Gerardo. Professor DÜhring. Later a piano teacher.

Professor DÜhring, seventy years old, dressed in black, long, white beard, his aquiline nose tinged with red, suggesting fondness for wine, gold ringed spectacles, frock coat and silk hat, carries the score of an opera under his arm, enters without knocking.

Gerardo (turning around). What do you want?

DÜhring. Mr. Gerardo, I—I have ...

Gerardo. How did you get in here?

DÜhring. I've been watching my chance for two hours down on the sidewalk, Mr. Gerardo.

Gerardo (recollecting). Let me see, you are ...

DÜhring. For fully two hours I've been standing down on the sidewalk. What else was I to do?

Gerardo. But, my dear sir, I haven't the time.

DÜhring. I don't mean to play the whole opera to you now.

Gerardo. I haven't the time left ...

DÜhring. You haven't the time left! How about me! You are thirty. You have attained success in your art. You can continue following your bent through the whole long life that still is before you. I will ask you to listen only to your own part in my opera. You promised to do so when you came to town.

Gerardo. It's to no purpose, Sir. I am not my own master ...

DÜhring. Please, Mr. Gerardo! Please, please! Look at me, here's an old man lying before you on his knees who has known only one thing in life: his art. I know what you would reply to me, you, a young man who has been carried aloft on the wings of angels, one might say. "If you would have the goddess of Fortune find you, don't hunt for her." Do you imagine, when one has cherished but a single hope for fifty years, one could possibly have overlooked any means whatsoever within human reach, to attain that hope? First one turns cynical and then serious again. tries to get there by scheming, one is once more a light hearted child, and again an earnest seeker after one's artistic ideals—not for ambition's sake, not for conviction's sake, but simply because one cannot help it, because it's a curse which has been laid on one by a cruel omnipotence to which the life-long agony of its creature is a pleasing offering! A pleasing offering, I say, for we whom art enthralls rebel against our lot as little as does the slave of a woman against his seductress, as little as does the dog against his master who whips him.

Gerardo (in despair). I am powerless ...

DÜhring. Let me tell you, my dear Sir, the tyrants of antiquity who, as you know, would have their slaves tortured to death just for a pleasant pastime, they were mere children, they were harmless innocent little angels as compared with that divine providence which thought it was creating those tyrants in its own image.

Gerardo. While I quite comprehend you ...

DÜhring (while Gerardo vainly tries several times to interrupt him; he follows Gerardo through the room and repeatedly blocks his attempt to reach the door). You do not comprehend me. You cannot comprehend me. How could you have had the time to comprehend me! Fifty years of fruitless labor, Sir, that is more than you can comprehend, if one has been a favorite child of fortune like you. But I'll try to make you realize it approximately, at least. You see, I am too old to take my own life. The proper time to do that is at twenty-five, and I have missed my opportunity. I must live out my life now, my hand has grown too unsteady. But would you know what an old man like me will do! You ask me how I got in here. You have put your valet on guard at the hotel entrance. I did not try to slip by him, I've known for fifty years what he will tell me: the gentleman is not in. But with my score here I stood at the corner of the building for two hours in the rain until he went up for a moment. Then I followed him, and while you were speaking to him in here, I concealed myself on the staircase—I need not tell you where. And then, when he had gone down again, I entered here. That's what a man of my years will do to reach one who might be his grandson. Please, Sir, please, let not this moment be without result for me even though it cost you a day, even though it cost you a whole week. It will be to your advantage as well as mine. A week ago, when you came to town on your starring tour, you promised me to let me play my opera to you; and since that time I've called every day. You either were rehearsing or had lady visitors. And now you are about to depart, which would mean that an old man like me in vain spent a whole week standing around in the street! And all it would cost you is a single word: "I will sing your Hermann." Then my opera will be performed. Then you will thank God for my intrusiveness, for—you sing "Siegfried," you sing "Florestan"—but you haven't in your repertory a more grateful part, one more adapted to a singer of your resources than that of "Hermann." Then with loud acclaim they will draw me out of my obscurity, and perhaps I'll have the opportunity of giving to the world at least a part of what I might have given, if it had not cast me out like a leper. But the great material gain resulting from my long struggle will not be mine, you alone will ...

Gerardo (having given up the attempt to stop his visitor, leans on the mantle piece of the fireplace. While drumming on the marble slab with his right hand, something behind the screen seems to excite his curiosity. He investigates, then suddenly reaches out and draws a piano teacher forward, dressed in gray. Holding her by the collar, with outstretched arm, he thus leads her forward in front of the piano and out through the centre door. Having locked the door, to DÜhring). Please, don't let this interrupt you!

DÜhring. You see, there are performed ten new operas every year which become impossible after the second night, and every ten years a good one which lives. Now this opera of mine is a good one, it is well adapted for the stage, it is sure to be a financial success. If you let me, I'll show you letters from Liszt, from Wagner, from Rubinstein, in which these men look up to me as to a superior being. And why has it remained unperformed to the present day? Because I don't stand in the public market-place. I tell you, it's like what will happen to a young girl who for three years has been the reigning beauty at all dancing parties, but has forgotten to become engaged. One has to give way to another generation. Besides you know our court theatres. They are fortresses, I can assure you, compared with which the armor-plate of Metz and Rastadt is the merest tin. They would rather dig out ten corpses than admit a single living composer. And it's in getting over these ramparts that I ask you to lend me a hand. You are inside at thirty, I am outside at seventy. It would cost you just a word to let me in, while I am vainly battering my head against stone and steel. That's why I have come to you (very passionately) and if you are not absolutely inhuman, if your success has not killed off in you the very last trace of sympathy with striving fellow-artists, you cannot refuse my request.

Gerardo. I will let you know a week from now. I will play your opera through. Let me take it along.

DÜhring. I am too old for that, Mr. Gerardo. Long before a week, as measured by your chronology, has elapsed, I shall lie beneath the sod. I've been put off that way too often. (Bringing down his fist on the piano.) Hie Rhodus! Hie salta! It's five years ago now that I called on the manager of the Royal Theatre, Count Zedlitz: "What have you got for me, my dearest professor?" "An opera, your Excellency." "Indeed, you have written a new opera? Splendid!" "Your Excellency, I have not written a new opera. It's an old opera. I wrote it thirteen years ago."—It wasn't this one here, it was my Maria de Medicis.—"But why don't you let us have it then? Why, we are just hunting for new works. We simply cannot shuffle through any longer, turning the old ones over and over. My secretary is traveling from one theatre to another, without finding anything, and you, who live right here, withhold your production from us in proud disdain of the common crowd!" "Your Excellency," I replied, "I am not withholding anything from anybody. Heaven is my witness. I submitted this opera to your predecessor, Count Tornow, thirteen years ago and had to go to his office myself three years later to get it back. Nobody had as much as looked at it." "Now just leave it here, my dear professor. A week from now at the latest you'll have our answer." And in saying this he pulls the score from under my arm and claps it into the lowest drawer and that's where it is lying today! That's where it is lying today, Sir! But what would I do, child that I am in spite of my white hair, but go home and tell my Gretchen: they need a new opera here at our theatre. Mine is practically accepted now! A year later death took her away from me,—and she was the one friend left who had been with me when I began to work on it. (Sobs and dries his tears.)

Gerardo. Sir, I cannot but feel the deepest sympathy for you ...

DÜhring. That's where it is lying today.

Gerardo. May be you actually are a child in spite of your white hair. I must confess I doubt if I can help you.

DÜhring (in violent rage). So you can endure the sight of an old man dragging himself along beside you on the same path on which your victorious flight carries you to the sun! Who knows but tomorrow you will lie on your knees before me and boast of knowing me, and today you see in the agonized groan of a creative artist nothing but a sad mistake and you cannot wring from your greed of gold the half hour it would take to rid me of the chains that are crushing me.

Gerardo. Sit down and play, sir! Come!

DÜhring (sits down at the piano, opens his score, and strikes two chords). No, that's not the way it reads. I have to get back into it first. (Strikes three chords, then turns several leaves.) That is the overture; I won't detain you with it.—Now here comes the first scene ... (Strikes two chords.) Here you stand at the deathbed of your father. Just a moment until I get my bearings ...

Gerardo. Perhaps all you say is quite true. But at any rate you misjudge my position.

DÜhring (plays a confused orchestration and sings in a deep grating voice).

(Interrupting himself.) No, that's the chorus. I had thought of playing it to you because it's very good. Now comes your turn. (Resumes the accompaniment and sings hoarsely:)

(Interrupting himself.) Well? (Since Gerardo does not answer, with violent irritation.) These anÆmic, threadbare, plodding, would-be geniuses who are puffing themselves up today! Whose technique is so sublime, it makes them sterile, impotent at twenty! Meistersingers, philistines, that's what they are, whether they are starving or basking in the public favor. Fellows that go to the cookbook rather than to nature to satisfy their hunger. They think, indeed, they've learned her secret—naivetÉ! Ha—ha!—Tastes like plated brass!—They make art their starting-point rather than life! Write music for musicians rather than for yearning mankind! Blind, benighted ephemerons! Senile youths whom the sun of Wagner has dried and shriveled up! (Seizing Gerardo's arm violently.) To judge a man's creative genius, do you know where I take hold of him first?

Gerardo (stepping back). Well?

DÜhring (putting his right hand around his own left wrist and feeling his pulse). This is where I take hold of him first of all. Do you see, right here! And if he hasn't anything here—please, let me go on playing. (Turning more leaves.) I won't go through the whole monologue. We shouldn't have the time anyway. Now here, scene three, end of the first act. That's where the farm laborer's child, who had grown up with you in the castle, suddenly enters. Now listen—after you have taken leave of your highly revered mother. (Rapidly reading the text:) Demon, who art thou? May one enter? (To Gerardo.) Those words are hers, you understand. (Continues reading.) Barbette! Yes, it is I. Is your father dead? There he lies! (Plays and sings in the highest falsetto.)

(Interrupting himself, looking at Gerardo with self-assurance.) Now isn't that music?

Gerardo. Possibly.

DÜhring (striking two chords). Isn't that something more than the Trumpeter of SÄkkingen?

Gerardo, Your confidence compels me to be candid. I cannot imagine how I could use my influence with any benefit to you.

DÜhring. In other words you mean to tell me that it is antiquated music.

Gerardo. I would much rather call it modern music.

DÜhring. Or modern music. Pardon my slip of the tongue, Mr. Gerardo. It's what will happen when one gets old. You see, one manager will write me: We cannot use your opera, it is antiquated music—and another writes: We cannot use it because it is modern music. In plain language both mean the same: We don't want any opera of yours, because as a composer you don't count.

Gerardo. I am a Wagner singer, Sir, I am no critic. If you want to see your opera performed, you had better apply to those who are paid for knowing what is good and what is bad. My judgment in such matters, don't doubt that for a moment, Sir, counts the less, the more I am recognized and esteemed as a singer.

DÜhring. My dear Mr. Gerardo, you may rest assured, I don't believe in your judgment either. What do I care for your judgment! I think I know what to expect of a tenor. I am playing this opera to you to make you say: I'll sing your Hermann! I'll sing your Hermann!

Gerardo. It won't avail you anything. I must do what I am asked to do; I am bound by my contracts. You can afford to stand down in the street for a week. A day more or less makes no difference to you. But if I do not leave here by the next train, my prospects in this world are ruined. May be, in another world they will engage singers who break their contracts! My chains are drawn more tightly than the harness of a carriage horse. If anybody, even an absolute stranger, asks me for material assistance lie will find I have an open hand, although the sacrifice of happiness my calling exacts of me is not paid for with five hundred thousand francs a year. But if you ask of me the slightest assertion of personal liberty, you are expecting too much of a slave such as I am. I can not sing your Hermann as long as you don't count as a composer.

DÜhring. Please, Sir, let me continue. It will give you a desire for the part.

Gerardo. If you but knew, Sir, how often I have a desire for things which I must deny myself and how often I must assume burdens for which I have not the least desire! I have absolutely no choice in the matter. You have been a free man all your life. How can you complain of not being in the market? Why don't you go and put yourself in the market?

DÜhring. Oh, the haggling—the shouting—the meanness you meet with! I have tried it a hundred times.

Gerardo. One must do what one is capable of doing and not what one is incapable of doing.

DÜhring. Everything has to be learned first.

Gerardo. One must learn that which one is capable of learning. How am I to know if the case is not very much the same with your work as a composer.

DÜhring. I am a composer, Mr. Gerardo.

Gerardo. You mean by that, you have devoted your whole strength to the writing of operas.

DÜhring. Quite so.

Gerardo. And you hadn't any left to bring about a performance.

DÜhring. Quite so.

Gerardo. The composers whom I know go about it just the other way. They slap their operas on paper the best way they know and keep their strength for bringing about a performance.

DÜhring. They are a type of composer I don't envy.

Gerardo. They would reciprocate that feeling, Sir. These people do count. One must be something. Name me a single famous man who did not count! If one is not a composer, one is something else, that's all, and there's no need of being unhappy about it, either. I was something else myself before I became a Wagner singer—something, my efficiency at which nobody could doubt, and with which I was entirely satisfied. It is not for us to say what we are intended for in this world. If it were, any Tom, Dick, or Harry might come along! Do you know what I was before they discovered me? I was a paperhanger's apprentice. Do you know what that is like! (Indicating by gesture.) I put paper on walls—with paste. I don't conceal my humble origin from anybody. Now just imagine, that as a paperhanger I should have taken it into my head to become a Wagner singer! Do you know what they would have done to me?

DÜhring. They would have sent you to the madhouse.

Leo_Tolstoy

LEO TOLSTOY

Permission Albert Langen, Munich
FROM OLAF GULBRANSSON'S "FAMOUS CONTEMPORARIES"

Gerardo. Exactly, and rightly so. Whoever is dissatisfied with what he is will not get anywhere as long as he lives. A healthy man does that at which he is successful; if he fails, he chooses another calling. You spoke of the judgment of your friends. It does not take much to obtain expressions of approbation and admiration which do not cost those anything who utter them. Since my fifteenth year I have been paid for every labor I've performed and should have considered it a disgrace to be compelled to do something for nothing. Fifty years of fruitless struggling! Can anybody be so stubborn as not to have that convince him of the impossibility of his dreams! What did you get out of your life? You have sinfully wasted it! I have never striven for anything out of the ordinary; but, Sir, I can assure you of one thing: that since my earliest childhood days I have never had enough time left to stand out in the street for a whole week. And if I were to think that in my old days I might be compelled to do that very thing—Sir, I am speaking only for myself now—but I cannot imagine how I could still muster the courage to look people in the face.

DÜhring. What? With such an opera in your hands! Remember, I am not doing it for my own sake; I am doing it for art's sake.

Gerardo. You overestimate art. Let me tell you that art is something quite different from what people make themselves believe about it.

DÜhring. I know nothing higher on earth!

Gerardo. That's a view shared only by people like yourself to whose interest it is to make this view prevail generally. We artists are merely one of bourgeoisie's luxuries in paying for which they will outbid each other. If you were right, how would an opera like WalkÜre be possible which deals with things the exposure of which is absolutely abhorrent to the public. Yet when I sing the part of Siegmund, the most solicitous mothers will not hesitate to bring in their thirteen or fourteen year old daughters. And indeed, as I am standing on the stage, I know for certain that not one person in the audience any longer pays the slightest attention to the action itself. If they did they would get up and out. That's what they actually did when the opera was still new. Now they have accustomed themselves to ignoring it. They notice it as little as they notice the air separating them from the stage. That, you see, is the meaning of what you call art! To this you have sacrificed fifty years of your life! Our real duty as artists is to produce ourselves to the paying public night after night under one pretense or another. Nor is its interest limited to such exhibitions; it fastens itself as tenaciously upon our private life. One belongs to the public with every breath one draws; and because we submit to this for money, people never know which they had better do most, idolize us or despise us. Go and find out how many went to the theatre yesterday to hear me sing and how many came to gape at me as they would gape at the emperor of China if he were to come to town tomorrow. Do you know what the public is after in its pursuit of art? To shout bravos, to throw flowers and wreaths upon the stage, to have something to talk about, to be seen by others, to say Ah and Oh, once in a while to take a hand in unhitching a performer's horses—these are the public's real wants, and I satisfy them. If they pay me half a million, I in return furnish a living to a legion of cabmen, writers, milliners, florists, tavernkeepers. The money is made to circulate. People's blood is made to circulate. Young girls become engaged, old maids get married, wives fall victims to their husbands' friends, and grandmothers get no end of topics for gossip. Accidents and crimes are made to happen. At the ticket office a child is trampled to death, a lady is robbed of her pocketbook, a gentleman in the audience becomes insane during a performance. That creates business for physicians, lawyers ... (he is seized by a fit of coughing.) And to think in this condition I am to sing Tristan tomorrow!—I am not telling you these things out of vanity but to cure you of your delusion. The standard by which to judge a man's importance in this world is the world itself and not some fixed conviction one may have acquired through years of brooding meditation. I did not put myself in the market either; they discovered me. There are no unappreciated, neglected geniuses. We are not the makers and masters of our own fate; man is born a slave!

DÜhring (who has been turning the leaves of his manuscript). Please, before I go, let me play to you the first scene of the second act. It's laid in a park, you know, just like the famous picture: Embarquement pour CythÈre ...

Gerardo. But I told you I haven't the time! Besides what am I to gather from a few detached scenes?

DÜhring (slowly packing up his manuscript). I am afraid, Mr. Gerardo, you are somewhat misjudging me. After all, I am not quite so unknown to the rest of the world as I am to you. My person and name are known. Wagner himself mentions me often enough in his writings. And let me tell you, if I die today, my works will be performed tomorrow. I am as sure of that as I know that my music will retain its value. My Berlin publisher writes me every day: All that's needed is for you to die. Why then in the world don't you?

Gerardo. All I can reply to you is this: that since Wagner's death there hasn't been a call for new operas anywhere. If you offer new music, you have all conservatories, all singers and the whole public against you from the start. If you want to see your works performed, write a music which does not differ the least from what is in vogue today; just copy; steal your opera in bits and scraps from the whole of Wagner's operas. Then you may count with considerable probability on having it accepted. My tremendous hit last night should prove to you that the old music is all that's needed for years to come. And my opinion is that of every other singer, of every manager and of the whole paying public. Why should I go out of my way to have a new music whipped into me when the old music has already cost me such inhuman whippings?

DÜhring (offers him his trembling hand). I am sorry but I fear I'm too old to learn to steal. That's the kind of thing one has to begin young or one will never learn.

Gerardo. I hope I haven't offended you, Sir.—But, my dear Sir,—if you would permit me—the thought that life means a hard struggle to you—(speaking very rapidly) it so happens that I have received five hundred marks more than I ...

DÜhring (looks at Gerardo with his eyes wide open, then suddenly starts for the door). Please, please, I beg of you, no! Don't finish what you meant to say. No, no, no! That is not what I came for. You know what a great sage has said:—They are all of them good-natured, but ...!—No, Mr. Gerardo, I did not ask you to listen to my opera in order to practise extortion on you. I love my child too much for that. No indeed, Mr. Gerardo ...

[Exit through the centre door.]

Gerardo (escorting him to the door). Oh please. Sir.—Happy to have known you, Sir.