DOLPH. Take care yourself!

TEKLA. Of what?

ADOLPH. Of the knife!

TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with such
dangerous things.

ADOLPH. I have quit playing.

TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show you
that--you are mistaken. That is to say--you'll never see it, never
know it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'll
suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another
moment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of
being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that's
what married men never get.

ADOLPH. You hate me then?

TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that's
probably because you are nothing to me but a child.

ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was while
the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in arms
and just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kiss
your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see that
you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to
the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had to
sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were
afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a
single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of
public opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth was
dry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I was
strong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And so
I brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then you
admired me. Then I was the man--not that kind of athlete you had
just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled
new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty
brain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you back
your reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with a
little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let
themselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my
house. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and
blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then
where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St.
Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart--or little Karin, whom King
Eric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. I
compelled the clamorous herd to see yon with my own infatuated
vision. I plagued the