ADOLPH.  Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filled my head with new thoughts—­

GUSTAV.  I have not forgotten it.  But tell me:  why could she not educate the other man also—­into a free-thinker?

ADOLPH.  Oh, he was an idiot!

GUSTAV.  Oh, of course—­he was an idiot!  But that’s rather an ambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seems mainly to have consisted in failure to understand her.  Pardon me a question:  but is your wife so very profound after all?  I have discovered nothing profound in her writings.

ADOLPH.  Neither have I.—­But then I have also to confess a certain difficulty in understanding her.  It is as if the cogs of our brain wheels didn’t fit into each other, and as if something went to pieces in my head when I try to comprehend her.

GUSTAV.  Maybe you are an idiot, too?

ADOLPH.  I don’t think so!  And it seems to me all the time as if she were in the wrong—­Would you care to read this letter, for instance, which I got today?

[Takes out a letter from his pocket-book.]

GUSTAV. [Glancing through the letter] Hm!  The handwriting seems strangely familiar.

ADOLPH.  Rather masculine, don’t you think?

GUSTAV.  Well, I know at least one man who writes that kind of hand—­She addresses you as “brother.”  Are you still playing comedy to each other?  And do you never permit yourselves any greater familiarity in speaking to each other?

ADOLPH.  No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in that way.

GUSTAV.  And is it to make you respect her that she calls herself your sister?

ADOLPH.  I want to respect her more than myself.  I want her to be the better part of my own self.

GUSTAV.  Why don’t you be that better part yourself?  Would it be less convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part?  Do you want to place yourself beneath your wife?

ADOLPH.  Yes, I do.  I take a pleasure in never quite reaching up to her.  I have taught her to swim, for example, and now I enjoy hearing her boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring.  To begin with, I merely pretended to be awkward and timid in order to raise her courage.  And so it ended with my actually being her inferior, more of a coward than she.  It almost seemed to me as if she had actually taken my courage away from me.

GUSTAV.  Have you taught her anything else?

ADOLPH.  Yes—­but it must stay between us—­I have taught her how to spell, which she didn’t know before.  But now, listen:  when she took charge of our domestic correspondence, I grew out of the habit of writing.  And think of it:  as the years passed on, lack of practice made me forget a little here and there of my grammar.  But do you think she recalls that I was the one who taught her at the start?  No—­and so I am “the idiot,” of course.

GUSTAV.  So you are an idiot already?