his writing? Merely that the pile of gold
pieces may increase in the coffers, and that the Fafnir's[4] treasure,
which always brings mischief, may glitter and sparkle more and more!
Oh, how gladly a painter or a sculptor must go out into the air, and
with head erect imbibe all the refreshing influences of spring, until
they people the inner world of his mind with beautiful images pulsing
with glad and energetic life! Then from the dark bushes step forth
wonderful figures, which his own mind has created, and which continue
to be his own, for within him dwells the mysterious wizard power of
light, of colour, of form; hence he is able to give abiding shape to
what he has seen with the eye of his mind, in that he represents it in
a material substitute. What is there to prevent me tearing myself loose
from this hated mode of life? That remarkable old man assured me that I
am called to be an artist, and still more so did the nice handsome
youth. For although he did not speak a word, it yet somehow struck me
that his glance said plainly what I had for such a long time felt like
a vague emotional pulsation within me, and what, oppressed by a
multitude of doubts, has hitherto been unable to rise to the level of
consciousness. Instead of going on in this miserable way, could I not
make myself a good painter?"

Traugott took out all the things that he had ever drawn and examined
them with critical eyes. Several things looked quite different to-day
from what they had ever done before, and that not worse, but better.
His attention was especially attracted by one of his childish attempts,
of the time when he was quite a boy; it was a sketch of the old
burgomaster and the handsome page, the outlines very much wanting in
firmness, of course, but nevertheless recognisable. And he remembered
quite well that these figures had made a strange impression upon him
even at that time, and how one evening at dusk they enticed him with
such an irresistible power of attraction, that he had to leave his
playmates and go into Arthur's Hall, where he took almost endless pains
to copy the picture. The contemplation of this drawing filled him with
a feeling of very deep yearning sadness. According to his usual habit,
he ought to go and work a few hours in the office; but he could not do
it; he went out to the Carlsberg[5] instead. There he stood and gazed
out over the heaving sea, striving to decipher in the waves and in the
grey misty clouds which had