"I don't understand your pathos," said Carricchio crossly,—"the pathos of composers and writers and imaginative men. It is all ideal. You talk of farce, I prefer the jester's farce. I never knew any of you to weep over any real misery—any starving people, any loathsome, sordid poor!"
"I should think not," said the Maestro; "there is nothing delightful in real misery—it is loathsome, as you say; it is horrible, it is disagreeable even! Art never contemplates the disagreeable; it would cease to be true art if it did. But when you are happy yourself, when you are surrounded by comfort and luxury—then to contemplate misery, sorrow, woe! Ah! this is the height of luxury: this is art! Yes, true art!"
"It seems selfish, to me," said the Arlecchino surlily.
"Selfish!" exclaimed the Maestro; "of course it is selfish! Unless it is selfish it cannot be art. Art has an end, an aim, an intention—if it deserts this aim it ceases to be art. It must be selfish."
There was a slight pause, then the Maestro, who seemed to be in great spirits, went on:
"I always thought the Prince a poor creature, now I am sure of it. He is neither one thing nor the other. He will never be an artist, in the true sense."
"He is very sorry for that poor child," said Carricchio.
"Sorry!" exclaimed the Maestro. "Sorry! I tell you when the canary died I was delighted, but I am still more delighted now. I predict to you a great future for the Signorina. She will be a great actress and singer. The death of this child is everything to us; it was just what was required to give her power, to stir the depths of her nature. Mio caro," he continued caressingly, putting his hand on Carricchio's arm, "believe me, this is life, and this is art!"
"He is a cold-blooded old devil," muttered Carricchio savagely, as he turned away, "with his infernal talk of art. I would not go to Vienna with him but for the Signorina. I will see her once upon the stage there. Then the old worn-out Arlecchino will go back into the sunshine, and die, and go to Mark."