Where would he have handed it in? Auersberger asked his wife, with a burst of laughter which prompted everybody else to laugh. Who might have handed the glove in or might still do so, and where? he asked. Whereupon everyone sitting around the table recounted his own glove story. It transpired that they had all lost one glove on some occasion and felt the loss of one as keenly as the loss of a pair. And none of them had found the lost glove — none of the gloves had been handed in. Oh, if only it had been a pair! Auersberger’s wife said, and proceeded to tell her own glove story. About twenty years ago she had gone to the ladies’ room at the Josefstadt Theater and left her black evening gloves there. Both of them, she said, looking around at the assembled company. The play was Der Zerrissene, one of Nestroy’s best, she added. She had left her gloves in the ladies’ room during the interval, and immediately after the performance she had gone back to get them, assuming that they would still be on the table where she had left them. In the Josefstadt I naturally took it for granted, she said, that my gloves would still be there. Butthey’dgone.The attendant knew nothing about them, she said. But just imagine: two weeks after the performance of Der Zerrissene my evening gloves were returned to me. Anonymously, she added, leaning back in her chair for a moment — anonymously, and accompanied by a little card with the words Best wishes written on it. To this day I don’t know who it was who returned my evening gloves, she said. Shortly after this the actor turned to her and said: An excellent pike, a genuine Balaton pike, and the others indicated that they too had the same impression — that the pike they were eating was indeed a genuine Balaton pike. But you know, said the actor, who every now and then used his napkin, which he had stuck in his shirt collar, to wipe his mouth and surrounding beard, acting is quite a profession. Once, ages ago, when I was playing in Munich—at short notice, as they say—in the role of Heinrich (though that’s beside the point), I met a colleague in the Kaufingerstrasse whom I’d known some time earlier, before the war, and whom I’d shared digs with in the Lerchenfelderstrasse. No heating, as you may imagine, rats all over the place, nothing to eat — you know what it was like at the time: the Americans hadn’t arrived and the Russians were already there. Anyhow, I asked this colleague why he’d left Vienna. I’ll tell you why, he said: I’m utterly sick of Vienna. And what about Munich? I asked him, the Burgtheater actor went on, wiping his bearded chin. And he said, I’m utterly sick of Munich as well! So you might just as well have stayed in Vienna, I said, if you’re sick of Munich too. Incidentally this colleague was engaged at the time to play the kind of roles I played, the actor went on. Possibly his voice was too high-pitched for the roles he was called upon to play. It was a Strindberg voice, not an Ibsen voice. Fine for Goethe, but not for Shakespeare — and no good at all for Ibsen. All right for Molière, but not for Nestroy, certainly not for Nestroy, he said. Perhaps he was too fat — an undisciplined life-style, said the actor from the Burgtheater. Born at Vöcklabruck, basically a provincial, but a nice enough fellow — voice too high-pitched, married young, one child, divorced, long engagement at the Volkstheater. So you might just as well have stayed in Vienna, I said to him. He had a curious facial twitch, the actor recalled — a man with a great sense of humor, but he always got through all his money — an easygoing type, very easygoing. I told him I was rehearsing the role of Edgar. Oh, Edgar, he said — I’m not interested. Not interested? I said. Not interested? It was so cold, and I hadn’t any gloves — I was freezing the whole time. I’m rehearsing the role of Edgar, I repeated, but he wasn’t listening. I’m rehearsing Edgar! I shouted at him, the actor recalled. Then I turned on my heel and left him. A sweet man, the actor said, helping himself to a spoonful of caper sauce. Next day I read in the evening paper that he’d killed himself. In the Kaufingerstrasse, where he was living, though I didn’t know he was living there. Hanged himself! the Burgtheater actor said, drawing out the syllables. Actors are predestined to kill themselves, to hang themselves, said the actor from the Burgtheater. I’m not the suicidal type — not at all — but when I think of how many people in my line of business have killed themselves! Thoroughly talented people, the actor said, all of them potentially great actors, and they go and kill themselves. I was the last person to speak to him. We’d known each other since we were young. All the best people kill themselves, he said, taking a gulp of wine. The weather has a great deal to do with suicide, he said. The Burgtheater actor, having become somewhat melancholy through telling the story about the actor who had committed suicide in Munich, now recalled that Joana, whom he had not known personally, but whom the rest of us had known, had killed herself a few days earlier and been buried only that afternoon at Kilb. I assume that he had learned this from Auersberger. I oncesawyour friend Joana when she gavea talkat the Burgtheater about the art of movement, as she called it. I remember her very clearly, he said, suddenly affecting an attitude of grief and modulating his voice into a mourning key. A gifted person, he said, but quite out of place at the Burgtheater. The course she gave was an unfortunate mistake, he said. He then went on to say that during the past year he had attended the funerals of several fellow actors — there had been an unprecedented number of deaths among actors, he said, adding, and among cabaret artists. Ah yes, he said, addressing Jeannie Billroth, I know what it means to lose a lifelong friend. But when we reach a certain age we lose all the people who mean anything to us, all the people we love. He took a gulp of wine, and the hostess filled up his glass. So long as it’s a quick death, he said. Nothing is more dreadful than a protracted illness. It’s a blessing when somebody just collapses and dies, he said. But I’m not the suicidal type, he said again. There were more women who killed themselves than men, he said. Whereupon Jeannie Billroth pointed out that this was not true: statistics showed that the number of male suicides was double the number of female suicides. Suicide is a male problem, she said. She had read a study of the incidence of suicide in Austria, which showed that, as a percentage of the total population, as she put it, more people killed themselves in Austria than in any other country in Europe. Hungary had the second highest suicide rate and Sweden the third highest. And in Austria, interestingly enough, the people most likely to commit suicide were those who lived in the Salzburg region, in other words the most beautiful part of Austria. The Styrians are rather prone to suicide, said Auersberger, who by this stage was just about totally drunk and had become highly agitated. He told the actor that he was surprised that so few Burgtheater actors killed themselves, since they had such good reason to do so. Saying this he burst out laughing at his own remark, though the others merely found it embarrassing and glared at him. I myself momentarily joined in his laughter, thinking that despite his generally repugnant behavior Auersberger had a certain clownish wit that occasionally made even me laugh, averse though I generally am to jokes. What do you mean? the actor asked. I mean something quite simple, Auersberger replied: if the actors at the Burgtheater realized how pathetic their acting was, they’d all have to kill themselves. Present company excepted, Auersberger added, draining his glass. All right, the Burgtheater actor replied, if that’s what you think of the Burgtheater, why do you still go? Auersberger replied that he had not been to the Burgtheater for ten years. His wife at once corrected him, saying that only two weeks ago they had seen the performance of