Adolf. The pure youth?
Thekla. Quite right. He had the duckiest, sweetest little mustache, and cheeks like cherries, so delicate and soft, one could have bitten right into them.
Adolf. [Depressed.] Just keep that twist in your mouth.
Thekla. What twist?
Adolf. That cynical, insolent twist which I’ve never seen before.
Thekla. [Makes a grimace.] Like that?
Adolf. Quite. [He gets up.] Do you know how Bret Harte describes the adulteress?
Thekla. [Laughs.] No, I’ve never read that Bret What-do-you-call-him.
Adolf. Oh! she’s a pale woman- who never blushes.
Thekla. Never? Oh yes, she does; oh yes, she does. Perhaps when she meets her lover, even though her husband and Mr. Bret didn’t manage to see anything of it.
Adolf. Are you so certain, about it?
Thekla. [As before.] Absolutely. If the man isn’t able to drive her very blood to her head, how can he possibly enjoy the pretty spectacle? [She passes by him toward the right.]
Adolf. [Reiving.] Thekla! Thekla!
Thekla. Little fool!
Adolf. [Sternly.] Thekla!
Thekla. Let him call me his own dear little sweetheart, and I’ll get red all over before him, shall I?
Adolf. [Disarmed.] I’m so angry with you, you monster, that I should like to bite you. [He comes nearer to her.]
Thekla. [Playing with him.] Well, come and bite me; come. [She holds out her arms toward him.]
Adolf. [Takes her by the neck and kisses her.] Yes, my dear, I’ll bite you so that you die.
Thekla. [Joking.] Look out, somebody might come. [She goes to the fireplace on the right and leans on the chimney piece. ]
Adolf. Oh, what do I care if they do? I don’t care about anything in the whole world so long as I have you.
Thekla. And if you don’t have me any more?
Adolf. [Sinks down on the chair on the left in front of the circular table.] Then I die!
Thekla. All right, you needn’t be frightened of that the least bit: I’m already much too old, you see, for anybody to like me.
Adolf. You haven’t forgotten those words of mine?— I take them back.
Thekla. Can you explain to me why it is that you’re so jealous, and at the same time so sure of yourself?
Adolf. No, I can’t explain it, but it may be that the thought that another man has possessed you, gnaws and consumes me. It seems to me at times as though our whole love were a figment of the brain—a passion that had turned into a formal matter of honor. I know nothing which would be more intolerable for me to bear, than for him to have the satisfaction of making me unhappy. Ah, I’ve never seen him, but the very thought that there is such a man who watches in secret for my unhappiness, who conjures down on me the curse of heaven day by day, who would laugh and gloat over my fall—the very idea of the thing lies like a nightmare on my breast, drives me to you, holds me spellbound, cripples me.
Thekla. [Goes behind the circular table and comes on ADOLF’S right.] Do you think I should like to give him that satisfaction, that I should like to make his prophecy come true?
Adolf. No, I won’t believe that of you.
Thekla. Then if that’s so, why aren’t you easy on the subject?
Adolf. It’s your flirtations which keep me in a chronic state of agitation. Why do you go on playing that game?
Thekla. It’s no game. I want to be liked, that’s all.
Adolf. Quite so, but only liked by men.
Thekla. Of course. Do you suggest it would be possible for one of us women to get herself liked by other women?
Adolf. I say. [Pause.] Haven’t you heard recently—from him?
Thekla. Not for the last six months.
Adolf. Do you never think of him?
Thekla. [After a pause, quickly and tonelessly.] No. [With a step toward the left.] Since the death of the child there is no longer any tie between us. [Peruse.]
Adolf. And you never see him in the street?
Thekla. No; he must have buried himself somewhere on the west coast. But why do you harp on that subject just now?
Adolf. I don’t know. When I was so alone these last few days, it just occurred to me what he must have felt like when he was left stranded.
Thekla. I believe you’ve got pangs of conscience.
Adolf. Yes.
Thekla. You think you’re a thief, don’t you?
Adolf. Pretty near.
Thekla. All right. You steal women like you» steal children or fowl. You regard me to some extent like his real or personal property. Much- obliged.
Adolf. No; I regard you as his wife, and that’s- more than property; it can’t be made up in damages.
Thekla. Oh yes, it can. If you happen- to hear one fine day that he has married again, these whims and fancies of yours will disappear. [She comes over to him.] Haven’t you made up. for him to me?
Adolf. Have I?—and did you use to love him in those days?
Thekla. [Goes behind him to the fireplace on the right.] Of course I loved him—certainly.
Adolf. And afterward?
Thekla. I got tired of him.
Adolf. And just think, if you get tired of me in the same way?
Thekla. That will never be.
Adolf. But suppose another man came along with all the qualities that you want in a man? Assume the hypothesis, wouldn’t you leave me in that case?
Thekla. No.
Adolf. If he riveted you to him so strongly that you couldn’t be parted from him, then of course you’d give me up?
Thekla. No, I have never yet said anything like that.
Adolf. But you can’t love two people at the same time?
Thekla. Oh, yes. Why not?
Adolf. I can’t understand it.
Thekla. Is anything then impossible simply because you can’t understand it? All men are not made on the same lines, you know.
Adolf. [Getting up a few steps to the left.] I am now beginning to understand.
Thekla. No, really?
Adolf. [Sits down in his previous place by the square table.] No, really? [Pause, during which he appears to be making an effort to remember something, but without success.] Thekla, do you know that your frankness is beginning to be positively agonizing? [THEKLA moves away from him behind the square table and goes behind the sofa on the left.] Haven’t you told me, times out of number, that frankness is the most beautiful virtue you know, and that I must spend all my time in acquiring it? But it seems to me you take cover behind your frankness.
Thekla. Those are the new tactics, don’t you see.
Adolf. [After a pause.] I don’t know how it is, but this place begins to feel uncanny. If you don’t mind, we’ll travel home this very night.
Thekla. What an idea you’ve got into your head again. I’ve just arrived, and I’ve no wish to travel off again. [She sits down on the sofa on the- left.]
Adolf. But if I want it?
Thekla. Nonsense! What do I care what you want? Travel alone.
Adolf. [Seriously.] I now order you to travel with me by the next steamer.
Thekla. Order? What do you mean by that?
Adolf. Do you forget that you’re my wife?
Thekla. [Getting up.] Do you forget that you’re my husband?
Adolf. [Following her example.] That’s just the difference between one sex and the other.
Thekla. That’s right, speak in that tone—you have never loved me. [She goes past him to the right up to the fireplace.]
Adolf. Really?
Thekla. No, for loving means giving.
Adolf. For a man to love means giving, for a woman to love means taking—and I’ve given, given, given.
Thekla. Oh, to be sure, you’ve given a fine lot, haven’t you?
Adolf. Everything.
Thekla. [Leans on the chimney piece.] There has been a great deal besides that. And even if you did give me everything, I accepted, it. What do you mean by coming now and han
ding the bill for your presents? If I did take them, I proved to you- by that very fact that I loved you. [She approaches him.] A girl only takes presents from her lover.
Adolf. From her lover, I agree: There you spoke the truth. [With a step to the left.] I was just your lover, but never your husband.
Thekla. A man ought to be jolly grateful when he’s spared the necessity of playing cover, but if you aren’t satisfied with the position you can have your conge. I don’t like a husband.
Adolf. No, I noticed as much, for when I remarked, some time back, that you wanted to sneak away from me, and get a set of your own, so- as to be able to deck yourself out with my feathers, to scintillate with my jewels, I wanted to remind you of your guilt. And then I changed from your point of view into that inconvenient creditor, whom a woman would particularly prefer to keep at a safe distance from one, and then you would have liked to have cancelled the debt, and to avoid getting any more into my debt; you ceased to pilfer my coffers and transferred your attentions to others. I was your husband without having wished it, and your hate began to arise, but now I’m going to be your husband, whether you want it or not. I can’t be your lover any more, that’s certain! [He sits down in his previous place on the right.]
Thekla. [Half joking, she moves away behind the table and goes behind the sofa.] Don’t talk such nonsense.
Adolf. You be careful! It’s a dangerous game, to consider everyone else an ass and only oneself smart.
Thekla. Everybody does that more or less.
Adolf. And I’m just beginning to suspect that that husband of yours wasn’t such an a$s after all.
Thekla. Good God! I really- believe you’re beginning to have sympathy—for him?
Adolf. Yes, almost.
Thekla. Well, look here. Wouldn’t you like to make his acquaintance, so as to pour out your heart to him if you want to? What a charming picture! But I, too, begin to feel myself drawn to him somehow. I’m tired of being the nurse of a baby like you. [She goes a few steps forward and passes by ADOLF on the right.] He at any rate was a man, evea though he did make the mistake of being my husband.
Adolf. Hush, hush! But don’t talk so loud, we might be heard.
Thekla. What does it matter, so long as we’re taken for man and wife?
Adolf. So this is what it comes to, then? You are now beginning to be keen both on manly men and pure boys.
Thekla. There are no limits to my keenness, as you see. And my heart is open to the whole world, great and small, beautiful and ugly. I love the whole world.
Adolf. [Standing up.] Do you know what that means?
Thekla. No, I don’t know, I only feel.
Adolf. It means that old age has arrived.
Thekla. Are you starting on that again now? Take care!
Adolf. You take care!
Thekla. What of?
Adolf. Of this knife. [Goes toward her.]
Thekla. [Flippantly.] Little brother shouldn’t play with such dangerous toys. [She passes by him behind the sofa.]
Adolf. I’m not playing any longer.
Thekla. [Leaning on the arm of the sofd.] Really, he’s serious, is he, quite serious? Then I’ll jolly well show you—that you made a mistake. I mean—you’ll never see it yourself, you’ll never know it. The whole world will be up to it, but you jolly well won’t, you’ll have suspicions and surmises and you won’t enjoy a single hour of peace. You will have the consciousness of being ridiculous and of being deceived, but you’ll never have proofs in your hand, because a husband never manages to get them. [She makes a few steps to the right in front, of him and toward him.] That will teach you to -know me.
Adolf. [Sits down in his previous place by the fable on the left.] You hate me?
Thekla. No, I don’t hate you, nor do I think that I could ever get to hate you. Simply because you’re a child.
Adolf. Listen to me! Just think of the time when the storm broke over us. [Standing up.] You lay there like a new-born child and shrieked; you caught hold of my knees and I had to kiss your eyes to sleep. Then I was your nurse, and I had to be careful that you didn’t go out into the street without doing your hair. I had to send your boots to the shoemaker. I had to take care there was something in the larder. I had to sit by your side and hold your hand in mine by the hour, for you were frightened, frightened of the whole world, deserted by your friends, crushed by public opinion. I had to cheer you up till my tongue stuck to my palate and my head ached. I had to pose as a strong man, and compel myself to believe in the future, until at length I succeeded in breathing life into you while you lay there like the dead. Then it was me you admired, then it was I who was the man; not an athlete like the man you deserted, but the man of psychic strength, the man of magnetism, who transferred his moral force into your enervated muscles and filled your empty brain with new electricity. And then I put you on your feet again, got a small court for you, whom I jockeyed into admiring you as a sheer matter of friendship to myself, and I made you mistress over me and my home. I painted you in my finest pictures, in rose and azure on a ground of gold, and there was no exhibition in which you didn’t have the place of honor. At one moment you were called St. Cecilia, then you were Mary Stuart, Karm Mansdotter, Ebba Brahe, and so I succeeded in awakening and stimulating your interests and so I compelled the yelping rabble to look at you with my own dazzled eyes. I impressed your personality on them by sheer force. I compelled them until you had won their overwhelming sympathy—so that at last you have the free entree. And when I had created you in this way it was all up with my own strength—I broke down, exhausted by the strain. [He sits down in his previous place. THEKLA turns toward the fere-place on the right.] I had lifted you up, but at the same time I brought myself down; I fell ill; and my illness began to bore you, just because things were beginning ra look a bit rosy for you—and then it seemed to me many times as though some secret desire were driving you to get away from your creditor and accomplice. Your love became that of a superior sister, and through want of a better part I fell into the habit of the new role of the little brother. Your tenderness remained the same as ever, in’ fact, it has rather increased, but it is tinged with a grain of pity which is counterbalanced by a strong dose of contempt, and that will increase until it becomes contempt, even as my genius is on the wane and your star is in the ascendant. It seems, too, as though your source were likely to dry up, when I leave off feeding it, or, rather, as soon as you show that you don’t want to draw your inspiration from me any longer. And so we both go down, but you need somebody you can put in your pocket, somebody new, for you are weak and incapable of carrying any moral burden yourself. So I became the scapegoat to be slaughtered alive, but all the same we had become like twins in the course of years, and when you cut through the thread of my longing, you little thought that you were throttling your own self. You are a branch from my tree, and you wanted to cut yourself free from your parent stem before it had struck roots, but you are unable to flourish on your own, and the tree in its turn couldn’t do without its chief branch, and so both perish.
Thekla. Do you mean, by all that, that you’ve written my books?
Adolf. No, you say that so as to provoke me into a lie. I don’t express myself so crudely as you, and I’ve just spoken for five minutes on end simply so as to reproduce all the nuances, all the half-tones, all the transitions, but your barrel organ has only one key.
Thekla. [Walking up and down on the right.] Yes, yes; but the gist of the whole thing is that you’ve written my books.
Adolf. No, there’s no gist. You can’t resolve a symphony into one key, you can’t translate a multifarious life into a single cipher. I never said anything so crass as that I’d written your books.
Thekla. But you meant it all the same.
Adolf. [Furious.] I never meant it.
Thekla. But the result
Adolf. [Wildly.] There’s no result if one doesn’t add. There is a quotient, a long infinitesimal figure of a quotient, but I didn’t add.
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Thekla. You didn’t, but I can.
Adolf. I quite believe you, but I never did.
Thekla. But you wanted to.
Adolf. [Exhausted, shutting his eyes.] No, no, no— don’t speak to me any more, I’m getting convulsions— be quiet, go away! You’re flaying my brain with your brutal pincers—you’re thrusting your claws into my thoughts and tearing them. [He loses consciousness, stares in front of hint and turns his thumbs inward.]
Thekla. [Tenderly coming toward him-.] What is it, dear? Are you ill? [ADOLF beats around him. THEKLA takes her handkerchief, pours waiter on to it out of the bottle on the table right of the center door, and cools his forehead with it.] Adolf!
Adolf. [He shakes his head.] Yes.
Thekla. Do you see now that you were wrong?
Adolf. [After a pause’.] Yes, yes, yes—I see it.
Thekla. And you ask me to forgive you?
Adolf. Yes, yes, yes—I ask you to forgive me; but don’t talk right into- my brain any more.
Thekla. Now kiss my hand.
Adolf. I’ll kiss your hand, if only you won’t speak to me any more.
Thekla. And now you’ll go out and get some fresh air before dinner.
Adolf. [Getting up.] Yes, that will do me good, and afterward we’ll pack up and go away.
Thekla. No. [She moves away from him up to the fireplace on the right.]
Adolf. Why not? You must have some reason.
Thekla. The simple reason that I’ve arranged to be at the reception this evening.
Adolf. That’s it, is it?
Thekla. That’s it right enough. I’ve promised to be there.
Adolf. Promised? You probably said that you’d try to come; it doesn’t prevent you from explaining that you have given up your intention.
Thekla. No, I’m not like you: my word is binding on me.
Adolf. One’s word can be binding without one being obliged to respect every casual thing one lets fall in conversation; or did somebody make you promise that you’d go-? In that case, you. can ask him to release you because your husband is ill.
Thekla. No, I’ve no inclination to do so. And, besides, you’re not so ill that you can’t quite well come along too.
Adolf. Why must I always come along too? Does it contribute to your greater serenity?
Miss Julie and Other Plays Page 8