Thekla. Do you mean, by all that, that you’ve written my books?
Adolf. No, you say that so as to provoke me into a lie. I don’t express myself so crudely as you, and I’ve just spoken for five minutes on end simply so as to reproduce all the nuances, all the half-tones, all the transitions, but your barrel organ has only one key.
Thekla. [Walking up and down on the right.] Yes, yes; but the gist of the whole thing is that you’ve written my books.
Adolf. No, there’s no gist. You can’t resolve a symphony into one key, you can’t translate a multifarious life into a single cipher. I never said anything so crass as that I’d written your books.
Thekla. But you meant it all the same.
Adolf. [Furious.] I never meant it.
Thekla. But the result
Adolf. [Wildly.] There’s no result if one doesn’t add. There is a quotient, a long infinitesimal figure of a quotient, but I didn’t add.
Thekla. You didn’t, but I can.
Adolf. I quite believe you, but I never did.
Thekla. But you wanted to.
Adolf. [Exhausted, shutting his eyes.] No, no, no— don’t speak to me any more, I’m getting convulsions— be quiet, go away! You’re flaying my brain with your brutal pincers—you’re thrusting your claws into my thoughts and tearing them. [He loses consciousness, stares in front of hint and turns his thumbs inward.]
Thekla. [Tenderly coming toward him-.] What is it, dear? Are you ill? [ADOLF beats around him. THEKLA takes her handkerchief, pours waiter on to it out of the bottle on the table right of the center door, and cools his forehead with it.] Adolf!
Adolf. [He shakes his head.] Yes.
Thekla. Do you see now that you were wrong?
Adolf. [After a pause’.] Yes, yes, yes—I see it.
Thekla. And you ask me to forgive you?
Adolf. Yes, yes, yes—I ask you to forgive me; but don’t talk right into- my brain any more.
Thekla. Now kiss my hand.
Adolf. I’ll kiss your hand, if only you won’t speak to me any more.
Thekla. And now you’ll go out and get some fresh air before dinner.
Adolf. [Getting up.] Yes, that will do me good, and afterward we’ll pack up and go away.
Thekla. No. [She moves away from him up to the fireplace on the right.]
Adolf. Why not? You must have some reason.
Thekla. The simple reason that I’ve arranged to be at the reception this evening.
Adolf. That’s it, is it?
Thekla. That’s it right enough. I’ve promised to be there.
Adolf. Promised? You probably said that you’d try to come; it doesn’t prevent you from explaining that you have given up your intention.
Thekla. No, I’m not like you: my word is binding on me.
Adolf. One’s word can be binding without one being obliged to respect every casual thing one lets fall in conversation; or did somebody make you promise that you’d go-? In that case, you. can ask him to release you because your husband is ill.
Thekla. No, I’ve no inclination to do so. And, besides, you’re not so ill that you can’t quite well come along too.
Adolf. Why must I always come along too? Does it contribute to your greater serenity?
Thekla. I don’t understand what you mean.
Adolf. That’s what you always say when you know I mean something which you don’t like.
Thekla. Re-a-lly? And why shouldn’t I like it?
Adolf. Stop! stop—! Don’t start all over again—goodbye for the present—I’ll be back soon; I hope that in the meanwhile you’ll have thought better of it. [Exit through the central door and then toward the right. THEKLA accompanies him to the back of the stage. GUSTAV enters, after a pause, from the right.]
SCENE III
[GUSTAV goes straight up to the table on the left and takes up a paper without apparently seeing THEKLA.]
Thekla. [Starts, then controls herself.] You? [She comes forward.]
Gustav. It’s me—excuse me.
Thekla. [On his left.] Where do you come from?
Gustav. I came by the highroad, but —I won’t stay on here after seeing that
Thekla. Oh, you stay Well, it’s a long time.
Gustav. You’re right, a very long time.
Thekla. You’ve altered a great deal, Gustav.
Gustav. But you, on the other hand, my dear Thekla, are still quite as fascinating as ever—almost younger, in fact. Please forgive me. I wouldn’t for anything disturb your happiness by my presence. If I’d known that you were staying here I would never have
Thekla. Please—please, stay. It may be that you find it painful.
Gustav. It’s all right so far as I’m concerned. I only thought—that whatever I said I should always have to run the risk of wounding you.
Thekla. [Passes in front of him toward the right.] Sit down for a moment, Gustav, you don’t wound me, because you have the unusual gift—which always distinguished you—of being subtle and tactful.
Gustav. You’re too kind; but how on earth can one tell if—your husband would regard me in the same light that you do?
Thekla. Quite the contrary. Why, he’s just been expressing himself with the utmost sympathy with regard to you.
Gustav. Ah! Yes, everything dies away, even the names which we cut on the tree’s bark—not even malice can persist for long in these temperaments of ours.
Thekla. He’s never entertained malice against you—why, he doesn’t know you at all—and, so far as I’m concerned, I always entertained the silent hope that I would live to see the time in which you would approach each other as friends —or at least meet each other in my presence, shake hands, and part.
Gustav. It was also my secret desire to see the woman whom I loved more than my life in really good hands, and, as a matter of fact, I’ve only heard the very best account of him, while I know all his work as well. All the same, I felt the need of pressing his hand before I grew old, looking him in the face, and asking him to preserve the treasure which providence had entrusted to him, and at the same time I wanted to extinguish the hate which was burning inside me, quite against my will, and I longed to find peace of soul and resignation, so as to be able to finish in quiet that dismal portion of my life which is still left me.