“Look at me!” he said, suddenly pausing in the angry walk which he was taking up and down the room. “Have _I_ not been successful? have _I_ not been flattered, envied? have _I_ not known what it is to be a great tragedian, to dictate terms to managers, to sway audiences? Have _I_ not known all this? And yet, since you can remember me, have you ever seen me happy? Is not my life an example? Does not my whole life cry out to you, Beware! Will you not profit by the bitter lessons of my experience?” “But, my dear father, you forget one thing: you have always looked upon the profession with disgust. I do not.” “You will learn to do so.” “I cannot believe it. You are the only actor in Germany who thinks so. Besides, I have, as it seems to me, a real vocation.—You may sneer, but a vocation is necessary in this as in all other professions. It is quite clear that I have none for theology. I must get my bread somehow.” “Your bread? Franz, listen to me. So fixed is my opinion, that if you will obey me, from this time forward you shall have the whole of my earnings. I have already saved enough to satisfy my own humble wants. I will devote every shilling to furthering and maintaining you in any profession you choose to select. You shall not say that necessity made you—as it has made _me_—an actor.” “I cannot accept such a sacrifice.” “It is none. I would sacrifice every thing rather than see you on the stage! Besides, in another year or two you may make a rich marriage. I have already agreed with our old friend Schmidt, that you should be united to his daughter Bertha, and her dowry will be very large.” A deep, deep blush overspread Franz’s face, which was succeeded by a deathlike paleness, as his father mentioned marriage. “How can I ever break my marriage to him!” was his mental exclamation. “Will you promise me?” “I cannot. Believe me, it distresses me thus to disobey you, but I cannot quit the stage.” “I have failed to convince you then? You misapprehend my motives. You think, perhaps”—and here an affected laugh of irony gave tenfold force to the words—“that I am jealous of you?” “Oh, father!” exclaimed Franz. But his father’s words and tone had, as in a flash of light, suddenly revealed the real feeling in his heart: he _was_ jealous, and his son perceived it.