ence, 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'hote_ 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'hote_, 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,
was no fit company for gentlemen such as we; it would be better that he
should not stay, it was not his place, and so forth. It was not so much
to my powers of persuasion as to the irresistible attractions of a cup
of coffee, and a pipe of the best Knaster, which I had in my pocket,
that I could attribute his remaining. He spoke with vividness and
_esprit_ of the old theatrical days. He had seen Eckhoff, and acted
with Schroeder. It came out that the untuned state in which he was now
so marred proceeded from the circumstance that those by-gone days had
been, for him, the world wherein he had breathed freely, and moved
unconstrain