“Well, the devil only knows!  Talent, you say?  Genius?  Originality?  Not a bit of it, sir!...  People have lived and made a career side by side with me who were worthless, trivial, and even contemptible compared with me.  They did not do one-tenth of the work I did, did not put themselves out, were not distinguished for their talents, and did not make an effort to be celebrated, but just look at them!  Their names are continually in the newspapers and on men’s lips!  If you are not tired of listening I will illustrate it by an example.  Some years ago I built a bridge in the town of K. I must tell you that the dullness of that scurvy little town was terrible.  If it had not been for women and cards I believe I should have gone out of my mind.  Well, it’s an old story:  I was so bored that I got into an affair with a singer.  Everyone was enthusiastic about her, the devil only knows why; to my thinking she was—­what shall I say?—­an ordinary, commonplace creature, like lots of others.  The hussy was empty-headed, ill-tempered, greedy, and what’s more, she was a fool.

“She ate and drank a vast amount, slept till five o clock in the afternoon—­and I fancy did nothing else.  She was looked upon as a cocotte, and that was indeed her profession; but when people wanted to refer to her in a literary fashion, they called her an actress and a singer.  I used to be devoted to the theatre, and therefore this fraudulent pretense of being an actress made me furiously indignant.  My young lady had not the slightest right to call herself an actress or a singer.  She was a creature entirely devoid of talent, devoid of feeling—­a pitiful creature one may say.  As far as I can judge she sang disgustingly.  The whole charm of her ‘art’ lay in her kicking up her legs on every suitable occasion, and not being embarrassed when people walked into her dressing-room.  She usually selected translated vaudevilles, with singing in them, and opportunities for disporting herself in male attire, in tights.  In fact it was—­ough!  Well, I ask your attention.  As I remember now, a public ceremony took place to celebrate the opening of the newly constructed bridge.  There was a religious service, there were speeches, telegrams, and so on.  I hung about my cherished creation, you know, all the while afraid that my heart would burst with the excitement of an author.  Its an old story and there’s no need for false modesty, and so I will tell you that my bridge was a magnificent work!  It was not a bridge but a picture, a perfect delight!  And who would not have been excited when the whole town came to the opening?  ‘Oh,’ I thought, ’now the eyes of all the public will be on me!  Where shall I hide myself?’ Well, I need not have worried myself, sir—­alas!  Except the official personages, no one took the slightest notice of me.  They stood in a crowd on the river-bank, gazed like sheep at the bridge, and did not concern themselves to know who had built it.  And it was