Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (317 page)

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 SECON
D

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.