RKMAN.
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 loose