"It has proved as fortunate for him as for me that help came in time," replied Gotthold.
He supported his head on his left hand, and mechanically drew arabesques on a sheet of paper that lay before him, while he continued in a lower tone:
"And it was also quite time for me. For two years in Munich I had already devoted every hour and moment I could spare from the labor of earning a livelihood, to art, beloved art, which is so infinitely coy to a tyro, especially one who is compelled to begin after his one-and-twentieth year. My strength was almost exhausted; I had seen the last star of hope disappear; nothing bound me to life except a sort of defiance of a fate which I thought I had not deserved, and the shame of appearing to rush out of this world like a simpleton, in the eyes of those who had aided me to live. How distinctly I remember the hour! I had returned to my little attic room towards nightfall, from the studio of a famous artist to which an acquaintance had procured me admittance, with a soul filled to overflowing with the mighty impressions produced by works of the greatest genius, and yet utterly exhausted, for I had resolved a few days before to give up no more lessons, even if I starved, and I was almost starving. I placed myself before my easel, but the colors blended into one confused mass. The palette fell from my hand; I staggered to the table to pour out a glass of water, and--there lay the letter which informed me that I had been made the heir of a relative whom I had never seen, and was the possessor of a fortune which, at a casual estimation, amounted to more than a hundred thousand thalers. What was more natural than that in this wonderful moment I should make the vow: this shall belong to Art, and to you only so far as you are an artist."
"Nothing is more natural and simple," said Herr Wollnow; "but that you should have kept the oath, and I know you have done so, is--as we children of Adam are now constituted--not quite so natural and simple. But now, as the business matters are settled, we will, if agreeable to you, talk more comfortably over a glass of wine."
Herr Wollnow opened the door of a spacious apartment handsomely furnished as a half dining, half sitting room, and invited his guest to take a seat at the table, which was covered with a snow-white cloth, and furnished with all sorts of dainties served in valuable china, and several bottles of wine. As Gotthold sat down, his eyes wandered over several large and small oil paintings which were skilfuly arranged upon the walls.
"Pardon an artist's curiosity," said he.
"I understand little or nothing of your beautiful art," replied Herr Wollnow, as he fastened a napkin under his fat chin; "but my wife is a great amateur, and, as she sometimes persuades herself, a connoisseur. You must give her the pleasure of showing you her treasures. I am afraid the little collection will not find much favor in your eyes, with the exception of one picture, which I also consider a masterpiece, and which is greatly admired by all who see it."
Gotthold would gladly have gone nearer to the paintings; one of them which hung at some little distance, seemed strangely familiar, but Herr Wollnow had already filled the green glasses with odorous Rhine wine, and a robust elderly woman came noisily in with a platter of freshly broiled fish in her red hands.
"Stine says that you were always particularly fond of flounders," said Herr Wollnow, "and so she would not give up the pleasure of offering you your favorite dish herself."
Gotthold looked up at the stout figure, and instantly recognized good Stine Lachmund, who, during his boyhood, had almost kept the house at Dollan in the place of its invalid mistress, and after her death managed affairs entirely alone, yet had always maintained a good understanding with the boys and all the world, in spite of the many difficulties of her position.