The former grand salon upstairs in the Rentheim house. The walls are covered with old tapestries, depicting hunting scenes, shepherds and shepherdesses, in faded, mottled colors. In the wall to the left, a sliding door, and closer in the foreground, a piano. In the left rear corner, an unframed door decorated with tapestry to blend with the background. At the middle of the right-hand wall, a large carved oak desk, with many books and papers. Further forward on the same side, a sofa, along with a table and chairs. All the furniture is in austere Empire style. On the desk and table, lighted lamps.
JOHN GABRIEL BORKMAN is standing by the piano, his hands clasped behind his back, listening to FRIDA FOLDAL, who sits playing the last measures of the Danse Macabre. BORKMAN is a man in his sixties, of medium height, strongly and compactly built. His appearance is distinguished, with a finely chiseled profile, piercing eyes, and curling, grayish-white hair and beard. He is dressed in a black, somewhat old-fashioned suit, with a white necktie. FRIDA FOLDAL is a good-looking, pale girl of fifteen, with a rather tired, strained expression; she wears a cheap, light-colored dress. The music comes to an end. Silence.
BORKMAN. Can you guess where I first heard such music as this?
FRIDA (looking up at him). No, Mr. Borkman.
BORKMAN. It was down in the mines.
FRIDA (not understanding). You did? In the mines?
BORKMAN. I’m a miner’s son, as I guess you know. Or maybe you didn’t know that?
FRIDA. No, Mr. Borkman.
BORKMAN. A miner’s son. And my father took me down with him sometimes, into the mines. Down there the metal sings.
FRIDA. Really? It sings.
BORKMAN (nods). When the ore is loosened. The hammer blows that loosen it—they’re like the midnight bell that strikes and sets it free. And so the metal sings—for joy—in its way.
FRIDA. Why does it do that, Mr. Borkman?
BORKMAN. It wants to come up into daylight and serve mankind. (He paces back and forth across the salon, his hands still behind his back.)
FRIDA (sits and waits for a moment, then looks at her watch and gets up). Pardon me, Mr. Borkman—but I’m afraid I have to go now.
BORKMAN (stopping in front of her). You’re going so soon?
FRIDA (putting her music away in a folder). Yes, I really have to. (Visibly embarrassed.) I’ve been engaged for this evening elsewhere.
BORKMAN. Elsewhere, meaning a party?
FRIDA. Yes.
BORKMAN. And you’re going to give them a concert?
FRIDA (biting her lip). No—I’m going to play for the dancing.
BORKMAN. Only for dancing?
FRIDA. Yes, they want to dance after supper.
BORKMAN (stands, looking at her). Do you like to play for dances? Around in different houses?
FRIDA (putting on her winter coat). Yes, when I can get an engagement— It always brings in a little something.
BORKMAN. Is that what you think about most while you sit playing for the dancers?
FRIDA. No. I mostly think how sad it is that I can’t join in the dancing myself.
BORKMAN (nods). That’s precisely what I wanted to know. (Walks restlessly about the salon.) Yes, yes, yes—this thing that one can’t join in oneself, that hurts the most. (Stops.) But then there is something that evens it up for you, Frida.
FRIDA (looks curiously at him). What’s that, Mr. Borkman?
BORKMAN. The sense that you’ve got ten times more music in you than in all the dancers put together.
FRIDA (smiles diffidently). Oh, that’s far from certain.
BORKMAN (admonishing her with upraised forefinger). Don’t ever be so foolish as to doubt yourself!
FRIDA. But, good heavens, if nobody knows it—?
BORKMAN. As long as you know it, then that’s enough. Where is it you’re playing this evening?
FRIDA. Over at Mr. Hinkel’s.
BORKMAN (gives her an abrupt, penetrating look). Mr. Hinkel’s, you say!
FRIDA. Yes.
BORKMAN (with a bitter smile). Do guests come to that man’s house? Can he get people to visit him?
FRIDA. Yes, lots of people are coming, from what Mrs. Wilton says.
BORKMAN (heatedly). But what kind of people? Can you tell me that?
FRIDA (a bit apprehensively). No, I really don’t know. Oh, for one—I do know young Mr. Borkman’s going.
BORKMAN (jarred). Erhart! My son?
BORKMAN. How do you know that?
FRIDA. He said so himself. Just an hour ago.
BORKMAN. Is he out here today?
FRIDA. Yes, he’s been at Mrs. Wilton’s the whole afternoon.
BORKMAN (probingly). Do you know if he stopped here, too? If he was in to speak with anyone downstairs, I mean?
FRIDA. Yes, he was in seeing Mrs. Borkman a while.
BORKMAN (stung). Aha—I might have known.
FRIDA. But there was also a strange lady with her, I think.
BORKMAN. Oh? Was there? Ah well, I expect people do visit her every so often.
FRIDA. Should I tell your son, if I meet him later, that he ought to come up to see you, too?
BORKMAN (brusquely). Don’t say anything! I expressly forbid it! People who want to look in on me can find their way by themselves. I beg from no one.
FRIDA. No, no, then I won’t say anything. Good night, Mr. Borkman.
BORKMAN (roams about the room and growls). Good night.
FRIDA. Do you suppose I could run down the spiral staircase? It’s quicker.
BORKMAN. Oh, good grief—run down whatever stairs you like, for all I care. Good night to you!
FRIDA. Good night, Mr. Borkman.
(She leaves through the little tapestry door in the left background. BORKMAN, deep in thought, goes over to the piano, about to close it, then lets it be. He gazes at all the emptiness surrounding him and starts pacing up and down the floor from the corner by the piano to the corner in the right background—disquieted and restless, ceaselessly back and forth. Finally he goes over to the desk, listens in the direction of the sliding door, quickly picks up a hand-mirror, studies himself in it, and adjusts his necktie. There is a knock on the sliding door. BORKMAN hears it, glances hastily toward the door, but remains silent. A moment later, the knock sounds again, louder this time.)
BORKMAN (standing by the desk, his left hand resting on its top, his right thrust in the breast of his coat). Come in!
(VILHELM FOLDAL warily enters the room. He is a bent, worn man with mild blue eyes and long, thin gray hair falling down over his coat collar. He has a portfolio under his arm, a soft felt hat in one hand and large horn-rimmed glasses, which he pushes up on his forehead.)
BORKMAN (changes his stance and regards his visitor with a half-disappointed, half-gratified expression). Oh, it’s only you.
FOLDAL. Good evening, John Gabriel. Yes, quite so, it’s me.
BORKMAN (with a severe look). By the way, I think you’re rather late.
FOLDAL. Well, the distance isn’t exactly short, you know. Especially for someone on foot.
BORKMAN. But why do you always walk, Vilhelm? You’re right by the streetcar.
FOLDAL. It’s healthier to walk. And then there’s the carfare saved. Well, has Frida been up to play for you lately?
BORKMAN. She left only this minute. You didn’t meet her outside?
FOLDAL. No, I haven’t set eyes on her for a long time. Not since she started living at this Mrs. Wilton’s.
BORKMAN (sits on the sofa and motions with a wave of his hand toward a chair). You’re welcome to a seat, Vilhelm.
FOLDAL (perching on the edge of a chair). Many thanks. (Looks at him in dejection.) Oh, you can’t imagine how lonely I feel since Frida left home.
BORKMAN. Oh, come—you’ve got more in reserve.
FOLDAL. God knows I do. Five in the lot. But Frida was the only one that understood me a little. (Shakes his head dolefully.) The others can’t understand me at all.
BORKMAN (somberly, staring into space and drumming his fingers on the table). No, that’s a fact. That’s the curse that we, the exceptional, the chosen human beings have to bear. The masses—all the gray average—they don’t understand us, Vilhelm.
FOLDAL (resignedly). Understanding can take care of itself. With a little patience, one can always wait a bit longer for that. (His voice chokes with tears.) But there’s something more bitter still.
BORKMAN (fiercely). Nothing’s more bitter than that!
FOLDAL. Yes, there is, John Gabriel. I’ve just had a domestic scene—before I came out here.
BORKMAN. Really? Why?
FOLDAL (in an outburst). My family—they have contempt for me.
BORKMAN (incensed). Contempt—!
FOLDAL (wiping his eyes). I’ve been sensing it for a long time. But today it really came out.
BORKMAN (after a pause). You made a decidedly poor choice when you married.
FOLDAL. I scarcely had any choice. And besides—one has an urge to get married when one starts getting on in years. And then being so distressed, so down at the heels as I was then—
BORKMAN (springing up angrily). Is that a recrimination against me! A reproof—!
FOLDAL (anxiously). No, for God’s sake, John Gabriel—!
BORKMAN. Yes, you’ve been brooding about all the trouble that struck the bank—!
FOLDAL (reassuringly). But I don’t blame you for that! I swear—!
BORKMAN (resumes his seat, grumbling). Well, that’s good.
FOLDAL. Also, you mustn’t think it’s my wife I’m complaining about. She hasn’t much refinement, poor thing, it’s true. But, all the same, she does pretty well. No, it’s the children—
BORKMAN. I’m not surprised.
FOLDAL. Because the children—you see, they have more culture. And make more demands on life.
BORKMAN (looks sympathetically at him). And that’s why your young ones have contempt for you, Vilhelm?
FOLDAL (shrugging his shoulders). I haven’t made much of a career, you see. No getting around that—
BORKMAN (drawing closer and laying his hand on FOLDAL’S arm). Don’t they know that you wrote a tragedy when you were young?
FOLDAL. Yes, they know that, of course. But it doesn’t seem to make any particular impression on them.
BORKMAN. Then they’re insensitive. Because your tragedy is good. I believe that unshakably.
FOLDAL (brightening). Yes, don’t you feel there’s a lot that’s good in it, John Gabriel? Lord love me, if I only could get it staged—! (He eagerly opens the portfolio and shuffles the papers in it.) Look here! Now let me show you something I revised—
BORKMAN. You have it with you?
FOLDAL. Yes, I brought it along. It’s such a long time now since I read it to you. So I thought it might divert you to hear an act or two—
BORKMAN (waving him off as he gets up). No, no, it can better wait till another time.
FOLDAL. Yes, yes, as you like.
(BORKMAN paces back and forth across the room. FOLDAL packs away his manuscript again.)
BORKMAN (stopping in front of him). You were right in what you were just saying—that you hadn’t made a career. But I promise you this, Vilhelm, that once the hour of restitution strikes for me—
FOLDAL (starts to rise). Ah, thank you—!
BORKMAN (motioning him down). If you’ll just stay seated, please. (With mounting fervor.) When the hour of restitution strikes for me—when they realize that they can’t dispense with me—when they come up to me here in this room—and eat crow and beg me to take the reins of the bank again—! The new bank that they’ve founded—and can’t direct— (He poses by the desk as before and strikes his chest.) Here’s where I’ll stand and greet them! And all over this land they’ll ask and they’ll learn what terms John Gabriel Borkman sets before he’ll— (Stops abruptly and stares at FOLDAL.) You’re giving me such a doubtful look! Maybe you don’t think they’ll come? That they must—must—must come to me one of these days? You don’t think so!
FOLDAL. Why, God knows I do, John Gabriel, yes.
BORKMAN (sitting again on the sofa). I believe that, unshakably. I know—with absolute certainty—that they’ll come. If I didn’t have that certainty—then I would have put a bullet through my head long ago.
FOLDAL (in alarm). Oh, no, don’t ever say—!
BORKMAN (exultantly). But they’ll come! They’re coming! You wait! Any day, any hour, I can expect them here. And, as you can see, I hold myself in readiness to welcome them.
FOLDAL (with a sigh). If only they’d get here soon.
BORKMAN (restlessly). Yes, old friend, time passes; the years pass; life—oh, no—I mustn’t think about that! (Looking at him.) You know what I feel like sometimes?
FOLDAL. What?
BORKMAN. I feel like a Napoleon, maimed in his first battle.
FOLDAL (touching his portfolio). I know that feeling.
BORKMAN. Oh yes, well, that’s on a smaller scale.
FOLDAL (quietly). My little world of poetry has tremendous worth to me, John Gabriel.
BORKMAN (heatedly). Yes, but I, who could have made millions! All the mines I could have controlled! Drilling new shafts, endlessly! Waterfalls! Stone quarries! Trade routes and shipping lines, girdling the globe. And all of these, I alone should have managed!
FOLDAL. Yes, I know that. There wasn’t a thing you wouldn’t take on.
BORKMAN (kneading his hands). And now I have to sit here like a wounded eagle and watch the others pass me by—and snatch it away from me, piece by piece!
FOLDAL. Likewise for me.
BORKMAN (paying him no attention). Just think. How close I was to my goal! If I’d only had eight days’ respite to cover myself. All the deposits would have been replaced. All the securities I’d used so audaciously would have been back again, lying in the vault as before. That entire enormous stock pool was within a hair’s breadth of existence. Nobody would have lost a share—
FOLDAL. My Lord, yes—how incredibly close you were—
BORKMAN (with stifled fury). And then I met with betrayal. Right on the brink of success! (Looks at him.) Do you know what I consider to be the most despicable crime a man can commit?
FOLDAL. No, tell me.
BORKMAN. It isn’t murder. Nor robbery, nor housebreaking. Not even perjury. Most cases of that kind are directed against people one hates or is indifferent to, people of no concern.
FOLDAL. But the most despicable crime, John Gabriel—?
BORKMAN (emphatically). Is to abuse the trust of a friend.
FOLDAL (somewhat skeptically). Yes, but listen—
BORKMAN (bristling). What are you getting at! I can read it in your face. But it’s not true. The investors who kept their securities in the bank would have gotten them all back. To the last decimal point! No, I’m telling you—the most despicable crime a man can commit is to betray a friend’s correspondence—to publish to the whole wide world what was entrusted to one single person only, in confidence, like a whisper in an empty, dark, locked room. The man who can resort to such means is cankered and poisoned to the core with the morality of a loan shark. And I had that sort of friend. And he’s the one who ruined me.
FOLDAL. I can guess who you mean.
BORKMAN. There wasn’t one facet of my business affairs that I didn’t lay open to him. And then the moment arrived when he turned the weapons against me that I’d put in his hands myself.
FOLDAL. I never could understand why he— Well, there were a lot of various rumors at the time, of course.
BORKMAN. What rumors? What were they? Tell me. I didn’t hear anything. I went right away into—into isolation. What were they gossiping about, Vilhelm?
FOLDAL. You were supposed to be made a cabinet minister, they said.
BORKMAN. They offered me a post. But I turned it down.
FOLDAL. So you weren’t blocking him there.
BORKMAN. Oh no; that’s not why he betrayed me.
FOLDAL. Well, then I simply can’t understand—
BORKMAN. I might as well tell you, Vilhelm.
FOLDAL. Yes?
BORKMAN. You see, there was—a woman involved.
FOLDAL. A woman? But, John Gabriel—?
BORKMAN (breaking off). Oh, never mind—enough of these old, idiotic stories— Well, neither of us made the cabinet.
FOLDAL. But he rose to the heights.
BORKMAN. And I went to the depths.
FOLDAL. Oh, it’s a terrible tragedy—
BORKMAN (nodding to him). I guess, almost as terrible as yours, when I stop to think of it.
FOLDAL (innocently). Yes, at least as terrible.
BORKMAN (with a quiet laugh). But from another perspective, it’s really a kind of comedy, too.
FOLDAL. A comedy? This?
BORKMAN. Yes, the way it seems to be developing now. No, this really is something—
FOLDAL. What?
BORKMAN. You say you didn’t meet Frida when you came?
FOLDAL. No.
BORKMAN. While the two of us sit here, she’s sitting down there playing dances for the man that betrayed and ruined me.
FOLDAL. I hadn’t any inkling of that.
BORKMAN. Yes, she took her music and went straight from me to—to that mansion.
FOLDAL (apologetically). Ah yes, poor child—
BORKMAN. And can you guess whom she’s playing for—among others?
FOLDAL. Who?
BORKMAN. My son.
FOLDAL. What!
BORKMAN. Yes, what do you make of it, Vilhelm? My son down there in the throngs of dancers tonight. Isn’t that, just as I say, a comedy?
FOLDAL. Well, but he certainly doesn’t know any of this.
BORKMAN. Of what?
FOLDAL. He certainly doesn’t know how he—this, uh—
BORKMAN. You can say the name. I can stand hearing it now.
FOLDAL. I’m sure your son doesn’t realize the connection, John Gabriel.
BORKMAN (grimly, drumming on the table). He knows it—as sure as I’m sitting here.
FOLDAL. But can you conceive, then, his ever wanting to enter that house!
BORKMAN (shaking his head). My son, I suppose, doesn’t see things the way I do. I’m willing to swear that he sides with my enemies! Undoubtedly he thinks, as they do, that Hinkel only acted damn well as a responsible attorney when he went and betrayed me.
FOLDAL. But—who could have given him that idea?
BORKMAN. Who? Are you forgetting who brought him up? First his aunt—from when he was six, seven years old. And since then—his mother!
FOLDAL. I think you’re being unfair to them.
BORKMAN (heatedly). I’m never unfair to anyone! Those two have incited him against me, I’m telling you!
FOLDAL (indulgently). Yes, of course, I guess they have.
BORKMAN (full of indignation). Oh, these women! They corrupt and distort our lives! They completely botch up our destinies—our paths to glory.
FOLDAL. Not all of them!
BORKMAN. Really? Name me one single one who’s any good!
FOLDAL. No, that’s the problem. The ones I know—they’re just no good.
BORKMAN (snorts scornfully). Well, then what’s the point! So good women exist—but you never know them!
FOLDAL (with warmth). Yes, but, John Gabriel, all the same there is a point. It’s such a blessed and consoling thought to realize that somewhere, out there around us, far away—there the true woman is waiting to be found.
BORKMAN (shifting restlessly on the sofa). Oh, cut that poetical rot!
FOLDAL (looks at him, deeply wounded). You call my most sacred faith poetical rot?
BORKMAN (curtly). I do, yes! It’s the cause of your never having gotten anywhere in life. If you could only rinse your mind of all that, I could still help you get on your feet—and to move ahead.
FOLDAL (smoldering inwardly). Ah, you can’t do that.
BORKMAN. I can, when I come back in power again.
FOLDAL. But that’s an awfully remote possibility.
BORKMAN (vehemently). Maybe you think the time will never come? I want an answer!
FOLDAL. I don’t know how to answer you.
BORKMAN (rises, cold and imposing, and motions toward the door). Then I no longer have any use for you.
FOLDAL (springing up from his chair). No use—!
BORKMAN. If you don’t believe that my fate will change—
FOLDAL. But I can’t believe against all reason! You’re asking for full restitution—
BORKMAN. Go on! Go on!
FOLDAL. I know I never took my degree, but I’ve read that much law in my day—
BORKMAN (quickly). You mean it’s impossible?
FOLDAL. There’s no precedent for it.
BORKMAN. There are no precedents for exceptional men.
FOLDAL. The law doesn’t make such allowances.
BORKMAN (caustically). You’re no poet, Vilhelm.
FOLDAL (impulsively clasping his hands). You say that in all seriousness?
BORKMAN (dismissing the matter). We’re only wasting each other’s time. You better not come again.
FOLDAL. Then you want me to leave you alone.
BORKMAN (without looking at him). I’ve no more use for you.
FOLDAL (gently). No, no, no; I guess not.
BORKMAN. All this time, you’ve been lying to me.
FOLDAL (shaking his head). I never lied, John Gabriel.
BORKMAN. Haven’t you sat here, lying hope and faith and trust into me?
FOLDAL. Those weren’t lies as long as you believed in my talent. As long as you believed in me, I believed in you.
BORKMAN. Then we’ve practiced mutual deception on each other. And perhaps deceived ourselves—both of us.
FOLDAL. But isn’t that the very basis of friendship, John Gabriel?
BORKMAN (smiles wryly). Quite so. To deceive—is friendship. You’re right. I’ve had the experience once already.
FOLDAL (looking at him). No talent for poetry. And you could say that to me so callously.
BORKMAN (tempering his voice). Well, I’m no specialist in that field.
FOLDAL. More perhaps than you realize.
BORKMAN. I?
FOLDAL (quietly). Yes, you. Because I’ve had my own doubts from time to time, you know. The dreadful doubt—that I’ve botched my whole life up for the sake of a fantasy.
BORKMAN. When you doubt yourself, then you’ve lost your footing.
FOLDAL. That’s why it was so heartening to come here for your support, because you believed. (Taking his hat.) But now you seem like a stranger to me.
BORKMAN. As you seem to me.
FOLDAL. Good night, John Gabriel.
BORKMAN. Good night, Vilhelm.
(FOLDAL goes out to the left. BORKMAN stands for some moments and gazes at the closed door; he makes a gesture as if he would call FOLDAL back, but then reconsiders and begins to walk up and down the floor, his hands behind his back. He then stops at the sofa table and puts out the lamp. The salon now is in semidarkness. Shortly thereafter, a knock is heard on the tapestry door.)
BORKMAN (by the table, starts, turns and asks loudly). Who’s knocking?
(No answer. Another knock.)
BORKMAN (frozen in place). Who is that? Come in!
(ELLA RENTHEIM, with a lighted candle in her hand, appears in the doorway. She is wearing a black dress as before, with her coat thrown loosely over her shoulders.)
BORKMAN (staring at her). Who are you? What do you want with me?
ELLA (shutting the door after her and coming closer). It’s me, John Gabriel. (She sets down the candle on the piano and remains beside it.)
BORKMAN (stands and gazes at her as if thunderstruck; in a faint whisper). Is that—is it Ella? Ella Rentheim?
ELLA. Yes—it’s “your” Ella—as you used to call me. Once. So many—so many years ago.
BORKMAN (as before). Yes, it’s you, Ella—I see that now.
ELLA. You still recognize me?
BORKMAN. Yes, I’m beginning to now—
ELLA. The years have worn and withered me, Borkman. Don’t you think so?
BORKMAN (uneasily). You’re somewhat changed. At first glance, anyway—
ELLA. I don’t have the dark curls tumbling down my back anymore. Those curls you once liked to wind around your fingers.
BORKMAN (briskly). Right! Now I see, Ella. You’ve changed your hairstyle.
ELLA (with a sad smile). Exactly. It’s the hairstyle that does it.
BORKMAN (changing the subject). I never knew you were here, in this part of the country.
ELLA. I’ve only just arrived.
BORKMAN. Why did you make that trip—now, in winter?
ELLA. You’re going to hear why.
BORKMAN. Is it something you want from me?
ELLA. You, as well. But if we’re going to talk about that, I’ll have to begin far back.
BORKMAN. You must be tired.
ELLA. Yes, tired.
BORKMAN. Won’t you sit? There—on the sofa.
ELLA. Yes, thank you. I need to.
(She goes over to the right and seats herself in the near corner of the sofa. BORKMAN stands by the table, his hands behind his back, and studies her. Short silence.)
ELLA. It’s ages since the two of us met face to face, John Gabriel.
BORKMAN (somberly). A long, long time. With all that wretchedness in between.
ELLA. A whole lifetime between. A lifetime wasted.
BORKMAN (looks sharply at her). Wasted!
ELLA. Yes, just that. For us both.
BORKMAN (in a cold, businesslike tone). I don’t rate my life wasted as yet.
ELLA. Well, what about mine?
BORKMAN. There you can only blame yourself, Ella.
ELLA (with a tremor). And you can say that!
BORKMAN. You could very well have been happy without me.
ELLA. You think so?
BORKMAN. If you’d resolved to.
ELLA (bitterly). Yes, I’m perfectly aware that there was someone else waiting to marry me—
BORKMAN. But you turned him away—
ELLA. Yes, I did.
BORKMAN. Time after time you turned him away. Year after year—
ELLA (scornfully). You mean, year after year I turned away from my happiness?
BORKMAN. You could just as well have been happy with him. And I would have been saved, then.
ELLA. You—?
BORKMAN. Yes. Then you would have saved me, Ella.
ELLA. How do you mean?
BORKMAN. He thought I was behind your refusals—your constant rejection. So he took revenge. He could do that so easily—since he had all those ill-considered, confidential letters of mine in his possession. He used them—and that put an end to me, for a time, at least. You see, all that was your doing, Ella!
ELLA. That’s right, John Gabriel—if we really get down to cases, it seems I owe a debt to you.
BORKMAN. You can take it that way. I know thoroughly well how much I need to thank you for. You bought the estate, this entire property, at the auction, and turned it completely over to me and—your sister. You took in Erhart—and cared for him in every way—
ELLA. As long as I was allowed to—
BORKMAN. By your sister, yes. I’ve never intruded in these domestic questions. As I was saying, I know what you’ve sacrificed for me and for your sister. But then, you were able to. And you have to remember that I was the one who put you in that position.
ELLA (heatedly). You’re enormously mistaken, John Gabriel! It was the deep warmth of my feeling for Erhart—and for you, too—it was that alone that moved me.
BORKMAN (interrupting). My dear, let’s not get into feelings and such. I only mean that, if you acted the way you did, I was the one who gave you the power to do so.
ELLA (smiles). Hm, the power, the power—
BORKMAN (incensed). Yes, the power, exactly! When the great, decisive blow was poised to fall—when I couldn’t spare friends or family—when I had to take, and did take, the millions that were entrusted to me—then I spared everything of yours, everything you owned and held—although I could have borrowed it, and used it, like all the rest.
ELLA (with icy calm). That’s undoubtedly true, John Gabriel.
BORKMAN. It is. And that’s why, when they came and took me, they found all your securities undisturbed in the bank vault.
ELLA (scrutinizing him). I’ve many times thought about that. Just why did you spare my holdings? And only mine?
BORKMAN. Why?
ELLA. Yes, why? Tell me.
BORKMAN (with harsh disdain). I suppose you think it was so I could have something to fall back on—if anything went wrong?
ELLA. Oh, no—you didn’t think that way in those days, I’m sure.
BORKMAN. Never! I was so utterly confident of victory.
ELLA. Yes, but why then—?
BORKMAN (shrugging his shoulders). Good Lord, Ella—it’s not so easy to remember motives from twenty years ago. I only remember that when I was alone then, struggling in silence with all the vast projects that would be set in motion, it seemed to me almost as if I were a voyager in the air. I walked the sleepless nights, inflating a huge balloon that would sail out over a shadowy, perilous ocean.
ELLA (smiling). You, who never doubted your victory.
BORKMAN (impatiently). Men are like that, Ella. They both doubt and believe at the same time. (Gazing into space.) And that’s probably why I didn’t want you and what you owned with me in the balloon.
ELLA (intently). Why? Tell me why?
BORKMAN (not looking at her). One doesn’t care to take all that’s dearest along on a journey like that.
ELLA. You had what was dearest to you on board. Your own future life.
BORKMAN. One’s life isn’t always what’s dearest.
ELLA (breathlessly). Was that how you felt then?
BORKMAN. I think so.
ELLA. That I was dearest of all to you?
BORKMAN. Yes, I have—something of that impression.
ELLA. And yet that was years after you’d abandoned me—and married—someone else!
BORKMAN. You say I abandoned you? You know well enough there were higher incentives—well, other incentives—that impelled me. Without his aid, I would have gotten nowhere.
ELLA (controlling herself). So you abandoned me for—higher incentives.
BORKMAN. I couldn’t get on without his help. And he set you as his price.
ELLA. And you paid the price. In full. Without a murmur.
BORKMAN. I had no choice. It was win or go under.
ELLA (her voice trembling, as she looks at him). Is it really true what you say—that I was dearest in this world to you then?
BORKMAN. Both then and after—long, long after.
ELLA. And still you traded me away. Bargained your rightful love to another man. Sold my love for a—for a bank presidency.
BORKMAN (somberly, bowed down). The necessity was overwhelming, Ella.
ELLA (rises from the sofa, quivering with passion). Criminal!
BORKMAN (starting, then recovering his composure). I’ve heard the word before.
ELLA. Oh, don’t think I mean any law of the land you’ve broken! The use you made of all these stocks and bonds, or whatever—what do you think I care about that! If I could have been standing beside you when everything went to pieces—
BORKMAN (tensely). Then what, Ella?
ELLA. Believe me, I would have borne it so gladly with you. The shame, the ruin—all of it I would have helped you bear—
BORKMAN. Would you have had the will to? And the courage?
ELLA. The will and the courage both. Because then, you see, I knew nothing about your great, intolerable crime—
BORKMAN. Which? What do you mean?
ELLA. I mean the crime that’s beyond all forgiveness—
BORKMAN (staring at her). You’re out of your senses.
ELLA (advancing on him). You’re a murderer! You’ve committed the supreme, mortal sin!
BORKMAN (backing toward the piano). You’re raving, Ella!
ELLA. You’ve killed the capacity to love in me. (Approaching him.) Can you understand what that means? In the Bible it speaks of a mysterious sin for which there is no forgiveness. I’ve never known before what that could be. Now I know. The great unforgivable sin is—to murder the love in a human being.
BORKMAN. And that’s what you say I’ve done?
ELLA. You’ve done that. I’ve never truly realized before this evening exactly what it was that happened to me. That you abandoned me and turned instead to Gunhild—I took that as no more than a simple lack of constancy on your part, and the result of heartless calculation on hers. I almost think I despised you a little—in spite of everything. But now I see it! You abandoned the woman you loved! Me, me, me! The dearest that you had in this world you were ready to sign away for profit. It’s a double murder you’re guilty of! Murder of your own soul, and of mine!
BORKMAN (with cold self-control). How well I recognize that overbearing passion in you, Ella. I suppose it’s very natural for you to see this the way you do. You’re a woman. And so it seems, to your mind, that nothing else in the world exists or matters.
ELLA. Yes, nothing else.
BORKMAN. Only what touches your own heart.
ELLA. Only that! Only that! Yes.
BORKMAN. But you have to remember that I’m a man. As a woman, to me you were the dearest in the world. But in the last analysis, any woman can be replaced by another.
ELLA (regarding him with a smile). Was that your experience when you took Gunhild to marry?
BORKMAN. No. But my life’s work helped me to bear that, too. All the sources of power in this country I wanted at my command. The earth, the mountains, the forests, the sea—I wanted to subjugate all the riches they held, and carve out a kingdom for myself, and use it to further the well-being of so many thousands of others.
ELLA (lost in memory). I know. All those many evenings that we talked about your plans—
BORKMAN. Yes, I could talk with you, Ella.
ELLA. I used to joke about your projects and ask if you wanted to wake all the slumbering spirits of the gold.
BORKMAN (nods). I remember the phrase. (Slowly.) All the slumbering spirits of the gold.
ELLA. But you didn’t take it for a joke. You said: “Yes, yes, Ella; that’s exactly what I want.”
BORKMAN. And it was. If only I once could get my foot in the stirrup—and that depended then on this one man. He was able and willing to ensure my control of the bank—if, in return—
ELLA. Yes! If, in return, you gave up the woman you loved—and who loved you beyond expression—
BORKMAN. I knew his unbounded passion for you—and that no other condition would satisfy his—
ELLA. So you came to terms.
BORKMAN (fervently). Yes, Ella, I did! Because the rage for power was so relentless in me, don’t you see? I came to terms. I had to. And he helped me halfway up toward the enticing heights I longed for. I climbed and climbed. Year upon year, I climbed—
ELLA. And I was erased from your life.
BORKMAN. But even so, he toppled me into the abyss. Because of you, Ella.
ELLA (after a brief, reflective silence). John Gabriel—doesn’t it seem to you as if there’s been a kind of curse on our whole relationship?
BORKMAN (looks at her). A curse?
ELLA. Yes. Don’t you think so?
BORKMAN (uneasily). Yes. But why, really—? (In an outburst.) Oh, Ella—I scarcely know any longer who’s right—you or I!
ELLA. You’re the guilty one. You put to death all the natural joy in me.
BORKMAN (anxiously). Don’t say that, Ella.
ELLA. All the joy a woman should know, at least. From the time your image began to fade in me, I’ve lived as if under an eclipse. Through all those years it’s grown harder and harder—and finally impossible—for me to love any living creature. Not people, nor animals, nor plants. Only that one—
BORKMAN. Which one?
ELLA. Erhart, of course.
BORKMAN. Erhart—?
ELLA. Your son, John Gabriel.
BORKMAN. Has he meant all that to you, actually?
ELLA. Why else do you think I took him in, and kept him as long as I could? Why?
BORKMAN. I thought it was out of compassion. Like all the rest you’ve done.
ELLA (reflecting powerful inner feeling). Compassion, you say! (With a laugh.) I’ve never known any compassion—since you left me. I’m wholly incapable of that. If a poor, starving child came into my kitchen, freezing and weeping, and begged for a little food, then I left it up to my cook. I never felt any urge to take the child in myself, warm it at my own hearth, and enjoy sitting by, watching it eat its fill. And I was never like that in my youth; I remember so clearly. It’s you who’ve made this sterile, empty desert within me—and around me, too.
BORKMAN. Except for Erhart.
ELLA. Yes, except for your son. But for all else, all that lives and moves. You’ve cheated me of a mother’s joy and happiness in life. And of a mother’s cares and tears as well. And maybe that’s been the hardest loss.
BORKMAN. You’d say so, Ella?
ELLA. Who knows? A mother’s cares and tears are perhaps what I’ve needed most. (With still stronger feeling.) But I couldn’t reconcile myself to that loss. And that’s why I took Erhart in. Won him completely. Won all of the warm, trusting heart of a child—until—oh!
BORKMAN. Until what?
ELLA. Until his mother—his physical mother, I mean—took him from me.
BORKMAN. He had to leave you, to live here in town.
ELLA (wringing her hands). Yes, but I can’t stand the desolation! The emptiness! The loss of your son’s heart!
BORKMAN (a malignant look in his eyes). Hm—I’m sure you haven’t lost it, Ella. It’s not easy to lose one’s heart to anyone down below—on the ground floor.
ELLA. I’ve lost Erhart here. And she’s won him back. Or someone else has. That’s clear enough from the letters he writes to me now and then.
BORKMAN. Are you here, then, to take him home with you?
ELLA. If that were only possible—!
BORKMAN. It’s perfectly possible, if it’s really what you want. You do have the first and greatest claim on him.
ELLA. Oh, claim, claim! What does a claim mean here? If he’s not mine by his own free will, then I can’t have him. And I must! I must have my child’s heart now—whole and intact!
BORKMAN. You have to remember that Erhart’s into his twenties. You could hardly figure on retaining his heart intact, as you put it, for very long.
ELLA (with a sad smile). It wouldn’t have to be for very long.
BORKMAN. No? I would have thought, if you wanted something, you’d want it to the end of your days.
ELLA. I do. But that’s why I say it wouldn’t have to be for long.
BORKMAN (startled). What does that mean?
ELLA. You knew, of course, that I’ve been ill for the past few years?
BORKMAN. You have?
ELLA. You didn’t know?
BORKMAN. No, actually not—
ELLA (looks at him, surprised). Erhart hasn’t told you that?
BORKMAN. I honestly can’t remember at the moment.
ELLA. Perhaps he’s never mentioned me at all?
BORKMAN. Oh, I know he’s talked about you. But the fact is, it’s so seldom I see anything of him. Hardly ever. There’s someone down below who keeps him away from me. Far away, you understand.
ELLA. You’re positive of that?
BORKMAN. I know it for certain. (Changing his tone.) But Ella—you say you’ve been ill!
ELLA. Yes, I have. This past autumn it got so much worse, I decided I’d better come in and see some specialists.
BORKMAN. And have you seen them already?
ELLA. Yes, this morning.
BORKMAN. What did they say?
ELLA. They gave complete confirmation of what I’d long suspected—
BORKMAN. Well?
ELLA (in a calm monotone). The illness I have is terminal.
BORKMAN. Oh, you mustn’t believe anything of the kind!
ELLA. It’s an illness for which there’s no help or cure. The doctors don’t know any treatment. They just let it run its course. There’s nothing they can do to arrest it. Just alleviate the pain a little, perhaps. And, of course, that’s always something.
BORKMAN. But it can last for a long time still, believe me.
ELLA. It might possibly last out the winter, I’ve been told.
BORKMAN (without thinking). Well—the winters here are long.
ELLA (quietly). In any case, long enough for me.
BORKMAN (animatedly, avoiding the subject). But what on earth could have caused this illness? You’ve lived such a healthy, regular life—? What could have caused it?
ELLA (looking at him). The doctors concluded that perhaps, at some time, I’d undergone a severe emotional upheaval.
BORKMAN (flaring up). Emotional upheaval! Ah yes, I understand. It has to be me that’s to blame!
ELLA (with rising inner agitation). It’s too late to argue that now. But I must have the child of my heart, my one and only again, before I go! It’s too inexpressibly mournful to think that I have to leave all that life is—leave the sun, the light, and the air, without leaving here behind me one single person who’ll think of me and remember me warmly and tenderly—the way a son thinks, remembering the mother he’s lost.
BORKMAN (after a short pause). Take him, Ella—if you can win him.
ELLA (exhilarated). You’ll consent to it? Can you?
BORKMAN (somberly). Yes. It isn’t much of a sacrifice. Because he’s really not mine to give.
ELLA. Thank you, thank you for the sacrifice, even so! But then I’ve just one thing more to ask you for. Something big for me, John Gabriel.
ELLA. You may find it childish of me—and won’t understand—
BORKMAN. Go on—tell me!
ELLA. Soon now, when I’m gone, there’ll be a considerable inheritance—
BORKMAN. Yes, I would guess so.
ELLA. It’s my intention to let it all go to Erhart.
BORKMAN. Well, you really have no one who’s closer.
ELLA (with warmth). No, certainly no one closer than he.
BORKMAN. No one of your own family. You’re the last of the line.
ELLA (nodding slowly). Yes, that’s it, exactly. When I die, the Rentheim name dies as well. And to me, that’s a torturing thought. To be erased from existence—even to one’s very name—
BORKMAN (incensed). Ah—I see what you’re after!
ELLA (passionately). Don’t let it happen! Let Erhart carry on the name!
BORKMAN (looking fiercely at her). I quite understand. You want to spare my son the weight of his father’s name. So that’s it.
ELLA. No, never! I would have borne your name myself gladly, with pride, together with you! But a mother who’s about to die— A name binds more than you could believe, John Gabriel.
BORKMAN (coldly and proudly). All right, Ella. I’ll be man enough to bear my name alone.
ELLA (grasping and pressing his hands). Thank you, thank you! Now everything’s made up between us. Yes, yes, I hope that’s so! You’ve redeemed as much as you could. For when I’m gone, Erhart Rentheim will live on after me.
(The tapestry door is thrown open. MRS. BORKMAN, with her large shawl over her head, stands in the doorway.)
MRS. BORKMAN (convulsively agitated). Never in all eternity will Erhart take that name!
ELLA (shrinking back). Gunhild!
BORKMAN (grimly threatening). No one’s permitted to come up here to me!
MRS. BORKMAN (advancing a step). I permit myself that.
BORKMAN (moving toward her). What do you want of me?
MRS. BORKMAN. I want to fight for you. Protect you from the evil powers.
BORKMAN. The worst of those powers are in yourself, Gunhild.
MRS. BORKMAN (harshly). Whatever you say. (Menacingly.) But I say, he’ll carry on his father’s name—and bear it high again, in honor. And I’ll be his mother—I alone! My son’s heart will belong to me. To me, and no one else.
(She leaves through the tapestry door, closing it behind her.)
ELLA (shaken and distraught). John Gabriel—Erhart’s bound to go down in this storm. There’s got to be some understanding between you and Gunhild. We must go down to her at once.
BORKMAN (looks at her). We? I, as well, you mean?
ELLA. You and I both.
BORKMAN (shaking his head). She’s hard, Ella. Hard as the metal I once dreamed of tunneling out of the mountains.
ELLA. Then try—just try, now!
(BORKMAN does not answer, as he stands looking at her, full of doubt.)