[She holds out her hand.]
Gustav. Ah, I'm a petty man. Too insignificant to allow of your thriving in my shadow. Your temperament, with its thirst for freedom, could not be satisfied by my monotonous life, the slavish routine to which I was condemned, the narrow circle in which I had to move. I appreciate that, but you understand well enough—you who are such an expert psychologist—what a struggle it must have cost me to acknowledge that to myself.
Thekla. How noble, how great to acknowledge one's weaknesses so frankly—it's not all men who can bring themselves to that point. [She sighs.] But you are always an honest character, straight and reliable—which I knew how to respect,—but—
Gustav. I wasn't—not then, but suffering purges, care ennobles and—and—I have suffered.
Thekla [comes nearer to him]. Poor Gustav, can you forgive me, can you? Tell me.
Gustav. Forgive? What? It is I who have to ask you for forgiveness.
Thekla [striking another key]. I do believe that we're both crying—though we're neither of us chickens.
Gustav [softly sliding into another tone]. Chickens, indeed! I'm an old man, but you—you're getting younger every day.
Thekla. Do you mean it?
Gustav. And how well you know how to dress!