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!

DUeHRING (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 Cythere_ ...

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

DUeHRING (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 Berli