k.'

"Here the nephew paused, as if expecting Traugott to reply; but he had
no idea what to say. The nephew's harangue had struck him as being a
farrago of incredible nonsense, and he contented himself with asking
him what he considered 'the serious business of life.' The nephew
looked at him rather puzzled.

"'Well,' he said at last, 'you'll admit that a man must live; and the
embarrassed professional artist can scarcely be said to do that.' He
then went on talking a quantity of nonsense, using fine words and
elaborate expressions; the result of which was, that by 'living' he
meant having plenty of money and no debts; eating and drinking of the
best, and having a nice wife and children, with no grease-spots on
their Sunday-clothes, etc. This seemed to stifle Traugott, and he was
glad when he got quit of this sapient nephew, and was alone in his own
quarters.

"'What a wretched, miserable life I am leading, to be sure!' he said
to himself. 'In the beautiful morning--in the glorious, golden
spring-time, when the soft west wind comes breathing even into the
gloomy streets, and seems to tell, in its gentle murmurings, of all
the wonders and marvels that are blossoming into beauty in the fields
and woods--I slink into Elias Roos's smoky office, "creeping like snail
unwillingly to school." There pale faces sit behind shapeless desks,
and nothing breaks the gloomy silence, buried in which everybody
labours, but the turning of the leaves of big account-books, the jingle
of money on the desks, and an occasional unintelligible word or two.
And what kind of labour is it? What is all this thinking and writing
for? That the coins in the chest may increase in number; that the
Fafner's ill-luck-bringing hoard may sparkle and gleam the brighter.
The artist--the sculptor--can go out with uplifted head, and inhale the
refreshing spring-rays, which kindle in him an inner world full of
glorious pictures, so that it bursts into happiness of life and motion.
Out of the dark thickets come wonderful forms, created by his own
spirit; and they remain his; because the mysterious spells of light, of
colour, and of form dwell within him, and he fixes down for ever that
which his mental vision has seen, representing it to the senses. Why
should I not break away from this hateful life? The wonderful old man
has confirmed me in the idea that I am called to be an artist; still
more has the beautiful page. It is true he didn't say anything, but I
f