Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (321 page)

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 THIR
D

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!