Adolf. Yes, yes—she's coming. [Pause.] Strange, isn't it? I long for her and yet I'm frightened of her. She caresses me, she is tender, but her kisses have something in them which smothers one, something which sucks, something which stupefies. It is as though I were the child at the circus whose face the clown is making up in the dressing-room, so that it can appear red-cheeked before the public.
Gustav [leaning on the arm of Adolf's chair]. I'm sorry for you, old man. Although I'm not a doctor I am in a position to tell you that you are a dying man. One only has to look at your last pictures to be quite clear on the point.
Adolf. What do you say—what do you mean?
Gustav. Your coloring is so watery, so consumptive and thin, that the yellow of the canvas shines through. It is just as though your hollow ashen white cheeks were looking out at me.
Adolf. Ah!
Gustav. Yes, and that's not only my view. Haven't you read to-day's paper?
Adolf [he starts]. No.
Gustav. It's before you on the table.
Adolf [he gropes after the paper without having the courage to take it]. Is it in here?
Gustav. Read it, or shall I read it to you?