MRS. BORKMAN’S living room, furnished in old-fashioned, faded elegance. In the background is an open sliding door, leading into a garden room with windows and a glass door. Through these, a view into the garden, where a snowstorm swirls in the dusk. In the wall to the right, the entry door from the hall. Further forward, a large old iron stove with a fire burning in it. On the left, set back somewhat, a single, smaller door. In front of this on the same side, a window hung with heavy curtains. Between the window and the door, a sofa covered in horsehair, and in front of it, a table with a cloth on it. On the table, a lighted lamp with a shade. Near the stove, a high-backed armchair.
MRS. GUNHILD BORKMAN is seated on the sofa, crocheting. She is an elderly woman, cold and distinguished in appearance, with a stiff bearing and impassive features. Her abundant hair has turned iron-gray; her hands are delicate and translucent. She wears a thick, dark silk dress that once was stylish, but now is somewhat frayed and worn, and a woolen shawl over her shoulders.
For a short while she sits erect and immobile at her crocheting. Then from outside comes the sound of bells on a passing sleigh. She listens, her eyes lighting up with joy.
MRS. BORKMAN (in an involuntary whisper). Erhart! At last!
(She rises and gazes out through the curtains; then, with a look of disappointment, she settles again on the sofa at her work. Some moments later the MAID enters from the hall with a visiting card on a small tray.)
MRS. BORKMAN (quickly). Was it Mr. Erhart after all?
MAID. No, ma’am. But there’s a lady here—
MRS. BORKMAN (setting her crocheting aside). Oh, Mrs. Wilton, then—
MAID (approaching). No, it’s a strange lady—
MRS. BORKMAN (takes the card). Let me see— (Reads it, rises abruptly, and fixes her eyes on the MAID.) Are you quite certain this is for me?
MAID. Yes, I understood it was meant for you.
MRS. BORKMAN. She asked to speak to Mrs. Borkman?
MAID. That’s right, ma’am.
MRS. BORKMAN (brusquely, with resolution). Good. Then say that I’m at home.
(The MAID opens the door for the stranger and goes out. MISS ELLA RENTHEIM enters the room. She resembles her sister in appearance, but her face has more of suffering than of hardness in its expression. Its former great beauty and character is still clearly evident. Her thick hair, now turned silvery white, is swept back in natural waves from her forehead. She is dressed in black velvet, with a hat and fur-lined coat of the same material. The two sisters stand in silence for a moment as they look probingly at each other. Each is apparently waiting for the other to speak first.)
ELLA (hesitating by the door). You look quite surprised to see me, Gunhild.
MRS. BORKMAN (standing stiffly upright between the sofa and the table, steadying her fingertips against the cloth). Aren’t you mistaken? The manager of the estate lives in the annex, you know.
ELLA. I’m not here to see the manager today.
MRS. BORKMAN. Did you want me for something?
ELLA. Yes. I need a few words with you.
MRS. BORKMAN (moving toward her). Well—then have a seat.
ELLA. Thank you; I can just as well stand for the moment.
MRS. BORKMAN. Whatever you like. But at least open your coat a bit.
ELLA (unbuttoning her coat). Yes, it’s terribly warm in here.
MRS. BORKMAN. I’m always freezing.
ELLA (stands for a time looking at her, with her arms resting on the back of the armchair). Well—Gunhild, it’s nearly eight years now since we saw each other last.
MRS. BORKMAN (coldly). Or since we’ve spoken, at any rate.
ELLA. Since we’ve spoken; yes, that’s better. Because you must have seen me at times—when I made my yearly visit to the manager.
MRS. BORKMAN. I think, once or twice.
ELLA. I’ve also had a glimpse of you a few times. There, in the window.
MRS. BORKMAN. That must have been through the curtains. You have sharp eyes, Ella. (Hard and caustic.) But the last time we spoke together—that was here in this room—
ELLA (defensively). Yes, yes, I know, Gunhild!
MRS. BORKMAN. The week before he—before he was released.
ELLA (walking away toward the back). Oh, don’t start on that!
MRS. BORKMAN (in a firm but muted voice). It was the week before he—Borkman was set free again.
ELLA (coming forward). Oh, yes, yes, yes! I haven’t forgotten that time! But it’s simply too heartbreaking to think about—even to dwell on for one instant—oh!
MRS. BORKMAN (dully). And yet the mind can never stop brooding on it alone. (In an outburst, striking her hands together.) No, I can’t understand it! I never will! I can’t comprehend how anything like this—anything so appalling could overwhelm one family! And, that it’s our family! A family so distinguished! Why did it have to strike us!
ELLA. Oh, Gunhild—there were many, many besides our family struck down by that blow.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, but all those others don’t concern me especially. It was only a little money, or some papers, that they lost. But for us—! For me! And for Erhart—no more than a child then! (With rising passion.) What shame for us, the innocent! What dishonor! The ugly, stupefying dishonor! And then, everything in ruins!
ELLA (cautiously). Tell me, Gunhild—how is he bearing it?
MRS. BORKMAN. Erhart, you mean?
ELLA. No, he himself. How is he bearing it?
MRS. BORKMAN (with contempt). Do you think I’d ask?
ELLA. Ask? You shouldn’t have to ask—
MRS. BORKMAN (stares at her, astonished). You really believe I consort with him? Or cross his path? Or lay eyes on him?
ELLA. Not even that!
MRS. BORKMAN. A man for five years in prison! (Buries her face in her hands.) Oh, such a vile disgrace! (In a surge of fury.) And to think what the name John Gabriel Borkman once used to mean! No, no, no, I never want to see him again! Never!
ELLA (regarding her briefly). You have a hard heart, Gunhild.
MRS. BORKMAN. Toward him, yes.
ELLA. He’s still your husband.
MRS. BORKMAN. Didn’t he tell the court that I was the one who began his ruin? That I needed too much money—?
ELLA (gently). But wasn’t there some truth in that?
MRS. BORKMAN. But that’s just the way he wanted it! Everything had to be so impossibly luxurious—
ELLA. I’m aware of that. It’s exactly why you should have held back—which you certainly didn’t do.
MRS. BORKMAN. How could I know it wasn’t his—the money he gave me to squander? And that he squandered, too—ten times beyond what I spent!
ELLA (quietly). Well, I guess his position required it—in good part, anyway.
MRS. BORKMAN (scornfully). Yes, I always heard that we had to “set the style.” So he set the style all right—to a fault! Drove a four-in-hand—as if he were a king. Let people bow and scrape to him, as if to a king. (With a laugh.) And they called him by his forename—all through the country—exactly like the king himself. “John Gabriel. John Gabriel.” They all knew “John Gabriel” for a great man then.
ELLA. He was a great man then.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, outwardly. But never one single word to let me know what his real position was. Never an inkling of where he got his funds.
ELLA. No, no—the others never suspected either.
MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, forget about the others. But he was duty-bound to tell me the truth. And he never did! He only lied—lied interminably to me—
ELLA (interrupting). Certainly not, Gunhild! He may have concealed things. But he surely didn’t lie.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, call it what you will; it’s one and the same— And then it shattered. Everything. All that splendor overthrown.
ELLA (to herself). Everything shattered—for him—and for others.
MRS. BORKMAN (draws herself up grimly). But I can tell you this, Ella—I’m not giving in! I’ll find my way through to restitution. You can take my word for it!
ELLA (tensely). Restitution? What do you mean by that?
MRS. BORKMAN. Restitution for my name and honor and fortune! For the whole of my desolated life, that’s what I mean! I have somebody to turn to, you know! Someone who’ll cleanse everything that—that Borkman tarnished.
ELLA. Gunhild! Gunhild!
MRS. BORKMAN (with swelling emotion). There’s an avenger living! One who’ll make up for all his father’s wrongs against me!
ELLA. Erhart.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, Erhart—my own good son! He’ll find the way to restore the family, the house, our name. Everything that can be restored. And maybe something more.
ELLA. And just how do you expect that to happen?
MRS. BORKMAN. It’ll come about in its own way. I don’t know exactly how. But I know that it will and it must happen someday. (Looks inquisitively at her.) But Ella—isn’t this the same, essentially, as what you’ve been thinking ever since he was a child?
ELLA. No, I really can’t say it is.
MRS. BORKMAN. It isn’t? Then why did you take him in, when the storm broke over—over our house?
ELLA. You couldn’t manage things yourself, Gunhild.
MRS. BORKMAN. No—that’s right, I couldn’t. And his father—he was legally incompetent—there where he sat—so nicely protected—
ELLA (infuriated). Oh, how can you talk like that—! You!
MRS. BORKMAN (with a venomous expression). And how could you bring yourself to take in a child of—of John Gabriel! Absolutely as if that child were yours. Take him from me—to go home with you—and to keep him, year after year, till the boy was nearly grown. (Regarding her distrustfully.) What did you really do it for, Ella? Why did you keep him?
ELLA. I came to love him so much—
MRS. BORKMAN. More than I—his mother!
ELLA (evasively). That’s beyond me to say. And then, of course, Erhart was rather frail as a child—
MRS. BORKMAN. Erhart—frail!
ELLA. Yes, I thought so—at the time, anyhow. And the air out there on the west coast is so much milder than here, you know.
MRS. BORKMAN (with a wry smile). Hm. Is it really? (Breaking off.) Yes, you truly have done a great deal for Erhart. (Her tone alters.) Well, it’s understandable; you could well afford it. (Smiles.) You’ve been so lucky, Ella. You got back everything of yours untouched.
ELLA (hurt). I had nothing to do with that, believe me. I hadn’t any suspicion—not till long, long after—that the securities made over to me at the bank—that they’d been spared—
MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, well, I can’t fathom such things! I’m only saying that you were lucky. (Looks questioningly at her.) But when you set about, all on your own, to bring up Erhart for me—what was your motive in that?
ELLA (looking at her). My motive—?
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, you must have had a motive. What did you want to make of him? Make out of him, I mean.
ELLA (slowly). I wanted to open a path for Erhart to be happy here on earth.
MRS. BORKMAN (scornfully). Pah! People of our standing have better things to do than think about happiness.
ELLA. What else—in your opinion?
MRS. BORKMAN (regards her solemnly). Erhart has an obligation, before all else, to achieve a brilliance of such height and scope that not one person in this country will still recall the shadow his father cast over me—and over my son.
ELLA (incisively). Tell me, Gunhild—is that the aim Erhart himself has for his own life—?
MRS. BORKMAN (startled). Well, let’s hope so!
ELLA. Or isn’t it rather an aim that you’ve imposed on him?
MRS. BORKMAN (brusquely). Erhart and I always share the same goals.
ELLA (slowly and sadly). Are you so very sure of your son, then, Gunhild?
MRS. BORKMAN (secretly exulting). Yes, thank God, I am. You can be positive of that!
ELLA. Then, I think, at heart you must feel you’ve been lucky after all. In spite of everything.
MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, I do—in that respect. But, every other moment you see, the rest of it comes sweeping over me like a tempest.
ELLA (her tone changing). Tell me—and you might as well right away, since it’s actually why I’ve come—
MRS. BORKMAN. What?
ELLA. Something I feel I have to talk to you about— Tell me, Erhart doesn’t live out here with—with the family?
MRS. BORKMAN (sharply). Erhart can’t live out here with me. He’s got to live in town—
ELLA. He wrote me that.
MRS. BORKMAN. He’s got to, because of his studies. But every evening he stops out and visits me for a while.
ELLA. Then perhaps I could see him? And speak to him right now?
MRS. BORKMAN. He hasn’t come yet. But I expect him any minute.
ELLA. But Gunhild—I’m sure he’s here. I hear him walking upstairs.
MRS. BORKMAN (with a quick upward glance). Up in the salon?
ELLA. Yes. I’ve heard him walking there ever since I came.
MRS. BORKMAN (averting her eyes). That’s not Erhart, Ella.
ELLA (puzzled). Not Erhart? (Surmising.) Who is it then?
MRS. BORKMAN. It’s him.
ELLA (quietly, with stifled grief). Borkman! John Gabriel!
MRS. BORKMAN. That’s how he walks, up and down. Back and forth. From morning to night. Day in and day out.
ELLA. Of course I’ve heard rumors about—things—
MRS. BORKMAN. No doubt. There must be a lot of rumors about us.
ELLA. Erhart has hinted of it. In his letters. That his father kept mainly to himself—up there. And you, alone down here.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes. We’ve lived like that, Ella. Ever since they released him, and sent him home to me. All these eight long years.
ELLA. But I’ve never thought it could really be true. Or possible—!
MRS. BORKMAN (nods). It’s true. And it can never be different.
ELLA (looking at her). It must be a horrible existence, Gunhild.
MRS. BORKMAN. More than horrible. I can’t bear it much longer.
ELLA. I understand.
MRS. BORKMAN. Always hearing his footsteps up there. From early morning till far into the night. And so loud, as if they were here in this room!
ELLA. Yes, it’s strange how the sound carries.
MRS. BORKMAN. Often I have the feeling that I have a sick wolf pacing his cage up in the salon. Right over my head. (Listens, then whispers.) Hear that, Ella! Listen! Back and forth—back and forth, the wolf pacing.
ELLA (hesitatingly). Couldn’t things be different, Gunhild?
MRS. BORKMAN (with a disdainful gesture). He’s never made one move in that direction.
ELLA. Couldn’t you make the first move, then?
MRS. BORKMAN (incensed). I? After all I’ve suffered from him! No thanks! Let the wolf go on roaming his cage.
ELLA. It’s too warm for me in here. If I may, I’ll take my coat off after all.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, I asked you before—
(ELLA removes her hat and coat, laying them on a chair by the hall door.)
ELLA. Don’t you ever run into him outside the house?
MRS. BORKMAN (with a bitter laugh). Out in society, you mean?
ELLA. I mean, when he’s out for some air. On a path in the woods, or—
MRS. BORKMAN. He never goes out.
ELLA. Not even at dusk.
MRS. BORKMAN. Never.
ELLA (touched). He can’t even face that?
MRS. BORKMAN. Apparently not. He has his great cape and his hat hanging in the closet. In the hall, you know—
ELLA (to herself). The one we played in when we were little—
MRS. BORKMAN (nodding). And every so often—late in the evening—I hear him coming down—to put on his things and go out. But then he stops, usually halfway down the stairs—and turns back. Back to the salon.
ELLA (softly). Don’t any of his old friends ever stop up to see him?
MRS. BORKMAN. He has no old friends.
ELLA. He had so many, once.
MRS. BORKMAN. Hm! He found a very nice way to shed them. He became an expensive friend to have, this John Gabriel.
ELLA. Yes, I guess you’re right.
MRS. BORKMAN (heatedly). Nevertheless, I must say it’s mean, cheap, petty, and contemptible to lay so much weight on any minor losses they may have suffered through him. It was only money, after all.
ELLA (not answering). So he lives up there quite alone. In isolation.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, that’s about it. I hear there’s an old clerk or copyist who stops up to see him occasionally.
ELLA. Oh yes. That would be Foldal, most likely. I know they were friends in their early years.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, I believe so. I know nothing about him, otherwise. He was never part of our set. When we had one—
ELLA. But now he comes out to Borkman?
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, he’s not fastidious. But naturally he only comes after dark.
ELLA. This Foldal—he was among the ones who had losses when the bank failed.
MRS. BORKMAN (indifferently). I do seem to remember that he lost some money also. But it was quite insignificant.
ELLA (stressing her words slightly). It was everything he had.
MRS. BORKMAN (smiles). Well, but, my Lord—what he had: that was next to nothing. Hardly worth mentioning.
ELLA. It never was mentioned, was it, at the trial—by Foldal?
MRS. BORKMAN. Furthermore, I can tell you that Erhart has amply compensated for any pittance he may have lost.
ELLA (surprised). Erhart? How has he managed that?
MRS. BORKMAN. He’s been looking after Foldal’s younger daughter. And helping to educate her—so she can make something of herself and be independent someday. That’s certainly more than her father ever could have done for her.
ELLA. Yes, her father must be starving along, I can imagine.
MRS. BORKMAN. And then Erhart’s arranged music lessons for her. She’s already so practiced at it that she can go up—up to him in the salon and play for him.
ELLA. So he still loves music?
MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, I suppose so. He’s got the piano you sent out—when he was expected home—
ELLA. And she plays on that?
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, just now and then. In the evenings. Erhart took care of that, too.
ELLA. The poor girl has to travel all the way out here? And then back to town again?
MRS. BORKMAN. Not at all. Erhart’s settled it that she stays with a lady here in the neighborhood. A Mrs. Wilton—
ELLA (fascinated). Mrs. Wilton!
MRS. BORKMAN. A very rich woman. Not anyone you know.
ELLA. I’ve heard the name. Mrs. Fanny Wilton, I believe—
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, exactly—
ELLA. Erhart’s written about her in several of his letters. Is she living out here now?
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, she rented a house and moved out from town a while ago.
ELLA (hesitating a bit). They say that she’s divorced.
MRS. BORKMAN. Her husband’s been dead for several years.
ELLA. Yes, but they were divorced. He divorced her.
MRS. BORKMAN. He deserted her, actually. The fault certainly wasn’t on her side.
ELLA. Do you know her fairly well, Gunhild?
MRS. BORKMAN. Why, yes, of course. She lives quite near and looks in on me every so often.
ELLA. You like her?
MRS. BORKMAN. She’s exceptionally understanding. And remarkably clear in her perceptions.
ELLA. Of people, you mean?
MRS. BORKMAN. Particularly of people. She’s made a thorough study of Erhart. Really profound—into his very soul. And consequently, she idolizes him—which is only reasonable.
ELLA (slyly). So perhaps she knows Erhart even more intimately than she knows you.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, they got together quite a bit in town. Before she moved out here.
ELLA (impulsively). And still she moved from town—?
MRS. BORKMAN (starts and looks narrowly at her). Still! What do you mean by that?
ELLA (evasively). Oh, now really—by that?
MRS. BORKMAN. You said it in such a peculiar way. You did mean something, Ella!
ELLA (meeting her eyes directly). Yes, it’s true, Gunhild. I meant something, all right.
MRS. BORKMAN. Well then, out with it!
ELLA. First of all this: that I feel I also have a certain kind of right to Erhart. Or maybe you don’t agree?
MRS. BORKMAN (gazing about the room). My gracious—after the amounts you’ve spent on him—
ELLA. Oh, that’s no reason, Gunhild. But because I love him—
MRS. BORKMAN (smiles scornfully). My son? Can you love him? You? In spite of everything?
ELLA. Yes, I can, in spite of everything. And I do. I love Erhart—as much as I could ever love anyone—now, at my age.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, yes, all right—
ELLA. So you see, that’s why I get upset the instant I see anything threatening him.
MRS. BORKMAN. Threatening Erhart! Well, but what threatens him? Or who does?
ELLA. You, to start with—in your way—
MRS. BORKMAN. I!
ELLA. And then this Mrs. Wilton, too—she frightens me.
MRS. BORKMAN (stares at her, momentarily speechless). How can you think anything of the kind about Erhart! About my own son! He, with his great mission to fulfill!
ELLA (disdainfully). Oh, come, his mission—!
MRS. BORKMAN (furiously). How dare you take that arrogant tone!
ELLA. Do you suppose that a young person of Erhart’s age—healthy and exuberant—do you suppose that he’ll go out and sacrifice himself—for anything like a “mission”?
MRS. BORKMAN (tenaciously). Erhart will! I know it for a fact!
ELLA (shaking her head). You neither know it nor believe it, Gunhild.
MRS. BORKMAN. Don’t I!
ELLA. It’s only something you dream about. Because if you didn’t have that to cling to, you’re afraid you’d give way to total despair.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, then I’d really be in despair. (Fiercely.) And perhaps that’s what you’d like to see most, Ella!
ELLA (her head held high). Yes, I would—if you can’t liberate yourself except by victimizing Erhart.
MRS. BORKMAN (threateningly). You want to come between us! Between mother and son! You!
ELLA. I want to free him from your power—your control—your domination.
MRS. BORKMAN (triumphantly). You’ve lost your chance! You had him in your net—right up to his fifteenth year. But now, you see, I’ve won him back!
ELLA. Then I’ll win him again from you! (In a rasping, near whisper.) The two of us, we’ve already fought like savages once for a man!
MRS. BORKMAN (looks at her, gloatingly). Yes, and I was victorious.
ELLA (with a mocking smile). Do you still think that victory won you anything?
MRS. BORKMAN (somberly). No—that’s God’s own truth.
ELLA. You won’t win anything this time, either.
MRS. BORKMAN. Won’t win, by asserting a mother’s power over her boy!
ELLA. No, because it’s only power over him that you want.
MRS. BORKMAN. And you?
ELLA (with warmth). I want his affections—his soul—his whole heart—!
MRS. BORKMAN (explosively). You won’t get them again, ever in this world!
ELLA (eyeing her). You’ve seen to that?
MRS. BORKMAN (smiles). Yes. I’ve indulged that privilege. Couldn’t you read that in his letters?
ELLA (slowly nods). Yes. His last letters have been you, completely.
MRS. BORKMAN (baiting her). I’ve made use of these eight years—while I’ve had him under my eyes, you see.
ELLA (with restraint). What have you told him about me? If it’s proper to discuss?
MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, it’s quite proper to.
MRS. BORKMAN. I’ve merely told him the truth.
ELLA. Well?
MRS. BORKMAN. I’ve everlastingly impressed upon him that he must please be sure to remember that it’s you we have to thank for the fact that we can live as decently as we do. Or that we can live at all.
ELLA. No more than that?
MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, such knowledge festers. It does in me.
ELLA. But it’s hardly different from what Erhart knew before.
MRS. BORKMAN. When he came back home to me, he imagined that you did all this out of a kind heart. (Looks vindictively at her.) Now he doesn’t think that any longer.
ELLA. What does he think now?
MRS. BORKMAN. He thinks the truth. I asked him how he could explain why Aunt Ella never came to visit us—
ELLA (interrupting). He knew why already!
MRS. BORKMAN. Now he knows even better. You’d made him believe that it was to spare me—and him, upstairs.
ELLA. And it was.
MRS. BORKMAN. Erhart doesn’t believe a word of it anymore.
ELLA. What have you gotten him to believe about me?
MRS. BORKMAN. He believes the truth: that you’re ashamed of us—and you despise us. Or maybe you don’t? Didn’t you once intend to take him away from me altogether? Think, Ella. You’re sure to remember.
ELLA (shrugging it off). That was at the worst of the scandal—when the case was in court. I no longer cherish that thought.
MRS. BORKMAN. It wouldn’t profit you if you did. Then what would become of his mission? No, thank you! It’s me Erhart needs—not you. And so he’s the same as dead for you! And you for him!
ELLA (coldly determined). We’ll see. Because now I’m staying here.
MRS. BORKMAN (staring at her). At this house?
ELLA. Yes.
MRS. BORKMAN. Here—with us? Overnight?
ELLA. I’m staying here all the rest of my days, if it’s so granted.
MRS. BORKMAN (composing herself). Yes, yes, Ella—of course, the house is yours.
ELLA. Oh, stop—!
MRS. BORKMAN. Everything in it is yours. The chair I sit on is yours. The bed I lie on, tossing sleeplessly, belongs to you. The food we eat we get thanks to you.
ELLA. There’s no other way of doing things. Borkman can’t have property in his own name. In no time someone would come and take possession of it.
MRS. BORKMAN. I’m aware of that. We have to bear with living on your mercy and charity.
ELLA (coldly). I can’t help your seeing it that way, Gunhild.
MRS. BORKMAN. No, you can’t. When will you want us to move?
ELLA (looking at her). To move?
MRS. BORKMAN (excitedly). Yes, you certainly don’t imagine that I’ll remain living here under the same roof with you! I’d rather go to the poorhouse, or take to the roads!
ELLA. All right. Then let me have Erhart—
MRS. BORKMAN. Erhart! My only son? My child?
ELLA. Yes. Because in that case I’ll go right back home.
MRS. BORKMAN (after a brief deliberation, firmly). Erhart himself can choose between us.
ELLA (looking doubtfully at her). Let him choose? But—can you risk that, Gunhild?
MRS. BORKMAN (with a hard laugh). Can I risk—my boy choosing between his mother and you! Why, yes, I’ll risk that.
ELLA (listening). Is someone coming? I think I hear—
MRS. BORKMAN. That’s probably Erhart—
(There is a brisk knock on the hall door, which then is opened right away. MRS. WILTON, wearing an evening gown under her winter coat, comes in. The MAID, having had no time to announce her, follows her in, looking bewildered. MRS. WILTON is a singularly handsome woman, with a ripe figure, somewhere in her thirties. She has full, red, smiling lips, mischievous eyes, and rich, dark hair.)
MRS. WILTON. Mrs. Borkman, dear, good evening!
MRS. BORKMAN (somewhat dryly). Good evening, Mrs. Wilton. (To the MAID, pointing to the garden room.) Take the lamp in there out and light it.
(The MAID fetches the lamp and goes out with it.)
MRS. WILTON (seeing ELLA). Oh, excuse me—you have guests—
MRS. BORKMAN. Only my sister, Ella Rentheim, who’s visiting—
(ERHART BORKMAN comes storming through the half-opened door, flinging it back. He is a young man, elegantly dressed, with gay, sparkling eyes. He shows early signs of a moustache.)
ERHART (radiating delight, as he pauses on the threshold). What’s this! Has Aunt Ella come? (He rushes up to her, seizing her hands.) Aunt Ella! No, is it possible! Are you here?
ELLA (throwing her arms about him). Erhart! My dear, sweet boy. My, how big you’ve grown! Oh, it does me good to see you again!
MRS. BORKMAN (sharply). What does this mean, Erhart? Hiding yourself out in the hall.
MRS. WILTON (hurriedly). Erhart—Mr. Borkman arrived with me.
MRS. BORKMAN (gauging him with her eyes). So, Erhart. You don’t come first to your mother?
ERHART. I only had to stop by Mrs. Wilton’s for a second—to pick up Frida.
MRS. BORKMAN. You have Miss Foldal along, too?
MRS. WILTON. Yes, we’ve left her waiting in the entryway.
ERHART (calling out through the doorway). Just go right up, Frida.
(A pause. ELLA studies ERHART. He appears self-conscious and rather impatient; his face assumes a tense, colder expression. The MAID comes in with the lighted lamp for the garden room, then withdraws, closing the door behind her.)
MRS. BORKMAN (with constrained politeness). Well, Mrs. Wilton—if you’d like to settle down here for the evening, why—
MRS. WILTON. Thank you ever so much, Mrs. Borkman, dear—but I don’t see how I can. We’ve got another invitation. We’re expected down at Mr. Hinkel’s.
MRS. BORKMAN (looking at her). We? Which “we” do you mean?
MRS. WILTON (laughing). Well, really I just mean myself. But I was delegated by the ladies of the house to bring along Mr. Borkman—if I happened to set eyes on him.
MRS. BORKMAN. And you happened to, as I can see.
MRS. WILTON. Yes, fortunately. Since he was so accommodating as to look in on me—for little Frida’s sake.
MRS. BORKMAN (dryly). But, Erhart—I had no idea you were acquainted with this family—the Hinkels.
ERHART (vexed). No, I’m really not acquainted with them at all. (Continues somewhat impatiently.) You know very well yourself, Mother, the people I do or don’t know.
MRS. WILTON. Oh, pish! One soon gets acquainted in that house! Gay, amusing, hospitable people. And teeming with young ladies.
MRS. BORKMAN (emphatically). If I know my son, Mrs. Wilton, that’s scarcely the proper company for him.
MRS. WILTON. But, my gracious, dear, he’s young himself, you know!
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, luckily he’s young. With those people he’d have to be.
ERHART (masking his impatience). Yes, yes, yes, Mother—it’s self-evident that I have no business going down to the Hinkels’ this evening. Naturally, I’ll be staying here with you and Aunt Ella.
MRS. BORKMAN. I was sure you would, dear.
ELLA. No, Erhart—don’t stay away on my behalf—
ERHART. Why, certainly, Aunt Ella; there’s nothing more to discuss. (Looks hesitantly at MRS. WILTON.) But how can we explain it? Will it be acceptable? After all, you’ve already told them “yes” for me.
MRS. WILTON (vivaciously). What nonsense! Why shouldn’t it be acceptable? When I make my way down into that room after room of shimmering festivities—lonely and abandoned—can you picture it?—Why, then I’ll have to tell them “no”—for you.
ERHART (grudgingly). Well, if you honestly think it’ll be acceptable—
MRS. WILTON (dismissing it lightly). I’ve said a great many “yeses” and “noes” in my time—for myself. And how could you leave your aunt, when she’s only now just come? For shame, Monsieur Erhart—is that any way for a son to behave?
MRS. BORKMAN (piqued). For a son?
MRS. WILTON. Well, for a foster son, then, Mrs. Borkman.
MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, you ought to add that.
MRS. WILTON. Oh, I think one has more to thank a good foster mother for than one’s real mother.
MRS. BORKMAN. Was that your own experience?
MRS. WILTON. Regrettably. I hardly even knew my mother. But if I’d had such a good foster mother, then perhaps I wouldn’t have turned out as—as wicked as people say I am. (To ERHART.) So you stay snug at home now with mama and your aunt—and drink tea! (To the ladies.) Good-bye, good-bye, Mrs. Borkman, dear. Good-bye, Miss Rentheim!
(The ladies bow silently. She goes toward the door.)
ERHART (following her). Shouldn’t I escort you partway—?
MRS. WILTON (by the door, motioning him away). Not one step. I’m very well accustomed to making my way along. (Standing in the doorway, eyeing him and nodding.) But now you better watch out, Mr. Borkman—I’m warning you.
ERHART. Why must I watch out?
MRS. WILTON (roguishly). Because when I’m going down the road—lonely and abandoned, as I said—then I’ll try to cast a spell on you.
ERHART (laughing). Oh, I see! You’re going to try that again.
MRS. WILTON (half seriously). Yes, so you be careful. When I’m going along, I’ll talk to myself—right out of my innermost secret will, and I’ll say: “Erhart Borkman, take your hat this instant!”
MRS. BORKMAN. And do you think he will?
MRS. WILTON (laughing). Oh, absolutely; he’ll pick up his hat like a shot. And then I’ll say: “Put on your overcoat nicely, Erhart Borkman. And the galoshes! Don’t you dare forget your galoshes! And then, follow after me! Tenderly. Tenderly. Tenderly.”
ERHART (with forced gaiety). Yes, you can depend on me.
MRS. WILTON (her forefinger uplifted). Tenderly! Tenderly! Good night!
(She laughs, nods to the ladies, and shuts the door after her.)
MRS. BORKMAN. Does she really perform such tricks?
ERHART. Oh, of course not. How can you think so? It’s only a joke. (Breaking off.) But let’s not talk now about Mrs. Wilton. (He presses ELLA to sit in the armchair by the stove and stands looking at her briefly.) Imagine your taking the long trip here, Aunt Ella. And now, in the dead of winter!
ELLA. In the end I just couldn’t put it off, Erhart.
ERHART. Oh? Why was that?
ELLA. I had to come in for a consultation with the doctors.
ERHART. Well, that’s good.
ELLA (smiles). You think that’s good?
ERHART. That you finally decided to, I mean.
MRS. BORKMAN (from the sofa, coldly). Ella, are you ill?
ELLA. You know very well I’m ill.
MRS. BORKMAN. Well, I know you’ve been semi-invalid for a good many years.
ERHART. The whole time I stayed with you I kept telling you that you ought to be seeing a doctor.
ELLA. Oh, up where I live, there’s nobody I have any confidence in. Besides, it didn’t bother me so much then.
ERHART. You’re feeling worse now?
ELLA. Oh yes, dear; I’ve taken something of a turn for the worse.
ERHART. But nothing dangerous, though?
ELLA. Well, that’s all in the way one takes it.
ERHART (warmly). Yes, but now listen, Aunt Ella—then you mustn’t make the trip home again so soon.
ELLA. No, I don’t intend to, either.
ERHART. You’ve got to stay here in town. Because here you have all the best doctors to choose from.
ELLA. Yes, that was my thought when I left home.
ERHART. Then you should try to find some really nice accommodations—in some quiet, cozy pension.
ELLA. I checked in this morning at the old place where I’ve stayed before.
ERHART. Oh yes, there you can be comfortable.
ELLA. All the same, I don’t think I’ll be staying there.
ERHART. Really? Why not?
ELLA. No, I decided differently when I came out here.
ERHART (puzzled). Oh—? You decided—?
MRS. BORKMAN (crocheting, without looking up). Your aunt wants to live here on her estate, Erhart.
ERHART (glancing from one to the other). Here? With us! With all of us! Is that true, Aunt Ella?
ELLA. Yes, that’s my decision now.
MRS. BORKMAN (as before). Everything here is your aunt’s, you know.
ELLA. So I’ll be staying on here, Erhart. At first, anyway. For a time. I’ll make my own provisions, over in the annex—
ERHART. That’s the right idea. There are always rooms standing empty over there. (Suddenly animated.) But actually, Aunt Ella—aren’t you pretty tired after your trip?
ELLA. Oh, I’m a bit tired, yes.
ERHART. Well, then I think you ought to go off early to bed.
ELLA (regards him with a smile). So I shall.
ERHART (fervently). Because then we could talk more freely tomorrow—or another day. About everything possible. You and Mother and I. Wouldn’t that be much better, Aunt Ella?
MRS. BORKMAN (vehemently, rising from the sofa). Erhart—I can see by your look that you want to leave me!
ERHART (unsettled). What do you mean?
MRS. BORKMAN. You want to go on to—to the Hinkels’ place!
ERHART (involuntarily). Oh, that! (Composing himself.) Well, do you think I ought to sit here, keeping Aunt Ella up until way into the night? She is ill, Mother. Remember that.
MRS. BORKMAN. You want to go to the Hinkels’, Erhart!
ERHART (impatiently). Well, but good Lord, Mother—I don’t see how I can very well pass it up. What do you say, Aunt Ella?
ELLA. It’s best if you’ll act in complete freedom, Erhart.
MRS. BORKMAN (turns on her menacingly). You want to tear him from me!
ELLA (rising). Yes, Gunhild, if I only could!
(Music is heard overhead.)
ERHART (writhing as if in pain). Oh, I can’t take this anymore! (He peers about him.) Where’d I leave my hat? (To ELLA.) Do you know that music upstairs?
ELLA. No. What is it?
ERHART. It’s the Danse Macabre. The Dance of Death. Don’t you know the Dance of Death, Aunt Ella?
ELLA (smiles sorrowfully). Not yet, Erhart.
ERHART (to MRS. BORKMAN). Mother—I appeal to you, please—do let me go!
MRS. BORKMAN (looks sternly at him). From your mother? You want that?
ERHART. I’ll be coming out again—maybe tomorrow.
MRS. BORKMAN (in passionate agitation). You want to leave me! To be out with those strangers! With—with—no, I won’t even think of it!
ERHART. There are so many shimmering lights down there. And young, happy faces. And there’s music there, Mother!
MRS. BORKMAN (pointing up toward the ceiling). Upstairs there’s also music, Erhart.
ERHART. Yes, it’s that music there—that’s what’s hounding me out of this house.
ELLA. Can’t you allow your father a little chance to forget himself?
ERHART. Yes, I can. I can allow it a thousand times over—if I just don’t have to hear it myself.
MRS. BORKMAN (looks reprovingly at him). Be strong, Erhart! Strong, my son! Don’t ever forget you have a great mission!
ERHART. Oh, Mother—don’t make those phrases! I wasn’t created to be a missionary! Good night, Aunt Ella. Good night, Mother.
(He hurries out down the hall.)
MRS. BORKMAN (after a short silence). You’ve retaken him soon enough, at any rate, Ella.
ELLA. I wish I dared believe that.
MRS. BORKMAN. But you’re not going to hold him for long, you’ll see.
ELLA. Thanks to you?
MRS. BORKMAN. To me, or—to her, that other one.
ELLA. Better her than you.
MRS. BORKMAN (nodding slowly). I understand that. I say the same. Better her than you.
ELLA. Whatever the end result for him—
MRS. BORKMAN. That scarcely matters now, I think.
ELLA (taking her coat over her arm). For the first time in our lives, we two twin sisters are of one mind. Good night, Gunhild. (Goes out down the hall.)
(The music swells in sound from overhead.)
MRS. BORKMAN (stands quietly a moment, gives a start, recoils and whispers involuntarily). The wolf howling again. The sick wolf. (She stays standing a moment, then hurls herself down on the floor, writhing and moaning, and whispers in anguish.) Erhart! Erhart—be true to me! Oh, come home and help your mother! I can’t bear this life any longer!