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.