"That's a falsehood! That would mean that you could make an artist of any swineherd whom you fed," called Stanislawski across the table.
"Poverty is a fire that burns rubbish, but the true metal only comes out of it all the purer," quickly said Topolski.
"Nonsense! It comes out not purer, but only more sooty, and afterwards the rust devours it all the more quickly. A bottle is worth something not because it may have once contained the choicest Tokay, but because it's now full of brandy!" stammered Glas in a drunken voice.
"The Warsaw Theater! My God! with the exception of two or three persons it's full of the scum of the profession which the provinces no longer could stand."
"Just let the press give us the support it gives them, let it insert half a column daily about us and round up the public for us each day as it does for them! . . ."
"Well, what then? . . . Even at that you'd remain nothing but
Wawrzecki!" sneered Kotlicki.
"Yes, but the public would come and see that Wawrzecki is not a bit worse and perhaps a great deal better actor than those patented celebrities."
"Let me speak!" whimpered Glas, vainly trying to rise from his chair and steady himself.
"The public! . . . the public is a flock of sheep which runs where it is driven by the shepherds."
"Don't say that, Topolski . . ."