It was a moment of cruel silence.
The position was humiliating. With his clothes scattered about the room; with the paint still unwashed from his face; with his room in disorder;—swords, playbills, theatrical dresses, a wig, a rouge-pot, and washing-stand, lying about; himself in the undignified attitude of drawing on his stockings;—all combined to present the miserable and prosaic side of his profession to the angry glance of an incensed parent.
“So!” said the old man, “these are your theological studies! This is the end of all my care! you have disobeyed me. You have destroyed all my hopes, and gone upon the stage, for which you well know my detestation. I find you thus!”
Franz could make no answer.
“While I fondly believed you still at the university, pursuing an honourable career—a career useful to mankind and honourable to yourself—you were like a runaway apprentice taking to this odious life.”
“But, sir,—I have succeeded!”
“So much the worse!”
“Is not that my excuse?”
“No; it is your condemnation.”
“Surely, father, it proves that I have chosen right. It proves I have a vocation for the stage?”