Tjaelde. That your anger and your shame know no bounds!
Valborg. Oh, father, father! (Goes out by the door at the back. TJAELDE tries to cross the room, as if to follow her, but can only stagger as far as the staircase, to which he clings for support. MRS. TJAELDE sinks back into her chair. There is a long pause. Suddenly JAKOBSEN cones in from the outer once, dressed as before except that he has changed his coat. TJAELDE is not aware of his entrance until JAKOBSEN is close to him; then he stretches out his hands to him as if in entreaty, but JAKOBSEN goes right up to him and speaks in a voice choked with rage.)
Jakobsen. You scoundrel! (TJAELDE recoils.)
Mrs. Tjaelde. Jakobsen! Jakobsen!
Jakobsen (without heeding her). The Receiver's men are here. The books and papers at the Brewery have been seized. Work is at a standstill—and the same thing at the factory.
Mrs. Tjaelde. My God!
Jakobsen. And I had made myself responsible for twice as much as I possessed! (He speaks low, but his voice vibrates with anger and emotion.)
Mrs. Tjaelde. Dear Jakobsen!
Jakobsen (turning to her). Didn't I say to him, every time he told me to sign, "But I don't possess as much as that! It's not right!"—But he used to answer, "It is only a matter of form, Jakobsen." "Yes, but not an honourable form," I used to say. "It is a matter of form in business," he would say; "all business folk do it." And all I knew of business, I had learnt from him; so I trusted him. (With emotion.) And he made me do it time after time. And now I owe more than I shall ever be able to pay, all my life. I shall live and die a dishonoured man. What have you to say to that, Mrs. Tjaelde? (She does not answer him. He turns angrily upon TJAELDE.) Do you hear? Even she can find nothing to say!—Scoundrel!
Mrs. Tjaelde. Jakobsen!