BORKMAN. Who? Do you forget who has brought him up? First his aunt, from the time he was six or seven years old; and now, of late years, his mother! FOLDAL. I believe you are doing them an injustice. BORKMAN. [Firing up.] I never do any one injustice! Both of them have gone and poisoned his mind against me, I tell you! FOLDAL. [Soothingly.] Well, well, well, I suppose they have. 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, beneficial 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? 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.