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, beneficent thought that here or there in the world, somewhere, far away—the true woman exists after all.
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?
