ht! And, now, give me something to drink!"

Schnetz filled his glass for him, which he drained at one draught as if
he were exhausted by his long oration. A painful silence had ensued;
the depreciatory tone in which the words had been spoken had depressed
even those who were of Rossel's way of thinking. At length a mild and
somewhat husky voice was heard proceeding from the upper end of the
table, and they saw that old Schoepf had taken upon himself to defend
the cause of the party attacked.

"You are undoubtedly right in the main, Herr Rossel," said he. "In
the great epochs of art--among the Greeks, and the Italians of the
_cinque-cento_--mind and Nature were inseparably united. But,
unfortunately, they have quarreled since then, and it is quite as rare
to find a painter of the so-called fleshly school who knows how to give
soul to his form as it is to find a poet among draughtsmen who succeeds
perfectly in incorporating his conceptions. In fact it is a period of
extremes, of specialties, and of strife. But is not strife the father
of things? Shall we not hope that from this chaos a new and beautiful
world will crystallize? And, until then, should we not give every one a
chance who fights with honest weapons and open visor? What if there are
artists who have more to say than can be shown? Who cannot look upon
their inner life in such a spirit of tranquil beauty, but see in it a
tragedy which must work itself out in discords? And, indeed, the life
of man, as it is to-day, has passed out of the idyllic stage; on every
side we see intellect leading the van, and enjoyment and pleasure
limping after. An art that shows no traces of this, would that still be
_our_ art?"

"Let it be whatever it liked," cried Fat Rossel, leisurely rising; "it
would be my art at all events. But, naturally, that need matter little
to you. And by the way--I have not once shaken hands with you this
evening, my lord and creator. I do so now, and at the same time I thank
you for so bravely dragging my excellent godfather Kohle from out the
fray. He himself likes to keep his best thoughts in his own breast,
unless he has a chance to sketch them on a sheet of paper. And here in
Paradise no one ought to fall upon his fellow-man in the murderous
fashion that I just did. Kohle, I esteem you. You are a character, and
have the courage of your convictions, in defiance of all the lusts of
the flesh. I thank you, especially, for that poem of Hoelderlin's, th