s assume a nearer approach to excellence. This end is very
clearly seen in life; for it is only the man who pursues art in the
spirit I have just mentioned who enjoys comfort and ease; whilst these
for ever and eternally flee away from the man who, directly contrary to
the nature of the case, regards art as a true end in itself--as the
highest aim in life. And so, my good friend, don't take to heart what
my uncle said to try and persuade you to turn aside from the serious
business of life, and rely upon a way of employing your energies which,
if without support, will only make you stagger about like a helpless
child." Here the nephew paused as if expecting Traugott's reply; but
Traugott did not know for the life of him what he ought to say. All
that the nephew had said struck him as indescribably stupid talk. He
contented himself with asking, "But what do you really mean by the
serious business of life?" The nephew looked at him somewhat taken
aback. "Well, by my soul, you can't help conceding to me that a man who
is alive must live, and that's what your artist by profession hardly
ever succeeds in doing, for he's always hard up." And he went on with a
long rigmarole of bosh, which he clothed in fine words and stereotyped
phrases. The end of it all appeared to be pretty much this--that by
living he meant little else than having no debts but plenty of money,
plenty to eat and drink, a beautiful wife, and also well-behaved
children, who never got any grease-stains on their nice Sunday-clothes,
and so on. This made Traugott feel a tightness in his throat, and he
was glad when the clever nephew left him, and he found himself alone in
his own room.

"What a wretched miserable life I lead, to be sure!" he soliloquised.
"On beautiful mornings in the glorious golden spring-time, when into
even the obscure streets of the town the warm west wind finds its way,
and its faint murmurings and rustlings seem to be telling of all the
wonders which are to be seen blooming in the woods and fields, then I
have to crawl down sluggishly and in an ill-temper into Herr Elias
Roos's smoke-begrimed office. And there sit pale faces before huge
ugly-shaped desks; all are working on amidst gloomy silence, which is
only broken by the rustle of leaves turned over in the big books, by
the chink of money that is being counted, and by unintelligible sounds
at odd intervals. And then again what work it is! What is the good of
all this thinking and all t