E-text prepared by Douglas Levy

The Collected Works of Henrik Ibsen, Volume XI

JOHN GABRIEL BORKMAN.

by

HENRIK IBSEN

Translation and Introduction by William Archer.

INTRODUCTION.*

The anecdotic history of John Gabriel Borkman is even scantier than that of Little Eyolf. It is true that two mentions of it occur in Ibsen's letters, but they throw no light whatever upon its spiritual antecedents. Writing to George Brandes from Christiania, on April 24, 1896, Ibsen says: "In your last letter you make the suggestion that I should visit London. If I knew enough English, I might perhaps go. But as I unfortunately do not, I must give up the idea altogether. Besides, I am engaged in preparing for a big new work, and I do not wish to put off the writing of it longer than necessary. It might so easily happen that a roof-tile fell on my head before I had 'found time to make the last verse.' And what then?" On October 3 of the same year, writing to the same correspondent, he again alludes to his work as "a new long play, which must be completed as soon as possible." It was, as a matter of fact, completed with very little delay, for it appeared in Copenhagen on December 15, 1896.

The irresponsible gossip of the time made out that Bjornson discerned in the play some personal allusions to himself; but this Bjornson emphatically denied. I am not aware that any attempt has been made to identify the original of the various characters. It need scarcely be pointed out that in the sisters Gunhild and Ella we have the pair of women, one strong and masterful, the other tender and devoted, who run through so many of Ibsen's plays, from The Feast at Solhoug onwards—nay, even from Catalina. In my Introduction to The Lady from the Sea (p. xxii) it is pointed out that Ibsen had the character of Foldal clearly in his mind when, in March 1880, he made the first draft of that play. The character there appears as: "The old married clerk. Has written a play in his youth which was only once acted. Is for ever touching it up, and lives in the illusion that it will be published and will make a great success. Takes no steps, however, to bring this about. Nevertheless accounts himself one of the 'literary' class. His wife and children believe blindly in the play." By the time Foldal actually came to life, the faith of his wife and children had sadly dwindled away.

There was scarcely a theatre in Scandinavia or Finland at which John Gabriel Borkman was not acted in the course of January 1897. Helsingors led the way with performances both at the Swedish and the Finnish Theatres on January 10. Christiania and Stockholm followed on January 25, Copenhagen on January 31; and meanwhile the piece had been presented at many provincial theatres as well. In Christiania, Borkman, Gunhild, and Ella were played by Garmann, Fru Gundersen, and Froken Reimers respectively; in Copenhagen, by Emil Pousen, Fru Eckhardt, and Fru Hennings. In the course of 1897 it spread all over Germany, beginning with Frankfort on Main, where, oddly enough, it was somewhat maltreated by the Censorship. In London, an organization calling itself the New Century Theatre presented John Gabriel Borkman at the Strand Theatre on the afternoon of May 3, 1897, with Mr. W. H. Vernon as Borkman, Miss Genevieve Ward as Gunhild, Miss Elizabeth Robins as Ella Rentheim, Mr. Martin Harvey as Erhart, Mr. James Welch as Foldal, and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree as Mrs. Wilton. The first performance in America was given by the Criterion Independent Theatre of New York on November 18, 1897, Mr. E. J. Henley playing Borkman, Mr. John Blair Erhart, Miss Maude Banks Gunhild, and Miss Ann Warrington Ella. For some reason, which I can only conjecture to be the weakness of the the third act, the play seems nowhere to have taken a very firm hold on the stage.

Dr. Brahm has drawn attention to the great similarity between the theme of John Gabriel Borkman and that of Pillars of Society. "In both," he says, "we have a business man of great ability who is guilty of a crime; in both this man is placed between two sisters; and in both he renounces a marriage of inclination for the sake of a marriage that shall further his business interests." The likeness is undeniable; and yet how utterly unlike are the two plays! and how immeasurably superior the later one! It may seem, on a superficial view, that in John Gabriel Borkman Ibsen has returned to prose and the common earth after his excursion into poetry and the possibly supernatural, if I may so call it, in The Master Builder and Little Eyolf. But this is a very superficial view indeed. We have only to compare the whole invention of John Gabriel Borkman with the invention of Pillars of Society, to realise the difference between the poetry and the prose of drama. The quality of imagination which conceived the story of the House of Bernick is utterly unlike that which conceived the tragedy of the House of Borkman. The difference is not greater between (say) The Merchant of Venice and King Lear.

The technical feat which Ibsen here achieves of carrying through without a single break the whole action of a four-act play has been much commented on and admired. The imaginary time of the drama is actually shorter than the real time of representation, since the poet does not even leave intervals for the changing of the scenes. This feat, however, is more curious than important. Nothing particular is gained by such a literal observance of the unity of time. For the rest, we feel definitely in John Gabriel Borkman what we already felt vaguely in Little Eyolf—that the poet's technical staying-power is beginning to fail him. We feel that the initial design was larger and more detailed than the finished work. If the last acts of The Wild Duck and Hedda Gabler be compared with the last acts of Little Eyolf and Borkman, it will be seen that in the earlier plays it relaxes towards the close, to make room for pure imagination and lyric beauty. The actual drama is over long before the curtain falls on either play, and in the one case we have Rita and Allmers, in the other Ella and Borkman, looking back over their shattered lives and playing chorus to their own tragedy. For my part, I set the highest value on these choral odes, these mournful antiphones, in which the poet definitely triumphs over the mere playwright. They seem to me noble and beautiful in themselves, and as truly artistic, if not as theatrical, as any abrupter catastrophe could be. But I am not quite sure that they are exactly the conclusions the poet originally projected, and still less am I satisfied that they are reached by precisely the paths which he at first designed to pursue.

The traces of a change of scheme in John Gabriel Borkman seem to me almost unmistakable. The first two acts laid the foundation for a larger and more complex superstructure than is ultimately erected. Ibsen seems to have designed that Hinkel, the man who "betrayed" Borkman in the past, should play some efficient part in the alienation of Erhart from his family and home. Otherwise, why this insistence on a "party" at the Hinkels', which is apparently to serve as a sort of "send-off" for Erhart and Mrs. Wilton? It appears in the third act that the "party" was imaginary. "Erhart and I were the whole party," says Mrs. Wilton, "and little Frida, of course." We might, then, suppose it to have been a mere blind to enable Erhart to escape from home; but, in the first place, as Erhart does not live at home, there is no need for any such pretext; in the second place, it appears that the trio do actually go to the Hinkels' house (since Mrs. Borkman's servant finds them there), and do actually make it their starting-point. Erhart comes and goes with the utmost freedom in Mrs. Wilton's own house; what possible reason can they have for not setting out from there? No reason is shown or hinted. We cannot even imagine that the Hinkels have been instrumental in bringing Erhart and Mrs. Wilton together; it is expressly stated that Erhart made her acquaintance and saw a great deal of her in town, before she moved out to the country. The whole conception of the party at the Hinkels' is, as it stands, mysterious and a little cumbersome. We are forced to conclude, I think, that something more was at one time intended to come of it, and that, when the poet abandoned the idea, he did not think it worth while to remove the scaffolding. To this change of plan, too, we may possibly trace what I take to be the one serious flaw in the the play—the comparative weakness of the second half of the third act. The scene of Erhart's rebellion against the claims of the mother, aunt, and father strikes one as the symmetrical working out of a problem rather than a passage of living drama.

All this means, of course, that there is a certain looseness of fibre in John Gabriel Borkman which we do not find in the best of Ibsen's earlier works. But in point of intellectual power and poetic beauty it yields to none of its predecessors. The conception of the three leading figures is one of the great things of literature; the second act, with the exquisite humour of the Foldal scene, and the dramatic intensity of the encounter between Borkman and Ella, is perhaps the finest single act Ibsen ever wrote, in prose at all events; and the last scene is a thing of rare and exalted beauty. One could wish that the poet's last words to us had been those haunting lines with which Gunhild and Ella join hands over Borkman's body:

We twin sisters—over him we both have loved.
We two shadows—over the dead man.

Among many verbal difficulties which this play presents, the greatest, perhaps, has been to find an equivalent for the word "opreisning," which occurs again and again in the first and second acts. No one English word that I could discover would fit in all the different contexts; so I have had to employ three: "redemption," "restoration," and in one place "rehabilitation." The reader may bear in mind that these three terms represent one idea in the original.

Borkman in Act II. uses a very odd expression—"overskurkens moral," which I have rendered "the morals of the higher rascality." I cannot but suspect (though for this I have no authority) that in the word "overskurk," which might be represented in German by "Ueberschurke," Borkman is parodying the expression "Uebermensch," of which so much has been heard of late. When I once suggested this to Ibsen, he neither affirmed nor denied it. I understood him to say, however, that in speaking of "overskurken" he had a particular man in view. Somewhat pusillanimously, perhaps, I pursued my inquiries no further.

*Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

JOHN GABRIEL BORKMAN (1896)

PERSONS.

JOHN GABRIEL BORKMAN, formerly Managing Director of a Bank.
MRS. GUNHILD BORKMAN, his wife.
ERHART BORKMAN, their son, a student.
MISS ELLA RENTHEIM, Mrs. Borkman's twin sister.
MRS. FANNY WILTON.
VILHELM FOLDAL, subordinate clerk in a Government office.
FRIDA FOLDAL, his daughter.
MRS. BORKMAN'S MAID.

The action passes one winter evening, at the Manorhouse of
the Rentheim family, in the neighbourhood of Christiania.

JOHN GABRIEL BORKMAN

PLAY IN FOUR ACTS

ACT FIRST

MRS. BORKMAN's drawing-room, furnished with old-fashioned, faded splendour. At the back, an open sliding-door leads into a garden-room, with windows and a glass door. Through it a view over the garden; twilight with driving snow. On the right, a door leading from the hall. Further forward, a large old-fashioned iron stove, with the fire lighted. On the left, towards the back, a single smaller door. In front, on the same side, a window, covered with thick curtains. Between the window and the door a horsehair sofa, with a table in front of it covered with a cloth. On the table, a lighted lamp with a shade. Beside the stove a high-backed armchair.

MRS. GUNHILD BORKMAN sits on the sofa, crocheting. She is an elderly lady, of cold, distinguished appearance, with stiff carriage and immobile features. Her abundant hair is very grey. Delicate transparent hands. Dressed in a gown of heavy dark silk, which has originally been handsome, but is now somewhat worn and shabby. A woollen shawl over her shoulders.

She sits for a time erect and immovable at her crochet. Then the bells of a passing sledge are heard.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Listens; her eyes sparkle with gladness and she involuntarily whispers]. Erhart! At last!

[She rises and draws the curtain a little aside to look out. Appears disappointed, and sits down to her work again, on the sofa. Presently THE MAID enters from the hall with a visiting card on a small tray.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Quickly.] Has Mr. Erhart come after all?

THE MAID.
No, ma'am. But there's a lady——

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Laying aside her crochet.] Oh, Mrs. Wilton, I suppose——

THE MAID.
[Approaching.] No, it's a strange lady——

MRS. BORKMAN. [Taking the card.] Let me see—— [Reads it; rises hastily and looks intently at the girl.] Are you sure this is for me?

THE MAID.
Yes, I understand it was for you, ma'am.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Did she say she wanted to see Mrs. Borkman?

THE MAID.
Yes, she did.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Shortly, resolutely.] Good. Then say I am at home.

[THE MAID opens the door for the strange lady and goes out. MISS ELLA RENTHEIM enters. She resembles her sister; but her face has rather a suffering than a hard expression. It still shows signs of great beauty, combined with strong character. She has a great deal of hair, which is drawn back from the forehead in natural ripples, and is snow-white. She is dressed in black velvet, with a hat and a fur-lined cloak of the same material.

[The two sisters stand silent for a time, and look searchingly
at each other. Each is evidently waiting for the other to
speak first.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Who has remained near the door.] You are surprised to see me,
Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Standing erect and immovable between the sofa and the table, resting her finger-tips upon the cloth.] Have you not made a mistake? The bailiff lives in the side wing, you know.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
It is not the bailiff I want to see to-day.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Is it me you want, then?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes. I have a few words to say to you.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Coming forward into the middle of the room.] Well—then sit down.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Thank you. I can quite well stand for the present.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Just as you please. But at least loosen your cloak.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Unbuttoning her cloak.] Yes, it is very warm here.

MRS. BORKMAN.
I am always cold.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Stands looking at her for a time with her arms resting on the back of the armchair.] Well, Gunhild, it is nearly eight years now since we saw each other last.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Coldly.] Since last we spoke to each other at any rate.

ELLA RENTHEIM. True, since we spoke to each other. I daresay you have seen me now and again—when I came on my yearly visit to the bailiff.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Once or twice, I have.

ELLA RENTHEIM. I have caught one or two glimpses of you, too—there, at the window.

MRS. BORKMAN. You must have seen me through the curtains then. You have good eyes. [Harshly and cuttingly.] But the last time we spoke to each other—it was here in this room——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Trying to stop her.] Yes, yes; I know, Gunhild!

MRS. BORKMAN.
—the week before he—before he was let out.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Moving towards the back.] O, don't speak about that.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Firmly, but in a low voice.] It was the week before he—was set at liberty.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Coming down.] Oh yes, yes, yes! I shall never forget that time! But it is too terrible to think of! Only to recall it for the moment—oh!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Gloomily.] And yet one's thoughts can never get away from it. [Vehemently; clenching her hands together.] No, I can't understand how such a thing—how anything so horrible can come upon one single family! And then—that it should be our family! So old a family as ours! Think of its choosing us out!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Oh, Gunhild—there were many, many families besides ours that that blow fell upon.

MRS. BORKMAN. Oh yes; but those others don't trouble me very much. For in their case it was only a matter of a little money—or some papers. But for us——! For me! And then for Erhart! My little boy—as he then was! [In rising excitement.] The shame that fell upon us two innocent ones! The dishonour! The hateful, terrible dishonour! And then the utter ruin too!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Cautiously.] Tell me, Gunhild, how does he bear it?

MRS. BORKMAN.
Erhart, do you mean?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
No—he himself. How does he bear it?

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Scornfully.] Do you think I ever ask about that?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Ask? Surely you do not require to ask——

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looks at her in surprise.] You don't suppose I ever have anything to do with him? That I ever meet him? That I see anything of him?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Not even that!

MRS. BORKMAN. [As before.] The man was in gaol, in gaol for five years! [Covers her face with her hands.] Oh, the crushing shame of it! [With increased vehemence.] And then to think of all that the name of John Gabriel Borkman used to mean! No, no, no—I can never see him again! Never!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Looks at her for a while.] You have a hard heart, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Towards him, yes.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
After all, he is your husband.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Did he not say in court that it was I who began his ruin? That
I spent money so recklessly?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Tentatively.] But is there not some truth in that?

MRS. BORKMAN. Why, it was he himself that made me do it! He insisted on our living in such an absurdly lavish style——

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, I know. But that is just where you should have restrained him; and apparently you didn't.

MRS. BORKMAN. How was I to know that it was not his own money he gave me to squander? And that he himself used to squander, too—ten times more than I did!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Quietly.] Well, I daresay his position forced him to do that— to some extent at any rate.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Scornfully.] Yes, it was always the same story—we were to "cut a figure." And he did "cut a figure" to some purpose! He used to drive about with a four-in-hand as if he were a king. And he had people bowing and scraping to him just as to a king. [With a laugh.] And they always called him by his Christian names—all the country over—as if he had been the king himself. "John Gabriel," "John Gabriel," "John Gabriel." Every one knew what a great man "John Gabriel" was!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Warmly and emphatically.] He was a great man then.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, to all appearance. But he never breathed a single word to me as to his real position—never gave a hint as to where he got his means from.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
No, no; and other people did not dream of it either.

MRS. BORKMAN. I don't care about the other people. But it was his duty to tell me the truth. And that he never did! He kept on lying to me—lying abominably——

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Interrupting.] Surely not, Gunhild. He kept things back perhaps, but I am sure he did not lie.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Well, well; call it what you please; it makes no difference.
And then it all fell to pieces—the whole thing.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [To herself.] Yes, everything fell to pieces—for him—and for others.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Drawing herself up menacingly.] But I tell you this, Ella,
I do not give in yet! I shall redeem myself yet—you may make
up your mind to that!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Eagerly.] Redeem yourself! What do you mean by that?

MRS. BORKMAN. Redeem my name, and honour, and fortune! Redeem my ruined life— that is what I mean! I have some one in reserve, let me tell you— one who will wash away every stain that he has left.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Gunhild! Gunhild!

MRS. BORKMAN. [With rising excitement.] There is an avenger living, I tell you! One who will make up to me for all his father's sins!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Erhart you mean.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, Erhart, my own boy! He will redeem the family, the house, the name. All that can be redeemed.—And perhaps more besides.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
And how do you think that is to be done?

MRS. BORKMAN. It must be done as best it can; I don't know how. But I know that it must and shall be done. [Looks searchingly at her.] Come now, Ella; isn't that really what you have had in mind too, ever since he was a child?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
No, I can't exactly say that.

MRS. BORKMAN. No? Then why did you take charge of him when the storm broke upon—upon this house?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
You could not look after him yourself at that time, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN. No, no, I could not. And his father—he had a valid enough excuse—while he was there—in safe keeping——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Indignant.] Oh, how can you say such things!—You!

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a venomous expression.] And how could you make up your mind to take charge of the child of a—a John Gabriel! Just as if he had been your own? To take the child away from me—home with you—and keep him there year after year, until the boy was nearly grown up. [Looking suspiciously at her.] What was your real reason, Ella? Why did you keep him with you?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
I came to love him so dearly——

MRS. BORKMAN.
More than I—his mother?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Evasively.] I don't know about that. And then, you know,
Erhart was rather delicate as a child——

MRS. BORKMAN.
Erhart—delicate!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, I thought so—at that time at any rate. And you know the air of the west coast is so much milder than here.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Smiling bitterly.] H'm—is it indeed? [Breaking off.] Yes, it is true you have done a great deal for Erhart. [With a change of tone.] Well, of course, you could afford it. [Smiling.] You were so lucky, Ella; you managed to save all your money.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Hurt.] I did not manage anything about it, I assure you. I had no idea—until long, long afterwards—that the securities belonging to me—that they had been left untouched.

MRS. BORKMAN. Well, well; I don't understand anything about these things! I only say you were lucky. [Looking inquiringly at her.] But when you, of your own accord, undertook to educate Erhart for me—what was your motive in that?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Looking at her.] My motive?

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, some motive you must have had. What did you want to do with him? To make of him, I mean?

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Slowly.] I wanted to smooth the way for Erhart to happiness in life.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Contemptuously.] Pooh—people situated as we are have something else than happiness to think of.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
What, then?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking steadily and earnestly at her.] Erhart has in the first place to make so brilliant a position for himself, that no trace shall be left of the shadow his father has cast upon my name—and my son's.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Searchingly.] Tell me, Gunhild, is this what Erhart himself demands of his life?

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Slightly taken aback.] Yes, I should hope so!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Is it not rather what you demand of him?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Curtly.] Erhart and I always make the same demands upon ourselves.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Sadly and slowly.] You are so very certain of your boy, then,
Gunhild?

MRS. BORKMAN. [With veiled triumph.] Yes, that I am—thank Heaven. You may be sure of that!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Then I should think in reality you must be happy after all; in spite of all the rest.

MRS. BORKMAN. So I am—so far as that goes. But then, every moment, all the rest comes rushing in upon me like a storm.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With a change of tone.] Tell me—you may as well tell me at once—for that is really what I have come for——

MRS. BORKMAN.
What?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Something I felt I must talk to you about.—Tell me—Erhart does not live out here with—with you others?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Harshly.] Erhart cannot live out here with me. He has to live in town——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
So he wrote to me.

MRS. BORKMAN. He must, for the sake of his studies. But he comes out to me for a little while every evening.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Well, may I see him then? May I speak to him at once?

MRS. BORKMAN.
He has not come yet; but I expect him every moment.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Why, Gunhild, surely he must have come. I can hear his footsteps overhead.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[With a rapid upward glance.] Up in the long gallery?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes. I have heard him walking up and down there ever since
I came.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Looking away from her.] That is not Erhart, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Surprised.] Not Erhart? [Divining.] Who is it then?

MRS. BORKMAN.
It is he.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Softly, with suppressed pain.] Borkman? John Gabriel Borkman?

MRS. BORKMAN. He walks up and down like that—backwards and forwards—from morning to night—day out and day in.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
I have heard something of this——

MRS. BORKMAN.
I daresay. People find plenty to say about us, no doubt.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Erhart has spoken of it in his letters. He said that his father generally remained by himself—up there—and you alone down here.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes; that is how it has been, Ella, ever since they let him out, and sent him home to me. All these long eight years.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
I never believed it could really be so. It seemed impossible!

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Nods.] It is so; and it can never be otherwise.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Looking at her.] This must be a terrible life, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Worse than terrible—almost unendurable.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, it must be.

MRS. BORKMAN. Always to hear his footsteps up there—from early morning till far into the night. And everything sounds so clear in this house!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, it is strange how clear the sound is.

MRS. BORKMAN.
I often feel as if I had a sick wolf pacing his cage up there in
the gallery, right over my head. [Listens and whispers.] Hark!
Do you hear! Backwards and forwards, up and down, goes the wolf.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Tentatively.] Is no change possible, Gunhild?

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a gesture of repulsion.] He has never made any movement towards a change.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Could you not make the first movement, then?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Indignantly.] I! After all the wrong he has done me! No thank you! Rather let the wolf go on prowling up there.

ELLA RENTHEIM. This room is too hot for me. You must let me take off my things after all.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Yes, I asked you to.

[ELLA RENTHEIM takes off her hat and cloak and lays them on a
chair beside the door leading to the hall.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Do you never happen to meet him, away from home?

MRS. BORKMAN.
[With a bitter laugh.] In society, do you mean?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
I mean, when he goes out walking. In the woods, or——

MRS. BORKMAN.
He never goes out.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Not even in the twilight?

MRS. BORKMAN.
Never.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[With emotion.] He cannot bring himself to go out?

MRS. BORKMAN. I suppose not. He has his great cloak and his hat hanging in the cupboard—the cupboard in the hall, you know——

ELLA RENTHEIM. [To herself.] The cupboard we used to hide in when we were little.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Nods.] And now and then—late in the evening—I can hear him come down as though to go out. But he always stops when he is halfway downstairs, and turns back—straight back to the gallery.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Quietly.] Do none of his old friends ever come up to see him?

MRS. BORKMAN.
He has no old friends.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
He had so many—once.

MRS. BORKMAN. H'm! He took the best possible way to get rid of them. He was a dear friend to his friends, was John Gabriel.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Oh, yes, that is true, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Vehemently.] All the same, I call it mean, petty, base, contemptible of them, to think so much of the paltry losses they may have suffered through him. They were only money losses, nothing more.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Not answering her.] So he lives up there quite alone.
Absolutely by himself.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, practically so. They tell me an old clerk or copyist or something comes out to see him now and then.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Ah, indeed; no doubt it is a man called Foldal. I know they were friends as young men.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, I believe they were. But I know nothing about him. He was quite outside our circle—when we had a circle——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
So he comes out to see Borkman now?

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, he condescends to. But of course he only comes when it is dark.

ELLA RENTHEIM. This Foldal—he was one of those that suffered when the bank failed?

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Carelessly.] Yes, I believe I heard he had lost some money.
But no doubt it was something quite trifling.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[With slight emphasis.] It was all he possessed.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Smiling.] Oh, well; what he possessed must have been little enough—nothing to speak of.

ELLA RENTHEIM. And he did not speak of it—Foldal I mean—during the investigation.

MRS. BORKMAN. At all events, I can assure you Erhart has made ample amends for any little loss he may have suffered.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[With surprise.] Erhart! How can Erhart have done that?

MRS. BORKMAN. He has taken an interest in Foldal's youngest daughter. He has taught her things, and put her in the way of getting employment, and some day providing for herself. I am sure that is a great deal more than her father could ever have done for her.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, I daresay her father can't afford to do much.

MRS. BORKMAN.
And then Erhart has arranged for her to have lessons in music.
She has made such progress already that she can come up to—to
him in the gallery, and play to him.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
So he is still fond of music?

MRS. BORKMAN. Oh yes, I suppose he is. Of course he has the piano you sent out here—when he was expected back——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
And she plays to him on it?

MRS. BORKMAN.
Yes, now and then—in the evenings. That is Erhart's doing, too.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Has the poor girl to come all the long way out here, and then back to town again?

MRS. BORKMAN. No, she doesn't need to. Erhart has arranged for her to stay with a lady who lives near us—a Mrs. Wilton——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[With interest.] Mrs. Wilton?

MRS. BORKMAN.
A very rich woman. You don't know her.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
I have heard her name. Mrs. Fanny Wilton, is it not——?

MRS. BORKMAN.
Yes, quite right.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Erhart has mentioned her several times. Does she live out here now?

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, she has taken a villa here; she moved out from town some time ago.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With a slight hesitation.] They say she is divorced from her husband.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Her husband has been dead for several years.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, but they were divorced. He got a divorce.

MRS. BORKMAN. He deserted her, that is what he did. I am sure the fault wasn't hers.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Do you know her at all intimately, Gunhild?

MRS. BORKMAN. Oh yes, pretty well. She lives close by here; and she looks in every now and then.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
And do you like her?

MRS. BORKMAN.
She is unusually intelligent; remarkably clear in her judgments.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
In her judgments of people, do you mean?

MRS. BORKMAN.
Yes, principally of people. She has made quite a study of
Erhart; looked deep into his character—into his soul. And
the result is she idolises him, as she could not help doing.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With a touch of finesse.] Then perhaps she knows Erhart still better than she knows you?

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, Erhart saw a good deal of her in town, before she came out here.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Without thinking.] And in spite of that she moved out of town?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Taken aback, looking keenly at her.] In spite of that! What do you mean?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Evasively.] Oh, nothing particular.

MRS. BORKMAN.
You said it strangely—you did mean something by it, Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Looking her straight in the eyes.] Yes, that is true, Gunhild!
I did mean something by it.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Well, then, say it right out.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
First let me tell you, I think I too have a certain claim upon
Erhart. Do you think I haven't?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Glancing round the room.] No doubt—after all the money you have spent upon him.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Oh, not on that account, Gunhild. But because I love him.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Smiling scornfully.] Love my son? Is it possible? You? In spite of everything?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, it is possible—in spite of everything. And it is true.
I love Erhart—as much as I can love any one—now—at my time of
life.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Well, well, suppose you do: what then?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Why, then, I am troubled as soon as I see anything threatening him.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Threatening Erhart! Why, what should threaten him? Or who?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
You in the first place—in your way.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Vehemently.] I!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
And then this Mrs. Wilton, too, I am afraid.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looks at her for a moment in speechless surprise.] And you think such things of Erhart! Of my own boy! He, who has his great mission to fulfil!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Lightly.] Oh, his mission!

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Indignantly.] How dare you say that so scornfully?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Do you think a young man of Erhart's age, full of health and spirits—do you think he is going to sacrifice himself for—for such a thing as a "mission"?

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Firmly and emphatically.] Erhart will! I know he will.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Shaking her head.] You neither know it nor believe it, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN.
I don't believe it!

ELLA RENTHEIM. It is only a dream that you cherish. For if you hadn't that to cling to, you feel that you would utterly despair.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, indeed I should despair. [Vehemently.] And I daresay that is what you would like to see, Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With head erect.] Yes, I would rather see that than see you "redeem" yourself at Erhart's expense.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Threateningly.] You want to come between us? Between mother and son? You?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
I want to free him from your power—your will—your despotism.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Triumphantly.] You are too late! You had him in your nets all these years—until he was fifteen. But now I have won him again, you see!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Then I will win him back from you! [Hoarsely, half whispering.]
We two have fought a life-and-death battle before, Gunhild—for a
man's soul!

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Looking at her in triumph.] Yes, and I won the victory.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With a smile of scorn.] Do you still think that victory was worth the winning?

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Darkly.] No; Heaven knows you are right there.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
You need look for no victory worth the winning this time either.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Not when I am fighting to preserve a mother's power over my son!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
No; for it is only power over him that you want.

MRS. BORKMAN.
And you?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Warmly.] I want his affection—his soul—his whole heart!

MRS. BORKMAN.
[With an outburst.] That you shall never have in this world!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Looking at her.] You have seen to that?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Smiling.] Yes, I have taken that liberty. Could you not see that in his letters?

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Nods slowly.] Yes. I could see you—the whole of you—in his letters of late.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Gallingly.] I have made the best use of these eight years. I have had him under my own eye, you see.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Controlling herself.] What have you said to Erhart about me?
Is it the sort of thing you can tell me?

MRS. BORKMAN.
Oh yes, I can tell you well enough.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Then please do.

MRS. BORKMAN.
I have only told him the truth.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Well?

MRS. BORKMAN. I have impressed upon him, every day of his life, that he must never forget that it is you we have to thank for being able to live as we do—for being able to live at all.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Is that all?

MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, that is the sort of thing that rankles; I feel that in my own heart.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
But that is very much what Erhart knew already.

MRS. BORKMAN. When he came home to me, he imagined that you did it all out of goodness of heart. [Looks malignly at her.] Now he does not believe that any longer, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Then what does he believe now?

MRS. BORKMAN. He believes what is the truth. I asked him how he accounted for the fact that Aunt Ella never came here to visit us——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Interrupting.] He knew my reasons already!

MRS. BORKMAN. He knows them better now. You had got him to believe that it was to spare me and—and him up there in gallery——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
And so it was.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Erhart does not believe that for a moment, now.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
What have you put in his head?

MRS. BORKMAN. He thinks, what is the truth, that you are ashamed of us—that you despise us. And do you pretend that you don't? Were you not once planning to take him quite away from me? Think, Ella; you cannot have forgotten.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With a gesture of negation.] That was at the height of the scandal—when the case was before the courts. I have no such designs now.

MRS. BORKMAN. And it would not matter if you had. For in that case what would become of his mission? No, thank you. It is me that Erhart needs— not you. And therefore he is as good as dead to you—and you to him.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Coldly, with resolution.] We shall see. For now I shall remain out here.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Stares at her.] Here? In this house?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, here.

MRS. BORKMAN.
Here—with us? Remain all night?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
I shall remain here all the rest of my days if need be.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Collecting herself.] Very well, Ella; the house is yours——

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Oh, nonsense——

MRS. BORKMAN. Everything is yours. The chair I am sitting in is yours. The bed I lie and toss in at night belongs to you. The food we eat comes to us from you.

ELLA RENTHEIM. It can't be arranged otherwise, you know. Borkman can hold no property of his own; for some one would at once come and take it from him.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, I know. We must be content to live upon your pity and charity.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Coldly.] I cannot prevent you from looking at it in that light, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN.
No, you cannot. When do you want us to move out?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Looking at her.] Move out?

MRS. BORKMAN. [In great excitement.] Yes; you don't imagine that I will go on living under the same roof with you! I tell you, I would rather go to the workhouse or tramp the roads!

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Good. Then let me take Erhart with me——

MRS. BORKMAN.
Erhart? My own son? My child?

ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes; for then I would go straight home again.

MRS. BORKMAN. [After reflecting a moment, firmly.] Erhart himself shall choose between us.