MRS. BORKMAN.

[Nodding slowly.] That I understand. I say the same. Rather she than you.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

Whatever should become of him in the end----

MRS. BORKMAN.

It wouldn't greatly matter, I should say.

ELLA RENTHEIM.

[Taking her outdoor things upon her arm.] For the first time in our lives, we twin sisters are of one mind. Good-night, Gunhild.

[She goes out by the hall. The music sounds louder from above.

MRS. BORKMAN.

[Stands still for a moment, starts, shrinks together, and whispers involuntarily.] The wolf is whining again--the sick wolf.

[She stands still for a moment, then flings herself down on the floor, writhing in agony and whispering:] Erhart! Erhart!--be true to me! Oh, come home and help your mother! For I can bear this life no longer!

ACT SECOND

The great gallery on the first floor of the Rentheim House.

The walls are covered with old tapestries, representing hunting-scenes, shepherds and shepherdesses, all in faded colours. A folding-door to the left, and further forward a piano. In the left-hand corner, at the back, a door, cut in the tapestry, and covered with tapestry, without any frame.

Against the middle of the right wall, a large writing-table of carved oak, with many books and papers. Further forward on the same side, a sofa with a table and chairs in front of it.

The furniture is all of a stiff Empire style. Lighted lamps on both tables.

JOHN GABRIEL BORKMAN stands with his hands behind his back, beside the piano, listening to FRIDA FOLDAL, who is playing the last bars of the "Danse Macabre."

BORKMAN is of middle height, a well-knit, powerfully-built man, well on in the sixties. His appearance is distinguished, his profile finely cut, his eyes piercing, his hair and beard curly and greyish-white. He is dressed in a slightly old-fashioned black coat, and wears a white necktie. FRIDA FOLDAL is a pretty, pale girl of fifteen, with a somewhat weary and overstrained expression. She is cheaply dressed in light colours.

BORKMAN.

Can you guess where I first heard tones like these?

FRIDA.

[Looking up at him.] No, Mr. Borkman.

BORKMAN.

It was down in the mines.

FRIDA.

[Not understanding.] Indeed? Down in the mines?

BORKMAN.

I am a miner's son, you know. Or perhaps you did not know?

FRIDA.

No, Mr. Borkman.

BORKMAN.

A miner's son. And my father used sometimes to take me with him into the mines. The metal sings down there.

FRIDA.

Really? Sings?

BORKMAN.

[Nodding.] When it is loosened. The hammer-strokes that loosen it are the midnight bell clanging to set it free; and that is why the metal sings--in its own way--for gladness.

FRIDA.

Why does it do that, Mr. Borkman?

BORKMAN.

It wants to come up into the light of day and serve mankind.

[He paces up and down the gallery, always with his hands behind his back.

FRIDA.

[Sits waiting a little, then looks at her watch and rises.]

I beg your pardon, Mr. Borkman; but I am afraid I must go.

BORKMAN.

[Stopping before her.] Are you going already?

FRIDA.

[Putting her music in its case.] I really must. [Visibly embarra.s.sed.] I have an engagement this evening.

BORKMAN.

For a party?

FRIDA.

Yes.

BORKMAN.

And you are to play before the company?

FRIDA.

[Biting her lip.] No; at least I am only to play for dancing.

BORKMAN.

Only for dancing?

FRIDA.

Yes; there is to be a dance after supper.

BORKMAN.

[Stands and looks at her.] Do you like playing dance music?

At parties, I mean?

FRIDA.