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?