John Gabriel Borkman

by Henrik Ibsen

BORKMAN.
And runs over her father.

FOLDAL. [Happily.] Oh, pooh! What does it matter about me, if only the child——! Well, so I am too late, then, after all. I must go home again and comfort her mother. I left her crying in the kitchen.

BORKMAN.
Crying?

FOLDAL. [Smiling.] Yes, would you believe it, she was crying her eyes out when I came away.

BORKMAN.
And you are laughing, Vilhelm?

FOLDAL. Yes, I am, of course. But she, poor thing, she doesn't know any better, you see. Well, good-bye! It's a good thing I have the tramway so handy. Good-bye, good-bye, John Gabriel. Good-bye, Madam.

[He bows and limps laboriously out by the way he came.

BORKMAN.
[Stands silent for a moment, gazing before him.] Good-bye,
Vilhelm! It is not the first time in your life that you've
been run over, old friend.

ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Looking at him with suppressed anxiety.] You are so pale,
John, so very pale.

BORKMAN.
That is the effect of the prison air up yonder.