Unfinished Portraits Part 25

"Where to?"

He hesitated. "You will see. I cannot tell you--now. But I need you--with the picture." He motioned toward it.

She eyed him grimly for a second. Then she touched a bell.

The wooden butler appeared. "Send Wilhelm," she commanded.

Half an hour later the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer was handing a bundled figure into the closed carriage that stood before the gate. A huge, oblong package rested against a lamp-post beside him, and near it stood the Fraulein Marie, rosy and shy. The young man turned to her with a swift gesture.

"Come," he said.

He placed her beside her grandmother, and watched carefully while the heavy parcel was lifted to the top of the carriage. With an injunction to the driver for its safety, he turned to spring into the carriage.

The voice of the baroness, from m.u.f.fled folds, arrested him.

"You will ride outside with the picture," it said. "I do not trust it to a driver."

With a bow he slammed the carriage door and mounted the box. In another minute the Herr Professor Doctor Holtzenschuer was driving rapidly through the streets of Munich, on the outside of a common hack, a clumsy parcel balanced awkwardly on his stiff shoulders.

From the windows below, on either side, a face looked out upon the flying streets--a fairy with gentle eyes and a crone with toothless smile.

"The Pinakothek!" grumbled the old woman. "Does he think any one at the Pinakothek knows more of Albrecht Durer than Henriette von Herkomer?"

She sniffed a little and drew her folds about her.

Past the Old Pinakothek rolled the flying carriage--on past the New Pinakothek. An old face peered out upon the marble walls, wistful and suspicious. A ma.s.s of buildings loomed in view.

"The university," she muttered under her breath. "Some upstart Herr Professor--to tell _me_ of Albrecht Durer! Fool--fool!" She croaked softly in her throat.

"The Herr Doctor is a learned man, grandmamma--and a gentleman!" said a soft voice beside her.

"A gentleman can be a fool!" returned the old woman tartly. "What building is this?"

The carriage had stopped before a low, square doorway.

"It is the chemistry laboratory, grandmamma," said the girl timidly.

The old woman leaned forward, gray with rage, pulling at the closed door. "Chemistry lab--" Her breath came in pants. "He will--destroy--burn--melt it!" Four men lifted down the huge parcel from the carriage and turned toward the stone door. "Stop!" she gestured wildly to them.

The door flew open. The young scientist stood before her, bowing and smiling. She shook a knotted finger at him. "Stop those men!" she cried sternly.

At a gesture the men waited. She descended from the carriage, shaking and suspicious, her cane tapping the pavement before her. The Fraulein Marie leaped lightly down after her. Her hand had rested for a moment on the young man's sleeve. A white rose trembled in the fingers. His face glowed.

"Is your Highness ready?" he asked. He had moved to the old woman's side.

She was standing, one hand on the wrapped parcel, the other on her stout cane, peering suspiciously ahead.

"Is your Highness ready?" he repeated.

"Go on," she said briefly.

Four men were in the hall when they entered--the director of the Old Pinakothek, the artist Adrian Kauffmann, the president of the university, and a young man with a scared, helpful face, who proved to be a laboratory a.s.sistant.

"They are your witnesses," murmured the young man in her ear.

She greeted them stiffly, her eyes on the precious parcel. Swiftly the wrappings were undone, and the picture lifted to a huge easel across the room. The light fell full upon it.

The witnesses moved forward in a body, silent. The old face watching them relaxed. She smiled grimly.

"Is it a Durer?" she demanded. She was standing behind them.

They started, looking at her doubtfully. The artist shrugged his shoulders. He stepped back a little. The director shook his head with a sigh. "Who can tell?" he said softly. "The marks----"

The baroness's eyes glowed dangerously. "I did not suppose you could tell," she said curtly.

The young scientist interposed. "It is a case for science," he said quickly. "You shall see--the Roentgen rays will tell. The shutters--Berthold."

The a.s.sistant closed them, one by one, the heavy wooden shutters. A last block of light rested on the shadowy picture. A last shutter swung into place. They waited--in darkness. Some one breathed quickly, with soft, panting breath. Slowly a light emerged through the dark. The great picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed. Light pierced it till it shone with strokes of brushes. Deeply and slowly in the bluish patina, at the edge of the flowing locks, on the shoulder of the Christ, a glimmer of shadow traced itself, faintly and unmistakably.

Confused murmurs ran through the darkness--the voice of the director--a woman's breath.

"Ready, Berthold." It was the voice of the Herr Doctor.

There was a little hiss, a blinding flash of light, the click of a camera, and blackness again.

A shutter flew open.

In the square of light an old woman groped toward the picture. Her knotted hands were lifted to it.

Close at hand, a camera tucked under his arm, the laboratory a.s.sistant stood--on his round, practical face the happy look of successful experiment.

A little distance away the Herr Professor Doctor moved quickly. The one with the rose looked up.

High above them all--on the great easel, struck by a ray of light from the shutter--the Durer Face of Sorrow--out of its four hundred years--looked forth and waited in the modern world.