"What you say," answered Lothair, "reminds me of a most extraordinary fellow whom I met with in a theatrical troupe in a small town in the south of Germany, who was the exact image of that 'pedant' (to speak technically) in Wilhelm Meister. Insupportable as he now was on the stage in his little minor parts, _praying_ them out in the most direful monotony, it was said that formerly, in his younger days, he had been a capital actor, and used to play, for instance, those sly, scampish inn-keepers which, in older times, used to occur in almost every comedy, and over whose total disappearance from the stage the host in Tieck's 'Verkehrter Welt' complains. When I knew this man he seemed to have completely accepted his fate, which truely had been a pretty hard one, and, in complete apathy, to place no value on anything in the world, least of all on himself. Nothing penetrated the crust which the heaping up of the most complete wretchedness had formed over the surface of his better self, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself under it; and yet there often beamed out of his deep-set, clever eyes the gleam of a higher intelligence, and there would rapidly jerk over his face the expression of a bitter irony, so that the exaggerated submissiveness with which he bore himself towards every one--and more particularly towards his manager (a silly young man, full of vanity)--took, in him, the form of an ironical contempt. On Sundays he used to take his seat at the lower end of the _table d'hôte_ of the best hotel in the place, dressed in a good well-brushed suit of clothes, whose cut and extraordinary pattern indicated the actor of a long by-gone period; and there he enjoyed a hearty meal, never saying a word to a soul, although he was exceptionally temperate, particularly as regarded the wine, for he scarcely half-emptied the bottle which was placed before him. At each filling of his glass he made a courteous bow to the landlord, who gave him his Sunday dinner in return for his teaching his children reading and writing. It happened that I was dining one Sunday at this _table d'hôte_, and found only one vacant seat, which was at this old fellow's side. I hastened to occupy this place, hoping that I might have the good fortune to bring to the surface that better spirit which must be shut up within the man. It was difficult, almost impossible, to get hold of that spirit. Just when one thought one had him, he suddenly dived down, and slunk away in utter humility of submissiveness. At length, after I had with difficulty induced him to swallow a glass or two of good wine, he seemed to begin to thaw a little, and spake with visible emotion of the fine old theatrical times, now past and gone, apparently never to return. The tables were being cleared; one or two of my friends joined themselves to me; the player wanted to take his leave. I held him fast, though he made the most touching protests. A poor superannuated actor, he said,