Gustav. I haven’t forgotten it. But tell me, how was it that she wasn’t able to succeed in educating the other man—in educating him into being really modern?
Adolf. He was an utter ass.
Gustav. Right you are—he was an ass, but that’s 3 fairly elastic word, and according to her description of him, in her novel, his asinine nature seemed to have consisted principally in the fact that he didn’t understand her. Excuse the question, but is your wife really as deep as all that? I haven’t found anything particularly profound in her writings.
Adolf. Nor have I. I must really own that I too find it takes me all my time to understand her. It’s as though the machinery of our brains couldn’t catch on to each other properly—as though something in my head got broken when. I try to understand her.
Gustav. Perhaps you’re an ass as well.
Adolf. No, I flatter myself I’m not that, and I nearly always think that she’s in the wrong—and, for the sake of argument, would you care to read this letter which I got from her to-day? [He takes a letter out of his pocketbook.]
Gustav.[Reads it cursorily.] Hum, I seem to - know the style so well.
Adolf. Like a man’s, almost.
Gustav. Well, at any rate, I knew a man who had a style like that. [Standing up.] I see she goes on calling you brother all the time—do you always keep up the comedy for the benefit of your two selves? Do you still keep on using the fig leaves, even though they’re a trifle withered—you don’t use any term of endearment?
Adolf. No. In my view, I couldn’t respect her quite so much if I did.