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.