With true actor’s ingenuity in such matters, he gave the preference to his son’s favourite parts. He hoped, by repeatedly performing them ere Franz arrived, he should weary the public of those plays, and so prevent large audiences welcoming the new actor. He hoped, also, that by this means the public would better appreciate the difference between his finished style and the crude energy of his rival. The consequence of this procedure he expected to be,—small audiences and unfavourable criticisms. By these he hoped to disgust his son, and so wean him from the stage.
Unhappily, he was so goaded by the desire to produce a greater effect than heretofore, as to act much worse than heretofore. He overdid every thing. He was too violent; his contrasts were too marked; the elaboration was painful. People lamented his exaggeration, and began to whisper that his day was gone.
Franz appeared. Young, handsome, ambitious, full of hope and energy—around him the charm which always belongs to novelty, and within him the inappreciable wealth of genius—how could he fail to produce a deep impression? The calculation of his rival turned out a mistake: so far from the public keeping away because they had so recently seen the pieces performed, they flocked to the house because they wished to compare the two rivals in the same parts. As in the case of all well-known plays, the attraction was in the actor, not in the piece.
Berlin never witnessed such a debut. Franz was called sixteen times before the curtain to receive their boisterous homage. The whole town was in a state of excitement. Every body talked about him; every body compared him with Schoenlein—to the general disadvantage of the latter; and the secret of the relationship soon transpired, which led to endless discussion. The actors mostly stood by Schoenlein: they do not like new favourites. But the public, undisguisedly, unequivocally preferred Franz.
Exasperated by what he called the fickleness of the public, Schoenlein went to Dresden, there to eclipse the remembrance of his son. He played to crowded houses. But if at Berlin he overacted, at Dresden he “tore the passion to tatters.” Instead of crushing Franz’s reputation he nearly ruined his own. One paper had the malice to recommend him to retire from the stage.
He did retire; but not till after a fearful struggle with himself, and many a bitter reflection on the world’s ingratitude, and the worthlessness of his efforts. He was deeply hurt. He secluded himself from every one. In the practices of devotion, and in brooding solitude, he endeavoured to forget the world and its frivolities. He tried to find occupation in study, and solace in religion. But to the one he did not bring a studious mind; to the other he did not bring a religious heart. Lacerated with envy and humiliation, his soul found no comfort in books. He could not forget the past; he could not shut the world from his heart. The solemn organ strains, which stirred his soul when in church, recalled to him the stage; still more so did the inflections of the preacher’s voice recall it to him; he could not refrain from criticising the preacher’s declamation.
He ceased to go to church, and tried the efficacy of lonely prayer. In vain! The stage was for ever present before his mind. He tried to renounce the world, but the world held possession of his heart. His renunciation was not prompted by weariness, but by rage: the world weighed not too heavily and sorely upon his spirit, making him weary, making him yearn “for the wings of the dove, to flee away and be at rest;” on the contrary, he was only angry at his unjust appreciation. His retreat was not misanthropy but sulking. He could not forget his defeat.
Months passed away in this unavailing struggle.
Suddenly he reappeared upon the stage. His reappearance created intense interest, and the theatre trembled with applause. The public was so glad to see its old favourite again! Schoenlein’s heart bounded, as of old, responsive to that thunder of applause; but the joy was transient: his pride was soon once more to be laid low. That very public, which had welcomed him so enthusiastically, grew indifferent by the end of the week. In truth his acting had lost its former grandeur. Flashes of the old genius there still were, from time to time, but they only served to make more obvious the indifference of the whole performance. People shook their heads, and said, “He was certainly grown too old for the stage.”
He never reappeared.