BORKMAN. Who? Do you forget who has brought him up? First his aunt, from the time he was six or seven years old; and now, of late years, his mother!
FOLDAL.
I believe you are doing them an injustice.
BORKMAN. [Firing up.] I never do any one injustice! Both of them have gone and poisoned his mind against me, I tell you!
FOLDAL.
[Soothingly.] Well, well, well, I suppose they have.
BORKMAN. [Indignantly.] Oh these women! They wreck and ruin life for us! Play the devil with our whole destiny—our triumphal progress.
FOLDAL.
Not all of them!
BORKMAN. Indeed? Can you tell me of a single one that is good for anything?
FOLDAL. No, that is the trouble. The few that I know are good for nothing.
BORKMAN.
[With a snort of scorn.] Well then, what is the good of it?
What is the good of such women existing—if you never know them?
FOLDAL.
[Warmly.] Yes, John Gabriel, there is good in it, I assure you.
It is such a blessed, beneficial thought that here or there in the
world, somewhere, far away—the true woman exists after all.