Gustav.[With facial expression.] Re-a-lly?
Adolf. It was I who fed her up with praise, even when I thought her work was no good. It was I who introduced her into literary sets, and tried to make her feel herself in clover; defended her against criticism by my personal intervention. I blew courage into her, kept on blowing it for so long that I got out of breath myself. I gave and gave and gave—until nothing was left for me myself. Do you know—I’m going to tell you the whole story—do you know how the thing seems to me now? One’s temperament is such an extraordinary thing, and when my artistic successes looked as though they would eclipse her—her prestige—I tried to buck her up by belittling myself and by representing that my art was one that was inferior to hers. I talked so much of the general insignificant role of my particular art, and harped on it so much, thought of so many good reasons for my contention, that one fine day I myself was soaked through and through with the worthlessness of the painter’s art; so all that was left was a house of cards for you to blow down.
Gustav. Excuse my reminding you of what you said, but at the beginning of our conversation you were asserting that she took nothing from you.
Adolf. She doesn’t—now, at any rate; now there is nothing left to take.
Gustav. So the snake has gorged herself, and now she vomits.
Adolf. Perhaps she took more from me than I knew of.
Gustav. Oh, you can reckon on that right enough—she took without your noticing it. [He goes behind the square table and comes in front of the sofa.] That’s what people call stealing.
Adolf. Then what it conies to is that she hasn’t educated me at all?
Gustav. Rather you her. Of course she knew the trick well enough of making you believe the contrary. Might I ask how she pretended to educate you?
Adolf. Oh—at first— hum!