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?”