CHAPTER I.
Amidst a storm of applause the curtain fell. The applause continued, and the curtain rose once more; and the favourite actor, worn out with emotion and fatigue, reappeared to receive the homage which an enthusiastic multitude paid to his genius.
I saw a proud flush of triumph steal over his wan face, which lighted it for a moment with almost supernatural expression. As he passed behind the scenes, amidst the rustling dresses of the rouged and spangled crowd, I observed his face contracted by a pang, which struck me the more forcibly from its so quickly succeeding the look of triumph. He passed on to his room without uttering a word—there to disrobe himself of the kingly garments in which he had “strutted his brief hour on the stage;” and in a little while again passed me (as I was hammering out compliments, in voluble but questionable German, to the pretty little * * *) in his sober-suited black, and, stepping into his carriage, drove to the Behren Strasse.
I knew he was going there, as I had been earnestly pressed to meet him that very evening; so, collecting all my forces, I uttered the happiest thing my German would permit me, and accompanying it with my most killing glance, raised the tiny hand of * * * to my lips and withdrew, perfectly charmed with her, and perfectly satisfied with myself.
There was a brilliant circle that night at Madame Röckel’s. To use the received phrase, “all Berlin was there.” I found Herr Schoenlein, the great actor, surrounded by admirers, more profuse than delicate in their adulation. He was pale; looked wearied. He seemed to heed that admiration so little—and yet, in truth, he needed it so much! Not a muscle moved—not a smile answered their compliments; he received them as if he had been a statue which a senseless crowd adored. Yet, fulsome as the compliments were, they were never too fulsome for his greed. He had the fever-thirst of praise upon him now more than ever—now more than at any period of his long career, during which his heart had always throbbed at every sound of applause, did he crave more and more applause. That man, seemingly so indifferent, was sick at heart, and applause alone could cure him! Had he not applause enough? Did not all Germany acknowledge his greatness? Did not Berlin worship him? True; but that was not enough: he hungered for more.
I was taken up to him by Madame Röckel, and introduced as an “English admirer.” Now, for the first time, he manifested some pleasure. It was not assuredly what I said—(for although, of course, I am always “mistaken for a German,” so pure is my accent, so correct my diction!)—it was the fact of my being a foreigner—an Englishman—which made my praise so acceptable. I was a countryman of Shakspeare’s, and, of course, a discerning critic of Shakspearian acting. We rapidly passed over the commonplace bridges of conversation, and were soon engaged in a discussion respecting the stage.
With nervous energy, and a sort of feverish irritability, he questioned me about our great actors—our Young, Kean, Kemble, and Macready—which gave me an opportunity for displaying that nice critical discrimination which my friends are kind enough to believe I possess—with what reason it is not for me to say.
When I told him that, on the whole, I was more gratified with the performances of Shakspeare in Germany, he turned upon me with sudden quickness and asked—
“In what towns?”
“At Berlin and Dresden,” I answered.
“You have seen Franz, then?”
“I have.”
His lip quivered. I saw that I had made a mistake. I am not generally an ass—nay, I am believed to possess some little tact; but what demon could have possessed me to talk of an actor to an actor?
“Do you think Franz greater than any of your English actors?” he asked, fretfully.
“Why, I cannot say that exactly. But I was amazingly struck with his performance. My observation, however, principally applied to the general ‘getting-up.’”
“But Franz—Franz. I wish to hear your opinion of him.”
“He is young,” I replied; “has a fine figure, a noble voice, a grand carriage, and, although new to the stage, and consequently deficient in some technical matters, yet he has that undefinable something which men call genius.”
“Hm!” was the significant answer.
I then saw whither my stupidity had led me. This, however, I will say for myself, if ever I do get into a dilemma, I have generally readiness of mind enough to extricate myself. I do not say this out of conceit, for I am not at all conceited—I merely mention it as a fact. This is how I turned my blunder to account.
“Although,” said I, “he has not your mastery, yet he reminded me a great deal of you. I cannot pay him a higher compliment.”
To my surprise he did not see the flattery of this, but moved to another part of the room; and I did not speak with him again till supper.
This little incident excited my attention. I puzzled my brain for an explanation of the riddle which his conduct presented, and spoke to several of my friends about it, who could only tell me that Schoenlein was jealous of this new actor Franz.
Did you ever sup in Berlin, reader? If not, let me inform you that supper there is a most substantial affair. I had not read Miss Bremer’s novels when first I went there; so, not being prepared for the infinite amount of eating and drinking which is transacted in the north, I confess my astonishment was a little mingled with disgust to find a supper begin with white-beer soup, (capital soup, by the way,) followed by various kinds of fish, amongst them, of course, that eternal hideous carp—roast veal, poultry, pastry, and dessert. To see the worthy Berliners sup, you would fancy they had not dined, and to see them dine next day, you would fancy they had not supped, and breakfasted twice.
Eating is an art. It is also—and this fact we are prone to overlook—a habit. As a habit it may be enlarged to an indefinite extent; and lisping fraüleins have demonstrated the capacity of the human stomach to be such as would make our beauties stare.
It must not be supposed that I am a coxcomb, since nothing can be farther from the truth; nor must I be held to share with Lord Byron his horror at seeing women eat. In fact I like to see the darlings enjoy themselves: but—and I care not who knows it—to see German women eat, is more than I can patiently endure.
Let me cease this digression to remark that, except myself, the great tragedian was the only person at table who was not voracious—and that because he was unhappy. While knives and forks were playing with reckless energy he talked to me, but there was a coldness and constraint in his manner which plainly told me that my praises of Franz had deeply mortified him.
Poor Schoenlein! Unhappy he came to Madame Röckel’s; for, amidst the storm of applause which saluted him at the theatre, he heard the applause which was saluting his rival at Dresden; and he had left the theatre for a friendly circle of admirers only to hear his rival praised by an Englishman. All the applause of all Berlin weighed as nothing against one compliment paid to Franz!
It was nearly twelve, and the company had gradually departed. I was left alone with Madame Röckel; and, as usual, I stayed half-an-hour later than the others, to have a quiet chat with her. I wanted to ask her for an explanation of Schoenlein’s conduct. Much as I had seen of the vanity of actors—well as I knew their petty jealousy of each other—I was not prepared for what I had seen that night.
Madame Röckel had resumed her knitting—the never-failing accompaniment of a German lady—and I drew a chair close to the sofa, and told her what had passed.
“His story is a strange one,” she said; “and to understand him you must know it.”
“Can you not tell it me?”
“Willingly. Schoenlein is a man well born and well bred, who feels his profession is a disgrace.”
“A disgrace!”
“Very absurd, is it not? but that is his feeling. At the same time, just as the opium-eater, knowing the degradation of his vice, cannot resist its fascination—so this actor, with an intense feeling of what he regards as the sinfulness of the stage, cannot resist its fascination.”
“You astonish me!”
“He is an austere man—what you English would call a puritan—who looks upon the stage as the theatre of vice, and yet cannot quit it because it is the theatre of his triumphs!”
“But how came he to be an actor!”
“Why, thrown upon the stage when the stage seemed the only means of livelihood open to him—forced on it by necessity, success has chained him there. I have heard him say that every time he performs it is with the conviction that he is performing for the last time. But the fascination still continues—his heart is still greedy of applause—his mind still eager for its accustomed emotions. He goes on the stage sad, struggling, and repentant; to leave it with throbbing pulses and a wild-beating heart. He accepts no engagement, he only plays by the night. He has from time to time made vigorous efforts to quit the stage, but at the end of a fortnight he invariably returns. He once set out for Italy, thinking that if away from Germany he should be able to wean himself from the theatre; but he got no farther than Vienna, and there played for twenty nights.”
“But don’t you think there must be a great deal of humbug in all this?”
“Not a bit.”
“Do you really believe in his scruples?”
“I know him too well to doubt them. There are many men quite as inconsistent. He deludes himself with all sorts of sophistry. He persuades himself that he acts only to realise an independence for his son, and to secure his own old age. But the truth is, he acts because he has an irresistible impulse to act. It is a sort of intellectual dram-drinking which he cannot forego.”
“To be sure, men are strange bundles of contradictions; and I suppose one must give Schoenlein credit for being sincere.”
“He is his own dupe, for to no one but very intimate friends has he ever disclosed his real opinions.”
“Then his life must be a constant struggle?”
“It is. This it is which has made him prematurely old: the struggle of his conscience with his passions. But this it is also which gives such touching pathos to his acting—which makes his voice so mournful that it vibrates through your whole being. As the poet’s sufferings are sublimed into song, and become the delight of mankind, so from the ground of this tragedian’s despair springs the well of his inspiration, which makes him truly great.”
We were both silent for a few moments.
“I have said enough,” added Madame Röckel, “to explain how such a man must necessarily be, above all others, envious—how the success of another must be torture to him. Nothing but intense vanity could keep him on the stage. Hitherto he has really had no rival—he has stood alone; other tragedians have not been named beside him. But now, within the last few weeks, there has arisen this young Franz, who has only played at Leipsic and Dresden, yet whose fame has spread all over Germany.”
“But I have seen Franz, and I assure you he is not so great an actor as Schoenlein. To be sure, he has youth on his side.”
“It is not his success alone which is so exasperating; it is because the critics, as usual, will do nothing but compare the young Franz with the old Schoenlein; while the public, with its natural inconstancy, begins to discover that Schoenlein is no longer young. It is a sad thing,” she pursued, with a faint smile, “for those who have reigned supreme over audiences to feel their dynasty is drawing to a close—sad for those who have swayed all hearts, to feel that another is now to usurp their place. We women know what it is, in a slight degree, when we grow old. Do we ever grow old, and know it? When our glass still tells us we are young, that the bloom is still upon our cheeks, the lustre in our eyes, the witchery in our smiles, now as of yore—and yet what the glass tells us, what our feelings confirm, we do not see mirrored in the admiration of those around us! We also know what it is when we see our former adorers pass to newer beauties, and we perhaps overhear such a phrase spoken of us as, ‘Yes, she has been handsome!’ But even we cannot know the actor’s triumph or the actor’s humiliation. To feel that our presence is the signal for applause, that every word we utter is listened to with eager interest, that every part we play is an image which we engrave upon the minds of thousands, there to abide as a thing of beauty and of wonder—this is beyond us.”
“But, my dear Madame Röckel, I see no diminution of admiration for Schoenlein in Berlin. Surely no audience can be more enthusiastic. Why should he fear a rival?”
“You might as well ask a beauty,” she replied, “why she is jealous of a woman less pretty than herself. The why is not to be explained by logic, for envy does not calculate—it feels.”
“Yet, when Franz comes to Berlin, which will be next month, there will then be no possible doubt as to which is the finer actor.”
“Perhaps not. But the public will nevertheless applaud Franz; and however slightly they do so, to the envious ears of Schoenlein it will sound like thunder.”
The clock striking twelve warned me to depart, for in Berlin they keep early hours; and I went away thinking of what I had just heard, and feeling no small contempt for Schoenlein’s preposterous jealousy: “What a contemptible feeling is envy!—as if only one person in the world had a right to admiration!”
At that moment I stepped into a droschke, and was driving to my rooms, when I passed that miserable puppy Fürstenberg, whom, I am sorry to say, little * * * admires so much; though, for the life of me, I never could see wherefore. Yet this uncouth German, aping the dandy, usurps all her conversation, even when I am by!
It is not that I am jealous, for that is not my character; but I cannot bear to see so charming a girl so miserably deceived in any one as she is in Fürstenberg!