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!
[_ELLA RENTHEIM, with a lighted candle in her hand, appears in the
doorway. She wears her black dress, as before, with her cloak
thrown loosely round her shoulders._
BORKMAN.
[_Staring at her._] Who are you? What do you want with me?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Closes the door and advances._] It is I, Borkman.
[_She puts down the candle on the piano and remains standing beside
it._
BORKMAN.
[_Stands as though thunderstruck, stares fixedly at her, and says in a
half-whisper._] Is it—is it Ella? Is it Ella Rentheim?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, it’s “your” Ella, as you used to call me in the old days; many,
many years ago.
BORKMAN.
[_As before._] Yes, it is you Ella, I can see you now.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Can you recognise me?
BORKMAN.
Yes, now I begin to——
ELLA RENTHEIM.
The years have told on me, and brought winter with them, Borkman. Do you
not think so?
BORKMAN.
[_In a forced voice._] You are a good deal changed—just at the first
glance.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
There are no dark curls on my neck now—the curls you once loved so to
twist round your fingers.
BORKMAN.
[_Quickly._] True! I can see now, Ella, you have done your hair
differently.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_With a sad smile._] Precisely; it is the way I do my hair that makes
the difference.
BORKMAN.
[_Changing the subject._] I had no idea that you were in this part of
the world.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
I have only just arrived.
BORKMAN.
Why have you come all this way now, in winter?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
That you shall hear.
BORKMAN.
Is it me you have come to see?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
You among others. But if I am to tell you my errand, I must begin far
back.
BORKMAN.
You look tired.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, I am tired.
BORKMAN.
Won’t you sit down? There, on the sofa.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, thank you; I need rest.
[_She crosses to the right and seats herself in the furthest forward
corner of the sofa. BORKMAN stands beside the table with his
hands behind his back looking at her. A short silence._
ELLA RENTHEIM.
It seems an endless time since we two met, Borkman, face to face.
BORKMAN.
[_Gloomily._] It is a long, long time. And terrible things have passed
since then.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
A whole lifetime has passed—a wasted lifetime.
BORKMAN.
[_Looking keenly at her._] Wasted!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, I say wasted—for both of us.
BORKMAN.
[_In a cold, business tone._] I cannot regard my life as wasted, yet.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
And what about mine?
BORKMAN.
There you have yourself to blame, Ella.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_With a start._] And you can say _that_?
BORKMAN.
You could quite well have been happy without me.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Do you believe that?
BORKMAN.
If you had made up your mind to.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Bitterly._] Oh yes, I know well enough there was some one else ready
to marry me.
BORKMAN.
But you rejected him.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, I did.
BORKMAN.
Time after time you rejected him. Year after year——
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Scornfully._] Year after year I rejected happiness, I suppose you
think?
BORKMAN.
You might perfectly well have been happy with _him_. And then I should
have been saved.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
You?
BORKMAN.
Yes, you would have saved me, Ella.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
How do you mean?
BORKMAN.
He thought I was at the bottom of your obstinacy—of your perpetual
refusals. And then he took his revenge. It was so easy for him; he had
all my frank, confiding letters in his keeping. He made his own use of
them; and then it was all over with me—for the time, that is to say. So
you see it is all your doing, Ella!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Oh indeed, Borkman. If we look into the matter, it appears that it is I
who owe _you_ reparation.
BORKMAN.
It depends how you look at it. I know quite well all that you have done
for us. You bought in this house, and the whole property, at the
auction. You placed the house entirely at my disposal—and your sister’s.
You took charge of Erhart, and cared for him in every way——
ELLA RENTHEIM.
As long as I was allowed to——
BORKMAN.
By your sister, you mean. I have never mixed myself up in these domestic
affairs. As I was saying, I know all the sacrifices you have made for me
and for your sister. But you were in a position to do so, Ella; and you
must not forget that it was I who placed you in that position.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Indignantly._] There you make a great mistake, Borkman! It was the
love of my inmost heart for Erhart—and for you too—that made me do it!
BORKMAN.
[_Interrupting._] My dear Ella, do not let us get upon questions of
sentiment and that sort of thing. I mean, of course, that if you acted
generously, it was I that put it in your power to do so.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Smiling._] H’m! In my power——
BORKMAN.
[_Warmly._] Yes, put it in your power, I say! On the eve of the great
decisive battle—when I could not afford to spare either kith or kin—when
I had to grasp at—when I _did_ grasp at the millions that were entrusted
to me—then I spared all that was yours, every farthing, although I could
have taken it, and made use of it, as I did of all the rest!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Coldly and quietly._] That is quite true, Borkman.
BORKMAN.
Yes it is. And that was why, when they came and took me, they found all
your securities untouched in the strong-room of the bank.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Looking at him._] I have often and often wondered what was your real
reason for sparing all my property? That, and that alone?
BORKMAN.
My reason?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, your reason. Tell me.
BORKMAN.
[_Harshly and scornfully._] Perhaps you think it was that I might have
something to fall back upon, if things went wrong?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Oh no, I am sure you did not think of that in those days.
BORKMAN.
Never! I was so absolutely certain of victory.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Well then, why was it that——?
BORKMAN.
[_Shrugging his shoulders._] Upon my soul, Ella, it is not so easy to
remember one’s motives of twenty years ago. I only know that when I used
to grapple, silently and alone, with all the great projects I had in my
mind, I had something like the feeling of a man who is starting on a
balloon-voyage. All through my sleepless nights I was inflating my giant
balloon, and preparing to soar away into perilous, unknown regions.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Smiling._] You, who never had the least doubt of victory?
BORKMAN.
[_Impatiently._] Men are made so, Ella. They both doubt and believe at
the same time. [_Looking straight before him._] And I suppose that was
why I would not take you and yours with me in the balloon.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Eagerly._] Why, I ask you? Tell me why!
BORKMAN.
[_Without looking at her._] One shrinks from risking what one holds
dearest on such a voyage.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
You _had_ risked what was dearest to you on that voyage. Your whole
future life——
BORKMAN.
Life is not always what one holds dearest.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Breathlessly._] Was that how you felt at that time?
BORKMAN.
I fancy it was.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
I was the dearest thing in the world to you?
BORKMAN.
I seem to remember something of the sort.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
And yet years and years had passed since you had deserted me—and
married—married another!
BORKMAN.
Deserted you, you say? You must know very well that it was higher
motives—well then, _other_ motives that compelled me. Without _his_
support I could not have done anything.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Controlling herself._] So you deserted me from—higher motives.
BORKMAN.
I could not get on without his help. And he made you the price of
helping me.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
And you paid the price. Paid it in full—without haggling.
BORKMAN.
I had no choice. I had to conquer or fall.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_In a trembling voice, looking at him._] Can what you tell me be
true—that I was then the dearest thing in the world to you?
BORKMAN.
Both then and afterwards—long, long after.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
But you bartered me away none the less; drove a bargain with another man
for your love. Sold my love for a—for a directorship.
BORKMAN.
[_Gloomily and bowed down._] I was driven by inexorable necessity, Ella.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Rises from the sofa, quivering with passion._] Criminal!
BORKMAN.
[_Starts, but controls himself._] I have heard that word before.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Oh, don’t imagine I’m thinking of anything you may have done against the
law of the land! The use you made of all those vouchers and securities,
or whatever you call them—do you think I care a straw about that! If I
could have stood at your side when the crash came——
BORKMAN.
[_Eagerly._] What then, Ella?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Trust me, I should have borne it all so gladly along with you. The
shame, the ruin—I would have helped you to bear it all—all!
BORKMAN.
Would you have had the will—the strength?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Both the will and the strength. For then I did not know of your great,
your terrible crime.
BORKMAN.
What crime? What are you speaking of?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
I am speaking of that crime for which there is no forgiveness.
BORKMAN.
[_Staring at her._] You must be out of your mind.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Approaching him._] You are a murderer! You have committed the one
mortal sin!
BORKMAN.
[_Falling back towards the piano._] You are raving, Ella!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
You have killed the love-life in me. [_Still nearer him._] Do you
understand what that means? The Bible speaks of a mysterious sin for
which there is no forgiveness. I have never understood what it could be;
but now I understand. The great, unpardonable sin is to murder the
love-life in a human soul.
BORKMAN.
And you say I have done that?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
You _have_ done that. I have never rightly understood until this evening
what had really happened to me. That you deserted me and turned to
Gunhild instead—I took that to be mere common fickleness on your part,
and the result of heartless scheming on hers. I almost think I despised
you a little, in spite of everything. But now I see it! You deserted the
woman you _loved_! Me, me, me! What you held dearest in the world you
were ready to barter away for gain. _That_ is the double murder you have
committed! The murder of your own soul and of mine!
BORKMAN.
[_With cold self-control._] How well I recognise your passionate,
ungovernable spirit, Ella. No doubt it is natural enough that you should
look at the thing in this light. Of course, you are a woman, and
therefore it would seem that your own heart is the one thing you know or
care about in the world.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, yes it is.
BORKMAN.
Your own heart is the only thing that exists for you.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
The only thing! The only thing! You are right there.
BORKMAN.
But you must remember that I am a man. As a woman, you were the dearest
thing in the world to me. But if the worst comes to the worst, one woman
can always take the place of another.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Looks at him with a smile._] Was that your experience when you had
made Gunhild your wife?
BORKMAN.
No. But the great aims I had in life helped me to bear even that. I
wanted to have at my command all the sources of power in this country.
All the wealth that lay hidden in the soil, and the rocks, and the
forests, and the sea—I wanted to gather it all into my hands, to make
myself master of it all, and so to promote the well-being of many, many
thousands.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Lost in recollection._] I know it. Think of all the evenings we spent
in talking over your projects.
BORKMAN.
Yes, I could talk to _you_, Ella.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
I jested with your plans, and asked whether you wanted to awaken all the
sleeping spirits of the mine.
BORKMAN.
[_Nodding._] I remember that phrase. [_Slowly._] All the sleeping
spirits of the mine.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
But you did not take it as a jest. You said: “Yes, yes, Ella, that is
just what I want to do.”
BORKMAN.
And so it was. If only I could get my foot into the stirrup——And _that_
depended on that one man. He could and would secure me the control of
the bank—if I on my side——
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, just so! If you on your side would renounce the woman you loved—and
who loved you beyond words in return.
BORKMAN.
I knew his consuming passion for you. I knew that on no other condition
would he——
ELLA RENTHEIM.
And so you struck the bargain.
BORKMAN.
[_Vehemently._] Yes, I did, Ella! For the love of power is
uncontrollable in me, you see! So I struck the bargain; I _had_ to. And
he helped me half-way up towards the beckoning heights that I was bent
on reaching. And I mounted and mounted; year by year I mounted——
ELLA RENTHEIM.
And I was as though wiped out of your life.
BORKMAN.
And after all he hurled me into the abyss again. On account of you,
Ella.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_After a short thoughtful silence._] Borkman, does it not seem to you
as if there had been a sort of curse on our whole relation?
BORKMAN.
[_Looking at her._] A curse?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes. Don’t you think so?
BORKMAN.
[_Uneasily._] Yes. But why is it? [_With an outburst._] Oh Ella, I begin
to wonder which is in the right—you or I!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
It is you who have sinned. You have done to death all the gladness of
life in me.
BORKMAN.
[_Anxiously._] Do not say that, Ella!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
All a woman’s gladness at any rate. From the day when your image began
to dwindle in my mind, I have lived my life as though under an eclipse.
During all these years it has grown harder and harder for me—and at last
utterly impossible—to love any living creature. Human beings, animals,
plants: I shrank from all—from all but one——
BORKMAN.
What one?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Erhart, of course.
BORKMAN.
Erhart?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Erhart—your son, Borkman.
BORKMAN.
Has he really been so close to your heart?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Why else should I have taken him to me, and kept him as long as ever I
could? Why?
BORKMAN.
I thought it was out of pity, like all the rest that you did.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_In strong inward emotion._] Pity! Ha, ha! I have never known pity,
since you deserted me. I was incapable of feeling it. If a poor starved
child came into my kitchen, shivering, and crying, and begging for a
morsel of food, I let the servants look to it. I never felt any desire
to take the child to myself, to warm it at my own hearth, to have the
pleasure of seeing it eat and be satisfied. And yet I was not like that
when I was young; that I remember clearly! It is you that have created
an empty, barren desert within me—and without me too!
BORKMAN.
Except only for Erhart.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, except for your son. But I am hardened to every other living thing.
You have cheated me of a mother’s joy and happiness in life—and of a
mother’s sorrows and tears as well. And perhaps that is the heaviest
part of the loss to me.
BORKMAN.
Do you say that, Ella?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Who knows? It may be that a mother’s sorrows and tears were what I
needed most. [_With still deeper emotion._] But at that time I _could
not_ resign myself to my loss; and that was why I took Erhart to me. I
won him entirely. Won his whole warm, trustful childish heart—until——Oh!
BORKMAN.
Until what?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Until his mother—his mother in the flesh, I mean—took him from me again.
BORKMAN.
He had to leave you in any case; he had to come to town.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[_Wringing her hands._] Yes, but I cannot bear the solitude—the
emptiness! I cannot bear the loss of your son’s heart!
BORKMAN.
[_With an evil expression in his eyes._] H’m—I doubt whether you have
lost it, Ella. Hearts are not so easily lost to a certain person—in the
room below.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
I _have_ lost Erhart here, and she has won him back again. Or if not
she, some one else. That is plain enough in the letters he writes me
from time to time.
BORKMAN.
Then it is to take him back with you that you have come here?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, if only it were possible——!
BORKMAN.
It is possible enough, if you have set your heart upon it. For you have
the first and strongest claims upon him.
ELLA RENTHEIM.