Adolf. Like a man's, almost.
Gustav. Well, at any rate I know 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.
Gustav [hands back the letter]. I see, and she calls herself "sister" so as to inspire respect.
[He turns around and passes the square table on Adolf's right.]
Adolf. I want to esteem her more than I do myself. I want her to be my better self.
Gustav. Oh, you be your better self; though I quite admit it's less convenient than having somebody else to do it for you. Do you want, then, to be your wife's inferior?
Adolf. Yes, I do. I find pleasure in always allowing myself to be beaten by her a little. For instance, I taught her swimming, and it amuses me when she boasts about being better and pluckier than I am. At the beginning I simply pretended to be less skillful and courageous than she was, in order to give her pluck, but one day, God knows how it came about, I was actually the worse swimmer and the one with less pluck. It seemed as though she's taken all my grit away in real earnest.
Gustav. And haven't you taught her anything else?
Adolf. Yes—but this is in confidence—I taught her spelling, because she didn't know it. Just listen to this. When she took over the correspondence of the household I gave up writing letters, and—will you believe it?—simply from lack of practice I've lost one bit of grammar after another in the course of the year. But do you think she ever remembers that she has to thank me really for her proficiency? Not for a minute. Of course, I'm the ass now.