"I desire no one's opinion. I know perfectly well myself what the tragedy is worth. Shall I give occasion to have it said that I needed the assistance of others to enable me to complete my work? And then to have it reported that I composed dramas that were always rejected! No, I will not acknowledge a work that has met with no applause; neither my brother professors nor my students must hear of it." The handle of the door was turned, and through the opening smiled another opening,--Elsa's large mouth. When she saw the gloom overspreading her brother's countenance, her snub-nose, too, made its appearance, and, finally, her entire lovely person. She wore a white apron with a bib, calico over-sleeves, and had one pencil in her hand and another behind her right ear. "Your voices disturbed me at my work. Why contend thus? You know that my exquisite fancies are scared away, like timid birds, by the slightest noise." "It is a fine time to consider your nonsense, when such a work as my 'Penthesilea' has been returned to its author as 'unserviceable!'" thundered her brother. "Heavens!" cried Elsa in dismay. "Penthesilea rejected by W----! Oh, who would have thought it! I so revered that man! My poor brother, this is hard! But, brother, dear Edmund, do not be too much depressed! Oh, I feel with you entirely. Any one who knows as well as I do what it is to have works rejected, can understand your pain. And what says my poor Ulrika? She looks so disappointed." "Oh, you need not pity her!" observed Herbert bitterly. "Her husband's incapacity alone, not his misfortune, troubles her." Frau Herbert turned her face towards the window, as if she had not heard him. "Oh, you must forgive her, brother dear--she has never done anything but translate. She cannot know a poet's finer feeling." At this disparaging remark, Frau Herbert looked calmly and gravely at Elsa. "And yet my unpretending translations for the periodicals supply us with the only means upon which we can rely, apart from Edmund's salary and the small interest of my property. That is because I never attempt what lies beyond my reach. No undertaking, however humble, that keeps pace with one's ability, can fail to produce some fruit, small though it may be." Elsa turned away, rather taken aback by this turn of the conversation, and her brother muttered, "Of course this is the sequel to the fine talk about attempting and failing." Elsa threw herself down upon a cushion at his feet, in Clärchen's attitude before Egmont, patted his smoothly shaven cheeks, and taking the thick manuscript out of his hand, pressed it to her bosom, saying, "Take comfort, my poet. Your 'Penthesilea' must always live! Here,--here,--and in the hearts of all. Print it, and publish it as a dramatic poem. It will find readers among the most intellectual people of the country."