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!”