“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.”