The mere number of the figures occupied the attention for a long time; then followed all sorts of criticism, which the designer bore without contradiction--no one knew whether from defenselessness or secret obstinacy. For Jansen's opinion only did he watch with eagerness, who, after his usual fashion, allowed the others to talk, while he merely pointed now and then with an eloquent finger to some defective spot. The only one who had remained quietly seated, and who had looked at the sheet across the table and down the whole length of the hall, through a little ivory opera-glass, was Edward. At length Rosenbusch, whose high tenor had rung out in enthusiastic expressions of praise above all the confusion of voices, turned to him. "What!" he cried, in a hearty tone of challenge, "will not the blessed gods rouse themselves this once from their reclining-place, and cast a gracious look upon this work of a mortal?" "Pardon me, my dear Rosebud," replied Fat Rossel, lowering his voice so that he should not be heard by Kohle; "you know I like to have what is beautiful come to me, instead of having to run painfully after it; and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel made the most profound impression upon me, because a man can only enjoy it thoroughly lying on his back. Concerning this last heaven-towering monument of thought, that my godfather has set up"--for so he had persisted in calling him ever since he had aptly, though ironically, christened one of his unnamed, thoughtful drawings, and Kohle had accepted the title in sober earnest--"concerning this I am not gymnast enough to follow his motives up seven stories high without growing giddy. However, when you have all finished, I will draw up a chair in front of it and go to work; or, to tell the truth, I should prefer to do it tomorrow alone with him." "I should be very glad, Rossel, if I might bring you the sketch to-morrow," stammered the pale man, who had probably overheard the scoffing words, and had blushed deeply. "Would you really like it, godfather?" said Edward, with a shake of the head. "No, my good friend, if my heresies have reached your ears after all, let us come to an honorable understanding; and here in Paradise, at all events, let us wear no cloaks. You know that all paintings that represent thought make my head ache; that, to my mind, a single thoughtless Venus of Titian outweighs a whole Olympus full of spiritual motives, such as swarm about like ants over your big pound-cake of an allegorical mountain. Yes, we are old antipodes, my dear godfather; which fact, by-the-way, does not lessen our friendship. On the contrary, when I see how you and your creations are losing flesh through pure intellect, I feel a hearty compassion mingled with my esteem. You should try a milk-cure, my good godfather, at the full breasts of our old mother Nature; you should follow the flesh for a year or so, instead of high ideas--"