able of the unknown
king.--Come, come, mate, hand me up the pots. I prepared all the tones
yesterday by daylight, that this candlelight might not deceive us, and
they all stand numbered in yonder corner. Hand me up No. 1, young
friend. Gray with gray!--What would dry, weary life be, if the Lord of
Heaven had not put so many motley playthings into our hands. He who
demeans himself well does not, like the curious boy, try to break the
box from which the music comes when he turns the handle. It is just
natural, they say, that it sounds inside, for I turn the handle.
Because I have drawn this intellective correctly according to the point
of view, I know that it will have the effect of actual sculpture on the
spectator.--Now, boy, reach me No. 2, now I paint in colours that are
toned down according to rule, and it appears receding five yards. All
that I know well enough--oh, we are amazingly clever! How is it that
objects diminish in the distance? This one stupid question of a
Chinese could put to confusion Professor Eytelwein himself; but he
could help himself out with the music-box, and say he had often turned
the handle, and always experienced the same result.--Violet, No. 2,
youngster! Another rule, and a thick washed-out brush! Ah, what is
all our striving and struggling after the higher, but the helpless,
unconscious act of an infant who hurts the nurse that feeds him.
Violet, No. 2! Quick, young man! The ideal is an evil, lying dream,
produced by fermented blood. Take away the pot, young man, I am coming
down. The devil lures us with puppets, to which he glues angel's
wings."

I am unable to repeat literally, what Berthold said, while he went on
painting rapidly, and treated me only as his fag. He went on in the
tone in which he had begun, scoffing at the limited nature of every
human effort. Ah, I was inspecting the depth of a mind that had
received its death-wound, and that only uttered its complaints in
bitter irony. Morning dawned, and the glimmer of the taper grew pale
before the entrance of sunlight. Berthold painted on zealously, but he
became more and more silent, and only single sounds--ultimately, only
sighs--escaped his burdened breast. He had planned the entire altar
with all its gradation of colour, and even now the picture stood out
quite prominently.

"Admirable! admirable!" I cried out with delight.

"Do you think," said Berthold, faintly, "that I shall make something of
it? I a