This much is to be said for fathers who object to their sons following their own careers: the struggles by which they have won their way, the sorrows which have been forced upon them, the dangers they have escaped—these are all so vividly present to their minds, that they believe them inseparable from the career. Who shall say that another will escape these perils? All the delight, all the rapture of hope and of success are forgotten, or else weigh but as a feather in the scale against these perils. A father says:— “It is true I escaped; but I was fortunate. Besides, I had genius,—I had rectitude,—I had strength of will. My poor boy, (and fathers are apt to look with a sort of compassion on their children: is it because the children have, from infancy upwards, looked to them for pity and protection?)—my poor boy will not be able to buffet with the world as I did! He will be led away by temptations; he will succumb beneath adversity!” In proportion to the precariousness of the profession is the reluctance of the parent. Poets never wish their sons to be poets; certainly not to trust to poetry for their livelihood. Nor do artists desire their sons to be artists. Actors almost universally shudder at the idea of their children becoming actors. So that Schoenlein’s remonstrances would have been vehement, even had he not been tormented with jealousy. But, from the moment Franz perceived the real state of his father’s mind, all compunction vanished. No arguments could have made him quit the stage; but now he felt his father’s arguments to be insults. “I hope you do not misunderstand me,” said the old man. “You must know me well enough to believe that no one would more rejoice in your success—that to no one should I be so proud to transmit my laurel crown, if it were not lined with iron, which brands the forehead with disgrace. I am growing old, and am soon about to leave the stage for ever: to whom could I so fitly leave the inheritance of my renown, did I not perceive that it would entail lasting misery upon him, as it has entailed it upon me? No, no, you must relinquish this boyish notion,—you shall marry Bertha Schmidt, and quit the stage for ever.” “Oh, do not ask it!” “I do more than ask it—I command!” “Do not—dear father—do not force me to disobey you.” “You—you will _not_ leave the stage?” “I—I cannot! It would be hypocrisy in me to pretend it. I have a passion for the stage; and whether that passion lead me to happiness or to ruin, I _must_ gratify it.” “And think you Bertha will marry an actor?” “Perhaps not.” “Are you indifferent to that?” “Why—the truth is—I cannot marry her.” “You cannot? You shall!” “I love another!” “You love another!” angrily exclaimed his father; and then adding, with a sneer— “Some _actress_, I presume!” Franz coloured. “It _is_ so,” said his father. “Old Clara Kritisch, I shouldn’t wonder!”