Crushed and humiliated, I swallowed the various teas which my nurse steeped for me one after another.  But with each cup I had to listen to an instructive story about the depravity of actors.  In order to lead me back from the way of the transgressors to the path of virtue, Frau Eberlein painted with glowing colors; one story in particular, in which occurred three bottles of punch-essence never paid for, made a deep impression on me.  But Frau Eberlein’s anecdotes failed to make me change my resolves.

Soon after, something very serious happened.  Lipp’s father, the doorkeeper of the theatre, after drinking heavily, fell down lifeless by the card-table in the White Horse; and my friend, in consequence of this misfortune, came under the control of a cold-hearted guardian, who had as little comprehension of the dramatic art as Frau Eberlein.  Lipp was given over to a house-painter, who, invested with extended authority, took the unfortunate fellow as an apprentice.

Lipp was inconsolable at the change in his lot.  The smile disappeared from his face, and I too felt melancholy when I saw him going along the street in his paint-bespattered clothes, the picture of despair.

One day I met the poor fellow outside the city gate, where the last houses stand, painting a garden fence with an arsenic-green color.  “My good friend,” he said, with a melancholy smile, “I cannot give you my hand, for there is paint on it; but we are just the same as ever.”  Then he spoke of his disappointed hopes.  “But,” he continued, “because they are deferred, they are not put off for ever, and these clouds” (by this he referred to his present apprenticeship as painter) “will pass away.  The time will come—­I say no more about it; but the time will come.”  Here Lipp stopped speaking and dipped his brush in the paint-pot, for his master was coming around the corner of the house.

One day Lipp disappeared.  The authorities did everything in their power to find him, but in vain; and since, at that time, the river, on which the city stood, had overflowed its banks, it was decided that Lipp had perished.  The only person who did not share in this opinion was myself.  I had a firm conviction that he had gone out into the wide world to seek his fortune, and that some day he would turn up again as a celebrated artist and a successful man.  But year after year passed by and nothing was heard of Lipp.

I had entered upon my fifteenth year, was reading Virgil and Xenophon, and could enumerate the causes which brought the Roman empire to ruin.  But in the midst of my classical studies I did not lose sight of the real aim of my life, the dramatic art; and as the stage had been closed to me since my first appearance, I studied in my own room the roles in which I hoped to shine later.  Then I had already tried my skill as a dramatic author, and in my writing-desk lay concealed a finished tragedy.  It was entitled “Pharaoh.”  In it occurred the seven plagues of Egypt and the miracles of Moses; but Pharaoh’s destruction in the Red Sea formed the finale from which I promised myself the most brilliant success.