But you would have meant it just as heartlessly.
You have no clear idea of the inner workings of an artist's nature.
[Smiling and shaking her head.] Good heavens, I haven't even a clear idea of the inner workings of my own nature.
[Continuing undisturbed.] I live at such high speed, Maia. We live so, we artists. I, for my part, have lived through a whole lifetime in the few years we two have known each other. I have come to realise that I am not at all adapted for seeking happiness in indolent enjoyment. Life does not shape itself that way for me and those like me. I must go on working—producing one work after another—right up to my dying day. [Forcing himself to continue.] That is why I cannot get on with you any longer, Maia—not with you alone.
[Quietly.] Does that mean, in plain language, that you have grown tired of me?
[Bursts forth.] Yes, that is what it means! I have grown tired—intolerably tired and fretted and unstrung—in this life with you! Now you know it. [Controlling himself.] These are hard, ugly words I am using. I know that very well. And you are not at all to blame in this matter;—that I willingly admit. It is simply and solely I myself, who have once more undergone a revolution—[Half to himself]—and awakening to my real life.
[Involuntarily folding her hands.] Why in all the world should we not part then?
[Looks at her in astonishment.] Should you be willing to?
[Shrugging her shoulders.] Oh yes—if there's nothing else for it, then—
[Eagerly.] But there is something else for it. There is an alternative—