Erhart.
[Plucking up spirit.] Good heavens, mother, I am young, after all! I feel as if the close air of this room must stifle me in the end.
Mrs. Borkman.
Close air? Here—with me?
Erhart.
Yes, here with you, mother.
Ella Rentheim.
Then come with me, Erhart.
Erhart.
Oh, Aunt Ella, it's not a whit better with you. It's different, but no better—no better for me. It smells of rose-leaves and lavender there too; it is as airless there as here.
Mrs. Borkman.
[Shaken, but having recovered her composure with an effort.] Airless in your mother's room, you say!
Erhart.
[In growing impatience.] Yes, I don't know how else to express it. All this morbid watchfulness and—and idolisation, or whatever you like to call it I can't endure it any longer!
Mrs. Borkman.
[Looking at him with deep solemnity.] Have you forgotten what you have consecrated your life to, Erhart?
