GUSTAV. Since you are her husband.
(ADOLPH keeps a preoccupied silence.)
GUSTAV. Am I not right?
ADOLPH. [Uneasily] I don't know. You live with a woman for years,
and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, and
then--then you begin to think--and there you are!--Gustav, you are my
friend. The only male friend I have. During this last week you have
given me courage to live again. It is as if your own magnetism had been
poured into me. Like a watchmaker, you have fixed the works in my head
and wound up the spring again. Can't you hear, yourself, how I think
more clearly and speak more to the point? And to myself at least it
seems as if my voice had recovered its ring.
GUSTAV. So it seems to me also. And why is that?
ADOLPH. I shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to lower your voice in
talking to women. I know at least that Tekla always used to accuse me of
shouting.
GUSTAV. And so you toned down your voice and accepted the rule of the
slipper?
ADOLPH. That isn't quite the way to put it. [After some reflection]
I think it is even worse than that. But let us talk of something
else!--What was I saying?--Yes, you came here, and you enabled me to
see my art in its true light. Of course, for some time I had noticed my
growing lack of interest in painting, as it didn't seem to offer me the
proper medium for the expression of what I wanted to bring out. But when
you explained all this to me, and made it clear why painting must fail
as a timely outlet for the creative instinct, then I saw the light at
last--and I realised that hereafter it would not be possible for me to
express myself by means of colour only.
GUSTAV. Are you quite sure now that you cannot go on painting--that you
may not have a relapse?
ADOLPH. Perfectly sure! For I have tested myself. When I went to bed
that night after our talk, I rehearsed your argument point by point, and
I knew you had it right. But when I woke up from a good night's sleep
and my head was clear again, then it came over me in a flash that you
might be mistaken after all. And I jumped out of bed and got hold of
my brushes and paints--but it was no use! Every trace of illusion was
gone--it was nothing but smears of paint, and I quaked at the thought of
having believed, and having made others believe, that a painted canvas
could be anything but a painted canvas. The veil had fallen from my
eyes, and it was just as impossible for me to paint any more as it was
to become a child again.
GUSTAV. And then you saw that the realistic tendency of our day, its
craving for actuality and tangibility, could only find its proper form
in sculpture, which gives you body, extension in all three dimensions--
ADOLPH. [Vaguely] The three dimensions--oh yes, body, in a word!
GUSTAV. And then you became a sculptor yourself. Or rather, you have
been one all your life, but you had gone astray, and nothing was needed
but a guide to put you on the right road--Tell me, do you experience
supreme joy now when you are at work?
ADOLPH. Now I am living!
GUSTAV. May I see what you are doing?
ADOLPH. A female figure.
GUSTAV. Without a model? And so lifelike at that!
ADOLPH. [Apathetically] Yes, but it resembles somebody. It is remarkable
that this woman seems to have become a part of my body as I of hers.
GUSTAV. Well, that's not so very remarkable. Do you know what
transfusion is?
ADOLPH. Of blood? Yes.
GUSTAV. And you seem to have bled yourself a little too much. When
I look at the figure here I comprehend several things which I merely
guessed before. You have loved her tremendously!
ADOLPH. Yes, to such an extent that I couldn't tell whether she was I or
I she. When she is smiling, I smile also. When she is weeping, I weep.
And when she--can you imagine anything like it?--when she was giving
life to our child--I felt the birth pangs within myself.
GUSTAV. Do you know, my dear friend--I hate to speak of it, but you are
already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy.
ADOLPH. [Agitated] I! How can you tell?
GUSTAV. Because I have watched the symptoms in a younger brother of mine
who had been worshipping Venus a little too excessively.
ADOLPH. How--how did it show itself--that thing you spoke of?
[During the following passage GUSTAV speaks with great animation, and
ADOLPH listens so intently that, unconsciously, he imitates many of
GUSTAV'S gestures.]
GUSTAV. It was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel strong enough
I won't inflict a description of it on you.
ADOLPH. [Nervously] Yes, go right on--just go on!
GUSTAV. Well, the boy happened to marry an innocent little creature with
curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with the face of a child and the
pure soul of an angel. But nevertheless she managed to usurp the male
prerogative--
ADOLPH. What is that?
GUSTAV. Initiative, of course. And with the result that the angel nearly
carried him off to heaven. But first he had to be put on the cross and
made to feel the nails in his flesh. It was horrible!
ADOLPH. [Breathlessly] Well, what happened?
GUSTAV. [Lingering on each word] We might be sitting together talking,
he and I--and when I had been speaking for a while his face would turn
white as chalk, his arms and legs would grow stiff, and his thumbs
became twisted against the palms of his hands--like this. [He
illustrates the movement and it is imitated by ADOLPH] Then his eyes
became bloodshot, and he began to chew--like this. [He chews, and again
ADOLPH imitates him] The saliva was rattling in his throat. His chest
was squeezed together as if it had been closed in a vice. The pupils
of his eyes flickered like gas-jets. His tongue beat the saliva into a
lather, and he sank--slowly--down--backward--into the chair--as if he
were drowning. And then---
ADOLPH. [In a whisper] Stop now!
GUSTAV. And then--Are you not feeling well?
ADOLPH. No.
GUSTAV. [Gets a glass of water for him] There: drink now. And we'll talk
of something else.
ADOLPH. [Feebly] Thank you! Please go on!
GUSTAV. Well--when he came to he couldn't remember anything at all. He
had simply lost consciousness. Has that ever happened to you?
ADOLPH. Yes, I have had attacks of vertigo now and then, but my
physician says it's only anaemia.
GUSTAV. Well, that's the beginning of it, you know. But, believe me, it
will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of yourself.
ADOLPH. What can I do?
GUSTAV. To begin with, you will have to observe complete abstinence.
ADOLPH. For how long?
GUSTAV. For half a year at least.
ADOLPH. I cannot do it. That would upset our married life.
GUSTAV. Good-bye to you then!
ADOLPH. [Covers up the wax figure] I cannot do it!
GUSTAV. Can you not save your own life?--But tell me, as you have
already given me so much of your confidence--is there no other canker,
no secret wound, that troubles you? For it is very rare to find only
one cause of discord, as life is so full of variety and so fruitful in
chances for false relationships. Is there not a corpse in your cargo
that you are trying to hide from yourself?--For instance, you said a
minute ago that you have a child which has been left in other people's
care. Why don't you keep it with you?
ADOLPH. My wife doesn't want us to do so.
GUSTAV. And her reason? Speak up now!
ADOLPH. Because, when it was about three years old, it began to look
like him, her former husband.
GUSTAV. Well? Have you seen her former husband?
ADOLPH. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at a very poor
portrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the slightest resemblance.
GUSTAV. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides, he
might have changed considerably since it was made. However, I hope it
hasn't aroused any suspicions in you?
ADOLPH. Not at all. The child was born a year after our marriage, and
the husband was abroad when I first met Tekla--it happened right here,
in this very house even, and that's why we come here every summer.
GUSTAV. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion. And you wouldn't
have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for the children of a
widow who marries again often show a likeness to her dead husband. It
is annoying, of course, and that's why they used to burn all widows in
India, as you know.--But tell me: have you ever felt jealous of him--of
his memory? Would it not sicken you to meet him on a walk and hear him,
with his eyes on your Tekla, use the word "we" instead of "I"?--We!
ADOLPH. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that very thought.
GUSTAV. There now!--And you'll never get rid of it. There are discords
in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. For this reason you
had better put wax in your ears and go to work. If you work, and grow
old, and pile masses of new impressions on the hatches, then the corpse
will stay quiet in the hold.
ADOLPH. Pardon me for interrupting you, but--it is wonderful how you
resemble Tekla now and then while you are talking. You have a way of
blinking one eye as if you were taking aim with a gun, and your eyes
have the same influence on me as hers have at times.
GUSTAV. No, really?
ADOLPH. And now you said that "no, really" in the same indifferent
way that she does. She also has the habit of saying "no, really" quite
often.
GUSTAV. Perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all human beings
are said to be of one family. At any rate, it will be interesting to
make your wife's acquaintance to see if what you say is true.
ADOLPH. And do you know, she never takes an expression from me. She
seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and I have never caught her using
any of my gestures. And yet people as a rule develop what is called
"marital resemblance."
GUSTAV. And do you know why this has not happened in your case?--That
woman has never loved you.
ADOLPH. What do you mean?
GUSTAV. I hope you will excuse what I am saying--but woman's love
consists in taking, in receiving, and one from whom she takes nothing
does not have her love. She has never loved you!
ADOLPH. Don't you think her capable of loving more than once?
GUSTAV. No, for we cannot be deceived more than once. Then our eyes are
opened once for all. You have never been deceived, and so you had better
beware of those that have. They are dangerous, I tell you.
ADOLPH. Your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and I fool as if
something were being severed within me, but I cannot help it. And this
cutting brings a certain relief, too. For it means the pricking of
ulcers that never seemed to ripen.--She has never loved me!--Why, then,
did she ever take me?
GUSTAV. Tell me first how she came to take you, and whether it was you
who took her or she who took you?
ADOLPH. Heaven only knows if I can tell at all!--How did it happen?
Well, it didn't come about in one day.
GUSTAV. Would you like to have me tell you how it did happen?
ADOLPH. That's more than you can do.
GUSTAV. Oh, by using the information about yourself and your wife that
you have given me, I think I can reconstruct the whole event. Listen
now, and you'll hear. [In a dispassionate tone, almost humorously]
The husband had gone abroad to study, and she was alone. At first her
freedom seemed rather pleasant. Then came a sense of vacancy, for
I presume she was pretty empty when she had lived by herself for a
fortnight. Then he appeared, and by and by the vacancy was filled up. By
comparison the absent one seemed to fade out, and for the simple reason
that he was at a distance--you know the law about the square of the
distance? But when they felt their passions stirring, then came fear--of
themselves, of their consciences, of him. For protection they played
brother and sister. And the more their feelings smacked of the flesh,
the more they tried to make their relationship appear spiritual.
ADOLPH. Brother and sister? How could you know that?
GUSTAV. I guessed it. Children are in the habit of playing papa and
mamma, but when they grow up they play brother and sister--in order to
hide what should be hidden!--And then they took the vow of chastity--and
then they played hide-and-seek--until they got in a dark corner where
they were sure of not being seen by anybody. [With mock severity] But
they felt that there was ONE whose eye reached them in the darkness--and
they grew frightened--and their fright raised the spectre of the
absent one--his figure began to assume immense proportions--it became
metamorphosed: turned into a nightmare that disturbed their amorous
slumbers; a creditor who knocked at all doors. Then they saw his black
hand between their own as these sneaked toward each other across the
table; and they heard his grating voice through that stillness of the
night that should have been broken only by the beating of their own
pulses. He did not prevent them from possessing each other but he
spoiled their happiness. And when they became aware of his invisible
interference with their happiness; when they took flight at last--a vain
flight from the memories that pursued them, from the liability they had
left behind, from the public opinion they could not face--and when they
found themselves without the strength needed to carry their own
guilt, then they had to send out into the fields for a scapegoat to be
sacrificed. They were free-thinkers, but they did not have the courage
to step forward and speak openly to him the words: "We love each
other!" To sum it up, they were cowards, and so the tyrant had to be
slaughtered. Is that right?
ADOLPH. Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filled my
head with new thoughts--
GUSTAV. I have not forgotten it. But tell me: why could she not educate
the other man also--into a free-thinker?
ADOLPH. Oh, he was an idiot!
GUSTAV. Oh, of course--he was an idiot! But that's rather an ambiguous
term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seems mainly to have
consisted in failure to understand her. Pardon me a question: but is
your wife so very profound after all? I have discovered nothing profound
in her writings.
ADOLPH. Neither have I.--But then I have also to confess a certain
difficulty in understanding her. It is as if the cogs of our brain
wheels didn't fit into each other, and as if something went to pieces in
my head when I try to comprehend her.
GUSTAV. Maybe you are an idiot, too?
ADOLPH. I don't THINK so! And it seems to me all the time as if she were
in the wrong--Would you care to read this letter, for instance, which I
got today?
[Takes out a letter from his pocket-book.]
GUSTAV. [Glancing through the letter] Hm! The handwriting seems
strangely familiar.
ADOLPH. Rather masculine, don't you think?
GUSTAV. Well, I know at least ONE man who writes that kind of hand--She
addresses you as "brother." Are you still playing comedy to each other?
And do you never permit yourselves any greater familiarity in speaking
to each other?
ADOLPH. No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in that way.
GUSTAV. And is it to make you respect her that she calls herself your
sister?
ADOLPH. I want to respect her more than myself. I want her to be the
better part of my own self.
GUSTAV. Why don't you be that better part yourself? Would it be less
convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part? Do you want to
place yourself beneath your wife?
ADOLPH. Yes, I do. I take a pleasure in never quite reaching up to her.
I have taught her to swim, for example, and now I enjoy hearing her
boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring. To begin with, I
merely pretended to be awkward and timid in order to raise her courage.
And so it ended with my actually being her inferior, more of a coward
than she. It almost seemed to me as if she had actually taken my courage
away from me.
GUSTAV. Have you taught her anything else?
ADOLPH. Yes--but it must stay between us--I have taught her how to
spell, which she didn't know before. But now, listen: when she took
charge of our domestic correspondence, I grew out of the habit of
writing. And think of it: as the years passed on, lack of practice made
me forget a little here and there of my grammar. But do you think she
recalls that I was the one who taught her at the start? No--and so I am
"the idiot," of course.
GUSTAV. So you are an idiot already?
ADOLPH. Oh, it's just a joke, of course!
GUSTAV. Of course! But this is clear cannibalism, I think. Do you know
what's behind that sort of practice? The savages eat their enemies in
order to acquire their useful qualities. And this woman has been eating
your soul, your courage, your knowledge---