art mill, the biggest art mill in the world, in which the arts and artists are ground down and pulverized year in, year out; whatever the art or whatever the artists, the Viennese art mill grinds them all to powder. It grinds everything to powder—everything, said the actor, quite ineluctably. And the curious thing is that all these people jump into this art mill entirely of their own volition, only to be totally ground down by it. Even the Burgtheater directors jump into it of their own free will, having in some cases spent their whole lives frantically seeking an opportunity to do so, falling over themselves to jump into this art mill in which they’ll be totally ground down. Totally ground down, totally pulverized, exclaimed the actor. But the sensations and scandals surrounding an outgoing or an incoming director of the Burgtheater have never affected me. You see, my dear, he said, still addressing Jeannie Billroth, I’d have played Ekdal under any director, believe me. And in any case, he said, as though wishing to close the subject, I’ll have retired before the new director takes office. I shan’t be around when he takes over. He now turned to Auersberger, who had been dozing all the time and heard nothing of the actor’s reply to Jeannie Billroth’s question. You know, he said, when I’ve retired I’ll be quite content to give two or three readings a year at the Konzerthaus, from the works of Rilke or the late Goethe. I’m not really interested in the theater of today. If I had my way I’d be retired already, because nowadays everything to do with the theater is intolerable. Once upon a time it was a pleasure to be an actor — it was one’s mission in life — but I no longer get anything out of it. Nobody is more surprised than myself that I’m playing Ekdal and having such a success in the role, he said. But the truth is, the theater no longer has my interest. You see, he said, turning to Jeannie, I’ve had so many happy years on the stage, and I don’t regret a single day I’ve spent in the theater — I don’t regret a single hour of the happy time I’ve spent at the Burgtheater. But I no longer get anything out of it, said the actor. To this Jeannie replied that in her opinion the reason why he had got nothing out of the theater for so long was that he had been unable to tear himself away from the Burgtheater. You’ve got nothing out of the theater for such a long time, she said, because you’ve bought a property in Grinzing — because you’ve dined at the Sacher every dayand goneto the CaféMozartfor coffee every day. If you’d left the Burgtheater, or, better still, if you’d left Vienna altogether, you wouldn’t now be saying that you’d got nothing out of the theater for such a long time. Possibly it was because you bought a property in Grinzing that you lost your enjoyment of the theater and theatrical affairs generally, Jeannie insisted. Possibly you’re right, my dear, the actor replied, but I suspect you’re probably not. There’s been a general decline in the theater. No matter whether you’re in Vienna or elsewhere, you no longer find good theater. The theater has lost its fascination. I don’t believe that, said Auersberger, whom everyone had long assumed to be asleep. He gave it as his opinion that the theater was as alive as it had ever been. It was only in Vienna that it had gone stale — not just moribund, but actually dead, actually dead, actually dead, he exclaimed, after which he repeated these words several times, but now in a drunken mumble. Because his mumbling sounded so comic the two young writers began to laugh. Having been to all intents and purposes absent throughout the evening, they now laughed out loud at Auersberger’s intervention. My God! the actor exclaimed suddenly. A theatrical genius — what’s that supposed to mean?A director and a genius? What an absurdity! You know, he said to Jeannie Billroth, the newspapers use the most monstrous language, and everything they print is monstrous. Whatever paper you pick up, you’re confronted with something monstrous. Of course we may choose to say that we don’t mind what the newspapers print, but all the same we can’t help being mortally wounded by it. But the worst papers in the world are the Austrian papers, in which viciousness reaches its apogee, he said. There are no other papers in which you find such viciousness. Austrian history, indeed world history, has always suffered from the awfulness of these papers, said the actor. Although I’ve always been praised by them, I still think they’re the most awful papers in the world, with the most monstrous and stupid contents. Yet we never fail to read them every day, greedily gulping down everything they print, he said — that’s the truth. Ever since I was a child I’ve been gulping down this Austrian journalistic filth, but I’m still alive. The Austrian stomach is pretty strong. The Austrians in general have strong stomachs, considering what an awful tasteless history they’ve had to gulp down over the years. Austrian newspapers, if one can call them newspapers, are the world’s worst, said the actor, but for precisely that reason they’re probably the world’s best. Auersberger now responded by mumbling, You’re right there, you’re right there. How right you are! And the two young writers again laughed uproariously. We live in the midst of perpetual absurdity, the actor said suddenly, unadulterated absurdity. I beg you to consider the fact that everything is absurd. Absurd ideas are the only true ideas, said the actor. Consider the fact that this absurd world we live in is the only true world. Everything that exists is absurd, said the actor with sudden pathos, and leaned back in his chair. Absurd and perverse, he added. Thereupon he immediately turned to Auersberger’s wife and said, I was so looking forward to hearing a sample of your art. But never mind — perhaps next time. What were you going to sing for us? Purcell, she replied. Ah, Purcell, said the actor. Purcell is all the rage. Like older music generally. People listen to older music all the time, am I not right? Whereupon Auersberger mumbled, You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. Purcell wrote superb songs and arias, said the actor, and looking straight at me he said, It’s a rare delight to hear one of them beautifully sung. The Bolero—good heavens! he said suddenly, do you know, it always used to get on my nerves? And now I love it. It’s the kind of music that gets on our nerves for years, then all at once we love it. You’ve observed that too, haven’t you? he asked Jeannie. Without answering the actor’s question, she said, quite unconnectedly, that a new era was about to dawn at the Burgtheater — she actually used the word dawn—a new era that would wipeout the old. It’ll wipe it out, she said malevolently. New names will appear and quite different plays will be staged. Yes, that’s a good thing, Auersberger mumbled, new names appearing and new plays being staged. Good-bye to the old favorites, he mumbled, good-bye to the remaindered goods, the remainderedgoods. He uttered this last phrase three times, presumably because he liked the sound of it. His wife was probably embarrassed by this remark made by her drunken husband, whose head had by now slumped down into his peasant jacket, for she made yet another fruitless attempt to lift him out of his chair. Auersberger still had enough strength to remind her, by means of a kick in the calf, who was the master in this household in the Gentzgasse. I’ve just read a book about Palladio, said the actor suddenly, and rediscovered my admiration for the Brenta villas. Forgotten for centuries, he said, then suddenly in vogue again, at the center of world interest, so to speak. I’ll go to Spain when I’ve retired, he said. Not just a short trip as in recent years, but a prolonged stay, months on end. When one’s served the theater as long as I have, he said. Actor, mimic, servant of the drama. My greatest good fortune is never to have married; the best thing for an actor is never to embark upon marriage — best to remain alone with one’s art, with one’s acting. I’ve always known how to get my way, he said, and curiously enough I’ve never been ill, not once, apart from minor indispositions, and so I’ve never had to cancel an appearance, not a single one, whereas my colleagues were forever canceling appearances and in due course developed a kind of cancellation hysteria.