John Gabriel Borkman stands with his hands behind his back, beside the piano, listening to Frida Foldal, who is playing the last bars of the “Danse Macabre.”
Borkman is of middle height, a well-knit, powerfully-built man, well on in the sixties. His appearance is distinguished, his profile finely cut, his eyes piercing, his hair and beard curly and greyish-white. He is dressed in a slightly old-fashioned black coat, and wears a white necktie. Frida Foldal is a pretty, pale girl of fifteen, with a somewhat weary and overstrained expression. She is cheaply dressed in light colours.
The music ceases. A pause.
Borkman.
Can you guess where I first heard tones like these?
Frida.
[Looking up at him.] No, Mr. Borkman.
Borkman.
It was down in the mines.
Frida.