Unfinished Portraits Part 22

He laughed scornfully.

His companion's face flushed. A swift look came into the eyes.

The other held out a deprecating hand. "I didn't mean it," he said.

"Don't be angry."

The flush faded. The artist turned to the easel, taking up a brush, as if to seek in work a vent for his disturbed thought.

"You'll spoil it!" said Pirkheimer quickly.

"I shall finish it," replied Durer, without looking up.

The other moved restlessly about. "Well ... I must go. Good-by, Durer."

He came and stood by the easel, holding out his hand.

The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. "Good-by, my friend." He held out his hand frankly.

Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're friends?" he said.

"Always."

"And you will never want--if I can help you."

"Never!" The tone was hearty and proud.

Pirkheimer turned away with a look of contentment. "I shall hold you to it," he said. "It is a promise."

"I shall hold you to it," laughed Durer.

When the door had closed, he stood looking down at the picture. He moved once or twice across the room. Then he stopped before a little brazier, looking at it hesitatingly. He bent over and lighted the coals in the basin. He blew them with a tiny bellows till they glowed. Then he placed a pan above them and threw into it lumps of brownish stuff. When the mixture was melted, he carried it across to the easel and dipped a large brush into it thoughtfully. He drew it across the canvas. The track behind it glowed and deepened in the dim light. Slowly the picture mellowed under it. A look of sweet satisfaction hovered about the artist's lips as he worked. The liquid in the pan lessened and his brush moved more slowly. The mixture had deepened in tint and thickened.

Wherever the brush rested a deep, luminous color sprang to meet it. It moved swiftly across the monogram--and paused. The artist peered forward uncertainly. The letters lay erased in the dim light. With another stroke of the brush--and another--they were gone forever.

The smile of satisfaction deepened on his lips. It was not conceit, nor humility, nor pride. One could not have named the sweetness that hovered in it--hauntingly.

He laid down the brush with a quick breath and sat gazing at the picture. It returned the gentle, inevitable look. He raised a finger to the portrait, speaking softly. "It is Albrecht Durer--his work," he said under his breath. "None but a fool can mistake it. It shall speak for him forever."

II

For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on the floor of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer had demanded his treasure--sometimes with jests, and sometimes with threats. But the picture had remained unmoved against the wall.

Journeys to Italy and to the Netherlands had intervened. Pirkheimer's velvet purse had been dipped into again and again. Commissions without number had been executed for him--rings and stones and tapestries, carvings and stag-antlers, and cups and silks and velvet--till the Pirkheimer mansion glowed with color from the South and delicate workmanship from the North. Other pictures from Durer's brush adorned its walls--grotesque monks and gentle Virgins. But the Face bided its time against the wall.

To-day--for the first time in twenty-five years--the Face of the Christ was turned to the light. The hand that drew it from its place had not the supple fingers of the painter. Those fingers, stiffened and white, lay upon a quiet breast--outside the city wall.

The funeral cortege had trotted briskly back, and Agnes Durer had come directly to the studio, with its low, arched window, to take account of her possessions. It was all hers--the money the artist had toiled to leave her, the work that had shortened life, and the thousand Rhenish guldens in the hands of the most worthy Rath; the pictures and copperplates, the books he had written and the quaint curios he had loved--they were all hers, except, perhaps, the copperplates for Andreas. Her level glance swept them as she crossed to the canvas against the wall and lifted it to a place on the easel. She had often begged him to sell the picture. It was large and would bring a good price. Her eyes surveyed it with satisfaction. A look of dismay crossed the smooth face. She leaned forward and searched the picture eagerly.

The dismay deepened to anger. He had neglected to sign it! She knew well the value of the tiny monogram that marked the canvases about her. A sound clicked in her throat. She reached out her white hand to a brush on the bench beside her. There would be no wrong done. It was Albrecht's work--his best work. Her eyes studied the modelling of the delicate, strong face--the Christ face--Albrecht's face--at thirty-three.... Had he looked like that? She stared at it vaguely. She moved away, looking about her for a bit of color. She found it and came again to the easel.

She reached out her hand for the brush. A slip of paper tucked beneath the canvas caught her eye. She drew it out slowly, unfolding it with curious fingers. "This picture of the Christ is the sole property of my dear and honored friend, the Herr Willibald Pirkheimer. I have given it to him and his heirs to have and to hold forever. Signed by me, this day, June 8, 1503, in my home in Nurnberg, 15 Zisselstra.s.se, Albrecht Durer."

She crushed the paper in firm fingers. A door had opened behind her. The discreet servant, in mourning garments, with downcast, reddened eyes, waited. "His Highness the Herr Pirkheimer is below, my lady."

For a moment she hesitated. Then her fingers opened on the bit of paper. It fluttered to the table and lay full in sight. She looked at it with her thin smile. "Ask Herr Pirkheimer to ascend to the studio. I shall receive him here," she said.

He entered facing the easel. With an exclamation he sprang forward. He laid a hand on the canvas. The small eyes blinked at her.

She returned the look coldly.

"It is mine!" he said.

She inclined her head, with a stately gesture, to the open paper on the table beside her.

He seized it in trembling fingers. He shook it toward her. "It is mine.

You see--it is mine!"

"It is yours, Herr Pirkheimer." She spoke with level coolness. "I had read the paper."

With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned again to the canvas. A smothered oath broke from his lips. He leaned forward, incredulous. His round eyes, bulging and blue, searched every corner. They fell on the wet brush and bit of color. He turned on her fiercely. "Jezebel!" he hissed, "you have painted it out. I saw him sign it--years ago--twenty-five years!"

She smiled serenely. "It may have been some other one," she said sweetly. Her glance took in the scattered canvases.

He shook his head savagely. "I will have no other," he shouted; "I should know it in a thousand!"

"Very well." Her voice was as tranquil as her face. "Shall I have it sent to the house of the honored Herr Pirkheimer?"

He glared at her. "I take it with me," he said. "I do not trust it out of sight."

She bowed in acquiescence. Standing in her widow's garments, with downcast eyes and gentle resignation, she waited his withdrawal.

He eyed her curiously. The years had touched her lightly. There were the same plump features, the same surface eyes, and light, abundant bands of hair. He heaved a round sigh. He thought of the worn face outside the city wall. He gathered the canvas under his arm, glaring about the low room. "There was a pair of antlers," he muttered. "They might go in my collection. You will want to sell them."

The downcast eyes did not leave the floor. "They are sold," she said, "to Herr Umstatter." A little smile played about the thin lips.

"Sold! Already!" The round eyes bulged at her. "My G.o.d!" he shouted fiercely, "you would sell his very soul, if he had left it where you could!"

She raised the blue eyes and regarded him calmly. "The estate is without condition," she said.

He groaned as he backed toward the door. The canvas was hugged under his arm. At the door he paused, looking back over the room. His small eyes winked fast, and the loose mouth trembled.

"He was a great man, Agnes," he said gently. "We must keep it clean--the name of Durer."

She looked up with a little gesture of dismissal. "It is I who bear the name," she said coldly.

When he was gone she glanced about the room. She went over to a pile of canvases and turned them rapidly to the light. Each one that bore the significant monogram she set aside with a look of possession. She came at last to the one she was searching. It was a small canvas--a Sodom and Gomorrah. She studied the details slowly. It was not signed. She gave a little breath of satisfaction, and took up the brush from the bench. She remembered well the day Albrecht brought it home, and his childish delight in it. It was one of Joachim Patenir's. Albrecht had given a Christ head of his own in exchange for it. The brush in her fingers trembled a little. It inserted the wide-spreading A beneath Lot's flying legs, and overtraced it with a delicate D. She paused a moment in thought. Then she raised her head and painted in, with swift, decisive strokes, high up in one corner of the picture, a date. It was a safe date--1511--the year he painted his Holy Trinity. There would be no one to question it.

She sat back, looking her satisfaction.