ACT SECOND

[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 forcesElla Rentheimto 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 doyousay, 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? [ToElla Rentheim.] Do you know the air that she is playing up there?

Ella Rentheim.

No. What is it?

Erhart.

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

Ella Rentheim.

[Smiling sadly.] Not yet, Erhart.

Erhart.

[ToMrs. 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 onlyIdon’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 Borkmanstands with his hands behind his back, beside the piano, listening toFrida Foldal, who is playing the last bars of the “Danse Macabre.”

Borkmanis 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.FridaFoldalis 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.] Doesthatman give parties? Canheget 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.Borkmanhears it, looks rapidly towards the door, but says nothing.[In a little there comes another knock, this time louder.

[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.Borkmanhears 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 Foldalcomes 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 atFoldalwith 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 betterforyou 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.Thatis 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.

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