nk, almost mechanically in fact, he walked up to
him and asked, "Did you happen to know the strikingly curious old man
with the black curly beard who some time ago frequently used to be seen
here along with a handsome youth?" "Why, to be sure I did," answered
the broker; "that was the crack-brained old painter Gottfried
Berklinger." "Then don't you know where he has gone to and where he is
now living?" asked Traugott again. "Ay, that I do," replied the broker;
"he has now for a long time been living quietly at Sorrento along with
his daughter." "With his daughter Felicia?" asked Traugott so
vehemently and so loudly that everybody turned round to look at him.
"Why, yes," went on the broker calmly, "that was, you know, the pretty
youth who always followed the old man about everywhere. Half Dantzic
knew that he was a girl, notwithstanding that the crazy old fellow
thought there was not a single soul could guess it. It had been
prophesied to him that if his daughter were ever to get married he
would die a shameful death; and accordingly he determined never to let
anybody know anything about her, and so he passed her off everywhere
as his son." Traugott stood like a statue; then he ran off through
the streets--away out of the town-gates--into the open country, into
the woods, loudly lamenting, "Oh! miserable wretch that I am! It was
she--she, herself; I have sat beside her scores and hundreds of
times--have breathed her breath--pressed her delicate hands--looked
into her beautiful eyes--heard her sweet words--and now I have lost
her! No; not lost I will follow her into the land of art. I acknowledge
the finger of destiny. Away--away to Sorrento."

He hurried back home. Herr Elias Roos got in his way; Traugott laid
hold of him and carried him along with him into the room. "I shall
never marry Christina, never!" he screamed. "She looks like _Voluptas_
(Pleasure) and _Luxuries_ (Wantonness), and her hair is like that of
_Ira_ (Wrath), in the picture in Arthur's Hall. O Felicia! Felicia! My
beautiful darling! Why do you stretch out your arms so longingly
towards me? I am coming, I am coming. And now let me tell you, Herr
Elias," he continued, again laying hold of the pale merchant, "you
will never see me in your damned office again. What do I care for
your cursed ledgers and day-books? I am a painter, ay, and a good
painter too. Berklinger is my master, my father, my all, and you are
nothing--nothing at all." And therewith he ga