[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.
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 the 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.
FRIDA.
Oh, very well; I shan't say anything then. Good-night, Mr.
Borkman.
BORKMAN.
[Pacing up and down and growling.] Good-night.
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 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 the 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 half-penny.
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.
[Naively.] 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 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, beneficial 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.