Upon this same forenoon Professor Wehlau was sitting at his writing-table in his study, where, for a wonder, he was not at work, but was poring over a newspaper which seemed to contain something that annoyed him greatly; there was a black cloud upon his brow.
The newspaper, the best and most brilliantly conducted in the capital, did, in fact, contain a long article concerning 'Saint Michael,' the first important work of a young artist, a pupil of Professor Walter, which was to be publicly exhibited in a few days. The critic, who had seen it on the easel, spoke of it with enthusiastic admiration, and did not fail to inform the public that the picture was already sold. It was destined for the pilgrimage church of Saint Michael, where it was to be installed the ensuing week with due solemnity. This last announcement was too much for the Professor's equanimity,--he fairly gnashed his teeth.
"Why, this is better and better!" he growled. "If they are already beginning to turn the lad's head in this fashion, there will be no doing anything with him. 'Magnificent composition, brilliant execution, talent of the highest order justifying the most extravagant expectations'! Oh, yes, here it comes again; I know the jargon! 'The talented son of a distinguished father.' The deuce take these admirers, and Hans too, and Michael into the bargain!"
He threw the sheet aside and began to pace to and fro. Wehlau was one of those who cannot endure to be in the wrong. He would rather have maintained that white was black than have confessed that his eye, which was wont to see so clearly in scientific affairs, had been utterly deceived with regard to his own son. Hans was and must remain a good-for-naught, who, since he had declined to become his father's pupil and successor, was fit for no grave pursuit in life. He was wedded to this opinion, and he clung to it with all the obstinacy of his character. Had the article denounced his son as a dauber he would have triumphed. But it called him a genius, and this he looked upon as an insult, since it proved himself in the wrong.
"Does the man hope to persuade me that the boy is good for something?" he soliloquized, angrily. "I say it is false! The lad is a fool,--a booby, who with his face and his amiability has bribed the critic as he bribes everybody. He do anything of any consequence! He'll not impose upon me; I'll never set foot in his studio, nor look at one of his pictures, although ten critics should praise them and twenty countesses buy them!"
He raised his hand as if to make a solemn vow, when suddenly the door was opened, and the old gardener, who likewise did duty in the studio as Hans's servant, of course without any permission from the Professor, made his appearance.
"What is the matter?" snarled Wehlau, in the worst of humours. "You know, Anton, that I am not to be disturbed in my study. What do you want?"
"Excuse me, Herr Professor," said the old man in evident distress. "I have just come from the studio,--from the young master."
"That's no excuse; I'll have no such interruptions in future. Do you hear?"
"But, Herr Professor, the young master is so ill,--so very ill,--I thought he would die in my arms!"