“I hope you do not misunderstand me,” said the old man. “You must know me well enough to believe that no one would more rejoice in your success—that to no one should I be so proud to transmit my laurel crown, if it were not lined with iron, which brands the forehead with disgrace. I am growing old, and am soon about to leave the stage for ever: to whom could I so fitly leave the inheritance of my renown, did I not perceive that it would entail lasting misery upon him, as it has entailed it upon me? No, no, you must relinquish this boyish notion,—you shall marry Bertha Schmidt, and quit the stage for ever.”
“Oh, do not ask it!”
“I do more than ask it—I command!”
“Do not—dear father—do not force me to disobey you.”
“You—you will not leave the stage?”
“I—I cannot! It would be hypocrisy in me to pretend it. I have a passion for the stage; and whether that passion lead me to happiness or to ruin, I must gratify it.”
“And think you Bertha will marry an actor?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Are you indifferent to that?”
“Why—the truth is—I cannot marry her.”