Page 30 - The Gluckman Occasional Number Four

previously reserved for human beings, but all cheered wildly when
the curtain lowered. Basil had gone from triumph to triumph, the
toast of continents.
Arturo was amazed. “But didn’t it bother you,” he asked, “that the
audience never really saw your performance? They only saw a
trained animal. They didn’t care if you knew how to act or not. Just
like me,” he added bitterly.
“Ah,” replied the rodent,
“you have missed the point, my
young friend. What we do on
stage—you as a musician, I as
an actor—is much more than
humans do in the same
situation. You see, who they are
becomes lost in their
performance, which thereby is
more easily judged purely on its
own merits. We cannot hope to achieve that level of transparency; I
will always be a rat who acts, and you an elephant who conducts an
orchestra. Because of that, many people will come to see us merely
as curiosities or freaks. But inside, in our inner selves where it really
counts, we know we are artists. And artists must produce their art
regardless of public reaction, be it undeserved rejection or
inappropriate adulation.”
Arturo thought about
the rodent’s words. Yes, it
made sense: he had been
selfish, wanting praise only
on his own terms. If he
were to express himself
musically, then he had to
go his own way regardless
of what others said or did.
And he knew there was a
lot of music in his head
that needed to come out. If
he died now, it would be
lost forever. Yes, he could handle the circumstances of his life: he
knew he had the strength. It had just been twisted around in the
wrong direction.