Chapter 14

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 muchpolish, 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.

[Borkmanpaces up and down the room.Foldalputs 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 atFoldal.] You’re looking so doubtfully at me! Perhaps you do not believe that they will come? That theymust,must,mustcome 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—Iknowthat 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 tome, John Gabriel.

Borkman.

[Vehemently.] Yes, but think of me, who could have created millions! All the mines Ishould 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 ismyfate 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 infectedand 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 inthathouse?

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.

Ican, 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 forme——

Foldal.

HowcanI 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 asyoubelieved inmyvocation. 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.

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.

[Foldalgoes out to the left.

[Borkmanstands for a moment gazing at the closed door; makes a movement as though to callFoldalback, 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.

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