thing of such distinctions.

BORKMAN.
[Harshly and decisively.] You are no poet, Vilhelm.

FOLDAL.
[Unconsciously folding his hands.] Do you say that in sober
earnest?

BORKMAN.
[Dismissing the subject, without answering.] We are only
wasting each other's time. You had better not come here again.

FOLDAL.
Then you really want me to leave you?

BORKMAN.
[Without looking at him.] I have no longer any use for you.

FOLDAL.
[Softly, taking his portfolio.] No, no, no; I daresay not.

BORKMAN.
Here you have been lying to me all the time.

FOLDAL.
[Shaking his head.] Never lying, John Gabriel.

BORKMAN.
Have you not sat here feeding me with hope, and trust, and
confidence--that was all a lie?

FOLDAL.
It wasn't a lie so long as you believed in my vocation. So long
as you believed in me, I believed in you.

BORKMAN.
Then we have been all the time deceiving each other. And perhaps
deceiving ourselves--both of us.

FOLDAL.
But isn't that just the essence of friendship, John Gabriel?

BORKMAN.
[Smiling bitterly.] Yes, you are right there. Friendship
means--deception. I have learnt that once before.

FOLDAL.
[Looking at him.] I have no poetic vocation! And you could
actually say it to me so bluntly.

BORKMAN.
[In a gentler tone.] Well, you know, I don't pretend to know
much about these matters.

FOLDAL.
Perhaps you know more than you think.

BORKMAN.
I?

FOLDAL.
[Softly.] Yes, you. For I myself have had my doubts, now and
then, I may tell you. The horrible doubt that I may have bungled
my life for the sake of a delusion.

BORKMAN.
If you have no faith in yourself, you are on the downward path
indeed.

FOLDAL.
That was why I found such comfort in coming here to lean upon
your faith in me. [Taking his hat.] But now you have become a
stranger to me.

BORKMAN.
And you to me.

FOLDAL.
Good night, John Gabriel.

BORKMAN.
Good night, Vilhelm.
[Foldal goes out to the left.

[BORKMAN stands for a moment gazing at the closed door; makes
a movement as though to call FOLDAL back, but changes his
mind, and begins to pace the floor with his hands behind
his back. Then he stops at the table beside the sofa and
puts out the lamp. The room becomes half dark. After a
short pause, there comes a knock at the tapestry door.

BORKMAN.
[At the table, starts, turns, and asks in a lou