Not by his idealism from an abstract point of view, for in spite of my Pessimism I am an absurd Idealist, and because I am perfectly well aware of this, I as a rule never laugh at people's Idealism, but his sort of Idealism was really too funny. He was a serious man of great capabilities who only just fell short of being learned, with a clear, critical intellect; a man without any illusions about Society, the State, Literature, or anything else, and especially not about women; but yet he was the craziest Optimist as soon as he got upon the subject of actresses, theatrical princesses and heroines; he was one of those men, who, like Hacklaender, cannot discover the Ideal of Virtue anywhere, except in a ballet girl. My friend was always in love with some actress or other; of course only Platonically, and from preference with some girl of rising talent, whose literary knight he constituted himself, until the time came when her admirers laid something much more substantial than laurel wreaths at her feet; then he withdrew and sought for fresh talent which would allow itself to be patronized by him. He was never without the photograph of his ideal in his breast pocket, and when he was in a good temper he used to show me one or other of them, whom I had never seen, with a knowing smile, and once, when we were sitting in a _cafe_ in the _Prater_, he took out a portrait without saying a word, and laid it on the table before me. It was the portrait of a beautiful woman, but what struck me in it first of all was not the almost classic cut of her features, but her white eyes. "If she had not the black hair of a living woman, I should take her for a statue," I said. "Certainly," my friend replied; "for a statue of Venus, perhaps for the Venus of Milo, herself." "Who is she?" "A young actress." "That is a matter of course in your case; what I meant was, what is her name?" My friend told me, and it was a name which is at present one of the best known on the German stage, with which a number of terrestrial adventures are connected, as every Viennese knows, with which those of Venus herself were only innocent toying, but which I then heard for the first time. My idealist described her as a woman of the highest talent, which I believed, and as an angel of purity, which I did not believe; on that particular occasion, however, I at any rate did not believe the contrary. A few days later, I was accidentally turning over the leaves of the portrait album of another intimate friend of mine, who was a thoroughly careless, somewhat dissolute Viennese, and I came across that strange female face with the dead eyes again. "How did you come by the picture of this Venus?" I asked him. "Well, she certainly is a Venus," he replied, "but one of that cheap kind who are to be met with in the _Graben_[3], which is their ideal grove...." [Footnote 3: The street where most of the best shops are to be found, and much frequented by venial beauties.--TRANSLATOR.]