ELLA RENTHEIM. [Calmly and quietly.] My illness will never be cured, Borkman. BORKMAN. Oh, you must not believe that, Ella. ELLA RENTHEIM. It is a disease that there is no help or cure for. The doctors can do nothing with it. They must just let it take its course. They cannot possibly check it; at most, they can allay the suffering. And that is always something. BORKMAN. Oh, but it will take a long time to run its course. I am sure it will. ELLA RENTHEIM. I may perhaps last out the winter, they told me. BORKMAN. [Without thinking.] Oh, well, the winter is long. ELLA RENTHEIM. [Quietly.] Long enough for me, at any rate. BORKMAN. [Eagerly, changing the subject.] But what in all the world can have brought on this illness? You, who have always lived such a healthy and regular life? What can have brought it on? ELLA RENTHEIM. [Looking at him.] The doctors thought that perhaps at one time in my life I had had to go through some great stress of emotion. BORKMAN. [Firing up.] Emotion! Aha, I understand! You mean that it is my fault? ELLA RENTHEIM. [With increasing inward agitation.] It is too late to go into that matter now! But I must have my heart's own child again before I go! It is so unspeakably sad for me to think that I must go away from all that is called life--away from sun, and light, and air--and not leave behind me one single human being who will think of me--who will remember me lovingly and mournfully--as a son remembers and thinks of the mother he has lost. BORKMAN. [After a short pause.] Take him, Ella, if you can win him.