FOLDAL. Yes, God knows I have—five of them. But Frida was the only one who at all understood me. [Shaking his head sadly.] The others don't understand me a bit.
BORKMAN. [Gloomily, gazing straight before him, and drumming on the table with his fingers.] No, that's just it. That is the curse we exceptional, chosen people have to bear. The common herd— the average man and woman—they do not understand us, Vilhelm.
FOLDAL. [With resignation.] If it were only the lack of understanding— with a little patience, one could manage to wait for that awhile yet. [His voice choked with tears.] But there is something still bitterer.
BORKMAN.
[Vehemently.] There is nothing bitterer than that.
FOLDAL. Yes, there is, John Gabriel. I have gone through a domestic scene to-night—just before I started.
BORKMAN.
Indeed? What about?
FOLDAL.
[With an outburst.] My people at home—they despise me.
BORKMAN.
[Indignantly.] Despise——?
FOLDAL. [Wiping his eyes.] I have long known it; but to-day it came out unmistakably.
BORKMAN. [After a short silence.] You made an unwise choice, I fear, when you married.