Adolf. I?
Gustav. As her husband.
Adolf.[Looks absent.]
Gustav. Am I not right?
Adolf.[Uneasily.] I don’t know— [Pause.] A man lives for years on end with a woman without coming to a clear conclusion about the woman herself, or how she stands in relation to his own way of looking at things. And then all of a sudden a man begins to reflect—and then there’s no stopping. Gustav, old man, you’re my friend, the only friend I’ve had for a long time, and this last week you’ve given me back all my life and pluck. It seems as though you’d radiated your magnetism over me. You were the watchmaker who repaired the works in my brain, and tightened the spring. [Pause.] Don’t you see yourself how much more lucidly I think, how much more connectedly I speak, and at times it almost seems as though my voice had got back the timber it used to have in the old days.
Gustav. I think so, too. What can be the cause of it?
Adolf. I don’t know. Perhaps one gets accustomed to talk more softly to women. Thekla, at any rate, was always ragging me because I shrieked.
Gustav. And then you subsided into a minor key, and allowed yourself to be put in the corner.
Adolf. Don’t say that. [Reflectively.] That wasn’t the worst of it. Let’s talk of something else—where was I then?—I’ve got it. [GUSTAV turns round again at the back of the square table and comes to ADOLF on his right.] You came here, old man, and opened my eyes to the mysteries of my art. As a matter of fact, I’ve been feeling for some time that my interest in painting was lessening, because it didn’t provide me with a proper medium to express what I had in me; but when you gave me the reason for this state of affairs, and explained to me why painting could not possibly be the right form for the artistic impulse of the age, then I saw the true light and I recognized that it would be from now onward impossible for me to create in colors.
Gustav. Are you so certain, old man, that you won’t be able to paint any more, that you won’t have any relapse?