Everything was now ready for departure; Ulrich again packed his belongings in the studio, but with very different feelings from the first time.

He was a man, he now knew what the right “word” was, life lay open before him, and the paradise of Art was about to unclose its gates.

The studies he had finished in Madrid aroused his compassion; in Italy he would first really begin to become an artist:  there work must bring him what it had here denied:  satisfaction, success!  Gay as a boy, half frantic with joy, happiness and expectation, he crushed the sketches, which seemed to him too miserable, into the waste-paper basket with a maul-stick.

During this work of destruction, Isabella entered the room.

She was now sixteen.  Her figure had developed early, but remained petite.  Large, deep, earnest eyes looked forth from the little round face, and the fresh, tiny mouth could not help pleasing everyone.  Her head now reached only to Ulrich’s breast, and if he had always treated her like a dear, sensible, clever child, her small stature had certainly been somewhat to blame for it.  To-day she was paler than usual and her features were so grave, that the young man asked her in surprise, yet full of sympathy: 

“What is the matter, little one?  Are you not well?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, quickly, “only I must talk with you once more alone.”

“Do you wish to hear my confession, Belita?”

“Cease jesting now.  I am no longer a child.  My heart aches, and I must not conceal the cause.”

“Speak, speak!  How you look!  One might really be alarmed.”

“If I only can!  No one here tells you the truth; but I—­I love you; so I will do it, ere it is too late.  Don’t interrupt me now, or I shall lose courage, and I will, I must speak.”

“My studies lately have not pleased you; nor me either.  Your father....”

“He has led you in false paths, and now you are going to Italy, and when you see what the greatest artists have created, you will wish to imitate them immediately and forget Meister Moor’s lessons.  I know you, Ulrich, I know it!  But I also know something else, and it must now be said frankly.  If you allow yourself to be led on to paint pictures, if you do not submit to again become a modest pupil, and honestly torment yourself with studying, you will make no progress, you will never again accomplish a portrait like the one in the old days, like your Sophonisba.  You will then be no great artist and you can, you must become one.”

“I will, Belita, I will!”

“Well, well; but first be a pupil!  If I were in your place, I would, for aught I care, go to Venice and look about me, but from there I would ride to Flanders, to Moor, to the master.”