“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.