John Gabriel Borkman

by Henrik Ibsen

BORKMAN. [Moving impatiently on the sofa.] Oh, do spare me that poetical nonsense.

FOLDAL. [Looks at him, deeply wounded.] Do you call my holiest faith poetical nonsense?

BORKMAN. [Harshly.] Yes I do! That is what has always prevented you from getting on in the world. If you would get all that out of your head, I could still help you on in life—help you to rise.

FOLDAL.
[Boiling inwardly.] Oh, you can't do that.

BORKMAN.
I can when once I come into power again.

FOLDAL.
That won't be for many a day.

BORKMAN.
[Vehemently.] Perhaps you think that day will never come?
Answer me!

FOLDAL.
I don't know what to answer.

BORKMAN. [Rising, cold and dignified, and waving his hand towards the door.] Then I no longer have any use for you.

FOLDAL.
[Starting up.] No use——!