ELLA RENTHEIM. [Lost in recollection.] I know it. Think of all the evenings we spent in talking over your projects.

BORKMAN. Yes, I could talk to you, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM. I jested with your plans, and asked whether you wanted to awaken all the sleeping spirits of the mine.

BORKMAN. [Nodding.] I remember that phrase. [Slowly.] All the sleeping spirits of the mine.

ELLA RENTHEIM. But you did not take it as a jest. You said: "Yes, yes, Ella, that is just what I want to do."

BORKMAN. And so it was. If only I could get my foot in the stirrup—— And that depended on that one man. He could and would secure me the control of the bank—if I on my side——

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, just so! If you on your side would renounce the woman you loved—and who loved you beyond words in return.

BORKMAN. I knew his consuming passion for you. I knew that on no other condition would he——

ELLA RENTHEIM. And so you struck the bargain.

BORKMAN. [Vehemently.] Yes, I did, Ella! For the love of power is uncontrollable in me, you see! So I struck the bargain; I had to. And he helped me half-way up towards the beckoning heights that I was bent on reaching. And I mounted and mounted; year by year I mounted——

ELLA RENTHEIM. And I was as though wiped out of your life.

BORKMAN. And after all he hurled me into the abyss again. On account of you, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [After a short thoughtful silence.] Borkman, does it not seem to you as if there had been a sort of curse on our whole relation?

BORKMAN. [Looking at her.] A curse?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes. Don't you think so?

BORKMAN. [Uneasily.] Yes. But why is it? [With an outburst.] Oh Ella, I begin to wonder which is in the right—you or I!

ELLA RENTHEIM. It is you who have sinned. You have done to death all the gladness of my life in me.

BORKMAN. [Anxiously.] Do not say that, Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM. All a woman's gladness at any rate. From the day when your image began to dwindle in my mind, I have lived my life as though under an eclipse. During all these years it has grown harder and harder for me—and at last utterly impossible—to love any living creature. Human beings, animals, plants: I shrank from all—from all but one——

BORKMAN. What one?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Erhart, of course.

BORKMAN. Erhart?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Erhart—your son, Borkman.

BORKMAN. Has he really been so close to your heart?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Why else should I have taken him to me, and kept him as long as ever I could? Why?

BORKMAN. I thought it was out of pity, like all the rest that you did.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [In strong inward emotion.] Pity! Ha, ha! I have never known pity, since you deserted me. I was incapable of feeling it. If a poor starved child came into my kitchen, shivering, and crying, and begging for a morsel of food, I let the servants look to it. I never felt any desire to take the child to myself, to warm it at my own hearth, to have the pleasure of seeing it eat and be satisfied. And yet I was not like that when I was young; that I remember clearly! It is you that have created an empty, barren desert within me—and without me too!

BORKMAN. Except only for Erhart.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, except for your son. But I am hardened to every other living thing. You have cheated me of a mother's joy and happiness in life—and of a mother's sorrows and tears as well. And perhaps that is the heaviest part of the loss to me.

BORKMAN. Do you say that, Ella?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Who knows? It may be that a mother's sorrows and tears were what I needed most. [With still deeper emotion.] But at that time I could not resign myself to my loss; and that was why I took Erhart to me. I won him entirely. Won his whole, warm, trustful childish heart—until—— Oh!

BORKMAN. Until what?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Until his mother—his mother in the flesh, I mean—took him from me again.

BORKMAN. He had to leave you in any case; he had to come to town.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Wringing her hands.] Yes, but I cannot bear the solitude— the emptiness! I cannot bear the loss of your son's heart!

BORKMAN. [With an evil expression in his eyes.] H'm—I doubt whether you have lost it, Ella. Hearts are not so easily lost to a certain person—in the room below.

ELLA RENTHEIM. I have lost Erhart here, and she has won him back again. Or if not she, some one else. That is plain enough in the letters he writes me from time to time.

BORKMAN. Then it is to take him back with you that you have come here?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, if only it were possible——!

BORKMAN. It is possible enough, if you have set your heart upon it. For you have the first and strongest claims upon him.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Oh, claims, claims! What is the use of claims? If he is not mine of his own free will, he is not mine at all. And have him I must! I must have my boy's heart, whole and undivided—now!

BORKMAN. You must remember that Erhart is well into his twenties. You could scarcely reckon on keeping his heart very long undivided, as you express it.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With a melancholy smile.] It would not need to be for so very long.

BORKMAN. Indeed? I should have thought that when you want a thing, you want it to the end of your days.

ELLA RENTHEIM. So I do. But that need not mean for very long.

BORKMAN. [Taken aback.] What do you mean by that?

ELLA RENTHEIM. I suppose you know I have been in bad health for many years past?

BORKMAN. Have you?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Do you not know that?

BORKMAN. No, I cannot say I did——

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Looking at him in surprise.] Has Erhart not told you so?

BORKMAN. I really don't remember at the moment.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Perhaps he has not spoken of me at all?

BORKMAN. Oh, yes, I believe he has spoken of you. But the fact is, I so seldom see anything of him—scarcely ever. There is a certain person below that keeps him away from me. Keeps him away, you understand?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Are you quite sure of that, Borkman?

BORKMAN. Yes, absolutely sure. [Changing his tone.] And so you have been in bad health, Ella?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, I have. And this autumn I grew so much worse that I had to come to town and take better medical advice.

BORKMAN. And you have seen the doctors already?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, this morning.

BORKMAN. And what did they say to you?

ELLA RENTHEIM. They gave me full assurance of what I had long suspected.

BORKMAN. Well?

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Calmly and quietly.] My illness will never be cured, Borkman.

BORKMAN. Oh, you must not believe that, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM. It is a disease that there is no help or cure for. The doctors can do nothing with it. They must just let it take its course. They cannot possibly check it; at most, they can allay the suffering. And that is always something.

BORKMAN. Oh, but it will take a long time to run its course. I am sure it will.

ELLA RENTHEIM. I may perhaps last out the winter, they told me.

BORKMAN. [Without thinking.] Oh, well, the winter is long.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Quietly.] Long enough for me, at any rate.

BORKMAN. [Eagerly, changing the subject.] But what in all the world can have brought on this illness? You, who have always lived such a healthy and regular life? What can have brought it on?

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Looking at him.] The doctors thought that perhaps at one time in my life I had had to go through some great stress of emotion.

BORKMAN. [Firing up.] Emotion! Aha, I understand! You mean that it is my fault?

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With increasing inward agitation.] It is too late to go into that matter now! But I must have my heart's own child again before I go! It is so unspeakably sad for me to think that I must go away from all that is called life—away from sun, and light, and air—and not leave behind me one single human being who will think of me—who will remember me lovingly and mournfully—as a son remembers and thinks of the mother he has lost.

BORKMAN. [After a short pause.] Take him, Ella, if you can win him.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With animation.] Do you give your consent? Can you?

BORKMAN. [Gloomily.] Yes. And it is no great sacrifice either. For in any case he is not mine.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Thank you, thank you all the same for the sacrifice! But I have one thing more to beg of you—a great thing for me, Borkman.

BORKMAN. Well, what is it?

ELLA RENTHEIM. I daresay you will think it childish of me—you will not understand——

BORKMAN. Go on—tell me what it is.

ELLA RENTHEIM. When I die—as I must soon—I shall have a fair amount to leave behind me.

BORKMAN. Yes, I suppose so.

ELLA RENTHEIM. And I intend to leave it all to Erhart.

BORKMAN. Well, you have really no one nearer to you than he.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Warmly.] No, indeed, I have no one nearer me than he.

BORKMAN. No one of your own family. You are the last.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Nodding slowly.] Yes, that is just it. When I die, the name of Rentheim dies with me. And that is such a torturing thought to me. To be wiped out of existence—even to your very name——

BORKMAN. [Firing up.] Ah, I see what you are driving at!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Passionately.] Do not let this be my forte. Let Erhart bear my name after me!

BORKMAN. I understand you well enough. You want to save my son from having to bear his father's name. That is your meaning.

ELLA RENTHEIM. No, no, not that! I myself would have borne it proudly and gladly along with you! But a mother who is at the point of death—— There is more binding force in a name than you think or believe, Borkman.

BORKMAN. [Coldly and proudly.] Well and good, Ella. I am man enough to bear my own name alone.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Seizing and pressing his hand.] Thank you, thank you! Now there has been a full settlement between us! Yes, yes, let it be so! You have made all the atonement in your power. For when I have gone from the world, I shall leave Erhart Rentheim behind me!

[The tapestry door is thrown open. MRS. BORKMAN, with the large shawl over her head, stands in the doorway.

MRS. BORKMAN. [In violent agitation.] Never to his dying day shall Erhart be called by that name!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Shrinking back.] Gunhild!

BORKMAN. [Harshly and threateningly.] I allow no one to come up to my room!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Advancing a step.] I do not ask your permission.

BORKMAN. [Going towards her.] What do you want with me?

MRS. BORKMAN. I will fight with all my might for you. I will protect you from the powers of evil.

ELLA RENTHEIM. The worst "powers of evil" are in yourself, Gunhild!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Harshly.] So be it then. [Menacingly, with upstretched arm.] But this I tell you—he shall bear his father's name! And bear it aloft in honour again! My son's heart shall be mine—mine and no other's.

[She goes out by the tapestry door and shuts it behind her.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Shaken and shattered.] Borkman, Erhart's life will be wrecked in this storm. There must be an understanding between you and Gunhild. We must go down to her at once.

BORKMAN. [Looking at her.] We? I too, do you mean?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Both you and I.

BORKMAN. [Shaking his head.] She is hard, I tell you. Hard as the metal I once dreamed of hewing out of the rocks.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Then try it now!

[BORKMAN does not answer, but stands looking doubtfully at her.



ACT THIRD

MRS. BORKMAN's drawing room. The lamp is still burning on the table beside the sofa in front. The garden-room at the back is quite dark.

MRS. BORKMAN, with the shawl still over her head, enters, in violent agitation, by the hall door, goes up to the window, draws the curtain a little aside, and looks out; then she seats herself beside the stove, but immediately springs up again, goes to the bell-pull and rings. Stands beside the sofa, and waits a moment. No one comes. Then she rings again, this time more violently.

THE MAID presently enters from the hall. She looks sleepy and out of temper, and appears to have dressed in great haste.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Impatiently.] What has become of you, Malena? I have rung for you twice!

THE MAID. Yes, ma'am, I heard you.

MRS. BORKMAN. And yet you didn't come?

THE MAID. [Sulkily.] I had to put some clothes on first, I suppose.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, you must dress yourself properly, and then you must run and fetch my son.

THE MAID. [Looking at her in astonishment.] You want me to fetch Mr. Erhart?

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes; tell him he must come home to me at once; I want to speak to him.

THE MAID. [Grumbling.] Then I'd better go to the bailiff's and call up the coachman.

MRS. BORKMAN. Why?

THE MAID. To get him to harness the sledge. The snow's dreadful to-night.

MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, that doesn't matter; only make haste and go. It's just round the corner.

THE MAID. Why, ma'am you can't call that just round the corner!

MRS. BORKMAN. Of course it is. Don't you know Mr. Hinkel's villa?

THE MAID. [With malice.] Oh, indeed! It's there Mr. Erhart is this evening?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Taken aback.] Why, where else should he be?

THE MAID. [With a slight smile.] Well, I only thought he might be where he usually is.

MRS. BORKMAN. Where do you mean?

THE MAID. At Mrs. Wilton's, as they call her.

MRS. BORKMAN. Mrs. Wilton's? My son isn't so often there.

THE MAID. [Half muttering.] I've heard say as he's there every day of his life.

MRS. BORKMAN. That's all nonsense, Malena. Go straight to Mr. Hinkel's and try to to get hold of him.

THE MAID. [With a toss of her head.] Oh, very well; I'm going.

[She is on the point of going out by the hall, but just at that moment the hall door is opened, and ELLA RENTHEIM and BORKMAN appear on the threshold.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Staggers a step backwards.] What does this mean?

THE MAID. [Terrified, instinctively folding her hands.] Lord save us!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Whispers to THE MAID.] Tell him he must come this instant.

THE MAID. [Softly.] Yes, ma'am.

[ELLA RENTHEIM and, after her, BORKMAN enter the room. THE MAID sidles behind them to the door, goes out, and closes it after her.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Having recovered her self-control, turns to ELLA.] What does he want down here in my room?

ELLA RENTHEIM. He wants to come to an understanding with you, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN. He has never tried that before.

ELLA RENTHEIM. He is going to, this evening.

MRS. BORKMAN. The last time we stood face to face—it was in the Court, when I was summoned to give an account——

BORKMAN. [Approaching.] And this evening it is I who will give an account of myself.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking at him.] You?

BORKMAN. Not of what I have done amiss. All the world knows that.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a bitter sigh.] Yes, that is true; all the world knows that.

BORKMAN. But it does not know why I did it; why I had to do it. People do not understand that I had to, because I was myself—because I was John Gabriel Borkman—myself, and not another. And that is what I will try to explain to you.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Shaking her head.] It is of no use. Temptations and promptings acquit no one.

BORKMAN. They may acquit one in one's own eyes.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a gesture of repulsion.] Oh, let all that alone! I have thought over that black business of yours enough and to spare.

BORKMAN. I too. During those five endless years in my cell—and elsewhere —I had time to think it over. And during the eight years up there in the gallery I have had still more ample time. I have re-tried the whole case—by myself. Time after time I have re-tried it. I have been my own accuser, my own defender, and my own judge. I have been more impartial than any one else could be—that I venture to say. I have paced up and down the gallery there, turning every one of my actions upside down and inside out. I have examined them from all sides as unsparingly, as pitilessly, as any lawyer of them all. And the final judgment I have always come to is this: the one person I have sinned against is—myself.

MRS. BORKMAN. And what about me? What about your son?

BORKMAN. You and he are included in what I mean when I say myself.

MRS. BORKMAN. And what about the hundreds of others, then—the people you are said to have ruined?

BORKMAN. [More vehemently.] I had power in my hands! And then I felt the irresistible vocation within me! The prisoned millions lay all over the country, deep in the bowels of the earth, calling aloud to me! They shrieked to me to free them! But no one else heard their cry—I alone had ears for it.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, to the branding of the name of Borkman.

BORKMAN. If the others had had the power, do you think they would not have acted exactly as I did?

MRS. BORKMAN. No one, no one but you would have done it!

BORKMAN. Perhaps not. But that would have been because they had not my brains. And if they had done it, it would not have been with my aims in view. The act would have been a different act. In short, I have acquitted myself.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Softly and appealingly.] Oh, can you say that so confidently, Borkman?

BORKMAN. [Nodding.] Acquitted myself on that score. But then comes the great, crushing self-accusation.

MRS. BORKMAN. What is that?

BORKMAN. I have skulked up there and wasted eight precious years of my life! The very day I was set free, I should have gone forth into the world—out into the steel-hard, dreamless world of reality! I should have begun at the bottom and swung myself up to the heights anew—higher than ever before—in spite of all that lay between.

MRS. BORKMAN. Oh, it would have been the same thing over again; take my word for that.

BORKMAN. [Shakes his head, and looks at her with a sententious air.] It is true that nothing new happens; but what has happened does not repeat itself either. It is the eye that transforms the action. The eye, born anew, transforms the old action. [Breaking off.] But you do not understand this.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Curtly.] No, I do not understand it.

BORKMAN. Ah, that is just the curse—I have never found one single soul to understand me.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Looking at him.] Never, Borkman?

BORKMAN. Except one—perhaps. Long, long ago. In the days when I did not think I needed understanding. Since then, at any rate, no one has understood me! There has been no one alive enough to my needs to be afoot and rouse me—to ring the morning bell for me—to call me up to manful work anew. And to impress upon me that I had done nothing inexpiable.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a scornful laugh.] So, after all, you require to have that impressed on you from without?

BORKMAN. [With increasing indignation.] Yes, when the whole world hisses in chorus that I have sunk never to rise again, there come moments when I almost believe it myself. [Raising his head.] But then my inmost assurance rises again triumphant; and that acquits me.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking harshly at him.] Why have you never come and asked me for what you call understanding?

BORKMAN. What use would it have been to come to you?

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a gesture of repulsion.] You have never loved anything outside yourself; that is the secret of the whole matter.

BORKMAN. [Proudly.] I have loved power.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, power!

BORKMAN. The power to create human happiness in wide, wide circles around me!

MRS. BORKMAN. You had once the power to make me happy. Have you used it to that end?

BORKMAN. [Without looking at her.] Some one must generally go down in a shipwreck.

MRS. BORKMAN. And your own son! Have you used your power—have you lived and laboured—to make him happy?

BORKMAN. I do not know him.

MRS. BORKMAN. No, that is true. You do not even know him.

BORKMAN. [Harshly.] You, his mother, have taken care of that!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking at him with a lofty air.] Oh, you do not know what I have taken care of!

BORKMAN. You?

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, I. I alone.

BORKMAN. Then tell me.

MRS. BORKMAN. I have taken care of your memory.

BORKMAN. [With a short dry laugh.] My memory? Oh, indeed! It sounds almost as if I were dead already.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With emphasis.] And so you are.

BORKMAN. [Slowly.] Yes, perhaps you are right. [Firing up.] But no, no! Not yet! I have been close to the verge of death. But now I have awakened. I have come to myself. A whole life lies before me yet. I can see it awaiting me, radiant and quickening. And you—you shall see it too.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Raising her hand.] Never dream of life again! Lie quiet where you are.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Shocked.] Gunhild! Gunhild, how can you——!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Not listening to her.] I will raise the monument over your grave.

BORKMAN. The pillar of shame, I suppose you mean?

MRS. BORKMAN. [With increasing excitement.] Oh, no, it shall be no pillar of metal or stone. And no one shall be suffered to carve any scornful legend on the monument I shall raise. There shall be, as it were, a quickset hedge of trees and bushes, close, close around your tomb. They shall hide away all the darkness that has been. The eyes of men and the thoughts of men shall no longer dwell on John Gabriel Borkman!

BORKMAN. [Hoarsely and cuttingly.] And this labour of love you will perform?

MRS. BORKMAN. Not by my own strength. I cannot think of that. But I have brought up one to help me, who shall live for this alone. His life shall be so pure and high and bright, that your burrowing in the dark shall be as though it had never been!

BORKMAN. [Darkly and threateningly.] If it is Erhart you mean, say so at once!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking him straight in the eyes.] Yes, it is Erhart; my son; he whom you are ready to renounce in atonement for your own acts.

BORKMAN. [With a look towards ELLA.] In atonement for my blackest sin.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Repelling the idea.] A sin towards a stranger only. Remember the sin towards me! [Looking triumphantly at them both.] But he will not obey you! When I cry out to him in my need, he will come to me! It is with me that he will remain! With me, and never with any one else. [Suddenly listens, and cries.] I hear him! He is here, he is here! Erhart!

[ERHART BORKMAN hastily tears open the hall door, and enters the room. He is wearing an overcoat and has his hat on.

ERHART. [Pale and anxious.] Mother! What in Heaven's name——! [Seeing BORKMAN, who is standing beside the doorway leading into the garden-room, he starts and takes off his hat. After a moment's silence, he asks:] What do you want with me, mother? What has happened?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Stretching her arms towards him.] I want to see you, Erhart! I want to have you with me, always!

ERHART. [Stammering.] Have me——? Always? What do you mean by that?

MRS. BORKMAN. I will have you, I say! There is some one who wants to take you away from me!

ERHART. [Recoiling a step.] Ah—so you know?

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes. Do you know it, too?

ERHART. [Surprised, looking at her.] Do I know it? Yes, of course.

MRS. BORKMAN. Aha, so you have planned it all out! Behind my back! Erhart! Erhart!

ERHART. [Quickly.] Mother, tell me what it is you know!

MRS. BORKMAN. I know everything. I know that your aunt has come here to take you from me.

ERHART. Aunt Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Oh, listen to me a moment, Erhart!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Continuing.] She wants me to give you up to her. She wants to stand in your mother's place to you, Erhart! She wants you to be her son, and not mine, from this time forward. She wants you to inherit everything from her; to renounce your own name and take hers instead!

ERHART. Aunt Ella, is this true?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, it is true.

ERHART. I knew nothing of this. Why do you want to have me with you again?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Because I feel that I am losing you here.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Hardly.] You are losing him to me—yes. And that is just as it should be.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Looking beseechingly at him.] Erhart, I cannot afford to lose you. For, I must tell you I am a lonely—dying woman.

ERHART. Dying——?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, dying. Will you came and be with me to the end? Attach yourself wholly to me? Be to me, as though you were my own child——?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Interrupting.] And forsake your mother, and perhaps your mission in life as well? Will you, Erhart?

ELLA RENTHEIM. I am condemned to death. Answer me, Erhart.

ERHART. [Warmly, with emotion.] Aunt Ella, you have been unspeakably good to me. With you I grew up in as perfect happiness as any boy can ever have known——

MRS. BORKMAN. Erhart, Erhart!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Oh, how glad I am that you can still say that!

ERHART. But I cannot sacrifice myself to you now. It is not possible for me to devote myself wholly to taking a son's place towards you.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Triumphing.] Ah, I knew it! You shall not have him! You shall not have him, Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Sadly.] I see it. You have won him back.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, yes! Mine he is, and mine he shall remain! Erhart, say it is so, dear; we two have still a long way to go together, have we not?

ERHART. [Struggling with himself.] Mother, I may as well tell you plainly——

MRS. BORKMAN. [Eagerly.] What?

ERHART. I am afraid it is only a very little way you and I can go together.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Stands as though thunderstruck.] What do yo mean by that?

ERHART. [Plucking up spirit.] Good heavens, mother, I am young, after all! I feel as if the close air of this room must stifle me in the end.

MRS. BORKMAN. Close air? Here—with me?

ERHART. Yes, here with you, mother.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Then come with me, Erhart.

ERHART. Oh, Aunt Ella, it's not a whit better with you. It's different, but no better—no better for me. It smells of rose-leaves and lavender there too; it is as airless there as here.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Shaken, but having recovered her composure with an effort.] Airless in your mother's room, you say!

ERHART. [In growing impatience.] Yes, I don't know how else to express it. All this morbid watchfulness and—and idolisation, or whatever you like to call it—— I can't endure it any longer!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking at him with deep solemnity.] Have you forgotten what you have consecrated your life to, Erhart?

ERHART. [With an outburst.] Oh, say rather what you have consecrated my life to. You, you have been my will. You have never given me leave to have any of my own. But now I cannot bear this yoke any longer. I am young; remember that, mother. [With a polite, considerate glance towards BORKMAN.] I cannot consecrate my life to making atonement for another—whoever that other may be.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Seized with growing anxiety.] Who is it that has transformed you, Erhart?

ERHART. [Struck.] Who? Can you not conceive that it is I myself?

MRS. BORKMAN. No, no, no! You have come under some strange power. You are not in your mother's power any longer; nor in your—your foster-mother's either.

ERHART. [With laboured defiance.] I am in my own power, mother! And working my own will!

BORKMAN. [Advancing towards ERHART.] Then perhaps my hour has come at last.

ERHART. [Distantly and with measured politeness.] How so! How do you mean, sir?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Scornfully.] Yes, you may well ask that.

BORKMAN. [Continuing undisturbed.] Listen, Erhart—will you not cast in your lot with your father? It is not through any other man's life that a man who has fallen can be raised up again. These are only empty fables that have been told to you down here in the airless room. If you were to set yourself to live your life like all the saints together, it would be of no use whatever to me.

ERHART. [With measured respectfulness.] That is very true indeed.

BORKMAN. Yes, it is. And it would be of no use either if I should resign myself to wither away in abject penitence. I have tried to feed myself upon hopes and dreams, all through these years. But I am not the man to be content with that; and now I mean to have done with dreaming.

ERHART. [With a slight bow.] And what will—what will you do, sir?

BORKMAN. I will work out my own redemption, that is what I will do. I will begin at the bottom again. It is only through his present and his future that a man can atone for his past. Through work, indefatigable work, for all that, in my youth, seemed to give life its meaning—and that now seems a thousand times greater than it did then. Erhart, will you join with me and help me in this new life?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Raising her hand warningly.] Do not do it, Erhart!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Warmly.] Yes, yes do it! Oh, help him, Erhart!

MRS. BORKMAN. And you advise him to do that? You, the lonely dying woman.

ELLA RENTHEIM. I don't care about myself.

MRS. BORKMAN. No, so long as it is not I that take him from you.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Precisely so, Gunhild.

BORKMAN. Will you, Erhart?

ERHART. [Wrung with pain.] Father, I cannot now. It is utterly impossible!

BORKMAN. What do you want to do then?

ERHART. [With a sudden glow.] I am young! I want to live, for once in a way, as well as other people! I want to live my own life!

ELLA RENTHEIM. You cannot give up two or three little months to brighten the close of a poor waning life?

ERHART. I cannot, Aunt, however much I may wish to.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Not for the sake of one who loves you so dearly?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking sharply at him.] And your mother has no power over you either, any more?

ERHART. I will always love you, mother; but I cannot go on living for you alone. This is no life for me.

BORKMAN. Then come and join with me, after all! For life, life means work, Erhart. Come, we two will go forth into life and work together!

ERHART. [Passionately.] Yes, but I don't want to work now! For I am young! That's what I never realised before; but now the knowledge is tingling through every vein in my body. I will not work! I will only live, live, live!

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a cry of divination.] Erhart, what will you live for?

ERHART. [With sparkling eyes.] For happiness, mother!

MRS. BORKMAN. And where do you think you can find that?

ERHART. I have found it, already!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Shrieks.] Erhart! [ERHART goes quickly to the hall door and throws it open.]

ERHART. [Calls out.] Fanny, you can come in now!

[MRS. WILTON, in outdoor wraps, appears on the threshold.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With uplifted hands.] Mrs. Wilton!

MRS. WILTON. [Hesitating a little, with an enquiring glance at ERHART.] Do you want me to——?

ERHART. Yes, now you can come in. I have told them everything.

[MRS. WILTON comes forward into the room. ERHART closes the door behind her. She bows formally to BORKMAN, who returns her bow in silence. A short pause.

MRS. WILTON. [In a subdued but firm voice.] So the word has been spoken— and I suppose you all think I have brought a great calamity upon this house?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Slowly, looking hard at her.] You have crushed the last remnant of interest in life for me. [With an outburst.] But all of this—all this is utterly impossible!

MRS. WILTON. I can quite understand that it must appear impossible to you, Mrs. Borkman.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, you can surely see for yourself that it is impossible. Or what——?

MRS. WILTON. I should rather say that it seems highly improbable. But it's so, none the less.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Turning.] Are you really in earnest about this, Erhart?

ERHART. This means happiness for me, mother—all the beauty and happiness of life. That is all I can say to you.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Clenching her hands together; to MRS. WILTON.] Oh, how you have cajoled and deluded my unhappy son!

MRS. WILTON. [Raising her head proudly.] I have done nothing of the sort.

MRS. BORKMAN. You have not, say you!

MRS. WILTON. No. I have neither cajoled nor deluded him. Erhart came to me of his own free will. And of my own free will I went out half-way to meet him.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Measuring her scornfully with her eye.] Yes, indeed! That I can easily believe.

MRS. WILTON. [With self-control.] Mrs. Borkman, there are forces in human life that you seem to know very little about.

MRS. BORKMAN. What forces, may I ask?

MRS. WILTON. The forces which ordain that two people shall join their lives together, indissolubly—and fearlessly.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a smile.] I thought you were already indissolubly bound— to another.

MRS. WILTON. [Shortly.] That other has deserted me.

MRS. BORKMAN. But he is still living, they say.

MRS. WILTON. He is dead to me.

ERHART. [Insistently.] Yes, mother, he is dead to Fanny. And besides, this other makes no difference to me!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking sternly at him.] So you know all this—about the other.

ERHART. Yes, mother, I know quite well—all about it!

MRS. BORKMAN. And yet you can say that it makes no difference to you?

ERHART. [With defiant petulance.] I can only tell you that it is happiness I must have! I am young! I want to live, live, live!

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, you are young, Erhart. Too young for this.

MRS. WILTON. [Firmly and earnestly.] You must not think, Mrs. Borkman, that I haven't said the same to him. I have laid my whole life before him. Again and again I have reminded him that I am seven years older than he——

ERHART. [Interrupting.] Oh, nonsense, Fanny—I knew that all the time.

MRS. WILTON. But nothing—nothing was of any use.

MRS. BORKMAN. Indeed? Nothing? Then why did you not dismiss him without more ado? Close your door to him? You should have done that, and done it in time!

MRS. WILTON. [Looks at her, and says in a low voice.] I could not do that, Mrs. Borkman.

MRS. BORKMAN. Why could you not?

MRS. WILTON. Because for me too this meant happiness.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Scornfully.] H'm, happiness, happiness——

MRS. WILTON. I have never before known happiness in life. And I cannot possibly drive happiness away from me, merely because it comes so late.

MRS. BORKMAN. And how long do you think this happiness will last?

ERHART. [Interrupting.] Whether it lasts or does not last, mother, it doesn't matter now!

MRS. BORKMAN. [In anger.] Blind boy that you are! Do you not see where all this is leading you?

ERHART. I don't want to look into the future. I don't want to look around me in any direction; I am only determined to live my own life—at last!

MRS. BORKMAN. [With deep pain.] And you call this life, Erhart!

ERHART. Don't you see how lovely she is!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Wringing her hands.] And I have to bear this load of shame as well!

BORKMAN. [At the back, harshly and cuttingly.] Ho—you are used to bearing things of that sort, Gunhild!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Imploringly.] Borkman!

ERHART. [Similarly.] Father!

MRS. BORKMAN. Day after day I shall have to see my own son linked to a—a——

ERHART. [Interrupting her harshly.] You shall see nothing of the kind, mother! You may make your mind easy on that point. I shall not remain here.

MRS. WILTON. [Quickly and with decision.] We are going away, Mrs. Borkman.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Turning pale.] Are you going away, too? Together, no doubt?

MRS. WILTON. [Nodding.] Yes, I am going abroad, to the south. I am taking a young girl with me. And Erhart is going along with us.

MRS. BORKMAN. With you—and a young girl?

MRS. WILTON. Yes. It is little Frida Foldal, whom I have had living with me. I want her to go abroad and get more instruction in music.

MRS. BORKMAN. So you are taking her with you?

MRS. WILTON. Yes; I can't well send her out into the world alone.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Suppressing a smile.] What do you say to this, Erhart?

ERHART. [With some embarrassment, shrugging his shoulders.] Well, mother, since Fanny will have it so——

MRS. BORKMAN. [Coldly.] And when does this distinguished party set out, if one may ask?

MRS. WILTON. We are going at once—to-night. My covered sledge is waiting on the road, outside the Hinkels'.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looking her from head to foot.] Aha! so that was what the party meant?

MRS. WILTON. [Smiling.] Yes, Erhart and I were the whole party. And little Frida, of course.

MRS. BORKMAN. And where is she now?

MRS. WILTON. She is sitting in the sledge waiting for us.

ERHART. [In painful embarrassment.] Mother, surely you can understand? I would have spared you all this—you and every one.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Looks at him, deeply pained.] You would have gone away from me without saying a good-bye?

ERHART. Yes, I thought that would be best; best for all of us. Our boxes were packed and everything settled. But of course when you sent for me, I—— [Holding out his hands to her.] Good-bye, mother.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a gesture of repulsion.] Don't touch me!

ERHART. [Gently.] Is that your last word?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Sternly.] Yes.

ERHART. [Turning.] Good-bye to you, then, Aunt Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Pressing his hands.] Good-bye, Erhart! And live your life— and be as happy—as happy as ever you can.

ERHART. Thanks, Aunt. [Bowing to BORKMAN.] Good-bye, father. [Whispers to MRS. WILTON.] Let us get away, the sooner the better.

MRS. WILTON. [In a low voice.] Yes, let us.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a malignant smile.] Mrs. Wilton, do you think you are acting quite wisely in taking that girl with you?

MRS. WILTON. [Returning the smile, half ironically, half seriously.] Men are so unstable, Mrs. Borkman. And women too. When Erhart is done with me—and I with him—then it will be well for us both that he, poor fellow, should have some one to fall back upon.

MRS. BORKMAN. But you yourself?

MRS. WILTON. Oh, I shall know what to do, I assure you. Good-bye to you all!

[She bows and goes out by the hall door. ERHART stands for a moment as though wavering; then he turns and follows her.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Dropping her folded hands.] Childless.

BORKMAN. [As though awakening to a resolution.] Then out into the storm alone! My hat! My cloak! [He goes hastily towards the door.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [In terror, stopping him.] John Gabriel, where are you going?

BORKMAN. Out into the storm of life, I tell you. Let me go, Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Holding him back.] No, no, I won't let you out! You are ill. I can see it in your face!

BORKMAN. Let me go, I tell you!

[He tears himself away from her, and goes out by the hall.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [In the doorway.] Help me to hold him, Gunhild!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Coldly and sharply, standing in the middle of the room.] I will not try to hold any one in all the world. Let them go away from me—both the one and the other! As far—as far as ever they please. [Suddenly, with a piercing shriek.] Erhart, don't leave me!

[She rushes with outstretched arms towards the door. ELLA RENTHEIM stops her.



ACT FOURTH

An open space outside the main building, which lies to the right. A projecting corner of it is visible, with a door approached by a flight of low stone steps. The background consists of steep fir-clad slopes, quite close at hand. On the left are small scattered trees, forming the margin of a wood. The snowstorm has ceased; but the newly fallen snow lies deep around. The fir-branches droop under heavy loads of snow. The night is dark, with drifting clouds. Now and then the moon gleams out faintly. Only a dim light is reflected from the snow.

BORKMAN, MRS. BORKMAN and ELLA RENTHEIM are standing upon the steps, BORKMAN leaning wearily against the wall of the house. He has an old-fashioned cape thrown over his shoulders, holds a soft grey felt hat in one hand and a thick knotted stick in the other. ELLA RENTHEIM carries her cloak over her arm. MRS. BORKMAN's great shawl has slipped down over her shoulders, so that her hair is uncovered.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Barring the way for MRS. BORKMAN.] Don't go after him, Gunhild!

MRS. BORKMAN. [In fear and agitation.] Let me pass, I say! He must not go away from me!

ELLA RENTHEIM. It is utterly useless, I tell you! You will never overtake him.

MRS. BORKMAN. Let me go, Ella! I will cry aloud after him all down the road. And he must hear his mother's cry!

ELLA RENTHEIM. He cannot hear you. You may be sure he is in the sledge already.

MRS. BORKMAN. No, no; he can't be in the sledge yet!

ELLA RENTHEIM. The doors are closed upon him long ago, believe me.

MRS. BORKMAN. [In despair.] If he is in the sledge, then he is there with her, with her—her!

BORKMAN. [Laughing gloomily.] Then he probably won't hear his mother's cry.

MRS. BORKMAN. No, he will not hear it. [Listening.] Hark! what is that?

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Also listening.] It sounds like sledge-bells.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a suppressed scream.] It is her sledge!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Perhaps it's another.

MRS. BORKMAN. No, no, it is Mrs. Wilton's covered sledge! I know the silver bells! Hark! Now they are driving right past here, at the foot of the hill!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Quickly.] Gunhild, if you want to cry out to him, now is the time! Perhaps after all——! [The tinkle of the bells sounds close at hand, in the wood.] Make haste, Gunhild! Now they are right under us!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Stands for a moment undecided, then she stiffens and says sternly and coldly.] No. I will not cry out to him. Let Erhart Borkman pass away from me—far, far away—to what he calls life and happiness. [The sound dies away in the distance.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [After a moment.] Now the bells are out of hearing.

MRS. BORKMAN. They sounded like funeral bells.

BORKMAN. [With a dry suppressed laugh.] Oho—it is not for me they are ringing to-night!

MRS. BORKMAN. No, but for me—and for him who has gone from me.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Nodding thoughtfully.] Who knows if, after all, they may not be ringing in life and happiness for him, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With sudden animation, looking hard at her.] Life and happiness, you say!

ELLA RENTHEIM. For a little while at any rate.

MRS. BORKMAN. Could you endure to let him know life and happiness, with her?

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With warmth and feeling.] Indeed, I could, with all my heart and soul!

MRS. BORKMAN. [Coldly.] Then you must be richer than I am in the power of love.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Looking far away.] Perhaps it is the lack of love that keeps the power alive.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Fixing her eyes on her.] If that is so, then I shall soon be as rich as you, Ella. [She turns and goes into the house.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Stands for a time looking with a troubled expression at BORKMAN; then lays her hand cautiously on his shoulder.] Come, John—you must come in, too.

BORKMAN. [As if wakening.] I?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, this winter air is too keen for you; I can see that, John. So come—come in with me—into the house, into the warmth.

BORKMAN. [Angrily.] Up to the gallery again, I suppose.

ELLA RENTHEIM. No, rather into the room below.

BORKMAN. [His anger flaming forth.] Never will I set foot under that roof again!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Where will you go then? So late, and in the dark, John?

BORKMAN. [Putting on his hat.] First of all, I will go out and see to all my buried treasures.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Looking anxiously at him.] John—I don't understand you.

BORKMAN. [With laughter, interrupted by coughing.] Oh, it is not hidden plunder I mean; don't be afraid of that, Ella. [Stopping, and pointing outwards.] Do you see that man there? Who is it?

[VILHELM FOLDAL, in an old cape, covered with snow, with his hat-brim turned down, and a large umbrella in his hand, advances towards the corner of the house, laboriously stumbling through the snow. He is noticeably lame in his left foot.

BORKMAN. Vilhelm! What do you want with me again?

FOLDAL. [Looking up.] Good heavens, are you out on the steps, John Gabriel? [Bowing.] And Mrs. Borkman, too, I see.

BORKMAN. [Shortly.] This is not Mrs. Borkman.

FOLDAL. Oh, I beg pardon. You see, I have lost my spectacles in the snow. But how is it that you, who never put your foot out of doors——?

BORKMAN. [Carelessly and gaily.] It is high time I should come out into the open air again, don't you see? Nearly three years in detention—five years in prison—eight years in the gallery up there——

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Distressed.] Borkman, I beg you——

FOLDAL. Ah yes, yes, yes!

BORKMAN. But I want to know what has brought you here.

FOLDAL. [Still standing at the foot of the steps.] I wanted to come up to you, John Gabriel. I felt I must come to you, in the gallery. Ah me, that gallery——!

BORKMAN. Did you want to come up to me after I had shown you the door?

FOLDAL. Oh, I couldn't let that stand in the way.

BORKMAN. What have you done to your foot? I see you are limping?

FOLDAL. Yes, what do you think—I have been run over.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Run over!

FOLDAL. Yes, by a covered sledge.

BORKMAN. Oho!

FOLDAL. With two horses. They came down the hill at a tearing gallop. I couldn't get out of the way quick enough; and so——

ELLA RENTHEIM. And so they ran over you?

FOLDAL. They came right down upon me, madam—or miss. They came right upon me and sent me rolling over and over in the snow—so that I lost my spectacles and got my umbrella broken. [Rubbing his leg.] And my ankle a little hurt too.

BORKMAN. [Laughing inwardly.] Do you know who were in that sledge, Vilhelm?

FOLDAL. No, how could I see? It was a covered sledge, and the curtains were down. And the driver didn't stop a moment after he had sent me spinning. But it doesn't matter a bit, for—— [With an outburst.] Oh, I am so happy, so happy!

BORKMAN. Happy?

FOLDAL. Well, I don't exactly know what to call it. But I think happy is the nearest word. For something wonderful has happened! And that is why I couldn't help—I had to come out and share my happiness with you, John Gabriel.

BORKMAN. [Harshly.] Well, share away then!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Oh, but first take your friend indoors with you, Borkman.

BORKMAN. [Sternly.] I have told you I will not go into the house.

ELLA RENTHEIM. But don't you hear, he has been run over!

BORKMAN. Oh, we are all of us run over, sometime or other in life. The thing is to jump up again, and let no one see you are hurt.

FOLDAL. That is a profound saying, John Gabriel. But I can easily tell you my story out here, in a few words.

BORKMAN. [More mildly.] Yes, please do, Vilhelm.

FOLDAL. Well, now you shall hear! Only think, when I got home this evening after I had been with you, what did I find but a letter. Can you guess who it was from?

BORKMAN. Possibly from your little Frida?

FOLDAL. Precisely! Think of your hitting on it at once! Yes, it was a long letter from Frida. A footman had brought it. And can you imagine what was in it?

BORKMAN. Perhaps it was to say good-bye to her mother and you?

FOLDAL. Exactly! How good you are at guessing, John Gabriel! Yes, she tells me that Mrs. Wilton has taken such a fancy to her, and she is to go abroad with her and study music. And Mrs. Wilton has engaged a first-rate teacher who is to accompany them on the journey—and to read with Frida. For unfortunately she has been a good deal neglected in some branches, you see.

BORKMAN. [Shaken with inward laughter.] Of course, of course—I see it all quite clearly, Vilhelm.

FOLDAL. [Eagerly continuing.] And only think, she knew nothing about the arrangement until this evening; at that party, you know, h'm! And yet she found time to write to me. And the letter is such a beautiful one—so warm and affectionate, I assure you. There is not a trace of contempt for her father in it. And then what a delicate thought it was to say good-bye to us by letter—before she started. [Laughing.] But of course I can't let her go like that.

BORKMAN. [Looks inquiringly at him.] How so?

FOLDAL. She tells me that they start early to-morrow morning; quite early.

BORKMAN. Oh indeed—to-morrow? Does she tell you that?

FOLDAL. [Laughing and rubbing his hands.] Yes; but I know a trick worth two of that, you see! I am going straight up to Mrs. Wilton's——

BORKMAN. This evening?

FOLDAL. Oh, it's not so very late yet. And even if the house is shut up, I shall ring; without hesitation. For I must and will see Frida before she starts. Good-night, good-night! [Makes a movement to go.

BORKMAN. Stop a moment, my poor Vilhelm; you may spare yourself that heavy bit of road.

FOLDAL. Oh, you are thinking of my ankle——

BORKMAN. Yes; and in any case you won't get in at Mrs. Wilton's.

FOLDAL. Yes, indeed I will. I'll go on ringing and knocking till some one comes and lets me in. For I must and will see Frida.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Your daughter has gone already, Mr. Foldal.

FOLDAL. [Stands as though thunderstruck.] Has Frida gone already! Are you quite sure? Who told you?

BORKMAN. We had it from her future teacher.

FOLDAL. Indeed? And who is he?

BORKMAN. A certain Mr. Erhart Borkman.

FOLDAL. [Beaming with joy.] Your son, John Gabriel? Is he going with them?

BORKMAN. Yes; it is he that is to help Mrs. Wilton with little Frida's education.

FOLDAL. Oh, Heaven be praised! Then the child is in the best of hands. But is it quite certain that they have started with her already?

BORKMAN. They took her away in that sledge which ran you over in the road.

FOLDAL. [Clasping his hands.] To think that my little Frida was in that magnificent sledge!

BORKMAN. [Nodding.] Yes, yes, Vilhelm, your daughter has come to drive in her carriage. And Master Erhart, too. Tell me, did you notice the silver bells?

FOLDAL. Yes, indeed. Silver bells did you say? Were they silver? Real, genuine silver bells?

BORKMAN. You may be quite sure of that. Everything was genuine—both outside and in.

FOLDAL. [In quiet emotion.] Isn't it strange how fortune can sometimes befriend one? It is my—my little gift of song that has transmuted itself into music in Frida. So after all, it is not for nothing that I was born a poet. For now she is going forth into the great wide world, that I once yearned so passionately to see. Little Frida sets out in a splendid covered sledge with silver bells on the harness——

BORKMAN. And runs over her father.

FOLDAL. [Happily.] Oh, pooh! What does it matter about me, if only the child——! Well, so I am too late, then, after all. I must go home again and comfort her mother. I left her crying in the kitchen.

BORKMAN. Crying?

FOLDAL. [Smiling.] Yes, would you believe it, she was crying her eyes out when I came away.

BORKMAN. And you are laughing, Vilhelm?

FOLDAL. Yes, I am, of course. But she, poor thing, she doesn't know any better, you see. Well, good-bye! It's a good thing I have the tramway so handy. Good-bye, good-bye, John Gabriel. Good-bye, Madam.

[He bows and limps laboriously out by the way he came.

BORKMAN. [Stands silent for a moment, gazing before him.] Good-bye, Vilhelm! It is not the first time in your life that you've been run over, old friend.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Looking at him with suppressed anxiety.] You are so pale, John, so very pale.

BORKMAN. That is the effect of the prison air up yonder.

ELLA RENTHEIM. I have never seen you like this before.

BORKMAN. No, for I suppose you have never seen an escaped convict before.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Oh, do come into the house with me, John!

BORKMAN. It is no use trying to lure me in. I have told you——

ELLA RENTHEIM. But when I beg and implore you——? For your own sake——

[THE MAID opens the door, and stands in the doorway.

THE MAID. I beg your pardon. Mrs. Borkman told me to lock the front door now.

BORKMAN. [In a low voice, to ELLA.] You see, they want to lock me up again!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [To THE MAID.] Mr. Borkman is not quite well. He wants to have a little fresh air before coming in.

THE MAID. But Mrs. Borkman told me to——

ELLA RENTHEIM. I shall lock the door. Just leave the key in the lock.

THE MAID. Oh, very well; I'll leave it. [She goes into the house again.

BORKMAN. [Stands silent for a moment, and listens; then goes hastily down the steps and out into the open space.] Now I am outside the walls, Ella! Now they will never get hold of me again!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Who has gone down to him.] But you are a free man in there, too, John. You can come and go just as you please.

BORKMAN. [Softly, as though in terror.] Never under a roof again! It is so good to be out here in the night. If I went up into the gallery now, ceiling and walls would shrink together and crush me—crush me flat as a fly.

ELLA RENTHEIM. But where will you go, then?

BORKMAN. I will simply go on, and on, and on. I will try if I cannot make my way to freedom, and life, and human beings again. Will you go with me, Ella?

ELLA RENTHEIM. I? Now?

BORKMAN. Yes, at once!

ELLA RENTHEIM. But how far?

BORKMAN. As far as ever I can.

ELLA RENTHEIM. Oh, but think what you are doing! Out in this raw, cold winter night——

BORKMAN. [Speaking very hoarsely.] Oho—my lady is concerned about her health? Yes, yes—I know it is delicate.

ELLA RENTHEIM. It is your health I am concerned about.

BORKMAN. Hohoho! A dead man's health! I can't help laughing at you, Ella! [He moves onwards.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Following him: holding him back.] What did you call yourself?

BORKMAN. A dead man, I said. Don't you remember, Gunhild told me to lie quiet where I was?

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With resolution, throwing her cloak around her.] I will go with you, John.

BORKMAN. Yes, we two belong to each other, Ella. [Advancing.] So come!

[They have gradually passed into the low wood on the left. It conceals them little by little, until they are quite lost to sight. The house and the open space disappear. The landscape, consisting of wooded slopes and ridges, slowly changes and grows wilder and wilder.

ELLA RENTHEIM's VOICE. [Is heard in the wood to the right.] Where are we going, John? I don't recognise this place.

BORKMAN's VOICE. [Higher up.] Just follow my footprints in the snow!

ELLA RENTHEIM's VOICE. But why need we climb so high?

BORKMAN's VOICE. [Nearer at hand.] We must go up the winding path.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Still hidden.] Oh, but I can't go much further.

BORKMAN. [On the verge of the wood to the right.] Come, come! We are not far from the view now. There used to be a seat there.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Appearing among the trees.] Do you remember it?

BORKMAN. You can rest there.

[They have emerged upon a small high-lying, open plateau in the wood. The mountain rises abruptly behind them. To the left, far below, an extensive fiord landscape, with high ranges in the distance, towering one above the other. On the plateau, to the left, a dead fir-tree with a bench under it. The snow lies deep upon the plateau.

[BORKMAN and, after him, ELLA RENTHEIM enter from the right and wade with difficulty through the snow.

BORKMAN. [Stopping at the verge of the steep declivity on the left.] Come here, Ella, and you shall see.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Coming up to him.] What do you want to show me, John?

BORKMAN. [Pointing outwards.] Do you see how free and open the country lies before us—away to the far horizon?

ELLA RENTHEIM. We have often sat on this bench before, and looked out into a much, much further distance.

BORKMAN. It was a dreamland we then looked out over.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Nodding sadly.] It was the dreamland of our life, yes. And now that land is buried in snow. And the old tree is dead.

BORKMAN. [Not listening to her.] Can you see the smoke of the great steamships out on the fiord?

ELLA RENTHEIM. No.

BORKMAN. I can. They come and they go. They weave a network of fellowship all round the world. They shed light and warmth over the souls of men in many thousands of homes. That was what I dreamed of doing.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Softly.] And it remained a dream.

BORKMAN. It remained a dream, yes. [Listening.] And hark, down by the river, dear! The factories are working! My factories! All those that I would have created! Listen! Do you hear them humming? The night shift is on—so they are working night and day. Hark! hark! the wheels are whirling and the bands are flashing—round and round and round. Can't you hear, Ella?

ELLA RENTHEIM. No.

BORKMAN. I can hear it.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Anxiously.] I think you are mistaken, John.

BORKMAN. [More and more fired up.] Oh, but all these—they are only like the outworks around the kingdom, I tell you!

ELLA RENTHEIM. The kingdom, you say? What kingdom?

BORKMAN. My kingdom, of course! The kingdom I was on the point of conquering when I—when I died.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Shaken, in a low voice.] Oh, John, John!

BORKMAN. And now there it lies—defenceless, masterless—exposed to all the robbers and plunderers. Ella, do you see the mountain chains there—far away? They soar, they tower aloft, one behind the other! That is my vast, my infinite, inexhaustible kingdom!

ELLA RENTHEIM. Oh, but there comes an icy blast from that kingdom, John!

BORKMAN. That blast is the breath of life to me. That blast comes to me like a greeting from subject spirits. I seem to touch them, the prisoned millions; I can see the veins of metal stretch out their winding, branching, luring arms to me. I saw them before my eyes like living shapes, that night when I stood in the strong-room with the candle in my hand. You begged to be liberated, and I tried to free you. But my strength failed me; and the treasure sank back into the deep again. [With outstretched hands.] But I will whisper it to you here in the stillness of the night: I love you, as you lie there spellbound in the deeps and the darkness! I love you, unborn treasures, yearning for the light! I love you, with all your shining train of power and glory! I love you, love you, love you!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [In suppressed but rising agitation.] Yes, your love is still down there, John. It has always been rooted there. But here, in the light of day, here there was a living, warm, human heart that throbbed and glowed for you. And this heart you crushed. Oh worse than that! Ten times worse! You sold it for—for——

BORKMAN. [Trembles; a cold shudder seems to go through him.] For the kingdom—and the power—and the glory—you mean?

ELLA RENTHEIM. Yes, that is what I mean. I have said it once before to-night: you have murdered the love-life in the woman who loved you. And whom you loved in return, so far as you could love any one. [With uplifted arm.] And therefore I prophesy to you, John Gabriel Borkman—you will never touch the price you demanded for the murder. You will never enter in triumph into your cold, dark kingdom!

BORKMAN. [Staggers to the bench and seats himself heavily.] I almost fear your prophecy will come true, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Going up to him.] You must not fear it, John. That is the best thing that can happen to you.

BORKMAN. [With a shriek; clutching at his breast.] Ah——! [Feebly.] Now it let me go again.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Shaking him.] What was it, John?

BORKMAN. [Sinking down against the back of the seat.] It was a hand of ice that clutched at my heart.

ELLA RENTHEIM. John! Did you feel the ice-hand again!

BORKMAN. [Murmurs.] No. No ice-hand. It was a metal hand. [He sinks right down upon the bench.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Tears off her cloak and throws it over him.] Lie still where you are! I will go and bring help for you.

[She goes a step or two towards the right; then she stops, returns, and carefully feels his pulse and touches his face.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Softly and firmly.] No. It is best so, John Borkman. Best for you.

[She spreads the cloak closer around him, and sinks down in the snow in front of the bench. A short silence.

[MRS. BORKMAN, wrapped in a mantle, comes through the wood on the right. THE MAID goes before her carrying a lantern.

THE MAID. [Throwing the light upon the snow.] Yes, yes, ma'am, here are their tracks.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Peering around.] Yes, here they are! They are sitting there on the bench. [Calls.] Ella!

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Rising.] Are you looking for us?

MRS. BORKMAN. [Sternly.] Yes, you see I have to.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Pointing.] Look, there he lies, Gunhild.

MRS. BORKMAN. Sleeping?

ELLA RENTHEIM. A long, deep sleep, I think.

MRS. BORKMAN. [With an outburst.] Ella! [Controls herself and asks in a low voice.] Did he do it—of his own accord?

ELLA RENTHEIM. No.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Relieved.] Not by his own hand then?

ELLA RENTHEIM. No. It was an ice-cold metal hand that gripped him by the heart.

MRS. BORKMAN. [To THE MAID.] Go for help. Get the men to come up from the farm.

THE MAID. Yes, I will, ma'am. [To herself.] Lord save us! [She goes out through the wood to the right.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Standing behind the bench.] So the night air has killed him——

ELLA RENTHEIM. So it appears.

MRS. BORKMAN. ——strong man that he was.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Coming in front of the bench.] Will you not look at him, Gunhild?

MRS. BORKMAN. [With a gesture of repulsion.] No, no, no. [Lowering her voice.] He was a miner's son, John Gabriel Borkman. He could not live in the fresh air.

ELLA RENTHEIM. It was rather the cold that killed him.

MRS. BORKMAN. [Shakes her head.] The cold, you say? The cold—that had killed him long ago.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [Nodding to her.] Yes—and changed us two into shadows.

MRS. BORKMAN. You are right there.

ELLA RENTHEIM. [With a painful smile.] A dead man and two shadows—that is what the cold has made of us.

MRS. BORKMAN. Yes, the coldness of heart.—And now I think we two may hold out our hands to each other, Ella.

ELLA RENTHEIM. I think we may, now.

MRS. BORKMAN. We twin sisters—over him we have both loved.

ELLA RENTHEIM. We two shadows—over the dead man.

[MRS. BORKMAN behind the bench, and ELLA RENTHEIM in front of it, take each other's hand.

THE END