In such relationship did this young man stand to the life of his country and his time. With unflinching eye he listened to its taunt:
"Artist, create at your peril! You may starve, for all me, until you win a reputation that is a commercial asset. After which, having despised you, I will do my best to corrupt you by rewards and flatteries gratifying to my intellectual snobbery."
Such were the terms. This youth, uncertain of his own powers, accepted them with quiet courage and imperturbable good humor. Such was the secret of that look of settled purpose so intriguing on a face so young, and such the secret of the fire which smouldered behind those dark eyes. He was prepared for a siege. He was ready to go to the mat.
It had taken three generations—son, sire, and grand-sire—to make this stand against the all-devouring maw of American commercialism: three generations to conquer and produce an artist. And mindful of his end I ask myself whether they did conquer. We shall see.
Midnight clanked from the city clocks.
"Gosh!" said he, "is it as late as that?" He stood up and knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the red bricks of the hearth. "By the way, I don't know your name."
I told him.
"Mine," said he, "is Fred Demmler."
Explaining that I already had a friend named Fred I asked if he had any objection to being called Fritz.
"None whatever."