Looking at her._] Move out?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_In great excitement._] Yes; you don’t imagine that I will go on living under the same roof with you! I tell you, I would rather go to the workhouse or tramp the roads!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Good. Then let me take Erhart with me——

MRS. BORKMAN.

Erhart? My own son? My child?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes; for then I would go straight home again.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_After reflecting a moment, firmly._] Erhart himself shall choose between us.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Looking doubtfully and hesitatingly at her._] He choose? Dare you risk that, Gunhild?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With a hard laugh._] _Dare_ I? Let my boy choose between his mother and you? Yes, indeed I dare!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Listening._] Is there some one coming? I thought I heard——

MRS. BORKMAN.

Then it must be Erhart.

[_There is a sharp knock at the door leading in from the hall, which
is immediately opened. MRS. WILTON enters, in evening dress, and
with outer wraps. She is followed by THE MAID, who has not had
time to announce her, and looks bewildered. The door remains
half open. MRS. WILTON is a strikingly handsome, well-developed
woman in the thirties. Broad, red, smiling lips, sparkling eyes.
Luxuriant dark hair._

MRS. WILTON.

Good evening, my dearest Mrs. Borkman!

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Rather drily._] Good evening, Mrs. Wilton. [_To THE MAID, pointing toward the garden-room._] Take out the lamp that is in there and light it.

[_THE MAID takes the lamp and goes out with it._

MRS. WILTON.

[_Observing ELLA RENTHEIM._] Oh, I beg your pardon—you have a visitor.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Only my sister, who has just arrived from——

[_ERHART BORKMAN flings the half-open door wide open and rushes in.
He is a young man with bright cheerful eyes. He is well dressed;
his moustache is beginning to grow._

ERHART.

[_Radiant with joy; on the threshold._] What is this! Is Aunt Ella here? [_Rushing up to her, and seizing her hands._] Aunt, aunt! Is it possible? Are _you_ here?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Throws her arms round his neck._] Erhart! My dear, dear boy! Why, how big you have grown! Oh, how good it is to see you again!

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Sharply._] What does this mean, Erhart? Were you hiding out in the hall?

MRS. WILTON.

[_Quickly._] Erhart—Mr. Borkman came in with me.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Looking hard at him._] Indeed, Erhart! You don’t come to your mother first.

ERHART.

I had just to look in at Mrs. Wilton’s for a moment—to call for little Frida.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Is that Miss Foldal with you too?

MRS. WILTON.

Yes, we have left her in the hall.

ERHART.

[_Addressing some one through the open door._] You can go right upstairs, Frida.

[_Pause. ELLA RENTHEIM observes ERHART. He seems embarrassed and a
little impatient; his face has assumed a nervous and colder
expression._

[_THE MAID brings the lighted lamp into the garden-room, goes
out again and closes the door behind her._

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With forced politeness._] Well, Mrs. Wilton, if you will give us the pleasure of your company this evening, won’t you——

MRS. WILTON.

Many thanks, my dear lady, but I really can’t. We have another invitation. We’re going down to the Hinkels’.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Looking at her._] We? Whom do you mean by we?

MRS. WILTON.

[_Laughing._] Oh, I ought really to have said I. But I was commissioned by the ladies of the house to bring Mr. Borkman with me—if I happened to see him.

MRS. BORKMAN.

And you _did_ happen to see him, it appears.

MRS. WILTON.

Yes, fortunately. He was good enough to look in at my house—to call for Frida.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Drily._] But, Erhart, I did not know that you knew that family—these Hinkels?

ERHART.

[_Irritated._] No, I don’t exactly know them. [_Adds rather impatiently._] You know better than anybody, mother, what people I know and don’t know.

MRS. WILTON.

Oh, it doesn’t matter! They soon put you at your ease at that house! They are such cheerful, hospitable people—the house swarms with young ladies.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With emphasis._] If I know my son rightly, Mrs. Wilton, they are no fit company for him.

MRS. WILTON.

Why, good gracious, dear lady, he is young, too, you know!

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, fortunately he’s young. He would need to be young.

ERHART.

[_Concealing his impatience._] Well, well, well, mother, it’s quite clear I can’t go to the Hinkels’ this evening. Of course I shall remain here with you and Aunt Ella.

MRS. BORKMAN.

I knew you would, my dear Erhart.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

No, Erhart, you must not stop at home on my account——

ERHART.

Yes, indeed, my dear Aunt; I can’t think of going. [_Looking doubtfully at MRS. WILTON._] But how shall we manage? Can I get out of it? You have said “Yes” for me, haven’t you?

MRS. WILTON.

[_Gaily._] What nonsense! Not get out of it! When I make my entrance into the festive halls—just imagine it!—deserted and forlorn—then I must simply say “No” for you.

ERHART.

[_Hesitatingly._] Well, if you really think I can get out of it——

MRS. WILTON.

[_Putting the matter lightly aside._] I am quite used to saying both yes and no—on my own account. And you can’t possibly think of leaving your aunt the moment she has arrived! For shame, Monsieur Erhart! Would that be behaving like a good son?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Annoyed._] Son?

MRS. WILTON.

Well, adopted son then, Mrs. Borkman.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Yes, you may well add that.

MRS. WILTON.

Oh, it seems to me we have often more cause to be grateful to a foster-mother than to our own mother.

MRS. BORKMAN.

Has that been your experience?

MRS. WILTON.

I knew very little of my own mother, I am sorry to say. But if I had had a good foster-mother, perhaps I shouldn’t have been so—so naughty, as people say I am. [_Turning towards ERHART._] Well, then, we stop peaceably at home like a good boy, and drink tea with mamma and auntie! [_To the ladies._] Good-bye, goodbye Mrs. Borkman! Good-bye Miss Rentheim.

[_The ladies bow silently. She goes toward the door._

ERHART.

[_Following her._] Shan’t I go a little bit of the way with you?

MRS. WILTON.

[_In the doorway, motioning him back._] You shan’t go a step with me. I am quite accustomed to taking my walks alone. [_Stops on the threshold, looks at him and nods._] But now beware, Mr. Borkman—I warn you!

ERHART.

What am I to beware of?

MRS. WILTON.

[_Gaily._] Why, as I go down the road—deserted and forlorn, as I said before—I shall try if I can’t cast a spell upon you.

ERHART.

[_Laughing._] Oh, indeed! Are you going to try that again?

MRS. WILTON.

[_Half seriously._] Yes, just you beware! As I go down the road, I will say in my own mind—right from the very centre of my will—I will say: “Mr. Erhart Borkman, take your hat at once!”

MRS. BORKMAN.

And you think he will take it?

MRS. WILTON.

[_Laughing._] Good heavens, yes, he’ll snatch up his hat instantly. And then I will say: “Now put on your overcoat, like a good boy, Erhart Borkman! And your goloshes! Be sure you don’t forget the goloshes! And then follow me! Do as I bid you, as I bid you, as I bid you!”

ERHART.

[_With forced gaiety._] Oh, you may rely on that.

MRS. WILTON.

[_Raising her forefinger._] As I bid you! As I bid you! Good-night!

[_She laughs and nods to the ladies, and closes the door behind
her._

MRS. BORKMAN.

Does she really play tricks of that sort?

ERHART.

Oh, not at all. How can you think so! She only says it in fun. [_Breaking off._] But don’t let us talk about Mrs. Wilton. [_He forces ELLA RENTHEIM to seat herself in the armchair beside the stove, then stands and looks at her._] To think of your having taken all this long journey, Aunt Ella! And in winter too!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I found I had to, Erhart.

ERHART.

Indeed? Why so?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I had to come to town after all, to consult the doctors.

ERHART.

Oh, I’m glad of that!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Smiling._] Are you glad of that?

ERHART.

I mean I am glad you made up your mind to it at last.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_On the sofa, coldly._] Are you ill, Ella?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Looking hardly at her._] You know quite well that I am ill.

MRS. BORKMAN.

I knew you were not strong, and hadn’t been for years.

ERHART.

I told you before I left you that you ought to consult a doctor.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

There is no one in my neighbourhood that I have any real confidence in. And, besides, I did not feel it so much at that time.

ERHART.

Are you worse, then, Aunt?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, my dear boy; I am worse now.

ERHART.

But there’s nothing dangerous?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Oh, that depends how you look at it.

ERHART.

[_Emphatically._] Well, then, I tell you what it is, Aunt Ella; you mustn’t think of going home again for the present.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

No, I am not thinking of it.

ERHART.

You must remain in town; for here you can have your choice of all the best doctors.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

That was what I thought when I left home.

ERHART.

And then you must be sure and find a really nice place to live—quiet, comfortable rooms.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I went this morning to the old ones, where I used to stay before.

ERHART.

Oh, well, you were comfortable enough there.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, but I shall not be staying there after all.

ERHART.

Indeed? Why not?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I changed my mind after coming out here.

ERHART.

[_Surprised._] Really? Changed your mind?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Crocheting; without looking up._] Your aunt will live here, in her own house, Erhart.

ERHART.

[_Looking from one to the other alternately._] Here, with us? With us? Is this true, Aunt?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Yes, that is what I have made up my mind to do.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_As before._] Everything here belongs to your aunt, you know.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I intend to remain here, Erhart—just now—for the present. I shall set up a little establishment of my own, over in the bailiff’s wing.

ERHART.

Ah, that’s a good idea. There are plenty of rooms there. [_With sudden vivacity._] But, by-the-bye, Aunt—aren’t you very tired after your journey?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Oh yes, rather tired.

ERHART.

Well, then, I think you ought to go quite early to bed.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Looks at him smilingly._] I mean to.

ERHART.

[_Eagerly._] And then we could have a good long talk to-morrow—or some other day, of course—about this and that—about things in general—you and mother and I. Wouldn’t that be much the best plan, Aunt Ella?

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With an outburst, rising from the sofa._] Erhart, I can see you are going to leave me!

ERHART.

[_Starts._] What do you mean by that?

MRS. BORKMAN.

You are going down to—to the Hinkels’?

ERHART.

[_Involuntarily._] Oh, that! [_Collecting himself._] Well, you wouldn’t have me sit here and keep Aunt Ella up half the night? Remember, she’s an invalid, mother.

MRS. BORKMAN.

You are going to the Hinkels’, Erhart!

ERHART.

[_Impatiently._] Well, really, mother, I don’t think I can well get out of it. What do _you_ say, Aunt?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I should like you to feel quite free, Erhart.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Goes up to her menacingly._] You want to take him away from me!

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Rising._] Yes, if only I could, Gunhild!

[_Music is heard from above._

ERHART.

[_Writhing as if in pain._] Oh, I can’t endure this! [_Looking round._] What have I done with my hat? [_To ELLA RENTHEIM._] Do you know the air that she is playing up there?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

No. What is it?

ERHART.

It’s the _Danse Macabre_—the Dance of Death! Don’t you know the Dance of Death, Aunt?

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Smiling sadly._] Not yet, Erhart.

ERHART.

[_To MRS. BORKMAN._] Mother—I beg and implore you—let me go!

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Looks hardly at him._] Away from your mother? So that is what you want to do?

ERHART.

Of course I’ll come out again—to-morrow perhaps.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_With passionate emotion._] You want to go away from me! To be with those strange people! With—with—no, I will not even think of it!

ERHART.

There are bright lights down there, and young, happy faces; and there’s music there, mother!

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Pointing upwards._] There is music here, too, Erhart.

ERHART.

Yes, it’s just that music that drives me out of the house.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Do you grudge your father a moment of self-forgetfulness?

ERHART.

No, I don’t. I’m very, very glad that he should have it—if only _I_ don’t have to listen.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Looking solemnly at him._] Be strong, Erhart! Be strong, my son! Do not forget that you have your great mission.

ERHART.

Oh mother—do spare me these phrases! I wasn’t born to be a "missionary."—Good-night, aunt dear! Good-night, mother!

[_He goes hastily out through the hall._

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_After a short silence._] It has not taken you long to recapture him, Ella, after all.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

I wish I could believe it.

MRS. BORKMAN.

But you shall see you won’t be allowed to keep him long.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Allowed? By you, do you mean?

MRS. BORKMAN.

By me or—by her, the other one——

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Then rather she than you.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Nodding slowly._] That I understand. I say the same. Rather she than you.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Whatever should become of him in the end——?

MRS. BORKMAN.

It wouldn’t greatly matter, I should say.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[_Taking her outdoor things upon her arm._] For the first time in our lives, we twin sisters are of one mind. Good-night, Gunhild.

[_She goes out by the hall. The music sounds louder from above._

MRS. BORKMAN.

[_Stands still for a moment, starts, shrinks together, and whispers involuntarily._] The wolf is whining again—the sick wolf. [_She stands still for a moment, then flings herself down on the floor, writhing in agony and whispering:_] Erhart! Erhart—be true to me! Oh, come home and help your mother! For I can bear this life no longer!

ACT SECOND

_The great gallery on the first floor of the Rentheim House. The walls
are covered with old tapestries, representing hunting-scenes,
shepherds and shepherdesses, all in faded colours. A folding-door
to the left, and further forward a piano. In the left-hand corner,
at the back, a door, cut in the tapestry, and covered with
tapestry, without any frame. Against the middle of the right wall,
a large writing-table of carved oak, with many books and papers.
Further forward on the same side, a sofa with a table and chairs
in front of it. The furniture is all of a stiff Empire style.
Lighted lamps on both tables._

_JOHN GABRIEL BORKMAN stands with his hands behind his back, beside the
piano, listening to FRIDA FOLDAL, who is playing the last bars of
the “Danse Macabre.”_

_BORKMAN is of middle height, a well-knit, powerfully-built man, well on
in the sixties. His appearance is distinguished, his profile
finely cut, his eyes piercing, his hair and beard curly and
greyish-white. He is dressed in a slightly old-fashioned black
coat, and wears a white necktie. FRIDA FOLDAL is a pretty, pale
girl of fifteen, with a somewhat weary and overstrained
expression. She is cheaply dressed in light colours._

_The music ceases. A pause._

BORKMAN.

Can you guess where I first heard tones like these?

FRIDA.

[_Looking up at him._] No, Mr. Borkman.

BORKMAN.

It was down in the mines.

FRIDA.

[_Not understanding._] Indeed? Down in the mines?

BORKMAN.

I am a miner’s son, you know. Or perhaps you did not know?

FRIDA.

No, Mr. Borkman.

BORKMAN.

A miner’s son. And my father used sometimes to take me with him into the mines. The metal sings down there.

FRIDA.

Really? Sings?

BORKMAN.

[_Nodding._] When it is loosened. The hammer-strokes that loosen it are the midnight bell clanging to set it free; and that is why the metal sings—in its own way—for gladness.

FRIDA.

Why does it do that, Mr. Borkman?

BORKMAN.

It wants to come up into the light of day and serve mankind.

[_He paces up and down the gallery, always with his hands behind his
back._

FRIDA.

[_Sits waiting a little, then looks at her watch and, rises._] I beg your pardon, Mr. Borkman; but I am afraid I must go.

BORKMAN.

[_Stopping before her._] Are you going already?

FRIDA.

[_Putting her music in its case._] I really must. [_Visibly embarrassed._] I have an engagement this evening.

BORKMAN.

For a party?

FRIDA.

Yes.

BORKMAN.

And you are to play before the company?

FRIDA.

[_Biting her lip._] No; at least I am only to play for dancing.

BORKMAN.

Only for dancing?

FRIDA.

Yes; there is to be a dance after supper.

BORKMAN.

[_Stands and looks at her._] Do you like playing dance music? At parties, I mean?

FRIDA.

[_Putting on her outdoor things._] Yes, when I can get an engagement. I can always earn a little in that way.

BORKMAN.

[_With interest._] Is that the principal thing in your mind as you sit playing for the dancers?

FRIDA.

No; I’m generally thinking how hard it is that I mayn’t join in the dance myself.

BORKMAN.

[_Nodding._] That is just what I wanted to know. [_Moving restlessly about the room._] Yes, yes, yes. That you must not join in the dance, that is the hardest thing of all. [_Stopping._] But there is one thing that should make up to you for that, Frida.

FRIDA.

[_Looking inquiringly at him._] What is that, Mr. Borkman?

BORKMAN.

The knowledge that you have ten times more music in you than all the dancers together.

FRIDA.

[_Smiling evasively._] Oh, that’s not at all so certain.

BORKMAN.

[_Holding up his fore-finger warningly._] You must never be so mad as to have doubts of yourself!

FRIDA.

But since no one knows it——

BORKMAN.

So long as you know it yourself, that is enough. Where is it you are going to play this evening?

FRIDA.

Over at Mr. Hinkel’s.

BORKMAN.

[_With a swift, keen glance at her._] Hinkel’s, you say!

FRIDA.

Yes.

BORKMAN.

[_With a cutting smile._] Does _that_ man give parties? Can _he_ get people to visit him?

FRIDA.

Yes, they have a great many people about them, Mrs. Wilton says.

BORKMAN.

[_Vehemently._] But what sort of people? Can you tell me that?

FRIDA.

[_A little nervously._] No, I really don’t know. Yes, by-the-bye, I know that young Mr. Borkman is to be there this evening.

BORKMAN.

[_Taken aback._] Erhart? My son?

FRIDA.

Yes, he is going there.

BORKMAN.

How do you know that?

FRIDA.

He said so himself—an hour ago.

BORKMAN.

Is he out here to-day?

FRIDA.

Yes, he has been at Mrs. Wilton’s all the afternoon.

BORKMAN.

[_Inquiringly._] Do you know if he called here too? I mean, did he see any one downstairs?

FRIDA.

Yes, he looked in to see Mrs. Borkman.

BORKMAN.

[_Bitterly._] Aha—I might have known it.

FRIDA.

There was a strange lady calling upon her, I think.

BORKMAN.

Indeed? Was there? Oh yes, I suppose people do come now and then to see Mrs. Borkman.

FRIDA.

If I meet young Mr. Borkman this evening, shall I ask him to come up and see you too?

BORKMAN.

[_Harshly._] You shall do nothing of the sort! I won’t have it on any account. The people who want to see me can come of their own accord. I ask no one.

FRIDA.

Oh, very well; I shan’t say anything then. Good-night, Mr. Borkman.

BORKMAN.

[_Pacing up and down and growling._] Goodnight.

FRIDA.

Do you mind if I run down by the winding stair? It’s the shortest way.

BORKMAN.

Oh, by all means; take whatever stair you please, so far as I am concerned. Good-night to you!

FRIDA.

Good-night, Mr. Borkman.

[_She goes out by the little tapestry door in the back on the left._

[_BORKMAN, lost in thought, goes up to the piano, and is about
to close it, but changes his mind. Looks round the great empty
room, and sets to pacing up and down it from the corner beside
the piano to the corner at the back on the right—pacing backward
and forward uneasily and incessantly. At last he goes up to the
writing-table, listens in the direction of the folding door,
hastily snatches up a hand-glass, looks at himself in it, and
straightens his necktie._

[_A knock at the folding door. BORKMAN hears it, looks rapidly
towards the door, but says nothing._

[_In a little there comes another knock, this time louder._

BORKMAN.

[_Standing beside the writing-table with his left hand resting upon it, and his right thrust in the breast of his coat._] Come in!

[_VILHELM FOLDAL comes softly into the room. He is a bent and worn
man with mild blue eyes and long, thin grey hair straggling down
over his coat collar. He has a portfolio under his arm, a soft
felt hat, and large horn spectacles, which he pushes up over his
forehead._

BORKMAN.

[_Changes his attitude and looks at FOLDAL with a half disappointed, half pleased expression._] Oh, is it only you?

FOLDAL.

Good evening, John Gabriel. Yes, you see it is me.

BORKMAN.

[_With a stern glance._] I must say you are rather a late visitor.

FOLDAL.

Well, you know, it’s a good bit of a way, especially when you have to trudge it on foot.

BORKMAN.

But why do you always walk, Vilhelm? The tramway passes your door.

FOLDAL.

It’s better _for_ you to walk—and then you always save twopence. Well, has Frida been playing to you lately?

BORKMAN.

She has just this moment gone. Did you not meet her outside?

FOLDAL.

No, I have seen nothing of her for a long time; not since she went to live with this Mrs. Wilton.

BORKMAN.

[_Seating himself on the sofa and waving his hand toward a chair._] You may sit down, Vilhelm.

FOLDAL.

[_Seating himself on the edge of a chair._] Many thanks. [_Looks mournfully at him._] You can’t think how lonely I feel since Frida left home.

BORKMAN.

Oh, come—you have plenty left.

FOLDAL.

Yes, God knows I have—five of them. But Frida was the only one who at all understood me. [_Shaking his head sadly._] The others don’t understand me a bit.

BORKMAN.

[_Gloomily, gazing straight before him, and drumming on the table with his fingers._] No, that’s just it. _That_ is the curse we exceptional, chosen people have to bear. The common herd—the average man and woman—they do not understand us, Vilhelm.

FOLDAL.

[_With resignation._] If it were only the lack of understanding—with a little patience, one could manage to wait for that awhile yet. [_His voice choked with tears._] But there is something still bitterer.

BORKMAN.

[_Vehemently._] There is nothing bitterer than that.

FOLDAL.

Yes, there is, John Gabriel. I have gone through a domestic scene to-night—just before I started.

BORKMAN.

Indeed? What about?

FOLDAL.

[_With an outburst._] My people at home—they despise me.

BORKMAN.

[_Indignantly._] Despise——!

FOLDAL.

[_Wiping his eyes._] I have long known it; but to-day it came out unmistakably.

BORKMAN.

[_After a short silence._] You made an unwise choice, I fear, when you married.

FOLDAL.

I had practically no choice in the matter. And, you see, one feels a need for companionship as one begins to get on in years. And so crushed as I then was—so utterly broken down——

BORKMAN.

[_Jumping up in anger._] Is this meant for me? A reproach——!

FOLDAL.

[_Alarmed._] No, no, for Heaven’s sake, John Gabriel——!

BORKMAN.

Yes, you are thinking of the disaster to the bank, I can see you are!

FOLDAL.

[_Soothingly._] But I don’t blame you for that! Heaven forbid!

BORKMAN.

[_Growling, resumes his seat._] Well, that is a good thing, at any rate.

FOLDAL.

Besides, you mustn’t think it is my wife that I complain of. It is true she has not much polish, poor thing; but she is a good sort of woman all the same. No, it’s the children.

BORKMAN.

I thought as much.

FOLDAL.

For the children—well, they have more culture, and therefore they expect more of life.

BORKMAN.

[_Looking at him sympathetically._] And so your children despise you, Vilhelm?

FOLDAL.

[_Shrugging his shoulders._] I haven’t made much of a career, you see—there is no denying that.

BORKMAN.

[_Moving nearer to him, and laying his hand upon his arm._] Do they not know, then, that in your young days you wrote a tragedy?

FOLDAL.

Yes, of course they know that. But it doesn’t seem to make much impression on them.

BORKMAN.

Then they don’t understand these things. For your tragedy is good. I am firmly convinced of that.

FOLDAL.

[_Brightening up._] Yes, don’t you think there are some good things in it, John Gabriel? Good God, if I could only manage to get it placed——! [_Opens his portfolio, and begins eagerly turning over the contents._] Look here! Just let me show you one or two alterations I have made.

BORKMAN.

Have you it with you?

FOLDAL.

Yes, I thought I would bring it. It’s so long now since I have read it to you. And I thought perhaps it might amuse you to hear an act or two.

BORKMAN.

[_Rising, with a negative gesture._] No, no, we will keep that for another time.

FOLDAL.

Well, well, as you please.

[_BORKMAN paces up and down the room. FOLDAL puts the manuscript up
again._

BORKMAN.

[_Stopping in front of him._] You are quite right in what you said just now—you have not made any career. But I promise you this, Vilhelm, that when once the hour of my restoration strikes——

FOLDAL.

[_Making a movement to rise._] Oh, thanks, thanks!

BORKMAN.

[_Waving his hand._] No, please be seated. [_With rising excitement._] When the hour of my restoration strikes—when they see that they cannot get on without me—when they come to me, here in the gallery, and crawl to my feet, and beseech me to take the reins of the bank again——! The new bank, that they have founded and can’t carry on——[_Placing himself beside the writing-table in the same attitude as before, and striking his breast._] Here I shall stand, and receive them! And it shall be known far and wide, all the country over, what conditions John Gabriel Borkman imposes before he will——[_Stopping suddenly and staring at FOLDAL._] You’re looking so doubtfully at me! Perhaps you do not believe that they will come? That they _must_, _must_, _must_ come to me some day? Do you not believe it?

FOLDAL.

Yes, Heaven knows I do, John Gabriel.

BORKMAN.

[_Seating himself again on the sofa._] I firmly believe it. I am immovably convinced—I _know_ that they will come. If I had not been certain of that I would have put a bullet through my head long ago.

FOLDAL.

[_Anxiously._] Oh no, for Heaven’s sake——!

BORKMAN.

[_Exultantly._] But they will come! They will come sure enough! You shall see! I expect them any day, any moment. And you see, I hold myself in readiness to receive them.

FOLDAL.

[_With a sigh._] If only they would come quickly.

BORKMAN.

[_Restlessly._] Yes, time flies: the years slip away; life——Ah, no—I dare not think of it! [_Looking at him._] Do you know what I sometimes feel like?

FOLDAL.

What?

BORKMAN.

I feel like a Napoleon who has been maimed in his first battle.

FOLDAL.

[_Placing his hand upon his portfolio._] I have that feeling too.

BORKMAN.

Oh, well, that is on a smaller scale, of course.

FOLDAL.

[_Quietly._] My little world of poetry is very precious to _me_, John Gabriel.

BORKMAN.

[_Vehemently._] Yes, but think of me, who could have created millions! All the mines I should have controlled! New veins innumerable! And the water-falls! And the quarries! And the trade routes, and steamship-lines all the wide world over! I would have organised it all—I alone!

FOLDAL.

Yes, I know, I know. There was nothing in the world you would have shrunk from.

BORKMAN.

[_Clenching his hands together._] And now I have to sit here, like a wounded eagle, and look on while others pass me in the race, and take everything away from me, piece by piece!

FOLDAL.

That is _my_ fate too.

BORKMAN.

[_Not noticing him._] Only to think of it; so near to the goal as I was! If I had only had another week to look about me! All the deposits would have been covered. All the securities I had dealt with so daringly should have been in their places again as before. Vast companies were within a hair’s-breadth of being floated. Not a soul should have lost a halfpenny.

FOLDAL.

Yes, yes; you were on the very verge of success.

BORKMAN.

[_With suppressed fury._] And then treachery overtook me! Just at the critical moment! [_Looking at him._] Do you know what I hold to be the most infamous crime a man can be guilty of?

FOLDAL.

No, tell me.

BORKMAN.

It is not murder. It is not robbery or house-breaking. It is not even perjury. For all these things people do to those they hate, or who are indifferent to them, and do not matter.

FOLDAL.

What is the worst of all then, John Gabriel?

BORKMAN.

[_With emphasis._] The most infamous of crimes is a friend’s betrayal of his friend’s confidence.

FOLDAL.

[_Somewhat doubtfully._] Yes, but you know——

BORKMAN.

[_Firing up._] What are you going to say? I see it in your face. But it is of no use. The people who had their securities in the bank should have got them all back again—every farthing. No; I tell you the most infamous crime a man can commit is to misuse a friend’s letters; to publish to all the world what has been confided to him alone, in the closest secrecy, like a whisper in an empty, dark, double-locked room. The man who can do such things is infected and poisoned in every fibre with the morals of the higher rascality. And such a friend was mine—and it was he who crushed me.

FOLDAL.

I can guess whom you mean.

BORKMAN.

There was not a nook or cranny of my life that I hesitated to lay open to him. And then, when the moment came, he turned against me the weapons I myself had placed in his hands.

FOLDAL.

I have never been able to understand why he——Of course, there were whispers of all sorts at the time.

BORKMAN.

What were the whispers? Tell me. You see I know nothing. For I had to go straight into—into isolation. What did people whisper, Vilhelm?

FOLDAL.

You were to have gone into the Cabinet, they said.

BORKMAN.

I was offered a portfolio, but I refused it.

FOLDAL.

Then it wasn’t there you stood in his way?

BORKMAN.

Oh, no; that was not the reason he betrayed me.

FOLDAL.

Then I really can’t understand——

BORKMAN.

I may as well tell you, Vilhelm——

FOLDAL.

Well?

BORKMAN.

There was—in fact, there was a woman in the case.

FOLDAL.

A woman in the case? Well but, John Gabriel——

BORKMAN.

[_Interrupting._] Well, well—let us say no more of these stupid old stories. After all, neither of us got into the Cabinet, neither he nor I.

FOLDAL.

But he rose high in the world.

BORKMAN.

And I fell into the abyss.

FOLDAL.

Oh, it’s a terrible tragedy——

BORKMAN.

[_Nodding to him._] Almost as terrible as yours, I fancy, when I come to think of it.

FOLDAL.

[_Naïvely._] Yes, at least as terrible.

BORKMAN.

[_Laughing quietly._] But looked at from another point of view, it is really a sort of comedy as well.

FOLDAL.

A comedy? The story of your life?

BORKMAN.

Yes, it seems to be taking a turn in that direction. For let me tell you——

FOLDAL.

What?

BORKMAN.

You say you did not meet Frida as you came in?

FOLDAL.

No.

BORKMAN.

At this moment, as we sit here, she is playing waltzes for the guests of the man who betrayed and ruined me.

FOLDAL.

I hadn’t the least idea of that.

BORKMAN.

Yes, she took her music, and went straight from me to—to the great house.

FOLDAL.

[_Apologetically._] Well, you see, poor child——

BORKMAN.

And can you guess for whom she is playing—among the rest?

FOLDAL.

No.

BORKMAN.

For my son.

FOLDAL.

What?

BORKMAN.

What do you think of that, Vilhelm? My son is down there in the whirl of the dance this evening. Am I not right in calling it a comedy?

FOLDAL.

But in that case you may be sure he knows nothing about it.

BORKMAN.

What does he not know?

FOLDAL.

You may be sure he doesn’t know how he—that man——

BORKMAN.

Do not shrink from his name. I can quite well bear it now.

FOLDAL.

I’m certain your son doesn’t know the circumstances, John Gabriel.

BORKMAN.

[_Gloomily, sitting and beating the table._] Yes, he knows, as surely as I am sitting here.

FOLDAL.

Then how can he possibly be a guest in _that_ house?

BORKMAN.

[_Shaking his head._] My son probably does not see things with my eyes. I’ll take my oath he is on my enemies’ side! No doubt he thinks, as they do, that Hinkel only did his confounded duty when he went and betrayed me.

FOLDAL.

But, my dear friend, who can have got him to see things in that light?

BORKMAN.

Who? Do you forget who has brought him up? First his aunt, from the time he was six or seven years old; and now, of late years, his mother!

FOLDAL.

I believe you are doing them an injustice.

BORKMAN.

[_Firing up._] I never do any one injustice! Both of them have gone and poisoned his mind against me, I tell you!

FOLDAL.

[_Soothingly._] Well, well, well, I suppose they have.

BORKMAN.

[_Indignantly._] Oh these women! They wreck and ruin life for us! Play the devil with our whole destiny—our triumphal progress.

FOLDAL.

Not all of them!

BORKMAN.

Indeed? Can you tell me of a single one that is good for anything?

FOLDAL.

No, that is the trouble. The few that I know are good for nothing.

BORKMAN.

[_With a snort of scorn._] Well then, what is the good of it? What is the good of such women existing—if you never know them?

FOLDAL.

[_Warmly._] Yes, John Gabriel, there is good in it, I assure you. It is such a blessed, beneficent thought that here or there in the world, somewhere, far away—the true woman exists after all.

BORKMAN.

[_Moving impatiently on the sofa._] Oh, do spare me that poetical nonsense.

FOLDAL.

[_Looks at him, deeply wounded._] Do you call my holiest faith poetical nonsense?

BORKMAN.

[_Harshly._] Yes I do! That is what has always prevented you from getting on in the world. If you would get all that out of your head, I could still help you on in life—help you to rise.

FOLDAL.

[_Boiling inwardly._] Oh, you can’t do that.

BORKMAN.

I _can_, when once I come into power again.

FOLDAL.

That won’t be for many a day.

BORKMAN.

[_Vehemently._] Perhaps you think that day will never come? Answer me!

FOLDAL.

I don’t know what to answer.

BORKMAN.

[_Rising, cold and dignified, and waving his hand towards the door._] Then I no longer have any use for you.

FOLDAL.

[_Starting up._] No use——!

BORKMAN.

Since you do not believe that the tide will turn for _me_——

FOLDAL.

How _can_ I believe in the teeth of all reason? You would have to be legally rehabilitated——

BORKMAN.

Go on! go on!

FOLDAL.

It’s true I never passed my examination; but I have read enough law to know that——

BORKMAN.

[_Quickly._] It is impossible, you mean?

FOLDAL.

There is no precedent for such a thing.

BORKMAN.

Exceptional men are above precedents.

FOLDAL.

The law knows nothing of such distinctions.

BORKMAN.

[_Harshly and decisively._] You are no poet, Vilhelm.

FOLDAL.

[_Unconsciously folding his hands._] Do you say that in sober earnest?

BORKMAN.

[_Dismissing the subject, without answering._] We are only wasting each other’s time. You had better not come here again.

FOLDAL.

Then you really want me to leave you?

BORKMAN.

[_Without looking at him._] I have no longer any use for you.

FOLDAL.

[_Softly, taking his portfolio._] No, no, no; I daresay not.

BORKMAN.

Here you have been lying to me all the time.

FOLDAL.

[_Shaking his head._] Never lying, John Gabriel.

BORKMAN.

Have you not sat here feeding me with hope, and trust, and confidence—that was all a lie?

FOLDAL.

It wasn’t a lie so long as _you_ believed in _my_ vocation. So long as you believed in me, I believed in you.

BORKMAN.

Then we have been all the time deceiving each other. And perhaps deceiving ourselves—both of us.

FOLDAL.

But isn’t that just the essence of friendship, John Gabriel?

BORKMAN.

[_Smiling bitterly._] Yes, you are right there. Friendship means—deception. I have learnt that once before.

FOLDAL.

[_Looking at him._] I have no poetic vocation! And you could actually say it to me so bluntly.

BORKMAN.

[_In a gentler tone._] Well, you know, I don’t pretend to know much about these matters.

FOLDAL.

Perhaps you know more than you think.

BORKMAN.

I?

FOLDAL.

[_Softly._] Yes, you. For I myself have had my doubts, now and then, I may tell you. The horrible doubt that I may have bungled my life for the sake of a delusion.

BORKMAN.

If you have no faith in yourself, you are on the downward path indeed.

FOLDAL.

That was why I found such comfort in coming here to lean upon your faith in me. [_Taking his hat._] But now you have become a stranger to me.

BORKMAN.

And you to me.

FOLDAL.

Good night, John Gabriel.

BORKMAN.

Good night, Vilhelm.

[_FOLDAL goes out to the left._

[_BORKMAN stands for a moment gazing at the closed door; makes a
movement as though to call FOLDAL back, but changes his mind,
and begins to pace the floor with his hands behind his back.
Then he stops at the table beside the sofa and puts out the
lamp. The room becomes half dark. After a short pause, there
comes a knock at the tapestry door._

BORKMAN.

[_At the table, starts, turns, and asks in a loud voice:_] Who is that knocking?

[_No answer; another knock._

BORKMAN.

[_Without moving._] Who is it? Come in!