"Neither. He loves art for art's sake—that is all."
"I don't understand."
"He writes to please himself. To create music is his highest pleasure. He can't see what it has got to do with anybody else."
"But surely he wants the world to enjoy his work?"
"Why? That would be art for the world's sake, art for fame's sake, art for money's sake!"
"What an extraordinary view!"
"Why so? The true artist—the man to whom creation is rapture—surely he is his own world. Unless he is in need of money, why should he concern himself with the outside universe? My friend cannot understand why Schopenhauer should have troubled himself to chisel epigrams or Leopardi lyrics to tell people that life was not worth living. Had either been a true artist, he would have gone on living his own worthless life, unruffled by the applause of the mob. My friend can understand a poet translating into inspired song the sacred secrets of his soul, but he cannot understand his scattering them broad-cast through the country, still less taking a royalty on them. He says it is selling your soul in the market-place, and almost as degrading as going on the stage."
"And do you agree with him?"
"Not entirely, otherwise I should never have yielded to the temptation to sing his song to-night. Fortunately he will never hear of it. He never goes into society, and I am his only friend."
"Dear me!" I said sarcastically. "Is he as careful to conceal his body as his soul?"