It was his intention to learn. The rôle which had been assigned him in the play of the actor’s life—the play that lasted from nine o’clock every morning until eleven at night—began to arouse his dissatisfaction. He desired it to be less episodic. It seemed to him that Lorm, the director of this particular play, should be persuaded to change the cast. He told Lorm so quite frankly. For the actor was no longer to him, as in the days of his youth, the crown and glory of human existence and the vessel of noblest emotions, but a means to an end. Nowadays one was forced to learn of Lorm, to conceal one’s true feelings impenetrably, to gather all one’s energy for the moment of one’s cue, to be thrifty of one’s self, bravely to wear a credible mask, and thus to assure each situation of a happy ending.
So Crammon said: “I’ve always had rather pleasant relations with my partners. I can truly say that I’m an obliging colleague and have always stolen away into the background when it was their turn to have their monologues or great scenes in the centre of the stage. But two of them, the young lover and the heroine, have undoubtedly abused my good nature. They’ve gradually shoved me out of the play entirely. To their own hurt, too. The action promised to be splendid. Since I’ve been shoved into the wings, it threatens to be lost in the sand. It annoys me.”
Edgar Lorm smiled. “It seems to me rather that the playwright is at fault than those two,” he answered. “And no doubt it’s a mistake in construction. No experienced man of the theatre would dispense with a character like yourself.”
“Prosit,” said Crammon, and lifted his glass. They were sitting late in the Ratskeller.
“One must await developments,” Lorm continued. The whole charade amused him immensely. “In the works of good authors you sometimes find unexpected turns of the action. You mustn’t scold till the final curtain.”
Crammon murmured morosely. “It’s taking a long time. Some day soon I’m going to mount the stage and find out in which act we are. I may make an extempore insertion.”
“For what particular line have you been engaged anyhow?” Lorm inquired. “Man of the world, character parts, or heavy father?”
Crammon shrugged his shoulders. The two men looked seriously at each other. A pleasant mood gleamed about the actor’s narrow lips. “How long is it since we’ve seen each other, old boy?” he said, and threw his arm affectionately over Crammon’s shoulder. “It must be years. Until recently I had a secretary who, whenever a letter came from you, would lay it on my pillow at night. He meant that action to express something like this: Look, Lorm, people aren’t the filthy scamps you always call them. Well, he was an idealist who had been brought up on chicory, potatoes, and herring. You find that sort once in a while. As for you, my dear Crammon, you’ve put on flesh. You’re comfortable and compact in that nice tight skin of yours. I’m still lean and feed on my own blood.”
“My fat is only a stage property,” said Crammon sadly. “The inner me is untouched.”