room is divided by a curtain at night, and
during the day the beds are piled against
the walls, and the father, when not engaged
at the theatre, plies his trade of a worker in
hair, sitting on one of the 'property' boxes
instead of a chair.  The rest of the
company are scattered about among the
cottages.  The 'leading gentleman' and the
'singing young lady' live opposite at the
baker's."

Of course we were anxious to go, so,
after an early tea, we went.  We climbed a
crazy old staircase to the first floor, where we
found the door-keeper, with a little table in
front of him, on which flared a tallow candle.
The table-drawer was open, and he swept
our groschens into it, and then ushered us
into the first and best place: places which
were intended for distinguished visitors,
and for which we had paid four groschens
(about fivepence) each.  It was a large,
low room, with wooden benches without
backs, and we were about four feet from
the red-painted curtain which divided the
stage from us. Behind us, the room was
already filled with peasants and children;
even the window-ledges, as better places for
seeing, were already full of spectators.  The
first seats were soon taken.  The Forest-
Controller and his wife, and the newly-
married couple arrived, and a little rough-
looking man, with shaggy hair and bushy
eyebrows, coarsely dressed, took his seat
near us.  I watched him with some curiosity,
for I could not make him out. He evidently
was not a peasant, and hardly a
gentleman, and yet his countenance was
intelligent, and his features refined, but a
singular, half morose, half bitter expression
warred with the keen and thoughtful look
of his eyes.  While I looked at him, he
went out to speak to some one, and
Fraülein Zartoff asked me if I were not curious
to know something about that person?

"He is a character," said she. "He
lives two miles from here at Johannsdorf.
His father was a large proprietor there,
and educated his son liberally. He held
for many years an excellent position as
professor of music in St. Petersburg. He
returned here about fifteen years ago, and
married a peasant woman, although, with
his fortune and acquirements, he could
have married a lady anywhere.  He has
lived here ever since, never goes away, and
associates with very few, his chief
companions being the schoolmaster and the
son of the landlord of the Herrenhaus.
They meet together every Monday evening
throughout the year, and, rain or shine,
Herr Berg always comes from Johannsdorf,
down a rocky road, on foot, and returns the
same evening.  The three gentlemen play
trios- piano, flute, and violin.  That is his
sole amusement.  He is a great puzzle to
us, for he is very well educated, and a very
good musician, and his children are growing
up rude peasants, like all these about
here."

The story was cut short by the arrival of
the orchestra.  They came in, one by one,
in hob-nailed boots: noisy, clumsy, awkward
peasants. The first-comer, a lanky
fellow, had borrowed the tallow candle from
the ticket-office, and added to the illumination
of the theatre (which until now had
been confined to candles hung around the
sides of the room in tin sockets), by lighting
the row of tallow dips in front of the curtain.
This done, he carried the candle back again,
and brought in a double-bass viol.  Soon, the
whole orchestra was assembled: frowsily-
headed uncouth men, with faces as brown
as the long pipes that hung down to their
breasts.  A bench was placed between us
and the curtain, and over this they strided,
instruments in hand, and commenced tuning.
When they were satisfied with the harmonious
relations of their instruments, they
began to play, keeping time with their feet
and heads, and working very hard with their
shoulders and elbows, as well as their hands
and their mouths.  The violins squeaked, the
wind instruments wheezed, and the gaunt
old peasant stood up to his double-bass,
smoking gravely all the while.  It was
quite extraordinary how every man could
play so near the pitch of his neighbour and
yet miss it.  As to time, that was not so
bad, for the Germans are natural timists.

At last the music ceased, the curtain
went up, and the members of the orchestra
smoked their pipes and enjoyed the play.
It was not a bad piece, though from the
ceiling being low, and the necessity of the
performers being raised above the
audience, the taller actors suffered somewhat
in their effects. The curtain being raised,
we could see that the boards of the theatre
were small beer tables set together, and
these being rather higher than was needful,
the top of the aged father's head was quite
cut off by the row of dirty-blue clouds
suspended from the ceiling.  The actors not
being perfect in their parts, the prompter
read in a loud voice every word of the play,
the actors repeating it after him with
appropriate action, unless too much absorbed
in watching him to catch the words.  The
old aunt, the good soul of the piece, had such