I wasnever what they call a temperamental actor, he said, pedantic perhaps, but never temperamental, and I never went in for artistic indispositions. An eagerness for knowledge — perhaps that’s what it was. Studied every role scientifically, though of course I was the only one who felt the need to do so. I’m not a man for luxury — no, quite the opposite. But not a simple man either — I’ve always detested simplicity. But in all truth, he went on, here in Vienna the greatest demands are made of the arts, especially of music and acting, greater demands than anywhere else in the whole of Europe. The people who go to the concert halls and the theaters here, and above all the Burgtheater, are utterly spoiled, more exacting and more critical than any other audiences in Europe, I might even say in the whole world. There are no better musicians and actors than the ones you find in Vienna — that’s the truth. Go wherever you like, he said, to La Scala in Milan or the Metropolitan in New York, or the National Theatre in London or the Comédie Française — they’re all nothing compared with Vienna: ultimately they’re all dilettante and amateurish — that’s the truth. The Viennese public is the most spoiled in the world, but it’s also the most tasteful with regard to both music and theater, while at the same time it’s the most infamous and the most ruthless. What ludicrous offerings the German stage presents us with! How inane the English or the French theater is by comparison! But woe betide you if you say this in Vienna, even though it’s true. If you dare to say such a thing, you’re finished. The acting at the Burgtheater may be as poor as you like, but it’s still much better than anything you see on any German stage. No no, said the actor from the Burgtheater, German theater is dilettante and insipid, the kind of brainless theater that has always gone down well with the Germans. German theater has always been amateurish and inept — that’s the truth of the matter. Simply modish and mindless — that’s the truth. No wit. No imagination. No trace of genius. The actors we see on the German stage perform like schoolteachers, like junior high school teachers. Even the humblest Viennese cabaret artist is superior to the most distinguished German actor, and that’s the truth. But tell this truth in Vienna and you’ll be stoned. Any Monday night performance at the Burgtheater or the Opera is superior to anything you’ll find in the rest of the world. But don’t say this in Vienna. It’s gratifying to play the part of Ekdal and to have so much success in the part, he went on — to bow out on a note of success. For I don’t regard the English role I’m working on as part of my development as an actor: it’s something peripheral, not to be taken seriously — not like playing Lear, he said. Just a long-drawn-out paradox, he added. In a way age and indifference go together, he said. In any case I wouldn’t want to be young again: it’s terrible to be young, but it’s not terrible to be old. In fact I wouldn’t want to relive a single day of my life, and I’m glad it’s not possible. Believe me, said the actor, turning first to the hostess and then to Jeannie, when you’re old you become enamored of retirement. People talk about absolutely everything, laugh about absolutely everything, and get themselves worked up about absolutely everything, but none of this affects me any longer. In a certain way, after a life filled with so much art on the stage and so on, one’s greatest enjoyment probably comes from learning the art of being old. The Bolero having come to an end, the hostess got up and went through the dining room to the kitchen to fetch coffee. Jeannie, taking advantage of her absence to grab the limelight once more, asked the actor, who had been gazing at the floor for some time, lost in thought and suddenly completely exhausted, whether he could say, now that he had more or less reached the end of his life, that he had so to speak found fulfillment in his art. These were the very words with which she confronted this old man, whom I had found anything but likable during the course of the evening and night, but who was by now very tired and deserved to be treated with some consideration after having played the role of Ekdal at the Burgtheater only a few hours earlier. Do you think that at the end of your life you’ve found fulfillmentin your art? she asked a second time, as though he might not have heard her the first time, although he unquestionably had: naturally neither her question nor her insolence and inconsiderateness had escaped him. She asked him a third time, Can you say that at the end of your life you’re fulfilled by your art? Her insolence did not escape him this time either, as I saw at once, but he clearly thought that Jeannie would eventually leave him in peace, since he had only the most superficial acquaintance with her and she ought never to have presumed to speak to him in this impudent manner. He was mistaken: Jeannie gave him no quarter, but put her question several times more. Could he say, at the end of his life, that his art had brought him fulfillment? She persisted in her shameless fashion, relentlessly repeating her question, until the actor was finally forced to reply, and it was strange to see this man, whom I had hitherto found thoroughly objectionable and regarded with the greatest distaste, suddenly give her the answer she deserved. It was outrageous, he said, to ask him such a stupid question. Your question is quite simply stupid, he said. She could surely not expect an intelligent answer to such a stupid and insolent question. I think you’ve struck the wrong note, he said, making to get up from his chair, as though he wanted to leave the Auersbergers’ Gentzgasse apartment at once and without further ado, having had enough of this insolent questioning. However, seeing the hostess return with the coffee, he sat down again in his armchair, saying as he did so that he did not have to answer stupid questions like that. Such a tasteless question, he told the astonished Jeannie, would naturally get no answer from him. What impertinent nonsense about my coming to the end of my life! said the actor from the Burgtheater. What impudent presumption! How rude to confront me with your stupidity! Jeannie accepted a cup of coffee from Auersberger’s wife and suddenly fell silent. She was not in the least indignant, as I had expected her to be. On similar occasions, when her crass stupidity has been shown up, she’s always leaped up and left the scene, I recalled. But this time, though bright red in the face under her heavy makeup, she sat motionless for several minutes, while the actor from the Burgtheater, having suddenly recovered his strength, launched into a speech which I found quite astonishing and would never have expected to hear from him. It was distasteful, he said, to mix with people who simply interrogated you and then proceeded to put you down, who were there only to take you apart, as he put it, to dissect you into all your component parts; and what was more, to do so after midnight was an additional piece of rudeness. He uttered the word