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THE 
 
 BEING THAT OF 
 
 Albert 2)urcr. 
 
 ®ran»lateTJ from tl)e ffierman of 
 ^ SLeopolTr Sc|)efer, 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. J. R. STODART. 
 
 BSPSINTSD FROM THS LONDON SDITIOH. 
 
 BOSTON AND CAMBRIDGE: 
 JAMES MUNROE & COMPANY. 
 
 MDCCCXLIX. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the j'ear 1848, by 
 
 JAMES MUNROE & CO., 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 Add to Lib. 
 GIFT 
 
 >. FLAGO A.WD W. H. WARDWELL, 
 
 STSSSOTTPSRS AND PEIJJTKRS. 
 
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 The Novels of Schefer are not much 
 known in this country, nor have any 
 of them, so far as I know, been trans- 
 lated into English. The following", 
 after the manner of Sir Walter Scott's 
 " Tales of my Landlord," purports to 
 be an old manuscript intrusted by Al- 
 bert Durer on his deathbed to his friend 
 Pirkheimer, with instructions that it 
 should be given to the world when all 
 those to whom its contents might 
 cause pain, were no more. The idea 
 may have been suggested to the au- 
 thor by the words of DUrer himself; 
 for he concludes an account of the 
 
IV 
 
 death of his father by saying — " As I 
 have described at length in another 
 book." Of this book, only one torn 
 leaf was found, marked page 19. It is 
 written in very old German, and con- 
 tains a short account of the death of 
 his father and mother ; of a remark- 
 able event which happened in the 
 year 1503, and which he designates 
 as " the greatest miracle I ever saw in 
 all my life," when suddenly the figure 
 of the cross was seen on the persons 
 of many individuals at the same time, 
 especially on children ; that on ac- 
 count of its singularity he had made a 
 drawing of one which appeared on his 
 own maid-servant Susanna, and which 
 so terrified her that she wept and la- 
 mented, thinking it would be the cause 
 of her death ; of having seen a comet 
 
in the heavens ; and also how he had 
 been enabled to pay all his debts con- 
 tracted in Venice, besides purchasing 
 many articles of furniture, new dresses, 
 and various domestic utensils, with a 
 large sum of money he had received 
 for one of his works ; — all quite in ac- 
 cordance with the events narrated in 
 the following pages. 
 
 This fragment, together with a jour- 
 nal of his travels in the Netherlands 
 with his wife and Susanna, letters to 
 Pirkheimer and other friends, and va- 
 rious interesting details, is given in a 
 small volume published in 1828 by 
 Dr. Friedrich Campe, a citizen of 
 Niirnberg, entitled "Relics of Albert 
 DUrer." By it I find that the leading 
 facts in the life of the great painter are 
 closely adhered to by the novelist. 
 
VI 
 
 The history of the Kttle Agnes, how- 
 ever, must be imaginary; unless in- 
 deed Schefer is indeed correct in say- 
 ing, that from her early death, and 
 having been scarcely known among 
 men, the memory of her had passed 
 away. I should also mention that 
 Campe gives some poetic effusions 
 from the pen of DiJrer; — but truth 
 obliges me to say, that though a mas- 
 ter in the art of painting, he seems to 
 have been but a journeyman in the 
 sister art of poetry. 
 
 Li the journal, he tells of the man- 
 ner in which he and his wife and Su- 
 sanna were entertained at Antwerp by 
 the painters and their wives; of the 
 silver service and the extravagantly 
 fine dinner, and how they were con- 
 ducted home late at night by all the 
 
vu 
 
 company carrying torches ; also at Bru- 
 ges how he was entertained with Uke 
 magnificence, an account of which he 
 concludes by saying that more than 
 sixty persons accompanied him home 
 with many torches. He mentions 
 having been present at a banquet given 
 by the Emperor Charles V. to the King 
 of Denmark (his brother-in-law), and 
 also at one given by the King to the 
 Emperor and Margaret (Governess of 
 the Netherlands) in return. Li refer- 
 ence to the latter, his words are — " He 
 invited me, and I ate with them there." 
 Honours were heaped on him wherev- 
 er he went, also costly presents of wine 
 and other articles of luxury. He tells 
 of the storm he encountered on the 
 coast, after having left his wife at Ant- 
 werp, and of the numerous pictures 
 
Vlll 
 
 he gave away , to the Bishop of Bam- 
 berg, who invited him to his house 
 and paid for him at the inn ; to the 
 King of Denmark, and many others. 
 It seems, indeed, as the novehst says, 
 to have been his dehght to give plea- 
 sure to every one. But his journey to 
 the Netherlands was nearly fruitless 
 in all but honours. Margaret, es- 
 pecially, considered him richly re- 
 warded by fair words for many works 
 he had executed for her, and others he 
 had presented to her besides. 
 
 In this httle volume Campe pub- 
 lishes a remarkable letter of Pirkhei- 
 mer, printed from his own handwriting 
 and addressed to Tscherte, the Em- 
 peror's architect at Vienna, in which 
 he very plainly accuses Agnes of hav- 
 ing been the cause of her husband's 
 
IX 
 
 death. He says — " She gnawed into 
 his heart;" that "she gave him no 
 peace night or day;" and that in con- 
 sequence " he wasted away to a skele- 
 ton ;" that she urged him to work, for 
 no other reason than that he might 
 make money to leave to her ; and adds 
 that he (Pirkheimer) had often re- 
 proved her for her conduct, and prophe- 
 sied what would be the end of it : but 
 these friendly warnings gained him 
 nothing but ill will. All this Durer 
 seems to have borne with the utmost 
 meekness, quite in conformity with 
 the character drawn of him by Schefer. 
 He was patient under a hard lot — a 
 picture of composure throughout all 
 his domestic trials. In his published 
 writings, as given by Campe, there is 
 not a single word of complaint to be 
 
found; but his letters to Pirkheimer 
 from Venice breathe a spirit of sad- 
 ness, especially in anticipation of his 
 return home. In the account of his 
 mother's death, he says that she had 
 suffered many severe sicknesses, great 
 poverty, mockery, contempt, scornful 
 words, fear, and great reverses ; but he 
 never says from whom she had to en- 
 dure this mockery and contempt ; only 
 there is no mention of Agnes having 
 assisted in rendering the last duties to 
 her husband's mother ; and Diirer him- 
 self, after telling that his Father had 
 confided her to his care, says — " Two 
 years after my father's death, I took 
 my mother home to my own house, 
 for she had nothing ^noreJ^ Thus Schefer 
 seems to be justified in his conclusion 
 that Agnes was the cause of all this. 
 
XI 
 
 That he did much to please her is evi- 
 dent throughout : among other things, 
 while in the Netherlands he notes 
 down in his journal different articles 
 he had bought for her, such as fine 
 ivory combs, a cage for a small green 
 parrot that had been presented to her, 
 and what he calls "a thin Flemish 
 stufffor the head." 
 
 From Campe's estimate of him as 
 a man and an artist, we find that na- 
 ture and an inquiring mind were his 
 teachers; untiring patience and bound- 
 less industry the genii that accom- 
 panied him through fife. He opened 
 up his own path on all sides : we have 
 to thank him for the invention of etch- 
 ing ; he wrote the first work on forti- 
 fication ; one on the proportions of 
 the human body, one on perspective, 
 
xu 
 
 and many others besides ; he was the 
 first who made rules for the art of writ- 
 ing, and gave a better form to the let- 
 ters : he was about to begin a work 
 on landscape painting, when death 
 called him away. He was a designer, 
 painter, architect, sculptor, and en- 
 graver on wood as well as metal. He 
 made woodcuts cf the life of Christ in 
 thirty-nine pieces. One of his best 
 specimens in this style is St. Eustacius 
 kneeling before a stag which has a 
 crucifix between its horns. At Prague, 
 besides his picture of Adam and Eve, 
 there is one of Christ bearing the 
 Cross. His own picture, which he 
 sent to Raphael, came into possession 
 of Giulio Romano, who placed it 
 among the curiosities in the palace of 
 Mantua. At Venice there is an Ecce 
 
XIU 
 
 Homo : and in the gallery at Florence, 
 besides his own portrait, are the repre- 
 sentations of St. PhiUp and St. James, 
 and an Adam and Eve. The people 
 of Niirnberg still carefully preserve in 
 the public hall his portraits of Charle- 
 magne and some of the Emperors of 
 the house of Austria ; also the twelve 
 Apostles, whose drapery is remark- 
 able ; and in the church of St. Sebal- 
 dus, in which he was married, a very 
 old building in the pure Gothic style, 
 one part of which, St. Peter's Chapel, 
 situated between the towers, dates as 
 far back as the tenth century, there is 
 a picture by him of the entombment 
 of Christ, said to be excellent. Fuseli 
 says that the colouring of Diirer went 
 beyond his age, and that in easel pic- 
 tures it as far excelled the oil colour 
 
XIV 
 
 of Raphael in juice and breadth and 
 handUng, as Raphael excelled him in 
 every other quality. 
 
 He knew not what it was to envy 
 other artists ; he rejoiced over every- 
 thing that was good, and praised what- 
 ever there was to praise. If an ill ex- 
 ecuted work was brought to him, he 
 said good-humouredly — " Well, the 
 master has done his best." He was 
 well versed in the Scriptures, and they 
 furnished materials for his best repre- 
 sentations. He never lent his talent 
 to indecency ; his art was as pure as 
 his morals. His facility was incon- 
 ceivable. Bellini wished to have from 
 him the pencil with which he drew 
 hair so minutely ; Diirer held out to 
 him a handful of every kind, telling 
 him to take any one he liked, for that 
 
XV 
 
 he could do it with them all. Once 
 in a party of artists, when every one 
 was giving a proof of his skill, Diirer 
 took a piece of chalk and drew quite 
 off-hand a circle on the table, telling 
 them that they might bring compasses 
 and measure it ; which being done, it 
 was found to the astonishment of all 
 present that he had hit it to a hair. 
 
 Of his outward appearance, Campe 
 says that he was well made, his chest 
 manly and broad, his hands slight, his 
 brow serene, his nose slightly aquiline, 
 his hair dark brown, falhng in natural 
 curls over his shoulders, his expression 
 kindly and open, and that there was 
 something so pleasant in his talk, that 
 he was listened to with attention and 
 delight. 
 
 He seems to have been warmly at- 
 
XVI 
 
 tached to the principles of the Refcr- 
 mation. When he was in the Nether- 
 lands in 1521, news came that Luther 
 had been seized and carried off to the 
 Castle of Wartburg. Thinking that 
 he had fallen into the hands of his 
 enemies, Diirer was overwhelmed with 
 grief, and gave vent to his feelings in 
 a very pathetic lamentation and prayer, 
 which are given in the journal. 
 
 The house in which Diirer hved and 
 died is of very considerable dimen- 
 sions, and stands at the corner of the 
 street called at that time Zisselgasse, 
 but now Albrecht Diirer's Strasse, and 
 is nearly opposite to one of the gates 
 leading into the Imperial Castle. In 
 his day it seems to have stood at the 
 extremity of the city, but is now quite 
 surrounded by buildings which have 
 
XVI I 
 
 arisen on all sides. Campe says that 
 in 1826 he, as a member of the magis- 
 tracy, bought for the city from the pro- 
 prietor of the house a balcony where 
 Diirer used to work, for which he paid 
 1675 florins, and that it is carefully 
 preserved as a relic. He also gives a 
 letter from Louis, the present King of 
 Bavaria, so well known as a liberal 
 encourager of the arts, showing a high 
 appreciation of Diirer as an artist, and 
 proposing that a statue should be 
 erected in honour of him in his native 
 city. To this Campe says that such 
 a letter from such a King is itself the 
 best monument to the memory of the 
 Artist. 
 
 Diirer's ancestors were Hungarians, 
 inhabitants of a small village called 
 Eytas, whence his grandfather Anton 
 
XVUl 
 
 Diirer came to Niirnberg, and there 
 learned the trade of a goldsmith, which 
 was held in much higher repute in 
 those days than it is now, and argued 
 a more than ordinary advancement in 
 art. His father and himself continued 
 the same trade, which he pursued even 
 after having become a renowned paint- 
 er and engraver. His wife, who sur- 
 vived him eleven years, carried on the 
 business after his death; and when 
 she died, it was taken up by his bro- 
 ther Andreas, the only one of all his 
 numerous family who survived him. 
 His wife's parents died in still greater 
 poverty than his own, and also in the 
 midst of severe trials and reverses. 
 
 Durer's father in noting down the 
 births of his children, never mentions 
 the day or the month, but just the year 
 
XIX 
 
 and the Saint's day on which the birth 
 took place, which is indeed a common 
 practice among CathoUcs. 
 
 His son Albert was born on the day 
 of St. Prudentius, 1471 (the 6th of 
 April), on which Good Friday fell in 
 that year ; and he died also on the 6th 
 of April 1528, and in Passion Week; 
 according to Schefer on Maunday 
 Thursday. Diirer died of consump- 
 tion in the 57th year of his age, Campe 
 says weary of life, his body emaciated, 
 and his fine aspect gone. As far back 
 as 1521, he says in his journal — "In 
 the third week after Easter I was 
 attacked by a burning fever, together 
 with great weakness, loathing, and 
 headache ; and, as formerly when in 
 Zealand, I was again overcome by a 
 strange sickness of lohich 1 never heard 
 
XX 
 
 before from any one, and this sickness I 
 have yeV He was then in the Nether- 
 lands, and every page in the journal 
 after this date contains entries of 
 money paid for medical advice. This 
 was seven years before his death ; but 
 the strange sickness here mentioned 
 was most probably the beginning of 
 the fatal disease which brought him 
 gradually down to a premature grave. 
 A joint sepulchre was built for his fa- 
 ther-in-law and himself in the church- 
 yard of St. John ; and an epitaph, writ- 
 ten by his friend and patron Pirkhei- 
 mer, was inscribed on his gravestone. 
 But Sandrart, who came to Niirnberg 
 in 1674, and continued there till his 
 death in 1688, the founder of the 
 Academy of painting, and who may 
 with truth be called the Winkelniann 
 
XXI 
 
 of his aj^e, was not satisfied with this 
 inscription, and added two others, in 
 one of which he calls Diirer "The 
 prince of artists." He also caused the 
 gravestone to be renewed, and placed 
 it as it now stands. 
 
 The Pirkheimers were a family of 
 considerable wealth and importance 
 in Niirnberg, and Diirer's friend was in 
 every way the means of his advance- 
 ment in early life. But Diirer himself 
 was for many years in easy circum- 
 stances, although he always lived with 
 the utmost frugality. His disposition 
 was naturally cheerful, and his con- 
 versation so agreeable that his society 
 was much sought after, and he was 
 for many years chief magistrate of his 
 native city. Pirkheimer deeply la- 
 
XXll 
 
 mented his friend, whom he only sur- 
 vived three years. 
 
 One word as to the translation. 
 The volume of Schefer's Novels con- 
 taining the following story, fell into my 
 hands about two years ago, and seem- 
 ed to 'me to possess very considerable 
 interest ; but I was long deterred from 
 attempting a translation of it, by the 
 great difficulty of the task. I have not 
 —I do not pretend to have executed 
 it well : of this at least I am certain, 
 that I have not satisfied myself I fear 
 I may have erred in being too literal ; 
 but I could not avoid this without frit- 
 tering away what appeared to me to 
 be the charm and peculiarity of the 
 style. Knowing all its defects, I have 
 only to plead in arrest of judgment, 
 
XXlll 
 
 that it is my first attempt in the way 
 of translation, that the author's style is 
 extremely elliptical, and his meaning 
 in many parts obscure. But I lost 
 myself in my interest in the subject ; 
 and have only now to hope that my 
 readers will go and do likewise. 
 
 Edinburgh, Feb. 1848. 
 
WILIBALD PIRKHEIMER TO THE NI]VETEEx\TH 
 CENTURY, GREETIiVG: 
 
 Maunday Thursday had passed away into 
 Night : my House was abready closed. The 
 Lamp shone from the arched Roof of my 
 Chamber upon the Floor below : I stood 
 with my hot Forehead leaning on the cool 
 Panes of the stained Window, and through 
 the Points of colourless Glass gazed at the 
 dark Clouds as they sailed over the full 
 Moon. My Soul was sorrowful, for my 
 Friend, the dear Master Albert Durer, lay on 
 his Deathbed. I reflected on the course of 
 our past Lives : how dear, how kind, how 
 precious, he had been to me, and I to him — 
 and there he lay now! The World looked 
 the same as ever ; the Walls shook not, nor 
 changed, for as fixedly as I gazed on them ; 
 and yet there was a Man about to pass away, 
 
— 26 — 
 
 such as Niirnberg would never see again. 
 Alas ! and I too remained as motionless. I 
 had not visited my Friend for a Year, nor 
 he me ; and when I saw him at a distance 
 on the street, tottering along, I shunned him, 
 and had alrealy given him up as one num- 
 bered with the Dead. But my Anger was 
 Love towards him! Anger on account of 
 the Weakness I thought I discovered in him, 
 and which made him wretched ; but this he 
 would never confess — he only smiled. But 
 when I saw hira becoming each time paler ; 
 the Hand with which he pressed mine ever 
 more and more wasted ; then did I bewail 
 the Fate of the noble Man, " the Prince of 
 Artists," as he was called. He read in my 
 Eyes what my heart was bursting to say to 
 him again, for I had ahready said it a hun- 
 dred times. He always evaded the subject 
 by some friendly remark ; — indeed, so accus- 
 tomed was he to this, that none but a Friend, 
 such as myself, could tell how much the habit 
 
— 27 — 
 
 cost him. I could not look upon him thus 
 going down to the Grave in the Prime of 
 Life and the Maturity of his Powers, like a 
 Tree when bringing forth goodly Fruit — so 
 I thought it better not to see him again at all. 
 He read the Heart of his Friend, and shun- 
 ned me also. All this he endured, until at 
 length his Heart had become thoroughly like 
 unto refined Gold ; he had been changed in- 
 to a mild smiling Image of Patience, and, by 
 virtue of the patient Sufferings of a Lifetime, 
 had this advantage over others, that he await- 
 ed Death w4th a calm and smiling Counte- 
 nance. For this I often considered him wise 
 and happy; and yet at the same time my 
 Heart was rebellious. Now, however, dur- 
 ing those latter Days, since he had been laid 
 on his Deathbed, I had no longer any Peace. 
 Often had I gone to his Door, and lifted the 
 Knocker — then let it gently down again, and 
 hastened away, as quickly as an old Man 
 might. But if at any time I resolved not to 
 
28 
 
 go to him, then my Heart was ready to burst, 
 and I could find rest nowhere. As for him, 
 he was satisfied with everything; nothing 
 could now befal him which was not welcome 
 and good; and I almost persuaded myself 
 that he was equally satisfied with whatever 
 1 did, or left undone. 
 
 This Evening, however, some Foreigners 
 devoted to the Arts had arrived to see the 
 Father and Master of the German Artists. 
 They proposed to serenade him — then went 
 I weeping away, and thought of the Friend 
 who this very Night perhaps might depart 
 thither — where the Moon was floating among 
 the golden Clouds; that Moon which still 
 shone young and full over our Heads, grow- 
 I ing grey with years, and which almost ap- 
 j peared to me at that moment like a Spirit. 
 I was deeply moved when I called to mind 
 the tender feeling Words in which some un- 
 known human Heart had found an Utter- 
 ance: 
 
— 29 — 
 
 Here dies a mortal— What hath Nature lost ? 
 Her hundred thousand Children comfort her; 
 The Heaven with her eternal Stars remains 
 Serene as was her wont ; and to the Moon 
 Comes no Calamity : she still shines on. 
 But he, the Man who died, he was my Friend! 
 I, wretched, such a Friend find not again. 
 So to the smiling Moon and Sky serene 
 I weep forlorn — Alas ! loithout a Friend ! 
 
 Suddenly I heard the sound of quick Foot- 
 steps on the Pavement below. I saw a fe- 
 male Figure. She stood still, looked up to 
 the Moon, wrung her Hands, and pressed 
 them to the Temples of her reclining Head. 
 Thus she stood for a long Time : then sud- 
 denly recollecting herself, she approached the 
 Door of my House, and knocked. The Door 
 was closed. She then impatiently pulled the 
 bell, and the Sound echoed throughout the 
 solitary Dwelling. But the Shadow which 
 fell in front of me on the Panes of Glass, had 
 betrayed to me who it was. She knocked. 
 
30 
 
 I remained motionless. She called out : 
 Master Wilibaldl — Pirkheimer ! Senator! 
 Master Imperial Counsellor! — I smiled scorn- 
 fully. The Voice was the Voice of the beau- 
 tiful A^nes, the Wife of my dying Friend 
 Albert — therefore I hearkened not. Then, 
 heated and impatient as she was, she knock- 
 ed in with the palm of her Hand one of my 
 most beautiful Panes of painted Glass, which 
 I would not have given for a hundred Flo- 
 rins. Are you asleep ? she then called in to 
 me with her beautiful Voice ; are you dream- 
 ing? Your Friend, your Albert, is at the 
 point of Death, and entreats you to come to 
 him. Ah! he was a good Man after all! 
 These words, he luas ! pierced me to the 
 Heart. They spoke of the Living as al- 
 ready among the Dead — and, infected by her 
 warmth, I struck out another Pane of Glass 
 with the Hand that held my bonnet, which 
 made Mistress Agnes start back. God will 
 judge you! muttered I. But -I come. 
 
— 31 — 
 
 Quickly, then ! she exclaimed, and disap- 
 peared : 
 
 I heard a Window shut over my Head — 
 my unfortunate sick Sister Clara^ in former 
 times a Nun, but who had now returned to 
 dwell under my Roof, she too had listened 
 to all this! Oh Heavens! the poor dear 
 loving One, how would she feel, now that 
 Albert was dying ! 
 
 I left everything as it was, scarcely wait- 
 ing to secure the House, and hurried away 
 to the Corner-House at the Zissel-Gate to 
 my Friend Albert I could scarcely support 
 myself even by clinging to the smooth time- 
 worn Railing of the Stairs; and was still 
 standing before the Door of his spacious 
 Chamber, which lay towards the right Hand, 
 when suddenly I was overpowered by a 
 Flood of bitter Tears : I restrained myself, 
 dried my Eyes and Cheeks, and then enter- 
 ed gently — gently approached the Bed. He 
 appeared to slumber. 
 
— 32 — 
 
 At his Feet, in a Niche in the Wall, two 
 wax-L'ghts were burning before a Picture. 
 It was that of the Master's little Daughter in 
 her Coffin, watched over by an Angel hold- 
 ing a Palm Branch, who, only half visible 
 from the left side, bent over the small sweet 
 Face of the Child. But the Face of the 
 Angel was that of the Mother of the Child, 
 the beautiful Agnes in the bloom of Youth, 
 with an expression of genuine Sorrow and 
 yet of saintlike Hope faithfully depicted on 
 it. On the Coffin were painted three large 
 Brazen Shields, the centre one of which re- 
 presented the Countenance of the Father, 
 Master Albert himself, with his Eyes closed. 
 The Shield at the Head of the Child bore 
 the Face of Alberts Mother Barbara ; and 
 the one at the Feet that of her Husband, the 
 Child's Grandfather. Here, then, had the 
 loving Master thus sadly and beautifully 
 conjoined all who were dearest to him on 
 Earth. 
 
Perhaps he might just now have been 
 contemplating that Picture. 
 
 I gazed on him mournfully. There rested 
 on the red silk Coverlet of the Bed that Hand 
 formerly so beautiful, so soft, so slight — but 
 how powerless now ! There it now rested 
 too surely for ever ! His Brow was as se- 
 rene, and the expression of his Countenance 
 as pleasing and open as ever. His slightly 
 aquiline Nose was still, as it had ever been, 
 expressive of that calm Courage which seem- 
 ed to have been given him for the purpose of 
 Endurance alone. His ample Hair hung on 
 each side in Curls on his Shoulders ; but it 
 was no longer dark-brown as it had formerly 
 been ; it was now grey. The Beard alone, 
 which covered the Chin, and descended till 
 it touched the middle of the Throat, was yet 
 dark. His benign Eye was gently closed. — 
 I sighed. 
 
 He is not asleep, said Susanna, the Mas- 
 ter's faithful Attendant, now grown old in his 
 
 3 
 
— 34 — 
 
 service, and who had noiselessly approached 
 me, I knew not from whence ; he has been 
 longing much to see you ! 
 
 Art thou come at last ? said Albert^ smiling, 
 but without opening his eyes. He held out 
 his Hand towards me, but not to me^ for I 
 gave him mine, and immediately he opened 
 his Eyes wide. — I thought it was Agnes! 
 sighed he, almost inaudibly ; and behold ! it 
 is my Friend, my Wilibaldl She — she is 
 afraid to stay with me, as if Death could ap- 
 proach Men visibly! Ah! he comes from 
 the Depths within — out of our Life! Be- 
 lieve me, Wilibald^ that is the doing of the 
 Lord. He alone can do it ; such is His Will. 
 So let it be ! No one can kill Angels — we 
 die, because we are mortal. Also no one 
 can destroy us, neither suddenly nor grad- 
 ually; he can only shorten Life, nought else, 
 and that is doing little or nothing. 
 
 He? or She ? Whom dost thou mean, thou 
 ever excellent One ? asked I significantly. 
 
— 35 — 
 
 I no longer mean any one, said he in a 
 tone of resignation. But that thou also 
 shouldst no longer accuse any one — that do 
 I owe to Aer, and to thee, yea to myself. 
 Man, who stands in jieed of Grace, does 
 well to be jusL This is in his own Power. 
 
 He now gave me a Key from the golden 
 Chain which hung around his Neck. In 
 doing this, it occurred to him to take the 
 Chain off altogether, and lay it aside ; and as 
 it fell link by link from his failing Hand, with 
 a gentle sound on the little Table beside him, 
 I felt nearly frozen, and thought, Thus do 
 worldly Honours depart from us ! 
 
 Long mayst thou wear thine I resumed 
 Albert. In Life no one can be blamed for 
 acting reasonably. Here is now the Key. 
 Take from my Chest, not my Book of Travels, 
 not my Journal, these thou knowest already 
 — but the History of my Married Life. Read ! 
 — preserve it. Leave it in Trust to some 
 widely-spread honourable Family. When 
 
— 36 — 
 
 none of my own are remaining, when these 
 Leaves have become matter of History alone, 
 when they are no longer the " Goads and 
 Nails "* of the Preacher, then will its genu- 
 ine Truth yet speak to the Heart ; and if it 
 make only one Wife more patient when need 
 is, only one Husband more careful to per- 
 form what he vowed to his Wife before God ; 
 then have I not suffered in vain, as I i?i vain 
 suffered. For whatever makes us better — is 
 good. And everything can do this, if we so 
 will it, if we understand it aright. 
 
 Good Master — will I not call thee, said I 
 with emotion, for this epithet hath a Greater 
 only permitted to the Greatest I but Faithful, 
 Gentle, Noble Master, Teacher, Man, and 
 Friend ; these will Posterity recognize in thee, 
 as my Tears do now. 
 
 He changed the subject playfully, and said. 
 If thou wilt trust me with a little Billet to thy 
 
 * Ecclesiastes xii. 11. 
 
— 37 — 
 
 alas! too-early-lost Crescenzia — then write! 
 this Night it will be delivered. It is said the 
 Dead have this power ; but they are silent 
 Messengers who indeed bring no answer. 
 For this then thou must pardon me! He 
 smiled, and pressed the Key between my 
 Hands with both of his, whilst we gazed in- 
 to each other's Eyes. 
 
 His words had awakened in me an inex- 
 pressible longing after my excellent Wife. 
 Ah ! she was good — hence the danger ; since 
 what is good — is divine. Ah ! she was good 
 and — gone. I lived ! Albert was dying — his 
 Agnes left — through whom his Life had been 
 shortened^ but who could not rob him of it, 
 as he himself solemnly affirmed. 
 
 I found the Manuscript he had mentioned ; 
 I held its few Leaves in my Hand — how 
 heavy they felt ! as I lifted them sighing, and 
 with a glance at my Friend. Wearied by 
 the exertion of speaking, he had fallen into a 
 Slumber, his Hands folded on the Coverlet. 
 
— 38 — 
 
 Exhausted also by nighl-watching, Susanna^ 
 with her Head buried in her blue apron, sat 
 in her Master's velvet Arm- Chair, and slept. 
 And thus, surrounded only by Sleepers and 
 by Pictures on the Wall, I sat down alone at 
 the large Table with the green Cover, trim- 
 med the Lamp, drew it nearer, unfolded and 
 read. ^What I then thought, I afterwards 
 noted down, adding small asterisks, and also 
 the initials of my name, a W, and a P., to 
 each Note. So much for thee, dear Reader, 
 in the Days which to me are no Days ; only 
 absolute Time; only mysterious Love and 
 Blessedness, and Light and Glory — but with- 
 out thy Sun ! — Yet read ! 
 
MARRIED LIFE OF MASTER A. D, 
 
 FOR DEVOUT DISCIPLES OF THE ARTS, PRUDENT 
 
 MAIDENS, AS WELL AS FOR THE PROFIT AND 
 
 INSTRUCTION OF ALL CHRISTENDOM, 
 
 GIVEN TO THE LIGHT. 
 
 " To be right in a wrong way — is wrong." 
 
 Should the above Initials of the Artist, in 
 after Years, be still known among Men, then 
 will they also know the Name of the Artist, 
 and some may even be led to inquire as to 
 the actual Life of the Man. For the Artist 
 has a double Existence ; one in Imagination 
 and in his Works, the other as a Man in his 
 Home ; and each pervades, completes, and ^ 
 supports the other, and neither is long, with- 
 out the other, good and available. Should 
 
40 THE MARRIED LIFE 
 
 this Life, then, so deeply rooted in the Earth, 
 become matter of curiosity — and when his 
 Works have been contemplated, the Life of 
 the Master should be inquired after — no Ac- 
 count founded on any solid Basis could be 
 given ; for those who knew about his earthly 
 Life were of Earth like himself. But they 
 might perhaps hear of the Sufferings of the 
 good Master ; might perhaps accuse him of 
 having been no fauhless Husband, and her 
 no praiseworthy Wife. God forbid I — and 
 may these Words interpose like a Sword, or 
 as the Angel with the flaming Sword before 
 this lost — Paradise! The Fantasies of the 
 Master have passed away wath his Soul ; his 
 Works bear evidence of his Feelings, of his 
 Conceptions of Nature, of his Views and 
 Capacities; nay, all these they in a great 
 measure themselves are ; much also of his 
 Life is mingled and inseparably intertwined 
 with these, or runs through them like a 
 Woof; of this, therefore, let nothing be said : 
 
OF ALBERT DURER. 41 
 
 Sentence has already been passed. But the 
 following was written by his better self, when 
 having fancied himself in Suffering, he thus 
 from the Fancy actually suffered, and in con- 
 quering the Fancy, conquered also the Suf- 
 fering. This then was his Consolation : to 
 discover the Goodness, the Integrity of his 
 Wife ; to unveil her deeply-concealed Love, 
 and with delight to acknowledge it ! and this 
 gave him not only Courage, but Joyfulness ; 
 so that his own Love had again free scope, 
 and what he had thought and felt in the se- 
 cret Depths of his ever-imaginative Mind, 
 afterwards passed into his Fantasies, uncon- 
 sciously moved him to create, and to his own 
 surprise became embodied in his Works. 
 Thus does the wiser also become the better - 
 Artist. His Wisdom, however, is calm Se- 
 renity and powerful Love. He who beholds 
 all things clear as in a Glass, and in all the 
 Productions of his creative Power sees only 
 a reflection of himself and of his Love — he 
 
42 THE MARRIED LIFE OF DURER. 
 
 it is who is the good, the happy, yea the high- 
 est Artist. We are but Journeymen.* 
 
 Everything well considered, however, it is 
 Treason to the World strictly to conceal the 
 Workings of the inner Man. The mighty 
 Events in the outward World, Deeds of Vio- 
 lence, Murders and Outrages, these serve on- 
 ly to startle and to confound — Men scarcely 
 comprehend them! and fortunate for them 
 that it is so! They are so rarely for the 
 profit of Individuals ; — should they then be 
 perpetuated by means of the Arts through 
 long Ages of the World for many Genera- 
 tions! Far from it! — better far perpetuate 
 the Human, the Ordinary, yea the Everyday ! 
 for these after all are not so evident as most 
 people fancy. In this way is brought to light 
 what is in Man, and the Minds of INIen are 
 , thereby advanced and elevated ! and if all 
 ' that comes to Light be not beautiful, still it 
 is true, and leads to Peace and Happiness. 
 
 * Students of the Arts, Pupils.— JF. P. 
 
HOW MASTER ALBERT TOOK UNTO HIMSELF 
 A WIFE. 
 
 The Countryman he wooes his Land ; 
 The Noble Rank and high Command ; 
 The Workman Home and Skill of Hand; 
 The Merchant he strives Wealth to gain ; 
 The Painter's bound in Beauty's Chain ; 
 But all a Wife seek to obtain. 
 
 At Whitsunday of the Year 1490, Albert 
 set out on his Travels for the study of the 
 Fine Arts ; at Whitsunday of the Year 1494 
 he heard again the Stroke of the Number^ 
 Clock. 
 
 The Joy of Meeting is well worth the Pain 
 of Separation. The Father had bought his 
 Son a House, had given him his own Su- 
 sanna^ a poor adopted Child, as Housekeep- 
 er; had provided the Rooms thriftily with 
 household Furniture ; Contentment and Hap- 
 
44 HOW MASTER ALBERT TOOK 
 
 piness, Industry and Art — these he brought 
 with hin^ ; and now was he in very deed to 
 become a Painter in the City of the Twelve 
 Hills. His Father took him, dressed in his 
 best, first of all to the House of his Godfather 
 Anton Koburger, who took great Delight in 
 him ; afterwards to all the Members of that 
 Body, of which his Father was also one. 
 From the House of Master Michael Wohlge- 
 muth^ the Painter, Engraver, and Woodcut- 
 ter, with whom Albert for three Years, begin- 
 ning in the Year 1486, had diligently and 
 painfully studied, because he had had much 
 to endure from his fellow- work men, they 
 crossed the Street to the House of the lively 
 Harp-player and Singer, Hanns Frei, who 
 was also an Optician. But among the most 
 bewitching Works in the heavenly Work- 
 shop of the heathen God SephdstuSj could no 
 such living Miracle have stood, as was now 
 to be seen in the House of Hanns Frei, in 
 the Person of his Daughter Ag-nes, a young 
 
UNTO HIMSELF A WIFE. 
 
 45 
 
 Nurnherg Maiden of fifteen, who was play- 
 ing on the Harp. 
 
 Is it possible that Nurnherg contains such 
 a beautiful Maiden ? said he to himself. I 
 thought I had left them all in Italy ^ beyond 
 Mestre, Have I got back my Senses and 
 my Heart ? as if suddenly borne after me in- 
 to my home by a Dove ! Have I my Eyes 
 again ? The Voice which I heard before the 
 Door was opened, was it not one of those 
 Angel voices ? Only ^is modest Blush on 
 the lily Cheeks was not to be seen there! 
 nor the timid Eye turned towards the ground, 
 covered by a large Eyelid like a Bell-flower! 
 and as if bordered by long Eyelashes ! What 
 a Picture ! — what a Delight — a Wife ! a 
 Heaven upon Earth — in Number g I Oh 
 thou dear native Town ! 
 
 These thoughts and Feelings passed as 
 quickly through the Mind of the young Mas- 
 ter, as a golden Cloud flies through the 
 Heavens; but they left a shadow behind: 
 
46 HOW MASTER ALBERT TOOK 
 
 for Love is no Cloud, but the Polar Star, 
 amidst the splendour and radiance of the 
 Northern-light* 
 
 He shall paint thee, dear Agnes, said Al- 
 berths Father. — She raised her Eyes, and 
 looked gloomily at me.f 
 
 Now, Daughter, said Master Frei^ do not 
 look quite so Angry about the matter — there 
 will be time enough for that in Master Al- 
 bert's Dwelling. 
 
 For Painting ? o\ for looking Angry ? 
 said Agnes to him, quickly changing colour 
 from the most glowing Red to snow-white 
 Paleness. She looked meanwhile somewhat 
 smilingly at the young Albert^ and at the 
 same time gently shook her head, as if warn- 
 ing him not to believe what her Father had 
 said. For that was quite another matter, 
 and must take place and unfold itself in a 
 very different manner. The Father was 
 
 * This star is also often called the little Bear.— IV. P. 
 1 This " me " betrays the Autobiography. — W. P. 
 
UNTO HIMSELF A WIFE. 47 
 
 blowing the Rose open violently ; but genial 
 Warmth and Dew alone could unfold it by- 
 degrees, and cause it to open its Heart and 
 give forth its Perfume, so that it might not 
 fade away before next morning, leaving no 
 Perfume behind. 
 
 All was now made evident to Albert^ when 
 his Father said to the Father of Ag-nes, I 
 have done my part, I have given him a tole- 
 rable Establishment; the young Wife will 
 do the rest according to her own wishes and 
 desires. For all married Pairs have their own 
 fancies, as to how the Table must stand, and 
 where the Bed, so that the Cradle may not 
 knock against it : we and our better Halves 
 have also enjoyed this Right in our Day. 
 
 Thou shalt have two hundred Florins for 
 thy portion, my Daughter, said Father Frei, 
 smiling. And now join hands ! We have 
 betrothed you already in our own Minds; 
 let it be done now also in reality, in order 
 that we may see you ratify what we from 
 
48 HOW MASTER ALBERT TOOK 
 
 old Friendship and before God have pur- 
 posed. 
 
 Albert could not think of saying No to 
 such a beautiful Creature as Agnes, nor yet 
 could Agnes to him. She should have given 
 hira her Hand, but stood still like an im- 
 moveable Work of Sephdstus, grave Bashful- 
 ness depicted in her nobly-formed Counte- 
 nance. Her Father made a Sign to her ; — 
 without moving, she allowed the Youth of 
 twenty-three to take her Hand, but she press- 
 ed his so suddenly and so vehemently, that 
 he started, and gazed into the eyes of the in- 
 explicable Child. She sighed, her youthful 
 Bosom stood upheaved from suppressed 
 breathing. Tears streamed from her dark 
 Eyelids ; she disengaged herself and hasten- 
 ed away. 
 
 It is just the Nature of all such, said Mas- 
 ter Freij comforting him. He pressed him 
 to his Bosom, and gave him now his Bless- 
 ing alone. — She has had hers already by her 
 
UNTO HIMSELF A WIFE. 49 
 
 Obedience to my Will, said he. Master 
 Wohlgemuth has presented you both with 
 Rings. Therefore be of good cheer /* and 
 go into the Garden, and persuade the little 
 Maiden there to take one of them — or lay 
 it down beside her. It is not the Nature of 
 such to leave it lying. From you certainly 
 not! 
 
 Albert did as he was bidden. Agnes was 
 reclining in an Arbour, her Head resting on 
 the Bosom of her Sister, who looked at him, 
 and smiled thoughtfully, but at the same 
 time as one who was much offended. A2:nes 
 did not rise, but she raised her Eyes to her 
 Bridegroom, and they rested full on him, and 
 she seemed desirous of keeping his Look 
 firmly fixed on herself. For beside the Sisters 
 sat another beautiful Maiden called Clara, 
 who w^as the Sister of Wilibald Pirkheimer, 
 as Albert learned forthwith. When, how- 
 
 * Wohlgemuth means " Be of good cheer." — Translator's 
 
 Note. 
 
 4 
 
50 HOW MASTER ALBERT TOOK 
 
 ever, Agnes saw how he gazed at the Maid- 
 en and as an Artist dwelt with Delight on her 
 fair Countenance and delicate Form, she 
 drew in her Ring- Finger. But when Clara 
 took hold of her little Hand, Agnes seemed 
 to have no longer Power to withhold it, and 
 Clara placed the Ring gravely on her Friend's 
 Hand. Then they all three arose and walk- 
 ed away, Agnes in the middle ; meanwhile 
 Albert looked on the Ground, then glanced 
 after them, then looked down again, and re- 
 mained so standing with closed Eyes, and 
 full of contending Emotions. 
 
 His Father was the first to rouse the 
 Dreamer. Well, my Son, have I not chosen 
 well for thee ? asked he with a satisfied air. 
 
 Well ! beautifully I — and yet not well ! 
 replied he. 
 
 Happy, said his Father, are the Parents 
 who can rely on their Sons and Daughters, 
 and bring them up well, so that a Father's 
 Will should not only be salutary for them. 
 
UNTO HIMSELF A WIFE. 51 
 
 but appear to be so to them. Does not the 
 Father of us all choose Time and Place for 
 us ? Does He not provide all that is to meet 
 our Eye in our own Days? There is no 
 other Leaf, nor Cloud, nor Wife, nor Child, 
 nor Husband, to be seen, than those he has 
 chosen for us. And will He change them 
 forsooth on our account ? He creates them 
 according to His own will, and yet He de- 
 votes them to our use. What then can have 
 been His Intention ? He has loved us only 
 — designs that we should love Him, and that 
 what He has created should be worthy of 
 our Love, just because it is His Gift! — My 
 Son, be sure to let that be your Thought in 
 Everything: think thus of thy Father; and 
 also of thy young Wife ; and if it be not so, 
 still it might and should be so. My Father 
 pointed out a Maiden to me ; I reverenced 
 his Will, and she became my Wife. As I 
 became reconciled to her name — for she was 
 called Barbara — then being reconciled, began 
 
52 
 
 HOW MASTER ALBERT TOOK 
 
 to love it, because I loved her, because my 
 Father loved her — so wilt thou also love the 
 beautiful, singular, modest, prudish Agnes. 
 She will be Faithful to thee, for her Mother 
 is an excellent Woman. He who chose for 
 me, however, was only my Master, Hierony- 
 mus Hallefj my Father in the Arts: thine is 
 thy own Father ! 
 
 She is only fifteen years old ! said Albert 
 mildly. 
 
 My Son, said the Father, that is the right 
 Age at which a Man attaches to himself not 
 only the first awakening of the Heart, of the 
 Eyes, and of all the Senses, but even the 
 Dreams of his Wife, and her pure and single 
 Love. And should she afterwards think and 
 feel otherwise — behold ! she is already bound 
 by rosy Fetters ! Little Arms are twined 
 around her Neck, her House demands her 
 Care during the Day, Night calls for Repose. 
 Thus she grows up with her Children, and 
 when she sees in her Boys and Girls the 
 
UNTO HIMSELF A WIFE. 53 
 
 Love they bear to their Father, she cannot 
 fail to learn it from them! and when they 
 cling around his Knees, and she twines her 
 Arms around his Neck, and both look down 
 on the beloved little Ones whom the one 
 owes to the other alone — ^what must she feel ? 
 And mark well, — nothing is strange to her; 
 no Allurement has Novelty to offer, no No- 
 velty anything better or more blessed than 
 what she may enjoy in Peace and Tranquil- 
 lity, giving Thanks to God! 
 
 I am only three and twenty years old, said 
 Albert again. 
 
 My Son, said he, that is the right age, at 
 which a Wife may hope to have her Hus- 
 band long spared to her. The Husband is 
 a Father ; Years do not fail him in the be- 
 ginning, as they do alas ! at last ; when such 
 a want leads only to Disappointment and 
 Misery. I married a Wife of fifteen, when 
 I was already older than thou art. Thou 
 knowest I have dedicated eighteen Children 
 
54 HOW MASTER ALBERT TOOK 
 
 to the Lord at the baptismal Font ; that is a 
 Harvest for me in Heaven ! I have brought 
 up eighteen human Beings I know not how ; 
 that is a Harvest for me on Earth! We 
 were young with the Mother — Suffering was 
 light, Happiness was Felicity I The Mother 
 took as much pleasure in decking herself as 
 her Girls ; the Father was brisk and nimble, 
 playing about with his little Boys, willing to 
 cover the Ball with network, or to fly the 
 Kite. We were only like an elder Sister 
 and Brother ; that thou thyself knowest. 
 And if thy Love to me was so much greater 
 than that of other Children to their Parents, 
 consider that it arose hence, that when thou 
 wert older, I continued to be thy Friend, yea 
 thy Confident ; consider that it arose hence, 
 that thou indeed didst become older, but I — 
 not old I so it ought to be— then is the mar- 
 ried State not a sorrowful State ;* then the 
 
 * The Grermans have a Proverb : — "Ehestand ist Wehes- 
 
UNTO HIMSELF A WIFE. 55 
 
 Father's Head does not ache from the noise 
 of his Children ; he does not strike them at 
 random and without feeling, nor call desiring 
 them to sit still and be quiet — Education, nor 
 Fear — Obedience ! then Boys do not weep 
 or sneak around a grey-haired old Man, and 
 wander over the Earth when deprived of him 
 without Counsel or Support. Then he rocks 
 the Cradle of his Grandchildren I — Oh the 
 Delight of Man ! and though he should de- 
 part hence, the Trees still bloom around, and 
 blessed is his House! Therefore — Early 
 woo, never rue. 
 
 These fatherly Words overcame the loving 
 Son ; his Father's Will became his Will, and 
 he hoped that it would also become his Hap- 
 piness. For his Agnes was beautiful — only 
 he knew not how he had acquired the Trea- 
 sure, since Angels are no longer to be seen 
 on earth. It had come to him so suddenly, 
 
 land-''' " The married state is a sorrowful state." — Trans- 
 lator's Note. 
 
56 HOW MASTER ALBERT. ETC. 
 
 but SO much the more wished for, and his 
 Heart, softened by the contemplation of 
 Beauty in Italy^ wound itself around the 
 divine Form of Ag-nes, who had been sent to 
 him as it were from Heaven, by the Hand of 
 his Father. But the beautiful Maiden, who 
 appeared to be favourable towards him, yet 
 felt injured in womanly Dignity, hurt in the 
 Purity of her Love, because she had been 
 constrained to yield him her Hand, before 
 having given him an Answer or a Smile, and 
 was angry with him that he had so received 
 such a Gift ; and angry with herself that her 
 Heart nevertheless allured her towards the 
 amiable Youth. Love desires Freedom, and 
 even the appearance of Constraint causes 
 Unhappiness, debases — the nobler the Heart 
 is.* 
 
 * Here a good Feeling lay as a good Foundation to a 
 tottering Building. — W. P. 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 Agnes's Period of Betrothment lasted only 
 seven Weeks, till the Day of the Seven 
 Brothers.* The Decision of the Parents that 
 
 *■ The 10th of July. These seven brothers and their 
 mother, St. Felicitas, suffered martyrdom in the second cen- 
 tury, in the reign of the Emperor Antoninus Pius. She was 
 a noble and pious Christian widow, resident at Rome, and 
 employed heiself wholly in prayer, fasting, and works of 
 charity. By her example and that of her whole family, 
 many were induced to renounce the worship of false gods, 
 which so exasperated the heathen priests, that they com- 
 plained to the Emperor, who being somewhat superstitious 
 himself, sent an order to Publius the Prefect to take care to 
 satisfy the priests and appease the gods in this matter. 
 The mother and her sons were therefore brought before 
 him, but refusing to sacrifice to the gods, the sons were all 
 condemned to different deaths, and their mother was be- 
 headed four months after having witnessed and rejoiced in 
 the martyrdom of her children. St. Felicitas is commemo- 
 rated in the Roman Martyrology on the 23d of November, 
 
58 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 she was to be Albert^s, unsettled the whole 
 calm Course of her Life ; and now there 
 could never more be any bright Beginning, 
 Foundation, or Progress in Love. Right is 
 no Law for Love ; it even offends the most 
 delicate Mind. Therefore he never spoke of 
 his relation to her; and when she, in the 
 Levity of Youth, seemed to have forgotten 
 all, then she opened her whole Soul to him, 
 and he read deeply concealed Affection, yea 
 even struggling Love, in her Eyes, which 
 only the more suddenly and treacherously 
 broke forth, and drew her nearer and nearer 
 to him, even into his Arms, till Lip clung to 
 Lip ; — then she tore herself away from him, 
 and was for whole Days only the more grave 
 and silent. 
 
 On the Wedding-Day he appeared before 
 her, for the first time for many Days, in 
 
 and her sons on the 10th of July. See Butler's "Lives of 
 the Saints." — Translator. 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 59 
 
 Bridegroom's Attire, and found her ready- 
 dressed in bridal pomp. Thus everything 
 seemed to be right, now and for ever. From 
 that time all went on in the natural order of 
 things. 
 
 It rained. 
 
 Even that did not put her out of humour, 
 for Rain on the bridal Day promises to the 
 young pair — Riches. 
 
 And now the beautiful Agnes stood before 
 the Altar in the Church of St. Sebaldus. 
 One of her Cheeks glowed purple red ; the 
 other, the right, which was turned towards 
 him, was so much the paler. Thus to the 
 audience she appeared as if ashamed and 
 bashful. Albert, however, during the singing 
 of the Hymn, looked at the carved work of 
 the Altar, and the old stained Glass in the 
 Windows, and greeted here and there with 
 a slight nod some old Friend of his youth, 
 who saw him again there that Day for the 
 first time, and joyfully greeted him from 
 
60 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 among the Crowd. Ag-nes reproved him for 
 this by a slight touch of the Arm, as showing 
 a want of pious Concentration of Thought 
 on the important Step — the Spring's Equi- 
 nox or the Solstice of our Life. 
 
 But how remarkable were the Words 
 which the Godly Man chose as a Text for 
 his ceremonial Address ! and yet how deep 
 and beautiful, by means of the Expounding 
 and Application of them to us — and our 
 small Hopes! for they were these : — 
 
 "Be not forgetful to entertain Strangers, 
 for thereby some have entertained Angels un- 
 awares.*'* 
 
 The Bride gazed at her future Husband, 
 whom she ought to entertain like an Angel ; 
 he smiled upon her whom he was to enter- 
 tain as an Angel, and the looks of both sunk 
 to the ground before each other. 
 
 They received many and distinguished 
 
 * Some ! I have done so. — W. P. 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 61 
 
 Guests from the City at the House of the 
 Bride, and both accepted of the Congratula- 
 tions with visible emotion. The Bride sat 
 at table next to the Bridegroom with a stiff 
 demeanour. She would not allow the Myr- 
 tle Wreath to be taken off her little stubborn 
 Head, and an old Lady excused her by say- 
 ing, Everything has its time ! — Thereupon 
 Agnes tore it herself from among her Locks. 
 
 God preserve us! muttered the horrified 
 old Lady. 
 
 At the end of the last course we heard a 
 Cry, which proceeded from under the Table. 
 It turned out that it had been uttered by my 
 best Friend : his Face was bleeding ; he 
 went composedly towards the Door. Agnes 
 half laughed, half cried. 
 
 I arose and followed him. He was sitting 
 on the stone Seat under the Arch of the 
 Doorway. 
 
 It is an old Custom — which I certainly 
 cannot commend — that some one should dis- 
 
62 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 tribute to every one of the Guests a little bit 
 of the Bride's Garter, said he ; but, Albert^ 
 you may rely upon this — you will suffer 
 much, but you will have a faithful Wife. 
 
 The Bridegroom excused her, not without 
 smiling. 
 
 But the other proceeded : — For whatever 
 Woman, and more especially a young one, 
 thinks so peculiarly, and thrusts from her so 
 vigorously with her little bold Foot an honest 
 old Custom, thinking nothing of Gibes and 
 Uproar, she is in my opinion worthy of par- 
 ticular Honour. I am myself amazed, now 
 I think of it. If a Custom prevails around 
 us as clearly and evidently as Sunshine, then 
 it is still a valid and living one. But things 
 are changed now! The World judges of 
 the propriety of these, and sometimes takes 
 advantage of them perversely — and fettered 
 by the restraint of Custom, which no Wo- 
 man can openly throw off without exciting 
 Laughter, many make grievous Sacrifices 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 63 
 
 thereto ! — The bold Bride is in the right — I 
 prophesy you Happiness and Unhappiness. 
 Now Good-night! 
 
 He then went away, his Face concealed in 
 his Handkerchief, and muttering through his 
 teeth. The Servant hastily seized the un- 
 lighted Lantern, and carried it before him in 
 a very odd manner.* 
 
 Albert went in perplexed; some of the 
 Guests crowded past him ; the Company had 
 all broken up, and departed with brief and 
 quiet Greetings, or with no Greeting at all. 
 
 Thus the spacious decked-out apartment 
 was now empty. The Bride still sat in her 
 place, and nibbled crumbs of pastry. The 
 Bridegroom placed himself beside her. She 
 was silent, and he spoke not. 
 
 I am heartily sorry ! exclaimed Hanns 
 Freiy the Father-in-law, who was standing 
 
 * The Servant was mine ! and now I must freely confess, 
 it was my Nose which bled 1 — W, P. 
 
64 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 by himself in the apartment. I am sure I 
 cannot drink all that ! The delightful Meat 
 and Pastry look at me in vain, and cannot 
 gain over my Heart to any feeling of com- 
 passion. But I will not be deprived of the 
 Grandfather's Dance ! Halloo ! strike up, 
 Pipers! strike up, Fiddlers! One Man is 
 still a INIan. When I am tired, then you 
 shall have your Holiday. 
 
 The Music resounded. The Crowd look- 
 ed in at the lighted Windows. Father Frei 
 gravely led up his Wife to the Dance ; she 
 obeyed with difficulty, and the somewhat 
 aged Pair danced to the old Rhyme and the 
 old Tune ; 
 
 "When the Grandfather the Grandmother led up 
 
 with glee, 
 Then the Grandfather once more a Bridegroom 
 
 was he ! 
 
 A Bridegroom ! a Bridegroom ! repeated 
 the Crowd at the outside of the Windows, at 
 the same time clapping their Hands. The 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 65 
 
 Grandfather in spe laughed and wept; the 
 Mother became giddy, sat down — and the 
 Marriage was over. 
 
 Father Albert visited his Son for the first 
 time on the sixth Sunday after the Marriage. 
 He found him alone, sat down, looked at 
 him smilingly, and said : 
 
 Now, my dear Son, how goes it ? Well ? 
 Thou hast now become quite another Man ; 
 thou art now a Husband. Oh the Honey- 
 moon ! the Honeymoon ! on it depends for 
 ever the Happiness of Wedlock. If a Jacob 
 serve seven Years for a Rachel^ and again 
 seven Years, still he only serves, still he only 
 comes to know the Bride, but not the Wife. 
 The Bride shows herself only as she would 
 like to be seen, and so does the Bridegroom : 
 there is nothing then but soft talking, smil- 
 ing, complaisance, feeling and giving Delight 
 — a dreamlike Condition. Happy are they 
 who thus die ! yet it shall not so be, for they 
 must live. But the Husband and Wife have 
 
 5 
 
66 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 dwelt and been educated in different Houses ; 
 they have acquired different habits and even 
 many peculiarities, which have taken such 
 deep root within them that they cannot be 
 eradicated, and which they will carry about 
 with them through Life. And now the Wife 
 must learn the peculiarities of her Husband, 
 and bear with him ; and he in like manner 
 with those of his Wife. And how is this ef- 
 fected? Nature places them in the School 
 of Love, and in the midst of glowing Feel- 
 ings and blissful Fascination she gently dis- 
 plays to each the habits and merits and man- 
 ner of Existence of the other, accustoms him 
 smilingly and imperceptibly to the Occupa- 
 tions, and even to taste and praise the fa- 
 vourite Dishes of the other, and to consider 
 that which is foreign to his habits, and even 
 repulsive to him, not only endurable but 
 pleasant, for the sake of the Beloved. Each 
 comes to the knowledge of all this during the 
 blissful Dream of Love, takes it kindly, and 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 67 
 
 blends himself therewith in that rosy time 
 when all is forgiven — all, even if he were the 
 Child of a Murderer. And this happy Fas- 
 cination, this bewitching Captivity, lasts long 
 enough to stamp the Nature of the one upon 
 the other, half unconsciously, but to entire 
 Satisfaction. Thus then they live placidly 
 together and with a perfect Understanding, 
 and love each other for their Faults as well 
 as for their Virtues. Is it not so, my son ? 
 for Marriage is a beautiful Union, in which 
 the Husband and Wife, having been joined 
 for ever by Heaven, turn to the noblest Ends 
 of Humanity whatever there may be that is 
 peculiar in the Heart and Mind of each, all 
 finely blended together by Love. 
 
 He then looked around him in the House, 
 and went into the different Apartments, found 
 and greeted his Daughter-in-law, and with 
 these fair and wise Words he had, according 
 to his own opinion, defined and settled the 
 whole Condition of the young Pair. 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 But it was not so ! Now was the Artistes 
 Married Life begun ; and the question arises, 
 whether even the most loving Maiden can 
 thoroughly understand him. She has a Life- 
 time in whicli to study him, as he has also 
 to study himself and Life. All other Men 
 are conceivable and penetrable in their Bear- 
 ing and in their Mind ; the Artist is a Flower 
 which blooms from one Development into 
 another as long as he lives. And if he shut 
 up his blooming Heart, then he is dead. 
 And his Works are the stamina of the Flower 
 evolved into Seed, which the Wind sows 
 over the Earth, and bloweth — where it list- 
 eth. Therefore to be the Wife of such an 
 one, Patience is needed, and nothing can 
 nurse the Plant but the heavenly Patience of 
 a faithful fostering Hand. 
 r The beautiful Agnes had entered as it 
 j were into a new Sphere — a magic Sphere 
 for her. There was scarcely anything she 
 understood, or as to which she could take an 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 69 
 
 interest in her Husband, otherwise than as a 
 gentle, careful Wife. And yet she wished to 
 do so; for in her concealed Love for her 
 Husband, nothing was indifferent to her 
 which moved his Soul or filled his Heart. 
 And many things, so much that was enig- 
 matical to her, appeared to move his Soul 
 and to fill his Heart ! And she alone thought 
 to fill that Heart! while he appeared to know 
 and silently to worship a still deeper and 
 more holy Power than her and her Love, yea 
 the Godly, the Immortal, the Mysterious. 
 Then again everything peculiar in his inward 
 bent and manner of thinking appeared so 
 clearly, and yet also so doubtfully and im- 
 penetrably to her Mind, to have its Founda- 
 tion in the World around, and to be closely 
 connected therewith, that it was often well 
 with her and often seething hot. But as a 
 Wife, all she cared about was his Love — of 
 that alone she wished to be certain. 
 
 She concluded, therefore, the Honeymoon 
 
70 
 
 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 in this wise, that one Night she fell sick. 
 The Master was greatly alarmed. She long- 
 ed for some Groundsel Tea. But nothing 
 was to be found — no Frying-pan, no Chips, 
 no Coals; everything seemed to have van- 
 ished. Susanna appeared. And now sat 
 the good Master, and held the little Pot with 
 Water over the flame of the Lamp to boil, 
 till it became too hot for his Fingers, and then 
 Susanna held it by the Handle till it was too 
 hot for her again, and willingly the Master 
 took it in his turn. Thus they both sat, talk- 
 ing in an undertone, and looking at each 
 other with anxious Countenances, till it boil- 
 ed. When, however, Susanna was gone, 
 and he carried the bitter Beverage to his dear 
 beautiful Agnes^ there she lay laughing un- 
 der the Coverlet. She flung her Arms round 
 his Neck, and said, I only wished to see 
 whether thou really carest for me I Now 
 drink thine own Groundsel, to cure thy 
 Fright ! And he drank, whilst she blew up- 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 71 
 
 on his smarting Fingers, kissing meanwhile 
 the Points of them. 
 
 Ah ! the Sceptic ! that was certainly a 
 very mischievous Deed ! — unimportant, it is 
 true, yea lovely to behold, like a glittering 
 Ring around a young Bough in early Spring. 
 But it will become a Nest full of Caterpillars, 
 and deprive the Tree of its Adornment just 
 at the time when it should bloom most luxu- 
 riantly. 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 All good men have known the blessing 
 of profound Sleep. To that silent holy King- 
 dom, full of Thoughts and Images from 
 which they at the first as Children wonder- 
 fully endowed entered into Life, they return 
 every Night to refresh themselves : their Con- 
 sciousness, circumscribed by Day, and which 
 without Sleep would at length become small, 
 narrow and pitiful, sets therein like the Sun, 
 and their Mind returns every Morning reno- 
 vated, strengthened, and enlarged, coming 
 forth joyfully like a Bridegroom out of his 
 Chamber. Even the Flowers close in the 
 Evening ; they sleep in the Moonlight, midst 
 the Brilliancy of the Stars and the Songs of 
 the Nightingales, as if these sweet Song- 
 stresses were their Nurses, and in the Morn- 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 73 
 
 ing their Heart is more open, fuller, more | 
 fragrant. If an Artist, therefore, be deprived 
 of Sleep, if he must break off his morning 
 Dreams, during which he brings to the light 
 of day and transfers to his waking hours what 
 he has beheld in the World of Spirits, as if f 
 it were contraband within Earth's limits, then ( 
 good-night to Fancy! farewell to her Works, 
 sprung from the Mind, deeply felt in the 
 Heart, and nourished with the innermost 
 Marrow of Life ! For then are they only — 
 Handicraftswork, conceived in the Day, in 
 the Day executed, and in the Evening for- 
 gotten—Piecework, like to Nurnberg Ginger- 
 bread. And to make even that, the Dough 
 must ferment and ripen for three Years. 
 
 The Master was now for the first time de- 
 prived of this Morning Sleep. Now Agnes 
 did not well know of what value it was to 
 him; but she could not have grudged him 
 this enjoyment, if she had thought it was 
 as sweet to him as it was to her. She con- 
 
74 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 sidered it only Laziness in him, but not in 
 herself; for her it was Ease. However, 
 , young Wives like to sleep long — and Albert 
 might think: Perhaps there ripens another 
 Godly Work of our Heavenly Father in the 
 sweet Slumberer midst her blissful morning 
 Dreams ! So then he arose early, and thus 
 was his first Blessing gone! were it not that 
 he acquired another in its stead, in thus gaz- 
 ing on his beautiful beloved Wife — in the 
 innocent arms of Sleep, the rosy Glow of a 
 holy World on her Cheek, as a visible re- 
 flection of the same in the earthly Sphere — 
 like a new morning Dawn on an ancient 
 Godlike Statue. 
 
 At this e£irly period, the young Master was 
 called to the house of Wilibald Pirkheimer, 
 Agnes knew what was to be the object of his 
 visit, so his lace Collar was not washed, nor 
 yet plaited, or in putting it on, Agnes spoilt 
 it again herself. Susanna dared not venture 
 to trim his black velvet Cloak, or his Shoes 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 75 
 
 with their Roses. The Master was obliged 
 to do it in secret for himself. For Wilibald 
 had kindly threatened to come for him him- 
 self. He came and carried him off, to draw 
 a Picture of his Sister Clara, This was 
 what he had to do. 
 
 He found the beautiful Maiden — surround- 
 ed by lovely little Children — paler than at 
 the time when she had placed the bridal 
 Ring on the Finger of his Agnes in the Gar- 
 den, her Eye more veiled, her demeanour 
 still softer and more modest, so that he felt 
 quite strange in the flower-adorned, sunny 
 apartment, quite peculiarly embarrassed to 
 find himself alone with her. She sat down ; 
 he drew the outline of her lovely Counte- 
 nance ; she did not raise her Eyes — he was 
 obliged to ask her to do so. She then look- 
 ed at him, her whole Soul in the Glance; 
 then her Lips quivered, she became still pa- 
 ler than before, she breathed softly, her Head 
 
76 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 suak involuntarily, till her Chin rested on 
 her Bosom and formed a delicate double 
 Chin. 
 
 Albert scarcely ventured to look at her ; 
 he could not help sighing. The Children 
 had clung around her, and stood in like man- 
 ner embarrassed ; they remained motionless, 
 and also gently sighed, one after the other, 
 as if they had therewith secretly infected each 
 other. 
 
 There is a Drop on thine Arm, said the 
 little Girl ; pray look, Clara, how comes that 
 to be there ? 
 
 Clara arose. Do not disturb the current 
 of the Master's Thoughts, said she softly, 
 smiling, — nor mine either, dear Children ! 
 The Drop fell from thine Eyelids ; thou hast 
 certainly been weeping just now. 
 
 I? asked the Girl. 
 
 No, thou ! said she to the Boy. 
 
 I ? asked the Boy. 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 77 
 
 Well then, she said, it must have fallen 
 from my own Eyes ; I have been embroider- 
 ing so busily at my Veil for some days. 
 
 Clara now showed him the Veil, at the 
 same time holding in her breath. I am go- 
 ing to put it on thus early^ and yet for all that 
 too late ! said she, in a scarcely audible tone 
 of voice, and from a Soul which seemed to 
 have lost itself, or to be dwelling in Thought 
 in far distant Regions and in twice-blessed 
 Times. 
 
 Ah ! thou art going to be a Nun, sighed 
 the Boy. 
 
 No, she is going to be an Angel, said the 
 Girl, correcting him. Oh dear Clara, I will 
 be an Angel too. 
 
 Then I will be a Monk, concluded the 
 loving Boy. 
 
 Clara^s glance scarcely wandered so far as 
 to meet my Eyes ; and when Albert under- 
 stood aright her Words, her Looks, her 
 hasty undertaking, there lay in this fleeting 
 
78 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 Moment the Satisfaction and the Consolation 
 of her whole self-sacrificing Life. 
 
 On a plate of Chinese Porcelain was some 
 Gingerbread ; — I know not whether she had 
 heard from her Brother that Albert had been 
 fond of it from his childhood ; — Clara offered 
 some to the Children — and, as if in jest, she 
 held out the Plate to him, looking meanwhile 
 on the Ground, and whispered only : Perhaps 
 you would like also to taste some of it ? an 
 Artist, you know, continues willingly to be a 
 Child, even though he were 
 
 She paused. At the same moment his 
 Wife sent for him in haste : Albert must of 
 necessity return Home — the matter could suf- 
 fer no delay. 
 
 Clara smiled, thinking Agnes might have 
 a Presentiment — that she might feel the gen- 
 tle Echo of the Words in her own Bosom. 
 
 Go to her, then. Master Albert^ said she, 
 taking leave of him; and if you will not 
 think amiss of me for it, take the Drawing 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 79 
 
 also with you ! My Picture was meant for 
 my Brother Wilibald; but if he wishes to 
 keep me in remembrance, he has no need of 
 my Shadow. And if he misses me, he will 
 see myself standing before his Eyes, where- 
 ever I may be. And besides, why should I 
 be hung up in this room, and deceive Stran- 
 gers who never knew me ? I must say Fare- 
 well to you also I farewell ! Now make 
 
 haste, else a second Messenger will come — 
 then she will come herself. Ah ! She !* 
 
 Albert went away from her like one in a 
 Dream; but his pure Heart did not even li&-| 
 ten to her guileless, heart-rending Words. 
 
 At Home, however, there was no one who 
 wanted him. Agnes raised her Head from 
 her work, and smiled, looked at him with 
 confused glances, and only said in her own 
 
 * My poor, poor Sister ! this alone then was the cause of 
 thy retirement from Life. Indeed I guessed as much. Why 
 did Hans Frei bargain so hastily with old Albert ! — W. P. 
 
80 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 excuse, I was so anxious! now there is a 
 Stone taken from my Heart. 
 
 When Firkheimer^s Sister went to the 
 Convent of Santa Clara, she left behind her 
 Presents to £l11 the Friends of her Youth, and 
 to Albert's Agnes a valuable lace Collar of 
 her own Handiwork. 
 
 Agnes locked it up, without even trying it 
 on. Perhaps she did so secretly. 
 
 The importance of the Honeymoon, which 
 had been so much vaunted to him by his 
 Father, had not held good ; because he felt 
 that he himself in this Fascination had scarce- 
 ly seen his Wife as she actually was ; in like 
 manner, she gdso had not seen him as he 
 was, much less had she understood him ; but 
 least of all would she be able soon to get ac- 
 customed to the peculiarities which he, as 
 every Man does, brought with him into the 
 married state : of that he was sensible. 
 Everything must therefore once more be con- 
 templated after the ordinary manner of the 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 81 
 
 World, once more with subdued Feelings 
 spoken of, considered, and settled, as the op- 
 portunity might offer. It was best, however, 
 that everything should come right of itself, 
 and as it might chance ; in all things indif- 
 ferent the Husband must be willing to yield, 
 however new it might be to him, however 
 different from what he himself thought ; he 
 had also to learn that he must sacrifice the 
 Half of his Existence, must give it up to the 
 "Wife, in order thereby to gain the Half of 
 another beloved Existence, and must scarce- 
 ly venture to Avarn, must only tell^ even when 
 anything Evil was to be shunned, or anything 
 Good to be done. A Husband must not be 
 a Teacher or a domestic Chaplain. One 
 Word may be sufficiently intelligible, and 
 when there is good intention on the Wife's 
 part, she has long Years in which to disci- 
 pline herself in silence thereon — often also to 
 suffer. Albert was therefore meekly silent, 
 and studied the holy condition of Marriage 
 6 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 1 with a devout mind, because the Lord had 
 
 / placed him in Paradise. 
 
 Under favour of his Silence, everything in 
 the House was soon directed and regulated 
 according to Agnes' s will ; and what in itself 
 appeared indifferent, through the number and 
 the association of things, was soon no longer 
 so. Yet he let everything alone which was 
 not really bad. For he knew well that he 
 exercised a mental Ascendancy which con- 
 strained his Wife in her Will, and against 
 which she thought she could maintain an ar- 
 tificial Equilibrium by Opposition alone. 
 She knew not the power of Submission, not 
 even that of Submission to the best of Hus- 
 bands. And when she saw daily the two- 
 headed Eagle over the park-gate, on the Arms 
 of the Imperial City, then she thought that 
 in Marriage there should also be two Heads, 
 without considering that no living creature 
 can so exist, and that even when painted or 
 hewn in stone it is a Monster, or represents 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 83 
 
 one. It should be said, however, in excuse 
 for her, that she was the Child of an old 
 Father, and had not learned obedience, even 
 when he asked her to be happy, not to men- 
 tion anything else. She had only laughed 
 when her Father once asked her quite grave- 
 ly to laugh, so that he might see his Daugh- 
 ter lively for once — were it only in appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Thus demure was her Mind, and only di- 
 rected towards a few objects in Life, but to 
 them so much the more firmly and constant- 
 ly. And these things were not censurable, 
 but, on the contrary, desirable and necessary 
 for every one. Her sense of Honour was 
 great, strong, and pure ; but she wished to 
 carry it about with her through Life, not only 
 firmly maintained but undisputed. 
 
 But . 
 
 Albert's Father had, it is true, bought him 
 a House, but he had not paid for it. And 
 therefore the Walls oppressed and confined 
 
84 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 -• 
 
 poor Agnes, so that it was impossible to 
 move her to look out at the Window with 
 him — out of a borrowed House. 
 
 As often also as she went to Church like 
 a good Catholic, she avoided the Streets in 
 which any one dwelt who was in Alberfs 
 Debt, that she might not appear needy or 
 dunning. 
 
 Albert J with his usual candour, had also 
 imparted to her Letters he had received from 
 Venice dunning him. They were for Debts 
 contracted in Travelling and for Instruction ; 
 — and he who would allow his Neighbour, 
 with whose circumstances he is intimately ac- 
 quainted, to starve, will lend to the Stranger ; 
 for when any one travels into far Countries, 
 he provides beforehand the means thereto, 
 and is thought to be only in momentary em- 
 barrassment, which may even befal the rich- 
 est. Albert, however, endured much Dis- 
 tress in Foreign Lands, and willingly suffer- 
 ed "Want from his unconquerable Love for 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 85 
 
 the Arts, which carried him cheerfully through 
 a condition that might perhaps have killed 
 another, without such an opposing power. 
 When such a Letter came, Agnes was silent 
 for Days. He, however, had the fruits of 
 his Journey in his Heart and in his Mind- 
 no one could rob him of these ; and that he j \ 
 was in Debt for them, and yet possessed 
 them, appeared to him quite wonderful; and I 
 he was satisfied when he felt his Power, and 
 saw the means how, and how soon, and with . 
 what thanks, he would be able to pay ! But | ; 
 if he reckoned up all his prospects to Ag^es^ j' 
 she only cast down her Eyes, or looked at 
 him with doubting Looks, which made his 
 whole heart tumultuous within him. He 
 was as certain of the thing as he was of his 
 Life, and yet his own Wife discouraged him 
 by her Doubts ! His Mind revolted ; all his 
 future Works rose up within his Bosom like 
 fiery Spirits ; he fell himself raised by them 
 above the Evils of this Life ; he glowed, his 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 /|Lips quivered, Tears flowed down his Cheeks 
 — and Agnes stole away from him speechless 
 but not convinced — and, as he also plainly 
 saw, not to be convinced; she was quite 
 horror-struck, for she had never before so 
 seen her gentle Husband, so full of noble 
 Power! so full of inward holy Wrath ! 
 
 And yet he was soon again pacified, sof- 
 tened, yea dejected; for he was not aKvays 
 well able at that time to procure for his Ag- 
 nes the immediate Necessaries of Life, in the 
 manner she, as Mistress of a House, wished ! 
 As for her, she savv the fulfilment of her most 
 reasonable Hopes only so much the longer 
 delayed — and he, by the same means, her 
 Satisfaction with herself and with him ; and 
 thus his own Peace hovered over him like a 
 scared-away Lark, no longer visible among 
 the Clouds — till single Notes of her Song 
 again penetrated down to him, as if the Sun 
 were singing and speaking to him. 
 
 Labour was Life and Delight to the Mas- 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 87 
 
 ter ; for any one can make mention of his 
 own Industry as he would of a Duty, and of 
 the want of it as a Sin of Omission. But 
 the Artist is no Machine, no Millwheel that 
 turns round and round Day and Night ; his 
 Work is Mental, and his Works are Mind, 
 produced by Mind. Thoughts and Images 
 slumber within him like Bees in a Hive; 
 they fly out and feed and grow upon the 
 Sweets of the eternal Spring without : them- 
 selves satisfied and strengthened, they bring 
 home Nourishment with them, and feed the 
 young Bees who as yet only flap their Wings, 
 and buzz around ; they cover the Brood, till 
 they impregnate their Queen — Fancy ; — and 
 every new Work is a Swarm, which joyfully 
 separating from the Mother-stock, departs to 
 the place it has traced out for a Settlement. 
 The Swarm changes its Voice by that of the 
 Queen who keeps them together ; and when 
 its Bees and the Bees of the Mother-stock 
 meet on the Flowers, they no longer recog- 
 
88 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 nize each other. Or as in Spring, when it 
 becomes hot, and the Heavens are inflamed, 
 and the Thunder Storm in the Spring Night, 
 with its red Flashes and great Rain-drops, 
 causes a thousand Buds to spring, brings 
 forth Blossoms, opens up Crocuses, Violets, 
 and Hyacinths — and they, when the Heaven- 
 ly Blessing hangs over them, stand there in 
 the Morning, as if by their own power they 
 had grown out of the Earth, because they are 
 so beautiful, and every one gives them credit 
 for possessing the wonderful Power of Self- 
 production — in like manner, an inward men- 
 tal Sun opens up as suddenly the Flowers in 
 the Head of the Artist! But they must all 
 (wait patiently till their time comes, and he 
 imust wait patiently and wear them for a long 
 .time as Germ and Bud : and the restlessness, 
 [the laying on of the Hand, the rubbing of the 
 JBrow, and the painful Self-torture, are of no 
 i avail! all in vain! If he tries this, neverthe- 
 lless, then he is only a Child who tears up a 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 89 
 
 Still closed Snowdrop along with its Stalk, 
 and forces it open with his Mouth ; or peels 
 a Butterfly out of the Chrysalis, and only be- 
 holds the Wonder of incipient Life — and 
 then destroys ! 
 
 Master Albert now often dreamed and de- 
 layed whole Days ; sat down, rose up, spoke 
 to himself, drew with his Slick on the Sand, 
 or began to make an Eye or a Nose with 
 black Chalk ; and then Agnes called him a 
 Child, or thought that, dissatisfied with her, 
 he held Converse with his owui Soul. Or he 
 walked up and down in the Garden, stood 
 for a quarter of an hour at a time before the 
 trunk of a Tree, and studied its wonderfully- 
 bursting Bark; looked up to the Heavens, 
 and imprinted on his memory the forms of 
 the Clouds; or he sat before the door, and 
 called thither handsome Children, placed one 
 quite in the Shade of the Roof, another only 
 half, and made a third stand in the full Sun- 
 shine, that he might adjust for himself the 
 
90 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 colours of the dresses in Light and Shade ; 
 or he accosted old Men and Women, who 
 came to him just as if they had been sent by 
 God. Then Agnes called to him, and said 
 peevishly : My God I why not rather work ! 
 thou knowest well, we need it. 
 
 I do work, said Albert. My Picture is 
 ready. 
 
 God grant it! sighed she, as if he were 
 lazy, or incapable. 
 
 Just consider, my Agnes, said he then 
 smiling : does t^e Carver carve the Forms ; 
 does the Pencil paint ? these are my Spirits 
 and Slaves, who do my Will when I call 
 them. 
 
 But still thou canst sit down. 
 
 I certainly can do so. 
 
 If thy Pencil would only move of itself! 
 were there such a Pencil — then we should 
 have our wants supplied. 
 
 I would burn, I would banish such a Pen- 
 cil, as if it were an Evil Spirit! I — I must 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 91 
 
 do all myself, otherwise I should no longer 
 be myself. That were just the same as if a 
 strange Woman were to love and foster me 
 instead of thee. 
 
 Internal Images now appeared to his Mind, 
 as if induced by constant Devotion, and dis- 
 closed to his sight how the Crocus appearing 
 out of the Earth, tears its little delicate white 
 Child's Shirt ; and then the Master glowed 
 like a vessel full of molten Gold, liquified 
 and pure for the casting; so that he trem-! 
 bled, knew nothing more of. the World, and 
 what was revealed to him he transferred to 
 the Tablet with inspired haste : — then came 
 Agnes and called to him two or three times, 
 always louder and louder, about some Trifle. 
 He then sprang up, neither knowing where 
 he had been nor where he now was; the 
 portals of the Spiritual Kingdom closed sud- 
 denly, and the only half conjured-up Images 
 sank back into Night, and into Spiritual i 
 Death, and perhaps never returned to him, 
 
92 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 ih ! never thus again. Then he recognized 
 Agnes^ who, angry at his demeanor, stood 
 before him and scolded him deaf and blind. 
 Then his Blood was like to a Spring Flood 
 he seized the Charm-dispelling Disturber 
 violently by the arm — and held her thus till 
 he awoke. Then he said, ashamed. Is it 
 thou, my Wife ? I was not here just now I 
 not with thee ! Forgive me ! To vex even 
 a Child is more inhuman than to see and 
 paint all the Angels, and to hear them and 
 one's self praised, is desirable. Thou also 
 livest in a beautiful World — and that the 
 Sun and Moon shine upon it, that makes it 
 none the worse I Where thou art, where 
 I am, with Soul and Feeling, yea with 
 Fancy and her Works, that is to me the 
 true, the holy World! And now he smiled 
 and asked her mildly : What dost thou want 
 with me then, my Child? But his Eyes 
 flashed. 
 
 She, however, believed that she had looked 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 93 
 
 upon a Demon ! a Conjuror of Spirits ! She 
 examined the red mark on her arm, where 
 he had seized her; Tears gushed from her 
 Eyes ; she bowed down and lamented : Ah ! 
 I know it, I have it always in my mind — 
 thou wilt certainly one day murder me ! 
 Every time I go to bed, I pray that I may 
 not perish in my Sins, when thou again art 
 as thou art now! when I am nothing to 
 thee! 
 
 She spoke in so soft, so desponding a 
 tone, and yet so resigned to her Fate with 
 him, that he was moved to Tears by her 
 confused words and frightened appearance. 
 
 Oh thou, my Heavenly Father! sighed he 
 then, and stood with clasped hands ; till at 
 length he clasped his terrified Wife, who 
 could not comprehend him, who felt so pa- 
 tient and so completely in his power, that she 
 would not even scream or call for help, if he 
 should Oh! thou heavenly Father! 
 
94 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 till at length he clasped her in his arms, and 
 felt her glowing on his Cheek. 
 
 Then he secretly determined with himself 
 to yield to her willingly in everything ; to 
 allow her to rule according to the best of her 
 Knowledge and Understanding, and lovingly 
 to endure all from her, and to do everything 
 to please her, till at length, instead of him, a 
 very different, a cruel Man should appear, to 
 execute that which she from him — 
 
 Oh! thou Heavenly Father! 
 
 As soon as he had spoken. Fear was at an 
 end ; for what is said^ no longer disquiets a 
 Woman, nor does it even a Poet. 
 
 Agnes now thought that the exhausting 
 efforts of the mind would confuse his senses 
 — that she would have her Suffering with 
 him — and must starve in old age — perhaps 
 in youth ! or his abstracted manner of Life 
 might draw him away, as it had done from 
 Men, so also from her, from his Wife! — and 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 95 
 
 thought how little she was to him, and of 
 how small value. 
 
 Nimnenbeck the Minstrel and Celtes came 
 to visit Albert. Agnes had certainly imparted 
 her fears to them. There was also a Scholar 
 of Alberfsy a relative of Nimnenbeck, who 
 was a loose fellow. Therefore Celtes said, 
 in presence of them all : To discriminate 
 Ideas is to discriminate Life. I grant that he 
 who is born an Artist must be a different, 
 more peculiar, more richly endowed person 
 than others. He is the Organ, the Medium 
 through which the creative Mind of Nature 
 is still glowing, who is destined to continue 
 the work she has only just begun, by Images 
 drawn from her secret movements, and who 
 moulds the outward universal Creation into 
 a Human Form. Therefore, his Bosom is a 
 moving Depth, full of Germs and Images, 
 the materials for a more beautiful mental 
 Spring. Himself the Spirit of Nature, he 
 takes a thoughtful interest in all her so 
 
96 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 beautifully-formed Works : the Death of the 
 Worm moves him as deeply as the Death of 
 the greatest Man ; for it is Death that moves 
 him. All Nature's manifestations are reflect- 
 ed in the warm and clear Mirror of his Soul. 
 Love, also, which enraptures every creature, 
 breathes and glows on him sacredly ; and 
 under the influence of this glowing Fulness, 
 yea in the midst of it, he can scarcely contain 
 his Felicity in thoughts which stream over 
 £l11 things. Ah ! and he struggles to tell of 
 the Godly, and to lament the Sorrowful — to 
 penetrate all which has been from Eternity, 
 which near and around him rules, and over 
 his Grave will still eternally rule. And this 
 Poiver of Contemplation, this Impvlse pro- 
 ceeding from the Power, makes him an Ax- 
 list 
 
 But, interrupted Nimnenbeck, does he then 
 tear himself loose from his Mother Nature 
 when he enters on the career of an Artist? 
 can he no longer make use of her Laws ? 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 97 
 
 Is he no longer moved by the Actual around 
 him ? — has he no Joy, no Sorrow, no more 
 any individual Life in Nature — does he cease 
 to be a Man, if he would become one of the 
 most glorious of his Generation ? Does no- 
 thing living any more allure, disappoint, ex- 
 cite and enrapture him ? and is his Life only 
 the Dream of his Soul, and its Capacities 
 what he must dream of ? 
 
 Alas for him ! said Celtes, if he could and 
 must do this! then were he more miserable 
 than one of the most neglected Creatures of 
 his loving Mother! But he has also Fancy 
 in which to live ! 
 
 He dwells in no remote, subterranean, or 
 celestial kingdom, proceeded Nunnenbeck; 
 he dwells in the Kernel of Nature. He is 
 not solitary, but like an Enchanter alone, 
 awfully alone with the conjured-up Spirits, 
 and thus in the most dignified and fullest 
 Society of all the Living and the Dead. He 
 continues to be a Man, subject to all the 
 
 7 
 
98 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 ]aws of waking and sleeping, of hunger and 
 thirst, and to all the conditions of Existence, 
 as strictly as a day-labourer. He has not nor 
 can he subject himself to these Spirits, for his 
 own Spirit is greater than all. He does not 
 ^ build his marvellous Palace on the Wrecks of 
 this spell-like Nature, but he adopts all her 
 Laws, even the smallest and most delicate, 
 j in his Ideas and Images ; — if he would make 
 ; himself intelligible and valuable to Men, 
 then he must invent and create according to 
 the most universal Laws, which the smallest 
 may understand and recognize — and his 
 Power is not derived from Nature, to be used 
 against Nature, but ivith her ; and it is his 
 f Life and his Glory to follow -her as far and 
 as faithfully as it is possible for him to follow 
 her. For the Human Race must not receive 
 1 through his means a contorted, false, illusive 
 I Nature ; but every one if possible must see 
 I his own Heart's Kernel, that he may under- 
 stand the Miracles which were not so clear 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 99 
 
 to his own contemplation. In this way- 
 alone, he raises also to the all-powerful 
 Mother, the insiped, unthinking, and passive, 
 whose Senses are all bound down by the 
 Exigencies of Life. Through him they see 
 that Nature is not so common as they are 
 common : through him, in fine, they behold 
 the whole Beauty of the World, the whole 
 Depth which is in the Mind of Man, and 
 which the Initiated bring to light. But when 
 the Artist descends to search out the Trea- 
 sures of the Deep, still he is like the Miner, 
 who has his House and his Wife above in 
 the Sunshine! 
 
 AgTies looked at the excellent old Man, 
 and blushed. Therefore he was silent, and 
 Celtes, the subtle Judge of Mankind, turned 
 the conversation still further to Alberts ad- 
 van i age. 
 
 Yes, as he loves the World, said he, so the 
 World loves him in return ; they cannot do 
 without each other. And even the severest 
 
100 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 Capuchin is in the right, when he censures 
 the Artist who does not in the strictest man- 
 ner fulfil the Moral Laws of Nature; — for 
 that was what I meant by my first words. 
 The gift of Fancy, and the gift of Reverence 
 for the Godlike, are two very different quali- 
 ties in Man ; and it is only by their union 
 that a truly perfect Man is known. What 
 makes him an Artist is, that, to outward 
 appearance quite a simple Man, he yet can 
 mount into the region of Fancy as often as 
 he ivill. , But it is only as a pure Being, as an 
 Angel, that he can enter therein. Those who 
 are but seldom inspired — the tumultuous, 
 only once or twice excited — are ungenuine 
 Spirits: they sink as deep as they soared 
 high. Nature gives to the genuine Artist, 
 with his Birth, the true Elevation, the Great- 
 ness of Mind necessary for lifelong unvary- 
 ing Endurance day and night ; and from her 
 comes every daily breath, every word — so 
 that he feels, suffers, and rejoices in every- 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 101 
 
 thing, under every lot, and in all circum- 
 stances. And thus he sits, apparently like 
 one mute or blind, yea as a Child among 
 Children, and dwells meanwhile — although 
 with them, yet wherever he will, in Heaven 
 or in Hell. It is only the constant, unremit- 
 ting Power which gives the stamp to the 
 genuine Calling; and from that Power he 
 has Occupation, Name, Work, and Happi- 
 ness. And if he wilfully close the Realm of 
 Fancy, then he becomes subject to the small- 
 est Law of the exterior World, and more so 
 indeed of his Love and of his Conscience, 
 which are the tenderest and purest Laws in 
 the World. 
 
 Dost thou hear? said Nunnenbeck to his 
 young relative, and seized him by the hand. 
 Wherever thou beholdest a dissolute Artist, 
 my Son, even if it were only his Shadow, 
 then think : he is no Artist, has never been 
 one fundamentally, or will soon be one no 
 longer ; for the Conflict between two Passions 
 
102 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 drags even the strongest person to Death. 
 Human Nature can endure a Fault, and 
 more so if it contains an elevating, ever-vivi- 
 fying Power. No one dies by the effusions 
 of such a Power : it is the renovating Joy of 
 his Life. But he who is a Giant in Fancy, 
 may be a Negro Child in Morals ; and the 
 Child drags the Giant into the abyss. For 
 these are certainly opposite — but may be 
 found united in the same person. And every 
 one, be he who he may, is and must remain 
 a Man, a Moral Being, and may least of all 
 give himself up to the Devil, that he may re- 
 veal God by his Art. 
 
 In addition to all these doubts, Agnes had 
 also others which were tender and womanly. 
 Albert was willing to give her every proof 
 of his Love, till she was convinced. But he 
 did not succeed, owing to a hundred new 
 occurrences. 
 
 The faithful, modest Susanna^ ate with 
 them at Table. First of all, that was an Of- 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 103 
 
 fence. But Albert also spoke with her when 
 he was alone. There was nothing more 
 painful to him, than, in a House where only 
 two or three live together, to force one's self 
 to be silent out of mere Haughtiness, and to 
 treat the Servants, whether male or female, 
 as Mutes, who are yet Human Beings like 
 ourselves ; for nothing makes us more con- 
 temptible in the eyes of others, than when 
 they dare not talk to us because we seem to 
 despise them, and do really despise them. \ 
 Now Agnes suspected, when he broke off a 
 Conversation with Susanna whenever she en- 
 tered, that it had been about her : therefore 
 she must be dismissed from the House. He 
 would not agree to it. Then came still more 
 evil times ; and at last he was obliged to let 
 her go, because a Wretch seduced the poor 
 young Creature. And secretly to protect her 
 from want — that was dangerous: therefore 
 he must see the poor Girl with her Child go 
 
104 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 aboat begging — and he actually saw it — but 
 with secret Tears and Sighs. 
 
 At another time there came a Worker in 
 Tapestry from Arras and dwelt with him — 
 and also ate and drank. To be sure, that 
 cost Money — it cannot be denied. But the 
 Man, who was going to Rome, to collect 
 large sums of Money, and to take new orders, 
 had also a Son with him, a Painter, whom 
 Albert had known before in the Netherlands. 
 This young Man was not likely to awaken 
 confidence in the Minds of upright Women, 
 for he was very flighty and loose in his con- 
 duct. Now Ag-nes judged of all her Hus- 
 band's foreign acquaintances from this Man. 
 Albert had had no other intercourse with him 
 but concerning his Art: as a Man, he had 
 allowed him to go his own way. And a Man 
 can only pass through the world pure, when 
 he sucks in nourishment for his oicn life, like 
 the Flowers from the universal Ether. Thus 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 105 
 
 he may occupy himself with Plants and Ani- 
 mals in as far as they are beneficial to him, 
 without becoming a Rose-bush or a Bear. 
 The young Man's Sister was also with them, 
 a blooming young creature, to whom Albert 
 had been kind in her girlish years, and who 
 now, when grown, hung on him the more 
 confidingly. To dispel the doubts of Agnes 
 in this matter also, he asked the Maiden one 
 day at table, whether she recollected in what 
 year he had visited her Father. And the 
 mention of the year drew forth from her so 
 much about the happy days of her Youth, 
 which a Child alone could remember, that 
 Agnes was convinced in her own mind. But 
 she was angry at her experiment in Arithme- 
 tic, and at his Smile. 
 
 In consequence of this Conversation, Ag' 
 nes now asked Albert to tell her all about his 
 Travels. He dared not hesitate. And so he 
 was obliged to conceal many things from her, 
 and also where he had received much Love 
 
106 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 and Kindness, which made his grateful Heart 
 very sorrowful. He also felt his Deficiencies 
 in many things, and saw now, for the first 
 time, as he believed, what a much wiser and 
 more profitable Use he might have made of 
 his Travels, of the advantages of the Places, 
 and of the dexterity of the Masters ! But 
 it appeared so to him, only because he was 
 now wiser and further advanced in his Art. 
 For Man sees and understands only accord- 
 ing to the Measure of his own Power and 
 Art. Of this, however, he was certain, that 
 he was now capable of observing and learn- 
 ing more than formerly ; and he oftentimes 
 expressed the wish once again to behold these 
 glorious Lands ; and the longing thereafter, 
 proceeding from the Depths of his Soul, was 
 almost painfully reflected in his countenance. 
 Ag-nes fancied that he might possess or 
 miss some God, which he had left or lost 
 there. She had everything in Him, and he 
 had Her. 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 107 
 
 At another time, he advised a young un- 
 cultivated Artist against taking a Wife, be- 
 cause he did not think him sufficiently- 
 strengthened and confirmed in his Vocation ; 
 and he was driven about by a Disquietude, 
 which had not yet allowed him steadily to 
 seek the golden Portals to the Treasures of 
 the Soul, of Life, and of his Art; and he 
 still looked abroad for what lay in himself 
 alone, but undiscovered and unsatisfied. 
 
 From this Warning Agnes concluded that 
 Albert was dissatisfied with his own Mar- 
 riage, and she remained whole days in the 
 house of her Parents. He went for her in the 
 evenings — to avoid the risk of her not re- 
 turning at all ! When Husband and Wife 
 weigh every word before it is uttered, then 
 there is scarcely any more free Intercourse, 
 and the Restraint must be doubled. 
 
 The usages of Society are certainly conve- 
 nient ; they even give Unity, Simplicity, and 
 a certain steady bearing to a multifariously- 
 
108 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 assailed Life, and also a seeming Greatness 
 to the Mind. Yet, under certain circum- 
 stances, they are also constraining and un- 
 welcome. A proof of this may here be ad- 
 duced. Agnes would not rise from table, 
 nor allow herself to be disturbed in eating. 
 " When any one, more especially the IVIis- 
 tress, has not Rest at such times, then is her 
 whole Life nothing but vain Toil, and with- 
 out proper Refreshment. It is then one 
 comes at least once a-day to recollection, and 
 every thing at table appears to us pleasant 
 and agreeable to the Eye, as the Food or the 
 Wine to the Palate." 
 
 Not untrue, and well argued. 
 
 When she was in a good humour, when 
 the Roast was at the Fire, and the Table was 
 ready covered with nice Linen, then she was 
 so pleased with every thing in the House — 
 that she was off like meadow water, and 
 stood gossiping with some female neighbour. 
 These were her favourite moments. The 
 
THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 109 
 
 Master, knowing this, waited patiently for 
 her, and lived meanwhile in Flemish Kitchen 
 Scenes. On the contrary, if he remained 
 out a quarter of an hour beyond Dinner- 
 time, she had dined quickly; the table was 
 cleared, and he might look to it, and take 
 what he could get. He considered such a 
 day as a voluntary Fast-day, and was satiated 
 with Contentment. But if he reminded her 
 of the words from the Ceremonial Address, 
 " Be ye Hospitable," then she said jeeringly, 
 So! thou art an Angel! Where are then 
 thy Wings ? and what is thy Heavenly 
 Name? 
 
 And he answered, whilst she felt his Shoul- 
 ders, I am only called Albert^ and am thy 
 dear Husband ! 
 
 My dear ? how dost thou know that, then, 
 my Angel! said she. Then he went mildly 
 away from her — but she sprang hastily after 
 him, and he remained mute in her mute em- 
 brace. 
 
110 
 
 THE YEAR OF STRIFE. 
 
 All these things put together were power- 
 ful from their union, and, like a Bundle of 
 Reeds, could scarcely be bent, far less broken. 
 And thus ended the Year of Strife, without 
 any real Treaty of Peace, which in general 
 is never solemnly concluded nor formally 
 celebrated. So it was to be throughout all 
 the succeeding Years ! As old secret Reser- 
 :;^ vations are the cause of new Declarations of 
 War — so is it between two Monarchs in 
 Marriage. 
 
is^-^^ii 
 
 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 Beauty does not supersede all other claims 
 on a Woman ; on the contrary, it should 
 draw them forth, as the Sun does the Flow- 
 ers, in order that they may be all so much 
 the more sweetly and charmingly fulfilled. 
 For it is wonderful how much Beauty ex- 
 cites the Imagination ; how much it covers, 
 and outshines, and consecrates, so that a 
 beautiful Countenance alone makes a mor- 
 tal Woman already an Angel, and even a 
 Hair from her Eyelid appears and is no lon- 
 ger a Hair — it is a Miracle, like the beautiful 
 Woman herself. And Agnes was beautiful 
 — so beautiful ! But Albert looked upon her 
 almost with sadness, almost with pity, be- 
 cause she—'^h ! because she was so beauti- 
 ful. Beauty is only one gift of Nature ! only 
 
112 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 l' a gift to Woman ! The Woman herself is 
 J the Being who receives it. But as is the 
 ) Woman, so does she receive, and so does 
 1 she use the Godly Gift. Yea as she is, so 
 i becomes, and so appears also at last, her 
 Beauty. 
 
 Yet 
 
 A little Agnes, who now appeared, gave to 
 Albert's Wife the Radiance, yea the Glory 
 of the Mother. Thus the Deity continued to 
 bless her I Agnes was the sacred Instrument 
 in His Hands, and the most mysterious, the 
 most divine Powers of old Nature were thus 
 granted to her as it were in Fief. Albert 
 being now filled with Reverence, Rapture, 
 Satisfaction, and Thankfulness, all was well, 
 better than ever, and his Love was now 
 nobly founded, and hers justified, if not 
 more. 
 
 For Agnes also felt in her Heart as if 
 newly-born, and secretly bound by her Hus- 
 band's unwearied care. He watched over 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 113 
 
 Mother and Child. No breath of air should 
 blow upon them ; and when both the dear 
 Ones slumbered, then he hastened away to 
 draw and to paint ; and, to his own amaze- 
 ment, he quickly and beautifully completed 
 a Picture of the Nativity, and one of the 
 Adoration, with the three Holy Kings.* 
 The Picture seemed as if speaking. And 
 then he blessed the Path he had chosen! 
 His own Life opened up to him an unknown 
 portion both of the World, and of his Art, 
 and he felt that he was now the Man to pro- 
 duce quite different and truer Works. Na- 
 
 * The wise men of the East who came to Bethlehem were 
 vulgarly called Kings, but were very probably of a subordi- 
 nate rank. TertuUian calls them Princes, and others con- 
 cur in supposing them to have been Governors or petty 
 Princes, such having been anciently denominated Kings. 
 Bede, Benedict XIV., and others, declared their number to 
 have been three. An ancient commentary on St. Matthew, 
 preserved among the writings of St. Chrysostom, says that 
 they were baptized in Persia by the Apostle St. Thomas, 
 and thereafter became preachers of the Gospel. — Translator. 
 
114 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 J ture in her Divinity had never yet presented 
 I herself before him so closely and so sacredly ! 
 And he felt fresher than in the blooming 
 Month of May after a mild fertilizing Tem- 
 pest. The Ideas which have once been 
 cleared up to the Artist remain eternally clear 
 in his Mind. He directs himself to these 
 bright points of his inner Life when he wish- 
 es to model-^then he can dream and create ! 
 From this source all is Real ! He has felt 
 j I what he wishes to represent ; — he may change 
 'and transpose; then unfold, and convey his 
 lildeas to other Men: and his Work will al- 
 jjways spring from the Heart and go to the 
 i^Heart again. Therefore he must have expe- 
 jrienced the greatest, the simplest, the most 
 
 jbeautiful, and the saddest Events of Nature 
 
 i 
 
 •and of human Life in general, — he must 
 have felt the highest Joy and the deepest Sor- 
 row — and whoever has trod the noble path 
 ;of Human Life with an observing mind — 
 and that is peculiar to the Artist — to him are 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 115 
 
 none of these awanting. But it is enough for 
 him, that his Fancy embraces Nature in its 
 simplicity ! He need not have been the Mur- 
 derer of innumerable Children, in order to 
 represent the Massacre of the Innocents — if j 
 he only has and loves one living Child, and j 
 think — it may die ! He need not have drain- 
 ed the Cup of Vice to the dregs, that he may 
 paint Lucreiia — if he only has a Wife, or 
 has ever possessed one, whom he loves, and 
 thinks — the proud King's son may appear be- 
 fore her with the Poniard or with Dishonour. 
 He need not have gone to beg his Bread that 
 he may draw the Prodigal — ^if he has only 
 been a good Son, who loves his Father ; — 
 the Tatters are found then. Thus the Artist 
 hits everything, whatever it may be, faithfully 
 and truly, if he has always been a genuine 
 Man, attentive to the plainest, simplest con- 
 ditions of Nature. Only in this sense, then, 
 these words are no Blasphemy : The Artist 
 must have experienced what he wishes to 
 
116 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 Ij create. Thus indeed he has experienced 
 everything; and though simple and natural 
 himself, he can yet easily represent the Un- 
 natural. The Artist's first Power, then, is his 
 own pure Heart ; the second, his Fancy ; the 
 third, the faculty of conceiving everything 
 that comes from his Heart, as from a true in- 
 exhaustible Source, to be afterwards woven 
 by Fancy. 
 
 Albert brought the Pictures to Agmes. 
 The sight of them rejoiced her; but she 
 looked at the Child and said : These are still 
 nothing but Pictures after all! Who has be- 
 spoken them ? and what wilt thou receive for 
 them? 
 
 They are already paid — through you and 
 my own joy! said he, somewhat mortified. 
 It is true, they were only Pictures — and be- 
 cause he himself now possessed more than 
 Pictures, he saw also, that the Mother pos- 
 sessed more, and that she had spoken quite 
 naturally and justly. So he willingly learned 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 117 
 
 this also, — that a living Work of God is of 
 more value than all the Works of Men, and 
 that these only exist and can exist — ^because 
 those are. For it is folly to think that Man 
 has produced anything of himself! The 
 Great Master in Heaven gives the Conception 
 for the fair work, the Power of accomplishing 
 it, Joy to Men in beholding it, as well as the 
 living work from his own Hand — the high- 
 est and godliest of all. 
 
 Therefore Albert prized the little creature 
 as a rich Blessing from his Heavenly Father. 
 Be ye hospitable, said he to himself, for 
 thereby some have entertained Angels. And 
 by these words he was transported back in 
 thought to the day when he stood in the 
 Church, and the Maiden Agnes stood beside 
 him, and now in fancy he put the little Ag- 
 nes into her arms, and the Bride stood — as a 
 Mother I All that had afterwards taken place 
 seemed to him then as a thing of the Past ; and 
 the Softness with which his heart overflowed 
 
118 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 was reflected backwards, and warmed the 
 long days, in which in strange lands he had 
 languished in vain for such Happiness — also 
 those in which he had been so cool to the 
 Mother of his little Daughter. From this 
 time forth he determined always to look upon 
 her as the Mother, even if the Child 
 
 He did not finish the Thought, but silently 
 supplicated Heaven to spare its Life. 
 
 The Mother, however, was dissatisfied 
 with what she called his excessive Solicitude, 
 and repulsed him. And thus there remained 
 to him only the choice, either of offending 
 her, or of bringing perhaps Distress upon him- 
 self by her want of Consideration and youth- 
 ful Rashness. And he chose the perhaps ! 
 — and prayed that it mig-ht not^ nay, that it 
 might surely not come to pass. For he 
 could not and did not wish to think of any 
 one of the three without the others. 
 
 A Nurse was needed, and the faithful ser- 
 vices of the poor Susanna were remembered, 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 119 
 
 who, in spite of her Expulsion, yet carried 
 no Tales out of the House, and she was ac- 
 cordingly brought back again. 
 
 Susanna^ however, had a Mark upon her 
 arm, a little Blood-red Cross, which some 
 time before had fallen as if from Heaven all 
 of a sudden on many people, and which Al- 
 bert^ on account of its singularity, had even 
 copied. Susanna had formerly often stretch- 
 ed out her bare arm at table after dinner, and 
 Agones had seen, admired, and touched the 
 Mark, and traced it on her Cheek with her fin- 
 ger; and now it turned out that the little Agnes 
 had a small Purple Cross on her right Cheek. 
 
 On this account Ag'nes did not care so 
 much for her Daughter, and would willingly 
 have sent back the dear Child to its Heavenly 
 Father — and begged Him for another, but if 
 possible to select one for herself out of the in- 
 numerable Host in the Storehouse of Mortals. 
 
 The Child was as like her Father as if he 
 had become little again, and a Girl ; and he 
 
120 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 remarked to Agnes in thoughtless sport, how 
 much trouble she had with him, how much 
 she loved and kissed and caressed him, and 
 took pleasure in toying with him. 
 
 Therefore the Child got no more Kisses 
 from her in his presence, and at last Susanna 
 had it always in her lap. 
 
 The little Girl however was sickly, and 
 gave small promise of Life or of being rear- 
 ed, and therefore the Love of the Mother 
 shrunk back, perhaps from insupportable Sad- 
 ness; for she had once with difficulty sup- 
 pressed her Tears, when she looked at her 
 pale little One ; and as if she were already 
 lost, she tried to compose and comfort her- 
 self that she might first appear indifferent, and 
 then in the end become really so. And the 
 ever sickly, ever sad-tempered Child, who 
 was but seldom satisfied with anything, de- 
 served in this way the dissatisfaction of the 
 Mother. Albert thus accounted for the 
 change in her Feelings. 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 121 
 
 The Child was two years old. She was 
 to have had a little golden Hood and a pretty 
 white Frock for her Birth-day — but the day 
 came, and Agnes had not got them finished. 
 He took her, unadorned as she was, to his 
 Bosom. Thus the little Girl went quite over 
 to the Father. She stood near him when he 
 painted or carved ; he played with her, and 
 neglected Art as often as willingly, that he 
 might learn something from Life instead. 
 She held him fast in her little arms till she 
 fell asleep ; and even then he remained yet a 
 while by her, that he might enjoy the few, 
 the blessed hours, in which the Father still 
 possessed a Child I How thoughtful, and 
 yet how thoughtless, he looked on, when she 
 washed out his pencil in pure water, or 
 brought colours to him! How tenderly he 
 listened, and yet liked not to listen, when the 
 Child said for her Evening Prayer the little 
 Verse : 
 
122 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 Ah ! dear God, I pray thee, 
 A pious Child make me ! 
 Rather than I should stray. 
 Take me from Earth away; 
 Take me to thy Heaven of Light, 
 Make me like the Angels bright! 
 
 Or when she began the Lord's Prayer: 
 Our Father which art in Heaven ! 
 
 The Child now attached herself to him 
 alone. And whom has a Child, but Father 
 and Mother ? They are all to it ; they can 
 destroy or preserve it. Without them it is 
 deprived of counsel, helpless ; and even the 
 morsel of Bread or the Apple, which God 
 has given to the Parents, it receives from their 
 I hands. How high and powerful does a 
 1 Father appear to a Child! Only because it 
 I knows and loves him, it learns to love and 
 i know the Heavenly Father. The Child be- 
 comes all that he wishes — and what must he 
 be, whom that does not move ? who would 
 not bend, even to the Lips of the little sigh- 
 ing Image ? 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 123 
 
 Under the influence of such feelings, Al- 
 bert certainly spoiled the little Agnes ^ who 
 stood so much in need of his care. But he 
 had the Heart, and the confiding tender Na- 
 ture of an Artist ; and he resolved that these 
 should overflow towards his little Daughter, 
 for the short time she had to live. As he 
 highly respected every Human Being, and 
 from true Reverence took ofl" his Bonnet to 
 all, and held it in his hand, so was a Child 
 also to him an Angel, and his Child — his 
 good Angel, whom he had to entertain, and 
 felt so blest to be permitted to do so. And 
 so he must paint for her God the Father, 
 the Angels, and the beautiful meek Apostle 
 John. He gave her Milk, or Honey, to nour- 
 ish the Flowers, or a drop of Wine to pro- 
 long the Lives of those that were fading 
 away; or he gave her the finest Flowers 
 even, that she might press them into the hand 
 of the Infant Christ — and when they fell, she 
 wept that it would not take them. Her 
 
124 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 Mother called all that Folly, or a wasting of 
 the gifts of God. Then when Winter had 
 arrived and the Birds came thronging to the 
 windows, hungry and covered with Snow, 
 he persuaded the Child, who was now nearly 
 three years old, that they came to greet her 
 from old Father Winter with an Icicle in- 
 stead of a Beard, and remained now to see 
 her ; and that they were glad when she was 
 neat and prettily dressed. Then the Father 
 could work! for she sat at the window for 
 hours, nicely dressed in her Mother's golden 
 Hood, in order that the Sparrows might 
 rejoice over her. Or when he described to 
 I her the distress of the poor Birds, and how 
 : cold they were, then she sewed a little warm 
 Coat for the Snow-king, which indeed was 
 never finished, for the silk thread had no 
 knot, and always came through. When she 
 found in the street one day a frozen Yellow- 
 hammer with a bright golden crest, she wept, 
 thinking that the Snow-king had been frozen 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 125 
 
 — and that she was the cause of his Death, 
 because she had not made his Winter Cloth- 
 ing. But her Father showed her another 
 that was flying joyfully — and then she laugh- 
 ed loud with delight, and was not angry that 
 he had so terrified her! Whatever he gave, 
 he said of it : God sent it to her ; God blows 
 away the clouds; God paints early in the 
 morning the Flowers on the panes of glass. 
 And do we grown Children understand bet- 
 ter or more devoutly ? In short, an Artist, 
 who does not marry^ and has not Children, 
 or has not had them, has never been in the 
 World, never yet in the beauteous tender 
 World which he must experience — even if it 
 should cost him Thousands of Tears. 
 
 For all that — and it was then compared 
 with such infinite Happiness only a sweet 
 Punishment — the Mother always called the 
 little ghl to him Thy Child ! When in his 
 absence she had wished to help him on with 
 his Paintings, and spoiled here and there a 
 
126 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 drapery in the Picture by an ill-conducted 
 pencil, the Mother said when he came back : 
 Thy Child did it ; — if Drawings were quite 
 disfigured w^ith black chalk, so that they 
 could not be recognised, or Papers cut to 
 pieces, which the Mother herself considered 
 to be— only Paper, then it was : Thy Child 
 did it! For her Mother never restrained her, 
 and the Father could do nothing else than 
 mildly reprove what the Daughter had meant 
 so well. Then Agnes smiled and left them. 
 
 But the Feelings of Children are incon- 
 ceivably delicate and just. Little Agnes soon 
 saw how unhappy her Father was in his 
 Home, how little he was valued. Albert had 
 perceived and learnt, first of all, from her own 
 Mouth, how much it grieved the loving little 
 One to see him so ill used. He saw it also 
 in her soft blue Eyes. But he saw it meekly 
 and silendy. 
 
 When Albert visited a Friend one day 
 against the inclinations of Agnes, who feared 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 127 
 
 that he might perhaps complain of her, and 
 thereby make public what appeared to her 
 quite allowable in private — and came home 
 late, that she might not be awake, and yet 
 found her keeping watch with the Child, who 
 had waited for her Father that she might go to 
 bed with him — then the Mother scolded him 
 and called him a Waster of Time and Money 
 — a Man addicted to worldly Pleasures, while 
 she toiled away for ever in secret at Home, 
 and had never a single happy Hour with him. 
 
 Thereupon he sat down, and closed his 
 Eyes ; but Tears may have secretly gushed 
 forth from under his Eyelids. Then the Child 
 sighed, pressed him and kissed him, but said 
 at the same time to her Mother in childish 
 Anger : Thou wilt one day bring down my 
 Father to the Grave I then thou wilt repent 
 it. Everybody says so. 
 
 The Mother wished to tear her from his 
 arms. But he hindered her, wishing to pun- 
 ish his Child himself. These were the first 
 
128 
 
 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 blows he had ever given her. The Child 
 stood trembling and motionless. — Do not 
 beat her on my account ! certainly not on my 
 account! exclaimed Ag-nes^ thus indirectly 
 irritating him still more. The Father how- 
 ever struck. But in the midst of the Sadness 
 and at the same time of the Anger which his 
 Sufferings caused bim, he observed at length 
 for the first time that his little Daughter had 
 turned round between his knees, and that he 
 had struck her with a rough hand on the 
 stomach! He was horror-struck; he stag- 
 gered away, threw himself upon his Bed and 
 wept — wept quite inconsolably. But the 
 Child came after him, stood for a long time 
 in silence, then seized his hand, and besought 
 him thus: My Father, do not be angry! I 
 shall so soon be well again. My Mother 
 says thou hast done right. Come, let me 
 pray and go to bed. I have only waited for 
 thee. Now^ the little Sand-man comes to 
 close my Eyes. Come, take me to thee ; I 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 129 
 
 will certainly for the future remain silent, as 
 thou dost ! Hearest thou ? art thou asleep ? 
 dear Father ! — 
 
 This danger then appeared to be overpast. 
 
 Almost luckily, might the guilty Father's 
 Heart say, the little Agnes had some time 
 afterwards a dangerous Fall; — luckily! — in 
 order that he might not further imagine that 
 he was the cause of the Child's Death. She 
 continued sick from that day, became worse, 
 and no Physician could devise aught ; even 
 Wilibald, who had studied seven years at 
 Padua and Bologna, only pressed the hand 
 of the Father. That was intelligible enough. 
 
 All the feelings of the Mother were again 
 roused. The little Agnes's Birthday hap- 
 pened on the Holy Christmas Eve. Firmly 
 resolved to have the little golden Hood and 
 the white Frock, Albert^ unknown to the 
 Mother, had got them made in the City, and 
 paid for. The Birthday Present shone in the 
 twilight in the midst of the Christmas-tree, 
 
130 
 
 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 which had not yet been lighted up. The 
 Mother saw it. She stood confounded as well 
 as deeply mortified ; and a Remorse seized 
 her, which broke out almost into a Rage 
 against Albert. He wished to leave the 
 room ; but at the door his Knees failed him. 
 Agaes hastened after him, seized him, sup- 
 ported him in her arms, scolded him and 
 wept with him, while he sobbed and strug- 
 gled in vain for composure. She made him 
 He down. Then she lighted up the Christ- 
 mas-tree, and the Father saw, but only as in 
 a Dream, everything prepared. When all 
 was ready she said to him : Bring thy Child, 
 and he did so. But the joy of the Child was 
 extinguished ; she lifted up the little golden 
 Hood and the white Frock — but scarcely 
 smiled, and hid herself on her Father. The 
 Angel at the top of the Christmas-tree took 
 fire ; it blazed up. And the Child admired 
 in her little hand the Ashes of the Angel and 
 the remnant of Tinsel from the wings. 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 131 
 
 During the Night the Child suddenly sat 
 upright. Her Father talked with her ior a 
 long time. Then she appeared to fall into a 
 slumber, but called again to him and said in 
 a low voice : Dear Father ! Father, do not be 
 angry! 
 
 Wherefore should I be angry, my Child ? 
 
 Ah ! thou wilt certainly be very angry ! 
 
 Tell me, I pray thee, what it is ! 
 
 But promise me first ! 
 
 Here, thou hast my Hand. "Why, then, 
 am I not to be angry ? 
 
 Ah! Father, because I am dying! But 
 weep not ! weep not too much ! My Mother 
 says, thou needest thine Eyes. I would 
 willingly— ah ! how willingly — ^remain with 
 thee, — ^but I am dying ! 
 
 Dear Child, thou must not die ! The Suf- 
 fering would be mine alone ! 
 
 Then weep not thus ! Thou hast already 
 made me so sorry ! — ah ! so sorry ! Now I 
 can no longer bear it. Therefore weep iiot! 
 
132 A LITTLE AGiXES. 
 
 Knowest thou that when thou used to sit 
 and paint and look so devout, then the beau- 
 tiful Disciple whom thou didst paint for 
 me, stood always at thy side; I saw him 
 plainly! 
 
 Now I promise thee, I will not weep ! said 
 Albert.^ thou good little soul ! Go hence and 
 bespeak a Habitation for me in our Fathers 
 House ; for thee and for me ! 
 
 Albert now tried to smile, and to appear 
 composed again. Then Agones exclaimed: 
 Behold ! there stands the Apostle again ! He 
 beckons me! — shall I go away from thee? — 
 Oh Father! 
 
 With strange curiosity Albert looked shud- 
 dering around. Of course there was nothing 
 to be seen. But whilst he looked with tear- 
 ful Eyes into the dusky room, only for the 
 purpose of averting his looks — the lovely 
 Child had slumbered away. 
 
 The Father laid all the Child's little Play- 
 things into the Coffin with her — that he and 
 
A LITTLE AGNES. 133 
 
 her Mother might never more be reminded 
 of her by them — thie little Gods, the Angels, 
 the little Lamb, the little Coat for the Snow- 
 king, and the little golden Pots and Plates. 
 Over the whole. Moss and Rose-leaves. 
 Thereon was she now bedded. Thus she 
 lay, her Countenance white and pure, for the 
 mark, the purple Cross, had disappeared 
 with the Blood from her Cheeks. And now 
 for the first time she had on the white Frock, 
 and the golden Hood encircled her little 
 Head, but not so close as to prevent a Lock 
 of her Hair escaping from beneath. 
 
 Her Father then sat down in front of her, 
 and painted his Child in her Coffin. But 
 the sight overpowered him; he could not 
 bear it for wretchedness. The Evening Twi- 
 light was come ; he laid himself on his 
 Couch, and felt the Pangs and dreamed the 
 Thoughts expressed in the Distich which 
 Wilihald sent to him : 
 
134 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 Harsh Death ! why hast thou from me ta'en the lovely 
 
 Child ?— I had 
 In it an Angel — thou a little Coffin with its Dust! 
 
 * * # 
 
 See there the Playthings idle stand; on them allur- 
 ingly 
 The early Sun shines down, and I as one transfixed 
 
 stand by. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Whether it lived? or whether died? the Child now 
 
 knows it not ! 
 I know it well, and with the Child into the Grave am 
 
 sinking. 
 
 * * iff 
 
 Weep and lament! and yet into the Earth they bear 
 
 thy Child ; 
 Weep and lament! and yet to thee it ne'er returns 
 
 again. 
 
 * * « 
 
 A thousand Mothers have been thus bereft ! shall that 
 
 me comfort ? 
 Ah ! now I only mourn the more ! I also mourn for 
 
 them. 
 
 * # * 
 
 A Father's Heart is broken. Death ! thou hast had thy 
 
 Triumph. 
 Henceforth in Heaven I put my trust ; but in the Earth 
 
 no more. 
 
 * * * 
 
A LITTLE AGNE8. 135 
 
 If Sorrow to the Child thou thoughtst to bring, oh 
 
 Death ! thou art deceived ; 
 For yesterday it living laughed ; to-day, tho' dead, it 
 
 smiles. 
 
 * « * 
 
 This is— Consolation ! and for the Child thy bitt'rest 
 
 Pain 
 Is at an end. Thine own is— Love ! so bear it now, as 
 
 once 
 It did enrapture thee ! and if thou know'st the Life of 
 
 Love, 
 Then wilt thou henceforth Love the Dead, and live for 
 
 her that sleeps. 
 
 Agnes now entered timidly, with a light in 
 her hand ; she gazed around her, advanced, 
 and looked if Albert was asleep ? Having 
 concluded that he was so, she went in front 
 of the Child, beheld with a pallid Counte- 
 nance the pure Cheek, and bending down, 
 the poor soul continued weeping for a long 
 time over the Child, trying at the same time 
 to encircle her with her arms. She held the 
 light to the little golden Hood, took it off, cut 
 
136 A LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 off some of the beautiful soft Hair, concealed 
 it in her Bosom, placed the little Hood again 
 on the Head over which she had just been 
 weeping, sprinkled the little Angel with Holy 
 Water, knelt at her feet and prayed — ^then 
 stole away silently as she had come, and dis- 
 appeared like a Spirit. 
 
 What must have been his Thoughts ! 
 
HOW ALBERT BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS 
 WIFE. 
 
 Albert's greatest, yea, almost his only 
 Joy in Life was now gone, and, as he well 
 knew, irrecoverably gone. Agnes might well 
 imagine what must now have been his feel- 
 ings. She had already, in times past, pro- 
 phesied evil days, if his Child should die. 
 But it was not so : he was silent ; the Mother 
 was silent ; the Child was never more named 
 between them ; the Remembrance of her died 
 away by degrees from among Men, of whom 
 she had scarcely seen any. His Marriage 
 remained Childless ; and thus every one, es- 
 pecially in after years, believed that a Child 
 had never blessed him ; and those who piqued 
 themselves on their knowledge of Mankind 
 accounted for AgTtes^s deep Dejection solely 
 
138 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 and confidently from the circumstance of her 
 being Childless. And a Motherless Child is 
 only half as unblest as a Childless Wife, 
 who, shut out from her natural sphere, and 
 scarcely to be amused by Vanities, sees her 
 fairest Hopes cut off. She pines away and 
 bends towards the ground like a half-cut 
 Vine-branch, and never stands joyfully erect, 
 nor looks cheerfully, loaded by her own 
 Abundance, on the ripening Grapes of the 
 neighbour-stocks. And this Sorrow is the 
 more stinging because the subject is always 
 both kindly and painfully evaded by others ; 
 it must therefore be suppressed and endured 
 in silence, and yet can never be forgotten. 
 And thus this supposed Sorrow passed cur- 
 rent as an — excuse for Ag-nes^ and Albert 
 confirmed the convenient belief from Love to 
 her, and Respect for himself — at least he did 
 80 by Silence on the subject of his little 
 Daughter. 
 
 Some Lines which he found in his coat on 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 139 
 
 returning home from the Churchyard, con- 
 tributed the most to his further satisfaction. 
 They thus addressed him : 
 
 A Way I know, by which thou on thyself 
 
 Revenge canst take for all the Ills that others 
 
 To thee do. Angry must thou be ! Grievous 
 
 To thee is this Life 1 Offers it only 
 
 Misery, and Sickness, and dire Poverty, 
 
 And num'rous Hardships 1 Then thou must murmur ! 
 
 Or fleeting is this World, and full of Death ? 
 
 Then thou must grieve ! Thyself thou punish'st thus, 
 
 For others' Faults. But if thou'rt truly Wise, 
 
 With Patience thou'lt endure whatever 
 
 Is and must be ; and in thy pious Soul 
 
 Thyself thou wilt rejoice — that pious Soul 
 
 Which all surmounts, and thee of nought doth rob. 
 
 And if the Fate of those by thee beloved 
 
 Doth cause thee Grief, then think : they suffer nought. 
 
 As thou, if truly Pious. Wcep'st thou still ? — 
 
 Then think : that Love thy fancied Son'ow is ! 
 
 And be thou blest, as Love makes all who feel it ! 
 
 And now Albert drew a Picture of him- 
 self in his seven-and-twentieth year, prompt- 
 
140 
 
 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 ed by the following motive.* He saw, name- 
 ly, how much his Countenance and his whole 
 Form had changed in a few years, and he 
 wished to keep — to preserve the Remem- 
 brance of himself, at least in a Picture — in 
 case he should soon look paler and more 
 wretched. He disclaimed the idea of making 
 any one happy by it, or that he could make 
 himself so by means of a warmly-reflected 
 Image of Happiness. To an upright man, 
 indeed, Happiness is not necessary. God 
 knows well upon whom he can lay the Evil 
 which is as it were unavoidable in His 
 [World, so that it weighs little or nothing on 
 those who must bear it — on the Patient and 
 the Pure in Heart. Therefore Albert thank- 
 ed God even for this, which he reflected on 
 gladly, that of all the Houses in the World, 
 his was the best into w^hich his Agnes could 
 
 ♦ Master Albert sent this Picture of himself to Florence^ 
 to Andrea del Sarto. It founded his Fame in Italjf. 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 141 
 
 have come, where she was as happy as it 
 was possible for her to be, untroubled and 
 uninjured. 
 
 He now threw himself entirely into the 
 arms of his Art. Not as to a Refuge^but 
 that he might be independent and free from 
 the World, as he had always formerly wished, 
 and yet hoped not so to be. This, however, 
 when attained, was quite indifferent to him ! 
 He now began his " Little Passion," his fa- 
 vourite Work, in whose Features he as it 
 were deposited all his Feelings, or depicted 
 these under their quiet Sunshine, their full 
 Glow and Power. 
 
 But the Death of his Father drew him 
 again. Heart and Thoughts, into the rough 
 World. The God-fearing Man had spent 
 all the hard-earned Gainings of his Hand, in 
 bringing up his Children under such whole- 
 some training and discipline as would ren- 
 der them acceptable to God and Man. He 
 was patient, meek, peaceable towards every 
 
142 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 Man ; and in the midst of perpetual honest 
 Struggles, diverse Afflictions, Attacks, and 
 Reverses, he had never been able to enjoy- 
 much Society or worldly Comfort. His Son 
 Albert had no wish for what his Father had 
 never been able to attain, and thus retired and 
 peaceable like him, he yet excelled him in 
 Contentment. 
 
 Albert'' s Mother Barbara was now old and 
 poor. It was needful, not that her Son 
 should repay her, for that was impossible — 
 but that he should show his Love to her by 
 fostering her and providing for her comfort 
 in her old Age, as she had fostered him and 
 provided for his comfort in his Youth. His 
 Father had been made happy by her — had 
 been so indeed chiefly through her. She had 
 always only modestly asked for what she 
 toished; and what he discreetly signified to 
 be his Wish, that she had always done. But 
 for two whole years Agnes prevented her 
 Husband from taking his Mother home to his 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 143 
 
 house, Albert was indignant at this; and 
 Agnes^ in her turn — as if his Mother under- 
 stood Housekeeping better, and were now to 
 guide her — was angry at his displeasure. 
 He held, however, inwardly and unalterably 
 firm to what was right. He had also taken 
 his Brother Johannes into his house, to in- 
 struct him in his Art, but was obliged, to 
 make up for this, to send away Andreas^* 
 whom he assisted secretly that he might tra- 
 vel and improve himself in his Art. 
 
 When Albert now went out, his Friends 
 pressed his hand more warmly. They 
 praised his Paintings, his Woodcuts, his Re- 
 lievos, and his other pieces of Sculpture, be- 
 yond all bounds. For an honest Master 
 
 * This brother Andreas was his sole heir, inheriting 
 house, business, and all his works of art. Of these, how- 
 ever, he took so little care, that the plates were abstracted 
 in great numbers ; and it was at this time that so many bad 
 impressions were taken from the original plates. Andreas 
 was married, but died also without children. — Translator. 
 
144 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 \ certainly knows first and best which of his 
 Works is good, and how accomplished. And 
 ^no one knows so well as he, what he intend- 
 ed to produce. Therefore he knows also 
 what he has performed, and what he has left 
 i behind, God knows where. He marked 
 well also the Motive of their Praise — and he 
 bore it. The whole City knew also! but 
 Agnes imagined not that they knew, until 
 one day a Marforio Verse, in the form of a 
 short Conversation, was sent to her, she knew 
 not how. It was entitled : 
 
 " THE MASTER IN THE HOUSE." 
 
 WIFE. 
 
 Under the Table to retire you dare. 
 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 Here safer am I sure than any where ! 
 
 WIFE. 
 
 Come forth directly. 
 
 nCSBAXD. 
 
 That will I not do ! 
 
 WIFE. 
 
 Shall I bend down, and so take hold of you 1 
 How very bold now all at once you are ! 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 145 
 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 My dear ! one grows at length an Iron Bar ; 
 Here, 'neath the table, will I show you. Spouse, 
 That I alone am Master in the House ! 
 
 These exaggerated words struck home. 
 It is all over between us, said she, softly and 
 almost weeping. Her words moved him 
 even to Tears, and he could not throw off 
 the impression they made on his mind. She^ 
 however, soon got out of humour again, and 
 the more regardlessly so, since her Conduct 
 in Life was now so well known that she 
 could no longer conceal it even from herself 
 by a Veil of Mystery. Thus Evil as well as 
 Good is augmented by Publicity. 
 
 An unamiable Wife does infinite harm, 
 when by her conduct she makes all other 
 Women distasteful to her husband. For 
 the Wife is the Husband's Glass, through 
 which he contemplates the World ; she is the 
 Tuning-hammer of his Soul. But she does 
 him still greater harm when she makes 
 
 10 
 
146 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 Others dear to him ; that is to say, when we 
 learn to feel and observe as it were to the 
 Glory of God, that He has made a fair and 
 excellent Work when he created Eve out of 
 a rib of her Husband, and now freely repeats 
 the Work, as countlessly as the Sand of the 
 Sea. For Alhert''s Love w^as now to sustain 
 a hard trial. 
 
 Pirkheimer's Spouse, Crescenzia^ had been 
 taken away from him. Alas I poor Man! 
 — for he had become jooor, rich as he was. 
 He desired to have a Picture of her thus: 
 himself weeping at the foot of her Bed, and 
 kneeling as he then knelt; Crescenzia^ re- 
 ceiving extreme Unction, and holding the 
 Wax Taper and the Crucifix. At the bed 
 was to be standing also his Sister, the Nun 
 of Santa Clara. 
 
 Her Picture — the Child had also been 
 allowed to spoil. It thus cost a walk to the 
 Convent 
 
 Clara was sitting in the Parlour. She 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 147 
 
 was unveiled, patiently awaiting him, and 
 greeted him softly with a smile, and a deli- 
 cate Blush — for Virgin Modesty ivhy she 
 was there — was only perceptible because she 
 looked so very pale. When she saw how- 
 ever how — Years had gnawed on him — and 
 a Woman sees at a glance, as the Gardener 
 sees by the Fruit how the tree is flourishing, 
 the Fruit of his past Life, yea the Soul of 
 Man in his Countenance — then her features 
 assumed the sadness which he needed for the 
 Scene ! A difficult Picture ! But his Soul 
 held the Colours. He thought not: If this 
 sweet form, this gentle Clara were thy Ag- 
 nes ! — Ah no I he scarcely thought. If thy Ag- 
 nes were like her! For his Father's Will 
 was sacred to him, and sacred — her he loved ; 
 for it was because he loved, that he now suf- 
 fered ! and because she loould not love him 
 that she suffered ! 
 
 He finished the Tablet, which was destined 
 for the Church of St. Sebaldus, in his own 
 
148 HOAV ALBERT BIDS 
 
 house, and wrote thereon the Latin Inscrip- 
 tion in gilt letters. Agnes stood and looked 
 at it, and made out the beginning : Mulieri 
 incomparahili — then asked what all the rest 
 of the words meant ? Albert wished to be 
 silent ; but, after having composed himself, 
 he said to her, They are — " To the incom- 
 parable Woman and Wife, my Clara Ore- 
 scenzia, I, Wilibald Pirkheimer^ her Hus- 
 band, whom she never disturbed* but by her 
 Death, erect this Monument. 
 
 Agnes was angry, as if he had said these 
 words to her from his own Heart ! and Clara 
 the pale Nun, who in the Picture was look- 
 ing away from Crescenzia for sorrow, now 
 seemed to look at her! But no Tear fell 
 from her Eye. Albert alone wept. 
 
 He prepared himself now for his Journey. 
 And as he parted from his Mother, she gave 
 him her hand, held it for a time, and only 
 
 * Turhavit — ^grieved.— TF. P. 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 149 
 
 gently said : Rely meanwhile on thy Wife ! 
 I dare not allow it to be remarked how much 
 I love thee, else she will become my Enemy. 
 Whoever does not consider her in the right, be- 
 comes suspicious to her. And yet she is ex- 
 cellent, as excellent as her Sister, who is firm 
 in Honour ; and both are certainly God-fear- 
 ing Women ! But yet it is evident, and I 
 must myself confess it, Fidelity is only one 
 Virtue in a Woman, and perhaps, for as sa- 
 cred and essential as it is — yet not the best. 
 For the peace of her Husband she must pos- 
 sess many others besides. It were certainly 
 better, as Pirkheimer said * Yet be- 
 lieve me, she reserves her Love for thee 
 alone, perhaps till she — or till thou • 
 
 =* What he said, will be found in the Life o^ Albert Durer 
 by Roth, published at Leipzig by Dyk, in 1791, page 21. — 
 But I do not wish to say anything injurious ! — I, The Edi- 
 tor. 
 
 This, or at least the substance of it, has been given in the 
 Preface. — Translator, 
 
150 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 She broke off. 
 
 Albert remained more than a year in Ven- 
 ice. And here, placed again in the living 
 wrestling World, full of young Minds who 
 were opening up new Paths, he perceived 
 how salutary it is for an Artist to tear him- 
 self away from his circumscribed path in the 
 midst of his days, that he may once more 
 have a free view of his fellow-creatures in 
 the World around him. He becomes young 
 again. His Life has two Springs. He re- 
 ceives new impressions, and by means of 
 already cultivated Art, executes what he has 
 newly conceived with Mind and Vigour. 
 He thus once more, as it were, branches out, 
 and new Tendrils shoot forth — and only on 
 young yearly Shoots do Grapes grow ! 
 Should he neglect this, then he becomes by 
 degrees stiff, and as it were petrified, even in 
 those which are considered his best Compo- 
 sitions. 
 
 Alter fs Works had reached even to that 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 151 
 
 City ; and it appeared strange to the Italians 
 that everything good and beautiful was no 
 longer to come from Rome and Byzantium^ 
 and wander towards the cold North, without 
 remuneration in the way of Money; nay, 
 that Time had now begun to reverse the 
 order of things, and that Light and Power, 
 and Reason and Art, should now come to- 
 wards the South from the Barbarians to the 
 sinking Nations ! And what he had devised 1 1 
 amidst Sufferings and Sorrow, lying on his 
 couch in Silence and in Darkness, and after- 
 wards accomplished in his lonely little Cham- 
 ber, as if for no one but himself, now shone ; 
 in the Sunshine of the Distance, and gave \ 
 Delight to Men. Thus he looked upon his , 
 own Works with Thankfulness, and stood ( 
 before them with folded hands. The old 
 Masters looked at him sullenly ; those of his \ 
 own age blushed; the younger were full of' 
 bashful Ardour. That was a sufficient re- 
 ward for him for all — besides ! It imparted 
 
152 
 
 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 4 
 
 to him the satisfaction which the Artist, al- 
 most burying himself, labours Day and Night 
 to attain. For the Mind of Man is wonder- 
 fully and almost laughably formed ; and it 
 is also modestly limited in its Desires. For 
 all his lifelong Difficulties and Vexations, he 
 desires only RecogniUon, not so much as 
 Praise. Even the Hound runs itself to Death 
 after the Hare, if his Master only says to him, 
 thou art a brave Apollo, The Soldier who 
 is accounted brave goes like a Demigod into 
 the tumult of the Fight, and perishes therein, 
 as if a Man could and should be nothing else 
 than a slaughterer of his Fellow-men. The 
 Wife who toils during her whole Life with 
 House and Field E^nd Children, goes fresh 
 under the Yoke again on Monday if she has 
 sat for an Hour well dressed on Sunday af- 
 ternoon, and traces nothing more of the 
 World than God's Sunshine and her own 
 weary Hands, if her Husband only says to 
 her. Truly thou art a diligent Wife, and dost 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 153 
 
 thy duty. So is it also with the Artist. These 
 words, " Thou hast painted a good Picture," 
 satisfies his Heart — for he has honestly done 
 that which the Lord has given him ability to 
 do. And therefore is the small satisfaction 
 not contemptible ; for the Work which the 
 Lord has dealt out to the Human Race is 
 performed everywhere with fidelity, but in 
 truth through Recognition alone — and with- j 
 out E-eward, for it yields only clear Conscious'- \ 
 ness. And that is enough for such a noble 
 creature as Man. He labours in his Fathers 
 Vineyard, and is his Child. 
 
 But other Honours also awaited him in 
 Italj/. The Master Bellino wished to have 
 the very Pencil from him with which he 
 painted Hair so very minutely, and yet many 
 at a time. Marcantanio Raimondi made 
 Counterfeits of his Plates. Andrea Mantegna 
 wished to see him, and wrote to him with a 
 trembling hand, while sick unto death. He 
 went to Padua, and found the incomparable 
 
154 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 Master — dead. The longing had kept him 
 in Life till within a few minutes before : his 
 Eyes were not yet closed. In Bologna they 
 were content to die, now that they had seen 
 him Face to Face ; — so enraptured were they 
 with his Works. The almost youthful Eaph- 
 ael Sanzio took Albert^ s simple Landscapes 
 as Backgrounds and Corners for his Pictures. 
 But false reports were also spread among the 
 people, in which Lies had all ihe influence 
 and effect of Truth. Buonarotti was said to 
 have torn Albert^s Drawings, and burnt his 
 Paintings : no Painter does that. But it was 
 to him a signal proof, as well of the Incapa- 
 city of the World to judge, going on as it 
 does eternally echoing what gifted Spirits 
 have suggested ; — and that is a sad thing for 
 the genuine Masters and for the value of their 
 Art! — and it was partly to him a proof of 
 this, that all things become living Legends, 
 Diligence and SkiU, as well as Life and Ac- 
 tion — and that it may be considered a valua- 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 155 
 
 ble piece of good fortune when an Artist 
 pleases the People, for he has after his own 
 manner responded to the contemporaneous 
 tendency and manner of thinking, and exhib- 
 ited to Mankind what they were anticipating 
 and striving after. When these claims are 
 extinguished with the revolving Generations, 
 then he becomes nothing but a mere Legend. 
 
 Our dear Master stood much in need of 
 this renewed vigour of Heart and Mind, when 
 he returned home to his Wife. He gave her 
 an account of his Expenses. 
 
 While he stood on sure ground, and ex- 
 cited also by the cheerfulness of the Italians, 
 he had, to please her, learned to dance. But 
 so irksome did he find it, that he had only 
 taken two Lessons : this cost one Ducat. 
 
 It was indeed impossible for him to trans- 
 port himself suddenly into the midst of dis- 
 turbing and intoxicating worldly things, from 
 the faithful, devoted, often pious Thoughts 
 which, induced by his Art, continually occu- 
 
156 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 pied his Mind : and from the longing retired 
 Feelings which his high Conceptions always 
 .produced in him; and although it did not 
 I hurt, but rather on the contrary furthered him, 
 to see and to hear all the Merriment of the 
 People, yet he could not think of carrying it 
 sa far as to make a moving Doll of his own 
 Body. For that his feet always failed him. 
 
 The Painters had sued him three times, 
 because, without belonging to any of their 
 Schools, he had painted in Venice. That 
 cost four Florins. 
 
 The ride to Bologna, to improve himself 
 in the mysterious Art of Perspectiva, cost 
 money — and this Art could not be exhibited 
 to Agnes* 
 
 He had intended to bring her a piece of 
 oriental woollen Cloth ; but the house in 
 which he was took fire; the oriental Cloth 
 was burnt. It cost, notwithstanding, eight 
 Ducats. 
 
 He had lent eight Ducats to a poor Paint- 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 157 
 
 er, who was going to Rome for the purpose 
 of secretly disinterring again the old Pictures 
 which Raphael had left choked up in the 
 Baths.* But the man died at Rome in his 
 debt. 
 
 A year before the period of this Journey, 
 Raphael had sent his Picture to Albert, 
 painted elaborately by himself; and now 
 Albert sent his in water colours, also elabo- 
 rately painted, to Raphael^ whose Picture of 
 
 * At the time that Eaffaello was charged by Pope Leo X. 
 with the decoration of the Loggie of the Vatican, the inte- 
 rior of the Baths of Titus had just been discovered. The 
 paintings were in all their original freshness and splendour, 
 of a brilliancy of which the external air and various acci- 
 dents have since deprived them; thus owing their entire 
 preservation to the very cause which had created their ob- 
 livion. According to one tradition, Eaffaellt) copied, and 
 afterwards destroyed, some portions of the arabesque orna- 
 ments, in order to claim the invention of them ; but this al- 
 legation has been fully contradicted, as he has merely adopt- 
 ed their spirit and taste, but without borrowing from them 
 a single idea of any importance. See the " Life and Works 
 of KafFaello," by Quatremere de Quincy. — Translator. 
 
158 
 
 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 the Entombment of Christ had become the 
 foundation of his fair Fame.* 
 
 Now, because Albert had brought nothing 
 Home, and had only mere projects to offer, 
 Agnes sold the Raphael painted by Raphael^ 
 for a paltry Sum of Money. That was bit- 
 terer to him than if Raphael had sold him. 
 For we have an understanding from afar 
 with him whose Picture we possess ; the 
 Soul sees no Giant in a misty form ready to 
 overthrow us with invisible Weapons. No, 
 he looks at us as lovingly, as quietly, and as 
 attentively — as we look at him ; he is a Man, 
 and thus we also feel humanly. But — Al- 
 bert had sent his Picture with this desire also, 
 that he might be judged of by a Master in 
 his own Department — that he might let him 
 see himself. For the Masters are the true 
 Lights, who can best elucidate and judge of 
 
 * This picture is now the chief ornament of the Borghese 
 gallery at 'Romt.— Translator. 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 159 
 
 Compositions in their own Art. Thus only- 
 can a Work be understood and known — then 
 it is, indeed, that the Master understands his 
 own Work ! To be judged of by the World 
 in general, neither improves nor refreshes 
 him. 
 
 But all these Evils were atoned for, by a 
 great Sura of Money, nearly Eleven hundred 
 Rhenish Florins, that Albert received from 
 the Emperor, Rodolph 11., for a Picture of 
 the Martyrdom of St. Bartholometo, which 
 he had painted in Venice, and which, well 
 packed in bales, two strong Men on foot had 
 carried on Poles from Venice to Prague. 
 
 Then there was Joy in the House ! Mis- 
 tress Agnes prepared some strong foaming 
 Chocolate, which new beverage she had 
 heard much vaunted, and with long sup- 
 pressed desire to partake of. During the 
 sipping of the same, she now in her usual 
 way spoke of everything which she would 
 procure, as pleasantly as the Drink fell plea- 
 
160 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 santly on her Tongue. The things she now 
 saw so sweetly in her Mind's Eye, she after- 
 w^ards provided herself with ; good household 
 Furniture, pretty Dresses, Trunks, Drawers, 
 Pewter vessels, all the requisites for Needle- 
 work. Now there was abundance going on 
 — cutting, sewing, trimming, and putting in 
 order I At last Master Albert laid down the 
 Receipt before her, showing that he had paid 
 the whole of his Debts in Venice. She tore 
 the paper for Joy. When the bright Sun 
 shone into the Room and the polished Tin 
 glistened, then Agnes sat down pleasantly 
 and played again on the Harp. She smiled 
 quite benignantly Night and Morning from 
 beneath the new Bedclothes. She even al- 
 lowed herself to be drawn by her Husband 
 in a Picture which represented Adam and 
 Eve^ and the beautiful Agnes was the beau- 
 tiful Eve. Albert had for a long time wished 
 to draw the innocent Pair, but had never 
 ventured, for want of an Eve. Now he sue- 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 161 
 
 ceeded in the Picture, and a Stone was re- 
 moved from his Heart. He also struck a 
 Medal of her. In it she is represented with 
 her Innocent lovely Countenance looking 
 upwards. She was delighted with the De- 
 sign, and the Master was pleased that she 
 was pleased. Yet she willingly took Twelve 
 hundred Rhenish Florins for the picture of 
 Adam and Eve, and it was hung up in the 
 splendid Hall in the Fortress.* The House 
 was paid ; and then Agnes looked out at the 
 Window with him one Sunday as the peo- 
 ple were coming from Church. Her Locks 
 hung beautifully down her soft Cheeks, and 
 the Master looked through between them 
 and watched with delight her roguish Eye. 
 She was quite beautiful, and he came to the 
 
 * This picture is still to be seen in the palace of Prague. 
 The fortress or imperial castle of NUrnberg is a building of 
 great antiquity, where the Emperors resided during the 
 middle ages. The I^ng of Bavaria now uses it when in 
 the city. — Translator. 
 11 
 
162 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 conclusion that he would marry her again, if 
 she had not already been his Wife. 
 
 All at once there was a hollow Sound of 
 heavy Footsteps ! They were carrying a 
 little Girl in an open Coffin, adorned with 
 garlands of Flowers, out at the Gate. The 
 Parents came weeping behind. Agnes 
 changed color. Albert went from the Win- 
 dow. 
 
 Alas! that the Remembrance of the old 
 Days should spoil the new! that Grief is 
 born with the Death of those dear to us! 
 He who has known a deep and bitter Grief, 
 need no longer strive after Happiness, but 
 only after Peace, after inward Composure 
 and Forgetfulness ; else he heaps up to him- 
 self Sorrow on Sorrow ; and even if he 
 should attain to what seems the Crown of 
 Happiness, yet the Jewel is wanting thereto, 
 the ornamental Stone — in the Cross ! There- 
 fore life-long Meekness must be the Por- 
 tion of him whose Heart is broken ! also 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 163 
 
 reverential Resignation to Him who has or- 
 dained it for him. In Piety alone is con- 
 stant satisfaction to be found. And it is God 
 who has given him this also, and with it all 
 things. 
 
 Physicians call a recurrence of the same 
 Malady to one scarcely recovered, a Relapse ; 
 which is always more dangerous, and for a 
 longer time prostrating, than the Sickness 
 which attacks healthy Persons ; for the Pa- 
 tient is now more irritable. — Albert was 
 moved; and he began to pity Agnes also. 
 Yet — even old Wounds that have been torn 
 open, close again! But even now, in her 
 more prosperous condition, Agnes was not 
 happy, because her Parents were still in in- 
 digence! Her own better Lot oppressed 
 her ! He sympathized with her Sorrow, for 
 she could not be happy ; and neither could 
 he, for Happiness seemed out of his reach. 
 He felt the prevailing power of Family Ties, 
 which bind more closely than frivolous per- 
 
164 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 sons imagine, for in this way Nature enlarges 
 the circle of Domestic Life and gives a more 
 cordial view of Man's earthly condition. A 
 Man marries not only his Mother-in-law, but 
 also all the Relations of his Wife. What is 
 for their advantage or disadvantage affects 
 him also. He is not rich and happy till they 
 are all above want. The World therefore 
 considers it a Disgrace to him who does not 
 feel himself still more bound to her Family 
 than he is to his Wife, even if she were a 
 Paragon, a Jewel among them. So much 
 the more desirable is it, therefore, to stand 
 well with all her Relations, be they who they 
 may, because otherwise the connection once 
 entered into brings still greater Evils with it. 
 A^nes always thought that Albert looked 
 down upon her Family, all of them Artisans, 
 with the exception of her Father, the Opti- 
 cian, who came into the City to the Festi- 
 vals, and played on the Harp and sung ; also 
 loved a good Glass of Wine ; also could not 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 165 
 
 refuse the last — the intoxicating one, after 
 which he came and loaded his Daughter 
 with Reproaches, uttered with a smiling' 
 mien, till he moved himself to Tears by his 
 own Admonitions ! Or he sang very comi- 
 cally, in the voice of the Husband and Wife 
 alternately, the Song of " The Master in the 
 House." Nay, it was said that he himself 
 had made the Song to show his Displeasure. 
 This irritated his Daughter, as might be sup- 
 posed. Albert smiled at the old man, for 
 there is Truth in Wine. He could only 
 venture now to love and praise the poor man 
 with great limitation ; but in truth he esteem- 
 ed all her Relations. For him there was 
 neither Condition nor Rank nor Riches in 
 the World. All its thousand Trifles,— its 
 thronging and striving and outbidding, trou- 
 bled him not. He strove only after one thing, 
 and lived in a world of his own. Every one 
 was valued by him at what he was ; yea he 
 even rated him at that which he wished to 
 
166 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 be; for as an Aitist he desired himself to be 
 honoured, as one who knows better than all 
 others what is the true genuine worth of 
 everything he has meditated, and which he 
 wishes or is able to call into Existence. 
 Only he now learned that it is not right to do 
 good too secretly, so that even our right Hand, 
 our Wife, knows it not. Therein he was 
 wrong ! For in this way many who are in 
 Need know not where to find Help. 
 
 To all the old Burdens was now added 
 this. And as Bodies apparently increase in 
 Weight the deeper they sink, so much the 
 more heavily presses a Burden which has 
 been borne Days, Months, Years. And that 
 any one bears it willingly, lessens only the 
 Complaints on account of it. He wished to 
 work, she wished Money ; and luckily both 
 Desires were gratified. And it is quite rea- 
 sonable that many should strive after one 
 thing, but with different views ; only no one 
 should evil interpret those of the other, or 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 167 
 
 force his own upon him. It was thus that 
 Albert learnt to represent all the Passions, 
 the more strikingly they were painted, yea 
 burnt into the peaceful Mirror of his Soul. 
 A knowledge of good and evil Passions fur- 
 thers the Artist: Love, Joy, Pleasure, Pa- 
 tience, Compassion, Devotion, Astonishment, 
 Horror, Wrath, Sadness, Envy, Hatred — all 
 these he succeeded in depicting, because he 
 was Master of them ; and with thankful and 
 upright heart he considered himself fortunate 
 as — a Painter, and therefore also as a Man. 
 Meanwhile — the Passions of those whom 
 we love are infectious ! And Albert painted 
 and carved and moulded many things ac- 
 cording to her Views — and to give her Plea- 
 sure. His House was a daily School of Dis- 
 cipline: not to be avaricious, or sulky, or 
 quarrelsome ; or yet dictatorial, unreasonable, 
 and supercilious when everything succeeded 
 to a wish. For all the Faults of a Man 
 usually proceed from one and the same source. 
 
169 
 
 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 It could scarcely be said that Fame now gave 
 him Pleasure, — he lived by it as it were in a 
 sustained elevated condition, which exercised 
 an advantageous influence on his Works ; 
 for the World gains for the most part by the 
 Praise bestowed by itself on the Artist — and 
 when Students of the Arts and Masters made 
 a Pilgrimage from Italy to Frankfort to see 
 his Ascension of St. Mary,* he only uttered 
 a gloomy Indeed I thereto. For he almost 
 feared to send a Painting to a new place ; — 
 first on account of the Praise— and then on 
 account of the Pity. For he who did not 
 admire hira as a Painter, and yet could 
 not well contend against his Worth, conceal- 
 ed his Envy by compassionating him as a 
 Man — and then he could call him an unfor- 
 tunate Painter. A confidential Friend re- 
 
 * This magnificent picture, which was afterwards bought 
 by the Elector Maximilian of Bavaria for 10,000 florins, 
 perished when the Castle of Munich was burnt in 1674.— 
 Translcdor. 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 169 
 
 counted to him that Buonarotti had deter- 
 mined to make Art his Wife ; and it was al- 
 so said of Raphael, that he wished rather to 
 belong to Woman in general, than that one 
 woman should belong to him. 
 
 This grieved Albert much, not only for 
 the sake of the Men themselves, but chiefly 
 for Ag-nes's sake. He laboured much ; and 
 by degrees, in the course of years, many Du- 
 cats came in, which Agnes brightened up 
 and preserved. They were all indeed to be 
 for her. At first she only meant to save as 
 much of the Gold as would keep her above 
 ivant during the few years she might outlive 
 him, being younger than he ; then, there must 
 be sufficient to enable her to live as ivell as 
 she had been accustomed to do ; but at last, 
 the Interest of the Money must be sufficient 
 for that purpose. So true is it that the Chil- 
 dren of Men, all of them, and everywhere, 
 are born with an equally strong desire for 
 worldly Prosperity. They wish to have and 
 
170 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 to enjoy everything ; but all of them cannot 
 do so. And the season of Youth is just the 
 time for becoming inured, under the parental 
 roof, to the Condition which must be entered 
 on and endured in after life, and in which 
 success may probably be obtained ; and the 
 Father's House is the step from which this 
 Life begins. Man's future Life, therefore, so 
 viewed, is just the Limitation of all the De- 
 sires of the human Mind to the Measure of 
 Right, and to the Standard of what is con- 
 sistent with the well-being of others. It is 
 also at the same time the School of Patience 
 and of Wisdom ; it teaches every one to be 
 content with that which Life can afford him ; 
 and in what has been vouchsafed him, to dis- 
 cover every human Happiness, to carry his 
 own into it, or place it therein. He who does 
 not learn from Life, but continues during its 
 whole course to put forth the usual Claims, 
 uncurbed by a thousand Mortifications, un- 
 diminished, yea louder and more angrily — 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 171 
 
 he must be dissatisfied, the more vehement 
 his Longings, the greater the Claims that 
 Youth and Beauty, Skill and good Fortune 
 in general, appear to give him. He does not 
 prize the Blessings which he possesses ; nay 
 he rejects them and enjoys them not, till he 
 becomes wise — that is to say, till they vanish 
 away from him. 
 
 Alberts Mother Barbara now also died. 
 She was a Daughter of Kunigunde, the 
 Daughter of Oellinger von Weissenburg, and 
 therefore of gentle Birth. Agnes had ima- 
 gined that she must be proud and look down 
 upon her with contempt. This supposition 
 wounded her pure natural Feelings, and her 
 notions of the Dignity of human Nature. 
 She therefore wished to combat it ; and thus 
 his Mother had to endure scornful "Words, 
 Derision, and even Fear. But the pious 
 Woman suffered nothing therefrom, because 
 she forgave everything to the Wife of her 
 Son, and departed, absolved by Papal Power 
 
172 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 from Pain and Guilt. God be gracious to 
 her! 
 
 She had lived nine years in her Son's 
 House, and he missed her sadly ; for he had 
 
 ! 1 -only to look into her Eyes, only to hear an 
 encouraging Word from her — " My Son I" — 
 
 [ and he was refreshed and meek as befr)re. 
 Her Eyes were now closed — what could he 
 have done ? A Man is no Judge between 
 his Mother and his Wife ; and where Love 
 does not reconcile, all other attempts only in- 
 crease the Evil. 
 
 There was now indeed greater Stillness in 
 the House than ever. From all that had 
 passed, Agnes began to be suspicious even 
 of the Praise which her Husband bestowed 
 on her, thinking it was only in Mockery. 
 How ready she was to apply to herself what 
 was passing around her, may be judged of by 
 this instance, that one day, when he wrote a 
 large Seven on the black table, as the product 
 of a mental Calculation, and then went away, 
 
FAREAVELL TO HIS WIFE. 173 
 
 she thought it alluded to her as the evil-re- 
 nowned Seven.* If he smiled, then she 
 wept ; if he pitied the poor, shy, frightened 
 Child, then she laughed. And thus he pass- 
 ed with the same grave undisturbed mien 
 through the hundred-coloured Days. She 
 called that Indifference, Coldness! But he 
 would not have suffered if he could at last 
 have become indifferent to his Wife. The 
 Faults of those we love cause us double An- 
 guish : they — ah ! they should be more pure 
 and faultless than we ! And she never con- 
 fessed a Fault, and he concealed them from 
 himself, and still hoped for peaceful Days — 
 of Harvest. 
 
 Alberts tender-hearted Scholar now played 
 him a sorry Trick. He felt for his Master 
 more than if he had been his Father, and 
 thinking that Alberfs death would make a 
 good and lasting impression on Agnes, he 
 
 * In Grermany it is vnlgarly said of a shrewish or mis- 
 chievous woman, that she is a Bad Seven.— Translator. 
 
174 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 had strapped on his Bundle, and taken leave 
 of them, but had returned in the dark and 
 gone into Albert^s painting room. He then 
 put the pale Wax Mask, which had been 
 faithfully copied from Albert^s Bust, on a 
 clothed figure which was to represent Albert^ 
 and put on it also his old Painter's Coat be- 
 daubed with Colours. 
 
 He so placed it as to lead to the supposi- 
 tion that it had fallen from the Ladder, and 
 poured dark-red colors, like Blood, over it. 
 He then knocked suddenly and alarmingly 
 at Ag'nes^s door, who ran into the Room hor- 
 ror-struck with a Light in her hand, and 
 stood astonished and petrified before her 
 dead Albert^ knelt down by him, and wiped 
 the Blood from his Forehead. Albert, who 
 had just come home, then entered : she 
 looked round, and thought it was his Ghost 
 that she saw stalking towards her. He 
 spoke, and she recognised him, but thrust 
 him from her blood-red with Anger. She 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS AVIFE. 175 
 
 then wished to make her escape, but the 
 Light having been extinguished by the 
 draught from her dress, she could not find 
 the Door. At length, both having composed 
 themselves, they embraced in the Dark, and 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 Dost thou know what has happened, my 
 Agnes 1 asked Albert at last. Thou art 
 alive ! said she. No, replied he ; Raphael 
 is dead ! Leonardo da Vinci is dead ! These 
 tidings reached me to-day at the same mo- 
 ment! 
 
 She let go her hold of him. The Might 
 of Heaven, the Nothingness of the Earth 
 which lay in these Words — " Raphael is 
 dead," fell like a Thunderbolt. The Night 
 was amicably spent. Agnes besought him 
 to travel into the Netherlands, and to accept 
 the Emperor's Invitation, that he might have 
 Recreation. Then he would certainly no 
 longer need to paint. She was as much 
 struck as was the whole of Europe. Her 
 
176 
 
 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 Husband had been for her as it were twice 
 restored to Life this Day. And it is quite 
 amazing, and borders on the fabulous, how 
 much a great Man gains by the Death of a 
 great Man. He rises in value three-fold, 
 like the Sibylline Books. Because he has 
 outlived the other, so he appears also to 
 outbid him; Hope yet shines on his Path, 
 and the Words uttered in * his Praise are 
 laid by his Friends on the Scale of the Liv- 
 ing, which they often blow up by empty 
 breath and idle praise ; — ^whilst the Dead, 
 numbered with the Dead, with that prime- 
 val, silent, inactive Company, are dispatched 
 with the words : De mortuis nil nisi bene 
 (Say nothing but good of the dead.) More- 
 over, if he has become old, if he has out- 
 lived the Masters of his time, then he be- 
 comes by the Grace of God a Support to 
 the Arts and to those who understand Art. 
 For Age is even in this respect a wonderful 
 Gift of Grace. Yea, the most wretched 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 177 
 
 Writer of Comedies in the time of Aristo- 
 phanes^ has only to appear boldly among us 
 now, and he would be an Oracle of the 
 Age ; if he were only to sit and say nothing 
 but the Words : That is fine I that is bad ! 
 yet from Reverence for his long fabulous 
 silver Beard, and because of the Miracle of 
 his Existence, he would be chosen as a 
 Judge, and his Wisdom praised. Albert 
 was almost ashamed to live, now that 
 Raphael was dead. Yet he lived in his 
 Works — 
 
 Now Agnes was not willing to let him 
 go alone, because it seemed probable to her 
 that he might not return again. But he felt 
 bound to her by Gratitude; for there was 
 never an Evening or a Morning in which 
 he forgot that it was through her he had 
 been so happy as to possess a Child — 
 through her alone that he had possessed this 
 beloved Child. He had only to think of the 
 little Agues, and it was enough for his Heart, 
 
 12 
 
178 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 enough to make him honor his Wife, and 
 feel drawn towards her. Otherwise he might 
 
 perhaps long ago but there was no such 
 
 othenvise. 
 
 Agones and Susanna now set out with him. 
 The Honours he received in the Towns 
 through which they passed w^ere valued by 
 him, only because they gave him value in 
 Agnes^s eyes — or rather Toleration. That 
 was certainly not the right Feeling. But 
 was it doing any harm to the World, as we 
 understand it? Or should we not turn its 
 Blessings to the best account for ourselves ? 
 Therefore he gave away Pictures, such as 
 that of St. Anna and St. Marij^ with the 
 Infant Christy to the Bishop of Bamberg, 
 because he had invited him to be his Guest, 
 and had paid for him at the Inn. At Ant- 
 werp the Painters invited him to their 
 Rooms, with his Wife and Susanna. They 
 had a complete Service of Plate, other costly 
 Ornaments, and an extravagantly fine Din- 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 179 
 
 ner. Their Wives were also there. When 
 he was conducted to Table, there was a 
 Crowd of People on both sides, as if he 
 had been a Lord ; and among them were 
 several persons of eminence, who showed 
 their Respect for him, by profound Rever- 
 ences. Late in the night they all accompa- 
 nied him and his Wife home with Torches. 
 Agnes could not sufficiently express her 
 Amazement, and became quite perplexed and 
 meditative. 
 
 Albert received a sad but salutary warn- 
 ing, when, having left his Wife in Antwerp, 
 and taken shipping on the coast, with the 
 intention of disembarking again at Armyud, 
 he was prevented by a Tempest, which 
 broke the Cable, and drove him out into the 
 midst of the frightful Billows of the Sea. 
 During the Danger he became conscious 
 that his Agnes might, must, and would one 
 Day live without him ! This Feeling slum- 
 bered in his Heart from that Day, and like 
 
180 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 a living Being, opened sometimes an Eye 
 and looked at him, or moved within him. 
 
 He now went from Antwerp to Mechlin. 
 Margaret^ the Sister of Charles F!,* wished 
 to see his Agnes. She said she would 
 rather die than allow herself to be rated and 
 scrutinized Body and Soul by the haughty, 
 crafty Dame, without daring to utter a Word 
 in return. But it was of no use kicking and 
 struggling. She adorned herself in the midst 
 of Tears. 
 
 Margaret however received the still beau- 
 tiful Agnes, who had put on her most amia- 
 ble Countenance, very kindly. She desired her 
 to sit down, and brought to her herself Wine 
 and the finest Pastry. You are our dear 
 
 * This is a mistake (rf the author. Charles V. had no 
 sister of that name. Margaret, daughter of the Emperor 
 Maximilian, and aunt of Charles, at that time Governess 
 of the Netherlands, must be the person meant. DOrer 
 himself makes the same mistake in his journal. — Trans- 
 lator. 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 181 
 
 Mistress Agnes, said she to her, for you know 
 how to value an Artist, so as to benefit him 
 and the World. An Artist's Marriage is, it 
 is true, only that of a Man, and the Wife is 
 the Husband's Help and Comfort, whatever 
 be his calling or station. And every Hus- 
 band stands in need of Encouragement, of 
 Cheerfulness, of Peace in his Home, to ena- 
 ble him to bear what Life brings with it, and 
 still to preserve the power of working for the 
 benefit of Mankind. Cheerfulness gives the 
 highest Power to do, and to endure, my beau- 
 tiful Angel. But if he find a gloomy Coun- 
 tenance at Home, where formerly his smiling 
 Wife sat; if he hear nothing, or a Murmur, 
 from whence formerly sweet Words pene- 
 trated his Heart ; if he feel better and hap- 
 pier elsewhere than in his own Home, then 
 Good-night to Peace, Good-night to Mar- 
 riage. When Husbands remain out of their 
 own Houses as often as possible during the 
 Day, and as long as possible during the Eve- 
 
182 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 ning, seeking for Happiness elsewhere, then 
 that is a sign that Marriage is good for noth- 
 ing to the Man, or to the Wife, or to both to- 
 gether. For had one of them been only 
 properly mild and reasonable, patient and 
 firm ; and the other only yielding and willing 
 to receive Instruction ; then both might have 
 found Happiness and held it fast. Friend- 
 ship, even with the Friends of our Youth, 
 must be very much limited in Marriage — for 
 the Wife is the Husband's best Friend. 
 And to every one his own. Only the disap- 
 pointed have recourse to their old Friends 
 again. But your Albert, dear, beautiful Ag- 
 nes, remains kindly at Home, as I hear, and 
 throws no false colour on you, but the true 
 one— on himself. 
 
 Agnes burned to speak, and if her Hus- 
 band during many long Years had learned 
 to read every one of her Features, she would 
 then have said : Is this Mockery ? How ! 
 are the Great then like Pulpit Orators, to 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 183 
 
 whom no one can utter one word in reply, 
 but may only think and smile ? But hereaf- 
 ter! only have Patience! Certainly one can 
 injure another by flattering words, so that he 
 can say nothing in reply — but he who is fair 
 and just, so regulates his talk, that he injures 
 the Feelings of none. Thou cunning One ! 
 Margaret then took Agnes's Hand, pulled 
 off her Glove, looked at the little delicate 
 white Hand, stroked it, and held her own 
 near it, as if she were measuring the Fingers. 
 She then chose from a little Jewel-Box one 
 of the most beautiful of many Rings, put it 
 on Agnes^s Finger, and said graciously : 
 Take this from me as a token of the Grati- 
 tude of all your Husband's Friends. For I 
 honour and love him much — ^with such a 
 Love as can make no Woman jealous, not 
 even you, beautiful Agnes. 1 love his Mind 
 and what he brings forth from it ; you love 
 himself, you alone possess him, his Heart, 
 his Feelings, and his earthly Existence. But 
 
184 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 it is proper, and yet not rightly understood 
 among Men, that the World should in an es- 
 pecial manner honour the Wife of the Ar- 
 tist! For she is the Honour of his House. 
 If she is not happy, then his Happiness is — 
 Unhappiness. She is united to him as the 
 Elm is to the Vine ; he is the sweet, the pro- 
 ductive part to the World ; but she holds and 
 supports him, so that he brings forth Grapes ; 
 and without her — he sinks to the Ground. 
 
 She turned away for a Moment. At the 
 sight of her moist Eyes, Alberts fell to the 
 Ground. Agnes held the Glass very pictu- 
 resquely to her purple Lips, and appeared to 
 be sipping some of the sparkling Wine. 
 
 Drink not so, good Agnes, continued Mar- 
 garet. Drink to the Health of your own 
 Master : Long Life and happy Days ! 
 
 And Agnes whispered, looking at her and 
 not at him : Long Life and happy Days! 
 
 That is as it ought to be, said the Princess. 
 Now your Health must also be drunk by him 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 185 
 
 and by me! for as the Artist cannot work, if 
 only a Cloud — nay, even the Shadow of a 
 Cloud — darken his Soul, not to speak of a 
 Sorrow which tears his Heart, — and if it is 
 only by the great, free, superior power of a 
 pure Nature that he can work, but withal be- 
 comes therethrough fully abstracted and re- 
 leased from worldly things, and at last with 
 mild Ardour reverences the Saints still more 
 than he feels an ardent desire to represent 
 them, — then I drink to your Heahh ! We 
 have to thank you for the great number of 
 the Master's Works! You fan away Care 
 from him ; he is free from human Wants 
 through you. For what little the Artist has 
 need of on Earth, and yet must continue to 
 demand from it, that you bestow upon him 
 lovingly, so that he scarcely knows whence 
 it has come to him ; were it not that he re- 
 cognises your quiet beneficent Angel's Hand 
 in the Gift, by the calm Peace which reigns 
 around him ! Thus he traces nothing of the 
 
186 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 rough World — but your Love, which like a 
 mild spring Sunshine makes his Heart large 
 and his Soul great. Therefore it is your 
 good Fortune to share the enthusiastic Joy 
 which carries him as it were a step further on 
 the Path of Life — as if Heavenly Spirits had 
 ministered to his Soul — when he beholds an- 
 other Work completed by his own Hand. 
 But there is a God who rewards not only 
 Pain : no, dear Agones, he rewards also pure, 
 loving Joy ! And for everything that you do 
 and are to your Husband, God will reweird 
 you. Believe that of a surety. 
 
 What frightful things she says ! Were it 
 indeed so! muttered AgTies, staring before 
 her. Then recovering herself, she turned to 
 Margaret, and said: Gracious lady! I un- 
 derstand you; but you do not understand 
 me ; and yet you are a Woman. So be it I 
 I can endure this no longer. But mark well ! 
 human Judgment is defective : He alone can 
 judge who knows all Hearts ; but He judges 
 
FAREWELL. TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 187 
 
 not, because he knows them, and because He 
 formed them. 
 
 You know, said Margaret^ turning to Al- 
 bert^ that the Emperor said, when a Noble- 
 man was not willing to hold the Ladder to 
 you at his command, because he thought his 
 Nobility would thereby be sullied — that you 
 were, on account of the excellency of your 
 Art, greater than a Nobleman, because he 
 could make any Peasant a Nobleman, but 
 could not make a Nobleman an Artist; — 
 here then the Emperor presents to you also 
 the golden Chain, the Badge and Ornament 
 of a Knight.* You are this day invited to 
 his Table ; you are also appointed his Court 
 Painter. Therefore, if you feel as you speak. 
 
 * It was Maximilian who bestowed letters of nobility, and 
 also a handsome pension, on Diirer ; but he continued af- 
 terwards to experience the liberality of the illustrious Charles 
 V. and his brother Ferdinand, King of Hungary. The 
 golden chain is of course the same that is mentioned by the 
 author as having been laid aside by Diirer on his deathbed. 
 — Translator. 
 
188 
 
 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 dear A^nes^ you will rejoice in the Honours 
 of your Husband! Your name will live 
 with his, when we, whose Appanage in Life 
 has been high Rank, shall appear only as 
 Names on the withered genealogical Tree, 
 only as faded Ink. — Now go in peace. 
 
 Agnes hastened away, her Face much 
 flushed. Margaret made a Sign to Albert 
 to come back again. She stood a little while 
 mute and contemplative; she then said to 
 him : I am sorry for the poor Child never- 
 theless — she is but a Woman ; and I cannot 
 conceal from you, that I should not like to 
 have such a perfect Husband, who lives in 
 Heaven, and only descends sometimes gra- 
 ciously to dwell with us on Earth ; and who, 
 removed beyond the reach of Woman's 
 Judgment, is himself just so much the more 
 praised and honoured. We Women prefer 
 a human being like ourselves. 
 
 Albert made an obeisance. Then Marga- 
 ret observed the Ring in the bottom of the 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 189 
 
 Wine-glass, which AgTies had just set down. 
 Take it, she said ; — I give it now a second 
 time, and in a very different sense, to your 
 Wife — as a Woman. 
 
 Agnes was not to be seen. She lay at 
 Home sick, and the Apothecary received 
 fourteen Stivers, and the Monk who visited 
 her, eight Stivers. She then packed up, and 
 that signified to Albert that they were to set 
 out on their homeward Journey to the dear 
 familiar Nurnberg, 
 
 She there buried herself in Loneliness and 
 Fancies, which went on multiplying within 
 her. The Words of Margaret operated very 
 powerfully afterwards: and Agnes also mur- 
 mured, because the Princess had considered 
 him richly and well paid by these Words for 
 many Works which he had executed for her, 
 or presented to her. He had also presented 
 to the King of Denmark^ who was in Brus- 
 sels^ some of the best of his Engravings — out 
 of respect. For it was a delight to him to 
 
190 
 
 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 give pleasure to the World by his Works, 
 and he lived to please every one. Only he 
 should not give Presents to great people, 
 thought Agnes. But in this he certainly did 
 not agree. The Rich must pay for the Poor ! 
 thought she. And so he was often obliged 
 to bargain with a poor Purchaser of his 
 Works for a few Florins more — instead of 
 remitting the whole ! But — Hanns Frei^ his 
 Father-in-law, had now lain for two years 
 sick ; his Wife died, and a Sepulchre was 
 built for them and Albert together ; and after 
 the lapse of nearly two years, his Father-in- 
 law died also. Agnes^s Grief was thus 
 doubly deep; for her Father had departed 
 this Life in the midst of Reverses of Fortune 
 almost beyond endurance, and her Life and 
 her Strivings now began to appear to her as 
 a vain thing. She had a House, and every- 
 thing in it that was needful — a State-room, 
 fine Clothes, a prospect for the future that 
 could not fail her, Honour — as much as she 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 191 
 
 could wish, — but all too late^ all not so much 
 in unison as her young brain had settled it ; 
 for this, in her opinion, was what every hu- 
 man being should strive after as the chief 
 business of Life ! Possession is dead. Striv- 
 ing is alive ; and therefore Striving and 
 Longing must be sufficient. To attain, is to 
 pour Oil on the Sea of our Wishes : to at- 
 tain too late, is pouring Gall instead of Oil. 
 
 In these latter Days Melancthon had come , 
 to Nurnherg ; he was as it were Lutherh 
 Secretary of State, and brought everything^ 
 into a world-enduring valid Form, uniting 
 the new Grafts to the well-cropped Trees 
 with an Artist's Hand, so that the sap of the \ 
 old Trunk might produce new and noble j 
 Fruit. Albert adhered to the Old Light j 
 which had arisen again in the New Time. \ 
 He was accustomed to think as an Artist, to 
 go back to the Source of Things, and from . 
 their formation, to the Mind which formed [ 
 them ; accustomed, when possible, to imprint 
 
192 
 
 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 , his Thoughts more beautifully and truly. 
 j These he then applied to the operations of 
 I the Mind of Man, and soon all was Light 
 and Purity within. Now these men had 
 excluded marriage from the Sacraments — 
 Albert praised the new Creed in general ; 
 and thus it appeared to A^es that he ad- 
 hered to it — in order that divorce might be 
 open to him. She shuddered at the sight of 
 Melancthon wherever she met him, and ihe 
 difference of their Faith at last estranged 
 Agones and Albert. She now believed that 
 they would inhabit different Heavens, that 
 i they had been made by two different Gods, 
 i and as her Mind was withdrawn from him, 
 ' so was also her Life — and Marriage is pre- 
 eminently a Union of Lives ! Oftentimes 
 she lamented that he would be lost in Time 
 and in Eternity, at which he smiled * But 
 
 * The honest evangelical Painter (for such alone are the 
 genuine, the enduring, whose Works never become Chime- 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 193 
 
 when he wished to adduce proofs to her, I 
 then she said : Get thee behind me, Satan ! I 
 
 These words stung him so deeply, after 
 all the Grief he had endured, and all the 
 kind intentions of his Heart, that he re- 
 solved actually to go away from her, only 
 not like him to whom she had compared 
 him, but magnanimously, yea prodigally! 
 Love likes to boast great things, likes to 
 play the Queen, to appear rich, all-sacrifi- 
 cing, divinely-joyful — and yet weeps quite 
 humanly. And this justly. Love is suffi- 
 cient to itself; what it gives it receives again 
 a thousand fold as if from God; what it 
 
 ras of the Brain) certainly acknowledged the sincerity of 
 his Wife, who would willingly have known him happy 
 here and hereafter; and he respected the uneasiness she 
 had endured for Years, and which he had endeavoured 
 to dissipate by loving Persuasion and by Reason; but 
 Reason finds difficult access to those who are at en- 
 mity, and almost more difficult still to those who love ! 
 — VF.P. 
 
 13 
 
194 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 ■t must do without it enjoys a thousand fold, 
 by having a dreamy, soulful, sympathetic 
 perception of the Enjoyment of the beloved 
 object. Rare Power I Miracle of Nature 
 — so natural to him who bears it in bis 
 1 Heart! The World is worth nothing to 
 \ him who has this power ; but he who has it 
 not cannot attain it if he would give the 
 . whole World for it — not for his own Exist- 
 '. ence ; — or rather, he does not believe that he 
 J could purchase it therewith, because he dare 
 j not venture to throw his Existence away for 
 such unwonted Gain. Yet let it be under- 
 stood : Albert left everything to his beloved 
 Agnes; he counted the Gold — there were 
 ; six thousand Florins ; he looked over the 
 ; Engravings, the Pictures — he left them to 
 her. But he left to her also a more precious 
 than all — namely, herself; and, in her, his 
 Existence, his Mind, his Love, which he 
 i regarded as nothing, just because she re- 
 garded them as nothing. 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 195 
 
 This Feeling made him so desponding, 
 that he now also deemed as nothing that to 
 which he had devoted his Life, and executed 
 with so much love — his Art and his Works. 
 Nay he even wished to go back to Hungary^ 
 to the little Village of Eytas from whence 
 his Grandfather, Ant(m Durer, had wandered 
 to Nurnherg as a poor Goldsmith ; — there he 
 would no more be heard of, — again foster- 
 ing the Vine, planting Trees, cutting Branch- 
 es, gleaning Grapes, as his Fathers, very wor- 
 thy people, had done — also without a Name 
 to leave behind. But — his habit of Industry 
 did not permit him this even in his waking 
 Dreams. Peace was all he now desired — i 
 Peace — Peace for his last best Works, which 
 he had carried about with him through Life ! 
 These must yet be completed ! They would 
 yet bring many gold Pieces to Agnes ! For 
 it never entered his thoughts to divorce her; 
 — she would be happy when he was not 
 with her — that he both wished and thought. 
 
196 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 For even if the new Doctrine had permitted 
 it, still he was so accustomed to his old Faith 
 that he perceived it was only they who adopt- 
 ed the new as Children, who would one day 
 put it into Practice in the affairs of Life ; — 
 not this Generation. The only scriptural 
 Ground for Divorce was also awanting to 
 him ; for into the subtleties contained in the 
 question as to the multifarious ways in which 
 Marriage may be broken, his Heart did not 
 enter, although they had often exercised his 
 Thoughts. 
 
 And so he parted for a time from his Agnes. 
 
 It was a Saturday ; the day on which he 
 always heretofore gave thanks to God for 
 the often wondrously accomplished week. 
 If he was not moved to this by the Current of 
 the World, then^ at his Evening Prayer, he 
 was certain to be so. This reverential feel- 
 ing on the Saturday arose perhaps secretly 
 from the knowledge that it was the true an- 
 cient Sunday. Therefore he chose this day 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 197 
 
 for his Departure ; for he certainly meant to 
 do a good Deed. He was ready dressed, and 
 had nothing in his pocket but a few Stivers 
 for his Journey. Agones yet slept. He ap- 
 proached her Bed. He admired the Wife, 
 who might have made him so happy. Ah I 
 and she herself appeared to be so miserable 
 with him, and through him, that he wept for 
 the first time almost aloud. He kissed her 
 bare Arm which was lying on the Coverlet 
 She half opened her Eyes. 
 
 — I am going ! whispered he. 
 
 God be with you! said she, as if in a 
 Dream. 
 
 — I will come again ! said he. 
 
 But say that, I pray thee, to one of thy 
 Friends also ! said she. 
 
 I will ! said he. 
 
 So then he took his Departure.* It was 
 early Spring. The Morning Sun smiled on 
 
 * Just sixty Years after this, W. Shakespear left his Wife 
 and Children. — /, the Editor. 
 
198 HOW ALBERT BIDS 
 
 him as he left the House. He smiled in re- 
 turn, when he looked at the double Eagle 
 over the Gate. But when he had gone 
 ' ' through the Streets in the still Morning, and 
 had got out as far as Master SebalcPs the 
 Wheelmaker, who dwelt near the Sonnen- 
 bade, and who prepared his wooden Blocks 
 for him ; and when the Geese on the young 
 grass hissed at him, and he saw the little 
 bright yellow Goslings feeding in the Morn- 
 ing Dew, then he leant on the Hedge of the 
 little Garden ; and when by degrees he roused 
 himself from his Reverie, he heard from 
 within the House Master Sebald recounting 
 to his Wife and Children and Comrades at 
 breakfast a new Jest, which Master Hanns 
 Sachs* had circulated among the people for 
 the first time the Night before. The Wife 
 and Children laughed ! that was a Dagger to 
 his Heart. Ah ! there was Joy in this House, 
 as well as in that of Master Sachs ! He took 
 
 * A shoemaker and poet in Nurnberg. — Translator. 
 
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 199 
 
 Courage, however, entered and bespoke new 
 blocks from Master Sebald to be ready when 
 he should return from Flanders. And the 
 Husband stood reverentially before him, his 
 Cap in his hand ; the Wife kept her bare 
 arms folded in her Apron, out of respect for 
 him ; and the Children, as if almost afraid of 
 him, stood clinging to her. He smiled — for 
 he knew better ! The Geese hissed at him 
 again as he went forth, but he smiled — for he 
 knew better ! 
 
 As the young Branches of the Vine with 
 their green Tendrils often attain no Object 
 around which to entwine themselves, and so 
 bend back ; thus many of Alberfs Feelings 
 had not reached Agnes : as however in Au- 
 tumn the Vine-dresser breaks off also the 
 firmly fixed and now dried up Tendrils of the 
 Branch, so he intended to tear himself loose. 
 His separation had already lasted so long! 
 But it was only after many Years and with 
 Pain, that his Thoughts and Feelings could 
 
200 HOW ALBERT BIDS FAREWELL, ETC. 
 
 / be severed from her. For that Nvhich ap- 
 pears visibly in the World as a Work, or as 
 ; a Deed, must all — long, long before — have 
 ; existed and been ripening ; and what in like 
 I manner the World sees of Undertakings are 
 / all Fruits which have fallen from the Tree of 
 : Life : — for the rest, the World perceives noth- 
 ing but Leaves, and hears the rustling there- 
 of ! Things bloom concealed — covered over, 
 ^ like the Fig, with its own leaf. Thus the 
 Past comes to maturity only in the Present, 
 and in the Present is sown the Seed of the 
 Future. We often lose our Health for Years 
 on account of a thousand little Errors ; we 
 I die in consequence of living. Sickness is an 
 j exertion of Nature to heal us, to restore to its 
 5 natural Proportion all that has been endured 
 ^or done amiss, and to allow us to expiate it 
 iby Suffering, in order that we may become 
 hvise for the Years that yet remain to us. 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Albert proposed extending his Wander- 
 ings so far as to secure himself, and his poor 
 self-torturing Agnes, against a sudden Return, 
 the desire for which seized him every eve- 
 ning. He had in truth no longer been able 
 to endure the sight of her self-torture ; for 
 what manly Mind, not burdened by the 
 weight of a Crime against Heaven, would 
 allow itself seriously to be bowed down by 
 a Woman ! Women, indeed, never wish so 
 to bow down a Man ; only they do not al- 
 ways understand how to limit their desires, 
 or on the other hand to forget them. Alas ! 
 and Life demands so much from us, so much 
 Endurance and Sacrifice! The worst of 
 Life is, that we all live on this Earth for the 
 first time. Everything is new ; no one gets 
 
202 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 accustomed to the perpetual Surprises — at 
 best only accustomed to be surprised. Even 
 the old^ the daily-recurring, finds us every 
 day neio and changed in Age, in Mind, in 
 Likes and Dislikes, so that it often operates 
 more strangely, more peculiarly than the new, 
 to whose impressions we yet hesitate to re- 
 sign ourselves. And thus to know how to 
 live requires perpetual Genius — for Life is 
 the highest of all Arts. Only no one believes 
 this, because he fancies he knows how to 
 live, as every one fancies he knows how to 
 love, when he looks deep into the Eye of a 
 beautiful Maiden. Alas! Love also is an 
 Art — but it consists not in Raptures and En- 
 thusiasm ; it is not to wander in the Moon- 
 light, to listen to the Song of the Nightingale, 
 to kneel before the Beloved, to languish and 
 pine for her Kiss! No; this is the Art of 
 Love : — to preserve its Fire, its godly Trea- 
 sure ; to cairy about its Riches through Life 
 as if in pure Gold ; to spend it for him alone 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 203 
 
 to whom the Heart is devoted ; to be always 
 ready to sympathize, to smile, to weep, to as- 
 sist, to counsel, to alleviate ; in short, to live 
 with the Beloved as he lives, and thus, by 
 virtue of an indwelling Heavenly Power, to 
 preserve invariably a Heavenward direction. 
 And this Art is the highest, the tenderest 
 Love. He who possesses it knows what 
 Love is. The greater part of Men can sacri- 
 fice Hours and Days and Wealth; but to 
 bear and to suffer patiently for Years, never 
 to consider one's own Life and Wellbeing, 
 to pine away gradually, to suffer Death in the 
 Heart, and yet to hasten to the Arms of the 
 Beloved as soon as they are again opened to 
 us, and then to be happy, yea blest, as if 
 nothing had been amiss, as if no time had 
 elapsed between that moment and the first 
 embrace, — all this Love can do. It now ap- 
 peared to Albert that he and Agnes had only 
 been fettered by some inconceivable Power. 
 This conviction gave him Courage. He ar- 
 
204 
 
 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 rived at it now for the first time — alas! al- 
 most too late for this Life, and therefore he 
 wished there had been a Life for Man before 
 this, in order that he might again live peace- 
 fully, wisely, and happily ; since everything 
 in the World and in the human Heart springs 
 from Love — and no Man has thus any cause 
 \ truly to grieve. For a noble Heart cares for 
 
 i nothing else than to be worthy of the Love of 
 those whom he loves — and also worthy in 
 i general ; and no one can tell him this so well 
 1 as his own Heart, judging even from a thou- 
 sand Actions. Thus Albert saw that even he 
 ought now to be satisfied ! and concluding, by 
 his own Feelings, how his Agnes also must 
 feel in her Heart, he attained to the Know- 
 ledge, that everything is ordered by Love, 
 and that we must improve the divinely-grant- 
 ed Time, by bestowing it one on another. 
 This Albert now intended honestly to do to- 
 wards Agnes I* 
 
 ♦ Thou upright Soul ! how much thou hast reflected, and 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 205 
 
 It was during his Wanderings that he felt 
 these Convictions in all their force. 
 
 He went to visit Lucas of LeydeM, Even 
 the Name of the Town attracted him thither.* 
 During his first sojourn in Holland-^ he had 
 formed an intimate Friendship with Lucas, 
 and now, separated from his Wife, he both 
 needed and recognised a Friend. And he 
 found one in him. Oh! ever kind World ! 
 thou hast Riches ready prepared for him who 
 rejoices, as well as for him who mourns! 
 How unhappy soever any one may be. Na- 
 ture is always true to him ! 
 
 He had thought it would be with him as 
 with a shipwrecked Mariner, who, after hav- 
 ing been long tossed about on the cold 
 Waves till he is benumbed, finds himself at 
 
 how much Cause hast thou had for reflection ! And thou 
 wert now repenting instead of her! And Repentance — 
 even that which is felt for others — leads to Acknowledgment. 
 Thy Kernel remained sweet. — W. P. 
 
 * Leiden— Suffering. — Translator. 
 
206 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 last washed ashore on the flowery Bank of a 
 lonely Island. But he now felt as if he had 
 been washed by the Waves from the Shore 
 out into the cold Sea ! Nothing was 
 awanling ; everything was arranged for him 
 in a comfortable and friendly manner. Clean 
 Linen lay every Morning spread out on his 
 chair ; his Clothes were brushed and free 
 from every speck of Dust ; he rose, and 
 went to sleep, whenever he liked ; he looked 
 at the People out of the Window ; he went 
 wherever he pleased. Oppressive Freedom ! 
 To everything he was indifferent, all within 
 him was so still and so monotonous I What 
 was there here for him to love ? To whom 
 had he here every hour something to for- 
 give ? Who was there here to make him 
 sorry; he felt the sweet Power of Custom 
 even in what is most bitter! He felt that 
 Words are nothing, however mild and rever- 
 ential they may sound, if the Soul of Love 
 does not glow and breathe upon us through 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 207 
 
 them. And in Agnes^s Words — which he 
 now missed in his solitary condition — there 
 was the Soul of a faithful Love, which was 
 never weary in busying itself with him, in 
 being angry at herself and at him, during 
 the whole course of an irritable Existence ! 
 Ah ! it was impossible for an indifferent 
 Heart so to do — for it has neither the Will 
 nor the Power to injure ! And he loved her 
 — therefore he could not be injured by her! 
 And thus the feeling of his Love to her was 
 quite enough for him, and Life without her 
 difficult, much more difficult to bear ! Ah ! 
 we love perhaps a lively Child, and think it 
 impossible that our Love for it can increase ! 
 But it becomes sick — and we then know, for 
 the first time, how much more intensely and 
 also painfully we can love it! Then do 
 new and more delicate Tendrils unfold them- 
 selves as it were in our Hearts, with which we 
 encompass it as Ivy does a half-fallen Statue. 
 And if Agnes' s Love for him was of the 
 
208 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 most extraordinary kind, still she loved him 
 for all that I That was the chief point. Her 
 Love was like the warm Sunbeam, shin- 
 ing in the Window of a Dome through a 
 fiery-red Ruby- Glass, which, corroded by 
 damp, reflects with its own also the varied 
 hues of the Rainbow. And — Caprice is 
 never without a Cause, and may not that 
 cause be Disease ? And does not Disease 
 call for pity? Alas! this, then, was what 
 he could no longer endure ? And was that 
 just ? It is the greatest, the most injurious 
 Wrong, not to believe in Nature. 
 
 Here, far away from her, he had intended 
 to work — at so many things, and so busily ! 
 But his Thoughts were far away with her — 
 banished to her I Yet when he was with 
 her, when she was wandering around him, 
 then they could rove in the distance, could 
 dwell where Thoughts and Images appear 
 as in a Heavenly Dome full of Music and 
 Incense, from which the Artist steals them as 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 209 
 
 it were for the Earth. Here, dwelling in 
 Leyden^ his Sadness increased : he felt he 
 could not be so happy anywhere as near 
 his Wife ; yea, that it was only when he 
 was with her that he was truly happy. — 
 There are Conditions in which the Endura- 
 ble, the Imperfect is the best possible for us ; 
 and the Human Race is continually sub- 
 jected to such a Condition. Do we desire a 
 better or happier Fate ? God forbid ! Every- 
 thing that is ours is the best for us; for we 
 choose perhaps our own Lot ; but what 
 we have chosen keeps us enclosed as in 
 "Walls of Steel all our lives — and for as 
 much better as the Untried appears to us, 
 still we can never attain to it, nor yet appro- 
 priate it, because we ourselves are already 
 become Property. Let us therefore endure • 
 let us be faithful ! 
 
 He was now in a condition to perceive 
 wherein he also had erred! And Man never 
 attains Tranquillity, as long as he believes 
 
 14 
 
210 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 that he is right in all his Thoughts and 
 Actions towards all the World ! But as 
 soon as he begins to doubt, as soon as he 
 once admits the pre-supposition that he may 
 have gone astray — ^that he must take himself 
 to task — then come Reconciliation with the 
 World, Contentment and Peace, and with 
 recognition of the Truth, and acknowledg- 
 ment of his own Error, come also at last by 
 degrees Satisfaction and Happiness to his 
 Heart, which always speaks Truth to the 
 Upright. 
 
 Lucas celebrated Alberts birth-day, the 
 day of St Prudentius^ which his Agnes had 
 so often taunted him with, when he spoke 
 prudently.* Masters assembled from all 
 
 * The 6th of April. St. Prudentius was by birth a 
 Spaniard, and fled from the swords of the infidels into 
 France, where in 840 or 845 he was chosen Bishop of 
 Troyes. He was one of the most learned prelates of the 
 Grallican church. His writings are extant in the " Biblio- 
 theca Patrum." — Translator. 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 211 
 
 quarters, but from tender consideration for 
 him, they had left their Wives at home. — 
 Bitter ! 
 
 It is always most agreeable for us Men, 
 said Master Peter Gutschaaf^ the lUuminist, 
 when we are quite among ourselves, and 
 also for the Women when they are quite 
 among themselves ! We are certainly of 
 two different natures, and in this way each 
 has undisturbed and pleasant intercourse with 
 those of his oion nature. These words fur- 
 nished Materials for a Conversation at Table, 
 on Women, which was conducted however 
 with cautious consideration. 
 
 Lucas had ordered two Bottles of lachry- 
 m<£ Christi in honor of Albert These he 
 did not disdain to taste, and he had his own 
 wonderful Thoughts thereby. For these 
 Tears cleared away the Clouds from his 
 Eyes I — they placed him in Spirit in times 
 long bypast. He thought on the happy days 
 that were gone, — and behold ! there sat his 
 
212 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Wife, weeping in Numherg^ weeping on his 
 account, weeping for him ! Then he flew 
 swift as an Eagle, back to his own Days, to 
 the Present — and there he was in Leyden, 
 sitting at Table opposite Master Peter Gut- 
 schaaf^ whose rosy daughter sat beside him, 
 always hanging tenderly on the Eye of her 
 Father. He saw in her his little Daughter 
 Agnes now grown up, and he sighed, and 
 the Daughter, the good little Lamb, looked at 
 him and sighed also. For he knew well how 
 much Peter Gutschaaf had had to endure 
 at Home from his Wife — and yet Gutschaaf 
 was so very cheerful! — that was his Daugh- 
 ter's doing. She was like the Oil between 
 the Door and the Hinge, the mild L between 
 harsh-sounding consonants ! She did not 
 intend to marry, because she thought it her 
 duty first of all to show her Love and Grati- 
 tude towards her Father, before she loved 
 any one else; and her Father assented to this. 
 Albert pictured to himself his Agnes just as 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 213 
 
 tall and as beautiful, and that she would have 
 been as kind, and that her Father would have 
 been as fond of her. Ah! — and then he 
 called Death the bitterest Grief, and his Tears 
 ran into the Glass among the Tears of Christ 
 — and he could not drink. 
 
 Drink, I pray thee, dear Master ! said sly- 
 Master Dietrich, the Glass Painter; drink! 
 The Wine which the Man drinks, restrains 
 the Wife; and the Wine which the Wife 
 drinks, dishonors the Man. Just listen for a 
 moment to what is going on across the 
 street! There dwells a Straw Widow, so 
 called because her Husband has forsaken 
 her: and who, in other respects of a Christ- 
 ian and harmless disposition, wilfully draws 
 upon herself many suspicions, in order to 
 retaliate on him ; and he is just now cele- 
 brating a jovial Banquet. I venture to say, 
 that when he comes home she will make 
 herself out to be in the right ! 
 
 Oh ! said Bernard of Or lei/, the Princess 
 
fi4 
 
 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Margarets Painter, Women may be in the 
 Wrong so prettily and sweetly, that one is 
 doubly fond of them in spite of it — and they 
 may be in the Right in such a bitter manner, 
 that one curses even the sacred Truth and 
 them at the same time. 
 
 Dear Children, interrupted Master Eras- 
 mus Desiderius of Rotterdam^ one of the 
 Guests, who was on his journey to Basle, I 
 must read you a Lecture after a fashion of 
 my own, and show you how foolish you are. 
 Men think all their troubles come from 
 Women, because it is through them without 
 doubt that they attack them I We must re- 
 member that there are a thousand disagreea- 
 bles in Life ; and if we have Wives, then of 
 course all sorts of Cares must be encountered 
 in Marriage; and every one must receive a 
 tinge from it, as white Wine becomes red in 
 a red cask. We are apt not to observe this 
 sufficiently. A Wife cannot do us any harm, 
 and as certainly as they are dear Creatures — 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 215 
 
 so true is it that they will do us none. Yet 
 there must be Cares! — And then, declaiming 
 as if he had been still a Lecturer* in Oxford, 
 he supported his position by the following 
 Verses : 
 
 Care dost thou despise ? It is the secret 
 
 Confidential Link 'tween us and Nature ; 
 
 Confirmed by it the holy Union is. 
 
 The Husband Care endareth for his Wife, 
 
 She in her turn for him : th* anxious Mother 
 
 For her Child— the Child for her again. 
 
 Each mortal Man hath care. The Poor, that he 
 
 His frugal Morsel may obtain : the Rich, 
 
 To keep the Wealth he has. For Nature 
 
 Hath the Heavenly Father endless Care ; 
 
 For Rich and Poor, and Nature's Cares besides. 
 
 Care is Love to the Earth ! He who without it lives. 
 
 Ah ! knows he aught of Life ! knows and feels he thee, 
 
 Thou ever sacred, ever bounteous Nature ? 
 
 * The renowned Erasmus of Rotterdam spent some time 
 both at Oxford and Cambridge, in which latter University 
 he gave lectures on Greek literature, and held the Margaret 
 professorship of Divinity, procured for him by Bishop Fisher. 
 He was the friend of the illustrious More. — Translator. 
 
216 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Master Dietrich did not wish to make any 
 subtle distinction between Care and Sorrow 
 and all relating thereto, but Master Deside- 
 rius, whose Symbol was " nemini cedo^^ (I 
 yield to no one), refuted him by saying: 
 There is Care in loving, Care in being be- 
 loved, in living and in acting ; there is noth- 
 ing but Care among reasonable beings ; and 
 because God has intended it so to be, I sup- 
 pose there must be unreasonable beings — I 
 know not where or from whence, but some- 
 where in the World, at Brussels or at Ley- 
 den^ wherever they may now be sitting! 
 With reasonable people nothing leads to 
 Sorrow and Unhappiness ; for the opposing 
 Power of a courageous Mind scarcely allows 
 Care to spring from the knowledge and ex- 
 perience of the World. Look now at our 
 dear cheerful Peter Gutschaaf ! He does 
 credit, yea even honour to his Name!* He 
 
 * Gutschaaf— good or patient sheep. — Translator. 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 217 
 
 has only Care, and not even that ; for what 
 he has at any time to experience of Life, to 
 which the Wife belongs above all things, 
 comes to him through the dear voice of his 
 Daughter, and penetrates to his Heart warm- 
 ly and refreshingly ! This is as it ought to 
 be, and so may it always continue, dear Peter 
 Gutschaaf; you are a true Man I 
 
 He held out his Hand across the Table to 
 Master Gutschaaf, and his Daughter also 
 laid her little Hand therein, which seemed to 
 have an agreeable effect on the suffering, 
 self-denying, unmarried old Man, for he held 
 her Hand a long time, and seemed lost in 
 Thought. 
 
 But he could not resist playing the Wag 
 once again. 
 
 For Master Gutschaaf, moved by the 
 touching scene, poured out the whole of his 
 sad Heart in these Words: Yes, I cannot 
 help saying that he alone can be happy who 
 has a Wife and Children ! Others cannot 
 
218 
 
 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 SO much as be unhappy — not at least in a 
 real, human, heart-rending manner! 
 
 I certainly know nothing about such un- 
 happiness, said Master Desiderins, As for 
 me, I commend all Wives ! 
 
 And Bernard of Orley whispered audibly 
 in the ear of Master Dietrich : — because his 
 Mother was none ! 
 
 To this Desiderius rejoined: My Father 
 never married, and you know from the Scrip- 
 tures that in Heaven they neither marry nor 
 are given in Marriage. Now I put it to you 
 all, my dear Sirs and Masters, who ought to 
 know best, whether it is not just on this ac- 
 count that it is called Heaven ? 
 
 You know how to make for yourself a 
 Heaven upon Earth I said Dietrich. 
 
 And you in like manner a Hell! rejoined 
 Desiderius. 
 
 Master Gutschaaf laughed till the Tears 
 ran down his old pale cheeks. 
 
 Dost thou not think, my little &asan^ said 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 219 
 
 he, that it would have been a very bad affair 
 for thee if I had not married ? 
 
 Very bad ! said she assenting, and smiled 
 abstractedly. 
 
 And still worse for me ! said Gutschaaf. 
 
 Still worse ! said the dear Child. 
 
 But now all is well ! said he. 
 
 Oh ! so well ! replied she softly. 
 
 And the old Man wept for Joy. 
 
 Long Life to you, Master Gutschaaf! — to 
 you, and all your Relations, near and dis- 
 tant! 
 
 The whole Family of Gutschaaf long may 
 they live ! exclaimed Desiderius. 
 
 Long may they live! exclaimed all. 
 
 Albert had poured out a Glass of lachrymcB 
 Christi for every one to drink this Toast. 
 But his Neighbour Master Desiderius strange- 
 ly but smilingly refused these Tears, saying 
 at the same time: I have no Wife, good 
 Master Albert. Rhine-wine is to me — ^the 
 only Wine ! 
 
220 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 The edge was taken from the severe 
 Words of DesideriuSj so that they cut not the 
 Heart of Albert, by the conduct of the good 
 little Lamb, who drank to her Father's health 
 along with the others — and whispered across 
 the table to Albert: I drink to my Mother 
 also ! He then with Tears in his Eyes drank 
 to the health of the Mother of his Daughter. 
 
 The company then broke up, and the good 
 Masters departed, according as each was 
 pressed by domestic disquietude, at nine, ten, 
 or eleven o'clock. Peter G-utschaafremmned 
 the longest Such an Honour had never be- 
 fore been conferred on him, who was a mere 
 Dluminist. His little Daughter wrapped him 
 in his fur Great-coat, observed a Wine-stain 
 on his Lace-collar, patted him on the cheek, 
 kissed him and said very softly : Do not al- 
 low the Stain to spoil your Pleasure ! To- 
 morrow morning, before my Mother is up, it 
 will be all washed out and plaited up again. 
 Thereupon she lighted the Lantern, took 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 221 
 
 leave, pressed Alberts Hand, who with irre- 
 sistible Sadness drew the dear Child towards 
 him, took her in his arms, pressed her to his 
 Heart, and kissed her on the Forehead. Her 
 Father thanked him for the great Honour. 
 
 Albert went sorrowfully to his Chamber. 
 He threw himself on his Bed without un- 
 dressing; the Lamp burned dimly, while he 
 lay looking before him, his Fancy floating in 
 half-waking Dreams. A Gust of the damp 
 dewy Wind then struck upon the Window ; 
 he felt much oppressed ; and although he 
 had not seen the door open, yet there stood 
 his Wife before him in the middle of the 
 Room! 
 
 Agnes ! art thou here ? exclaimed he, filled 
 with astonishment. He gazed at her. She 
 was so young, so fresh ; only pale, quite dif- 
 ferent from Mortals ! The boundaries of hu- 
 man Existence disappeared before him — he 
 thought the form was that of his Daughter, 
 whom the Earth so long before had snatched 
 
222 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 away from him, now so perfect and so glo- 
 riously grown up in the Gardens of Para- 
 dise ! And why should it not be so ? But 
 how was she then here ? Yet she was there ! 
 That was the most blessed moment of his 
 Life ! his Heart overflowed with Rapture ! 
 He listened, expecting she would speak to 
 him — would supplicate him to return to her 
 Mother! For it w^as for this she appeared 
 to be come ! — But ah ! it was not his Daugh- 
 ter, for she would have smiled on him ; and 
 this Agnes would angrily at him ! gloomily 
 and reproachfully ! And yet big Tears stood 
 in her Eyes. She seemed to wish to ap- 
 proach him, she spread out her arms longing- 
 ly towards him, but when he hastened to 
 meet her, she pushed him away from her and 
 fled. He wished to detain her, and caught 
 her long flowing Hair in his hand ; he held 
 her fast ; she bent back her Head yieldingly, 
 as if to save herself from Pain. It then oc- 
 curred to him that he might be dreaming ; at 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 323 
 
 the same time she uttered a loud Cry ; he let 
 go his hold, and his Wife had disappeared ; 
 the room was in darkness ; there was scarce- 
 ly Starlight to be seen without, and the damp 
 Wind swept past the Windows. 
 
 He now perceived how deeply his Wife 
 lived in his Soul. It did him good to con- 
 clude from this Vision that his Agnes per- 
 haps felt an inward longing for him! He 
 hesitated now daily between staying and go- 
 ing. He waited however the answer to a 
 Letter he had written to Pirkheimer, in which 
 he had recounted the above occurrence. 
 
 The Answer arrived. Pirkheimer wrote 
 that Agnes expected him of herself on St, 
 John's Day ;* only she was very angry that 
 he had held her so fast, and showed him 
 some loose Hair, which she had probably 
 torn out herself that Night in her anguish.f 
 
 * The 24th of June, the day of the Nativity of St. John 
 
 the Baptist. It is also called Midsummer Day. — Translator. 
 
 t I do not recollect whether I had not previously re- 
 
224 
 
 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Moreover Clara had returned Home, the 
 Convent having been shut up; Agnes had 
 renewed her youthful Friendship with her, 
 and seemed relieved by speaking to her of 
 Albert As a Motto to the Letter, were these 
 words of St. Chrysostom : " It is easier to 
 rule a Nation than a Soul." 
 
 Having now come to the resolution of 
 returning Home and living out the Life ap- 
 pointed him by God, Albert was a new Man. 
 He also thought, especially now, that he bad 
 committed no Injustice by his Separation. 
 The little word " and " was his Comfort : — 
 He w^ho separates from his "Wife, and mar- 
 ries another, he alone does wrong. There is 
 no one who leaves House, or Parents, or 
 Brothers, or Wife, or Children, for the King- 
 counted to her something of what Albert had written about 
 the way in which he had held her in his Dream. I was 
 very angry when I reproached her with her conduct, and 
 had in consequence an attack of my old enemy the Gout. — 
 TF.P. 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 225 
 
 dom of Heaven's sake, who does not receive 
 four-fold again in this Life, and in the World 
 to come Life everlasting. But the Kingdom 
 of God and his Righteousness, said he in 
 parting from her, is jf^eace and joy. And 
 Peace he wished to leave with her, without 
 thinking of Joy for himself. But that was 
 now impossible. He scarcely stopped to 
 refresh himself on the long Journey home to 
 Agnes^ for he could not overcome his Heart's 
 Sickness, like one who forgets, plays, or 
 sleeps away his childish Illnesses. 
 
 It was, then, on the Evening of ^t. JohvUs 
 Day that Albert arrived at the fruitful Fields 
 near Nurnberg, The setting Sun shone 
 upon the Citadel and Towers of the City so 
 warmly, so familiarly! Ah I there is only 
 one beautiful Sun for every one, and it is 
 that which rises and sets on his native City ! 
 In other Lands it is only a cold Mock-Sun, 
 a wandering Star, the delusive Vision of the 
 Home-Sun, which follows us like a Ghost. 
 
 15 
 
226 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Albert intended to wait for the Twilight. 
 His Thoughts swarmed forth, like Bees out 
 of a Hive, when borne home from a strange 
 Pasturage; they hovered around Flowers, 
 blooming Linden-Trees, and golden Clouds, 
 and his Soul began to muse, as in the first 
 bright season of Youth. He ascended a 
 Hill close by, from which he had a View of 
 the Road. The Lindens towered aloft ; the 
 well-known Stone-bench was concealed by 
 the waving Corn, in which the note of the 
 Quail was heard. He now advanced. His 
 Heart beat ; he saw two Females sitting ; 
 one leaning to the right and the other to the 
 left. He approached softly — they slept! — 
 The one in the golden Hood and the Blue 
 Dress was — his Agnes ! The other, in the 
 simple white Dress and Veil, on which shone 
 the rosy lustre of the setting Sun — was 
 Clara I 
 
 Both had come out to meet him. Agnes 
 wished perhaps, by the presence of the other, 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 227 
 
 to moderate Albert's Tears, or her own 
 Words, and to show him at the same time 
 that she was reconciled, that she was tolerant, 
 that she would endure and love, what he did 
 not hate ! 
 
 He stood, and gazed upon them both in 
 silence. What a Sight ! What Thoughts ! 
 
 They did not awake, nor did he wish to 
 wake them. He sat down at last between 
 them, looked and mused, and, wearied as he 
 was, he also fell into a Slumber. 
 
 When he awoke, he perceived that his 
 Head was resting gently on Clara's Shoulder 
 — for the golden Hood to the left was gone. 
 Agnes had waked first ; she had seen him 
 then in that position, in which he had found 
 himself, resting — on her Friend, not on her 
 — she had thought — Ah ! she was gone ! 
 The saffron haze of Evening was now broad 
 and faint on the Horizon — therefore she must 
 have been long gone — Poor Soul! said he 
 aloud ! 
 
228 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Clara awoke. Poor Soul? asked she, 
 rising ; was it not Albert^ s voice that spoke 
 thus? He took her Hand. She migsed 
 Agnes, then held her Hand before her Eyes, 
 and again leaning back, said for the second 
 time with a low voice : Poor Soul ! And 
 yet this also is a holy Evening ; for here is 
 an Angel ! thought he, looking up thank- 
 fully towards Heaven. Albert^s House was 
 closed. They now went silently wandering 
 side by side towards the City. Clara did 
 not raise her Eyes. He accompanied her 
 home to Pirkheimer'' s House ; the door was 
 opened, and she entered in silence. For the 
 poor Soul could not say Good-night to him 
 noio; the words died upon her lips. But 
 the old sad Smile was again seen upon his 
 Countenance. 
 
 He then returned to his own House, and 
 looked for a time at some Children, who 
 were catching Glow-worms. The door then 
 opened. Susanna, who did not observe him 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 229 
 
 sitting on the seat, went past to draw water. 
 He then stole away to his own room, and 
 went quietly to bed with an Evening Hymn 
 on his lips. 
 
 Art thou still asleep ? said Agnes to him 
 in the Morning on entering. She sat down 
 near him on the bed, and held his hand, In- 
 difference in her Features, but he felt that in 
 reality her agitation was extreme. Breakfast 
 is ready, she then said to him, with a faint 
 smile. She contemplated her pale, emaciated 
 Husband — then was heard the sound of the 
 Death-worm picking in the wood of the 
 bed ; she became deadly pale, put her hand 
 on her Heart, and scarcely breathed — the 
 Worm went on picking. She then gravely 
 arose, and went from him with an averted 
 Countenance. 
 
 He now sat by her, as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. Everything was as of old, Mind and 
 and Heart, Joy and Sorrow. Only she had 
 become more silent, as if speaking had for- 
 
230 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 merly annoyed him. It certainly was a dis- 
 tinguishing feature in her Character, that she 
 said everything that others, more considerate, 
 think, but do not express : for Woman is 
 Woman. 
 
 But he saw, notwithstanding — ^that she 
 wished to improve, and that was a satisfac- 
 tion to him. She had taken Susannahs 
 Daughter, who was now grown up, into the 
 House, and they all again ate at the same 
 Table. She now begged his Friends to 
 come often, very often, to see him ! In doing 
 so, she cast her Eyes on the ground, and 
 kept turning round the Golden Wedding 
 Ring. She exchanged with him the bed 
 that had the Messenger of Death in it, and 
 now slept therein herself. All this was much ! 
 But Habit was more ! She still took every- 
 thing her Husband said to her as a Com- 
 mand, and though within her rebellious 
 Heart there was a powerful struggle, still for 
 all that it was quietly done after the lapse of 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 231 
 
 some days. It is true that Agnes had rated 
 herself very highly ; but who can blame a 
 fallible being for this? For he is to be 
 despised who, as a human Creature, does 
 not consider himself as worthy of Estima- 
 tion as any one in the World. Her beauty 
 had heightened still more this estimate of 
 herself — and yet Agnes had not rated her 
 own value highly enough ! and the injured 
 Dignity of Love had never allowed her 
 clearly to perceive how much Happiness she 
 might have imparted. She passed her Life 
 under a continual sense of Injury, while the 
 recognition of her Husband's Worth and 
 Love might perhaps have extorted from her 
 — first Obedience, and then Reverence, 
 
 But her Thoughts were penetrated by one 
 who had penetrated and turned those of 
 many others besides, and animated them to 
 newness of Life by the clearness and vigour 
 of his Intellect. This was Melancthon, He 
 came to Nurnberg in the following May, to 
 
232 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 preside at the opening of the Gymnasium of 
 St. Egidius. The Silver Marriage of Ag- 
 nes^s Sister took place also about the same 
 time.* They all assembled at Church to 
 receive the Blessing for the Golden Mar- 
 riage. Melancthon stood before the Altar, 
 Agnes and Albert next to the Pair. Pirk" 
 heimer had perhaps thought that the Wives, 
 listening in Silence, would receive a word 
 of Warning from another, from a Stranger 
 who spoke without design ; that a Hint is 
 often sufficient to change their whole man- 
 ner of Life, leading them thereby to look 
 within, and in the Word spoken to see them- 
 selves, clear as in a Glass. And all this 
 without any exposure to the World. He 
 
 * Allusion is here made to a custom which prevails 
 in Germany, of having a grand celebration when a couple 
 have been married twenty-five years, and this is called 
 " The Silver Marriage." Another takes place when they 
 have been fifty years married, and it is called " The Golden 
 Marriage ." — Translator. 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 233 
 
 might therefore perhaps, as the Friend of 
 both Husbands, have given a hint to the Ora- 
 tor who had consented to preside, to scatter 
 Seed which, besides growing up now, would 
 certainly bring forth good Fruits in this City 
 for Centuries. For MelancthoUy without 
 looking at Agnes, said to the assembly of 
 Men and Wives and young Women, among 
 other things, the following: — There is cer- 
 tainly nothing more unnatural than a disobe- 
 dient Wife. Slaves cannot obey, for they 
 are not free ; neither do Children understand 
 how to obey, for Obedience is the Key-stone 
 of all Cultivation and Freedom, and the 
 Fruit of Love and Reason at the same time. 
 Where Obedience is awanting. Freedom 
 fails also, from being an oppression to itself; 
 Love too fails, or Reason, if not both. But 
 every one must be subject to the Law which 
 is given him. The Husband and Wife may 
 certainly hold converse together as to equal 
 Virtue and Honour, regarding their rank as 
 
234 
 
 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Citizens and human Beings, and of equal 
 Protection of their particular Rights, — but 
 not of equal rights ! because the Duties and 
 Obligations of the Husband, his position 
 with regard to the World and his native 
 Land, are incomparably higher. Only those 
 who are equal in reality have equal Rights 
 before God and Man. Even equal Science 
 and Art and Cultivation do not give a right 
 to Disobedience on the part of the Wife ; 
 much less Beauty, a white Skin, or bright 
 Gold. For the Man and the House — and 
 the Wife herself — cannot subsist, if she does 
 not, from Love and sacred Respect to the 
 ancient and divine Duty of her Sex, cheer- 
 fully make the Will of her Husband her 
 own. And let us consider ! As the Man, in 
 his earlier Years, was often subject to many 
 restraints, so was the Wife in like manner, 
 before she entered his House. She must 
 learn what is taught her ; she cannot choose 
 for herself her Station, her Fortune, her Oc- 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 235 
 
 cupations, nor even her Husband — for the 
 delicacy of the feminine nature will in no 
 age admit of this. She enters a Town with 
 him, she enters the House in which he 
 dwells, she undertakes to superintend the 
 circle of domestic affairs, into which he has 
 led her, and in which she must lead. She 
 becomes thereby truly his Wife. She must 
 take little Strangers to her Heart, foster them, 
 and also love them — without having been 
 able to choose them. And nothing of all this 
 seems strange to her, for it is done in Obe- 
 dience to sacred Nature, and thus blest by 
 God. It seems quite unnatural to her to 
 consider when and where she should be obe- 
 dient to her Husband. He only silently de- 
 sires it from the same Law of Nature ; and 
 if this universal Mother has as it were com- 
 manded Obedience on the part of the Wife 
 by her Love towards her Husband, she has 
 also lightened it, yea made it sweet and ani- 
 mating ; for the loving Wife scarcely knows 
 
236 
 
 PEACE IN LIFE, 
 
 that she obeys ; she does all for her Husband, 
 before he even asks. It is only the cold, in- 
 sipid, capricious, ungrateful, who feel the 
 Fetters, because they are without Affection. 
 A continually increasing Disobedience is but 
 the decrease of the power of Love, and the 
 decline of Amiability, and firmness of Char- 
 acter — and this also on the part of the Hus- 
 band. A Woman then loses her respect for 
 a Man, because she sees in him no unselfish 
 Protector ; for it is not the outward forvi of 
 a Man which calls for Love and Respect — 
 but the Nobility of the Soul, which alone can 
 live, and inspire Confidence, as being in its 
 nature lasting. He, however, who loves his 
 Wife, allows her to rule and reign in her own 
 department, because she is a Woman and 
 his Wife, and when prudent and wise, un- 
 derstands all these things better than he. 
 What concerns himself, however, as the act- 
 ing and reasoning Spirit of the House, that 
 he has a Right to claim, if it be not done from 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 237 
 
 free Will ; that is to say, from Reason. For 
 he is Lord of the House, and the Father of 
 the Children, the support of his Wife, her 
 stay in Life, yea even after his Death ; as the 
 Sun that has just gone down sheds its influ- 
 ence on the Rainbow, which with its lovely 
 and varied Colours hovers yet a while in 
 Clouds over the teeming Earth ; till becom- 
 ing ever dimmer and fainter, it at last by de- 
 grees expires from beneath, but still beautiful 
 and discernible even to the last faint trace of 
 its Arch ! But by Disobedience his little 
 Kingdom is dissolved ; yea Cities and States 
 secretly decline, where the Man is not the 
 Head of the House. For from Disobedience 
 arises Opposition, and from Opposition Strife; 
 and where Strife is, there Law and Happi- 
 ness go to wreck. But where the Wife is 
 properly trained and accustomed to Obe- 
 dience, then the Man rules mildly, only ask- 
 ing and counselling, being satisfied with the 
 Knowledge of his Power. By ruling, how- 
 
238 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 ever, he himself learns to be subject, and sub- 
 mits to it willingly ; for he who does not find 
 Obedience, where he should command it, 
 relaxes again in his turn his obligations to- 
 wards mankind in general. Therefore here- 
 in also is the Wife the Guardian-spirit of her 
 Husband, when the love with which her 
 Heart is imbued impels her to Subjection, 
 because indeed it would be a shame for her 
 to command, to rule I And even Obedience 
 is scarcely so useful, as Disobedience is inju- 
 rious, by the Self-will and Confidence in her 
 own Wisdom which it displays. Obedience 
 argues no want of Wisdom or title to Respect. 
 No : this primitive Bond, which is the Glory 
 and Security of Woman, can in no Age be 
 dissolved, founded as it is on the Softness 
 of her Nature, and calculated to produce the 
 purest Happiness. Foolish Fear! through 
 Obedience to sink down to the condition of 
 a Servant! It was by Obedience that Mary 
 became the Blessed among Women. May 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 239 
 
 Happiness and Prosperity, then, be the lot of 
 the obedient! of her who places implicit 
 trust in the Will of another, whom she loves, 
 whom she thereby makes happy, who meets 
 her half-way, who knows not how to thank 
 her sufficiently for all the Love and Kindness 
 she is always so liberally bestowing on him ! 
 How insensible must be the Heart of that 
 Woman who is not satisfied with such a 
 Reward ! 
 
 Albert^s Silver Marriage, which had taken 
 place seven Years before, had not been cele- 
 brated; no one came to wish him joy of it! 
 The Day was spent in sorrowful Thoughts. 
 He now observed, that when Melancthon 
 pronounced anew the Benediction on the 
 Couple, Agnes, who during the address had 
 been dissolved in Tears, secretly clung to the 
 dress of her Sister, that she might receive the 
 Blessing along with her. As on the Day of 
 her Marriage, one of her Cheeks was pale, 
 the other in a glow. That she however 
 
240 PEACE IN LIFE, 
 
 should consider the Blessing of this Man effi- 
 cacious, was to Albert a Sign that she had 
 returned to the old simple Faith, perhaps for 
 his sake, knowing that he was attached to it. 
 That moved him to his Heart's Core, and he 
 also touched the Clothing of the old Bride- 
 groom ! 
 
 Returned Home again, Agnes wept, and 
 that openly ! 
 
 AlherVs Strength was gone, he felt that it 
 was so. And alas ! the Fear of his Death 
 now scared away Agnes from him again ! 
 When he began gently to speak of it, and to 
 tell her which of his Pictures he considered 
 the best ; for which — after he was gone — she 
 should expect the highest Price ; how she 
 might be able to arrange this or that in the 
 best manner possible for herself alone — then 
 she was dumb and motionless as a Marble 
 Statue, and he spent many sorrowful Days, 
 till the Gloom that overspread her Existence 
 passed away, and thereby Peace was restored 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 241 
 
 to him again. Formerly he had to endure 
 Grief on account of her Temper and Con- 
 duct, till he could bear it no longer, and at 
 last sunk under it by degrees: now she saw 
 him borne down through her, and had to 
 bear Ai5 sorrow on her account, and her own 
 fresh Sorrow for him ! This only doubled 
 his Pain, and could not now be redeemed. 
 She silently did everything to please him, to 
 comfort him, to cheer him for the Moments 
 yet to come— -but to recompense him for 
 what ? for many long Years of Sorrow ! 
 She now wished suddenly to make up to him 
 for all, to impart Joy to him — but for what? 
 for his Death. He was now therefore obliged 
 to avoid being cheerful, and the poor Soul, 
 alas! ceased in consequence in the end, 
 either to try to enliven him, or to be cheerful 
 herself — or even to appear so. And thus 
 they both sunk into Silence and patient En- 
 durance. They only smiled upon each other. 
 This was certainly the extreme of Wretched- 
 
 16 
 
242 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 ness, which no one on Earth seemed to be 
 able to relieve or Temove — and yet it was at 
 length removed, and his long oppressed 
 Heart found — Peace in Life. 
 
 For, softened by the quiet kindliness of 
 feeling which had lately possessed her, Aggies 
 now disclosed her real Feelings, but only 
 gradually, at intervals of Days, and in broken 
 Sentences. 
 
 She had been playing one day in the gar- 
 den with her little Brother Johannes; — he 
 had put a small polished stone into his mouth ; 
 finding afterwards a Bird's Nest, and holding 
 in his breath for joy, he had choked on the 
 Stone ; his Face became red, he sunk down, 
 and kicking with his Feel, stared at her with 
 glazed Eyes ; she hid herself, from childish 
 fear ; their Father, on coming home, had in- 
 quired for Agnes before inquiring for Johan- 
 nes ; — he went to search for her, and found 
 him ! When they were carrying away poor 
 little Johannes to bury him, Agnes, looking 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 243 
 
 longingly after him from a window in the 
 upper floor, had fallen over and struck her 
 Head on the Pavement, and she let Albert 
 feel the hollow, which was even perceptible 
 to the Eye, from a slight depression of the 
 Hair. Now it had been the fond Wish and 
 Dream of the poor Girl, to build an Altar to 
 the little Johannes^ whose Life perhaps might 
 have been saved — had it not been for her 
 Flight — at which a Priest paid by herself 
 should say Mass every Morning for him and 
 for her.* 
 
 She now also began- gently to complain 
 that she did not hear well when the Wind 
 blew from Furth.-f 
 
 * It appears then that Agnes's Frugality arose from Re- 
 pentance, from Piety ! And she concealed it too, because it 
 was a Catholic Piety, not wishing to confess it to Albert, who 
 was Evangelical, that she might at least appear Reasonable 
 to him, and not vex him by old Absurdities \—W. P. 
 
 t Fiirth is a village near Numberg, and this complaint of 
 not hearing well when the wind blew from it, must be some 
 local superstition. — Translator. 
 
244 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 It then came to light by degrees that the 
 Wind had certainly, during many fine Sea- 
 sons, very often blown from Furth.* 
 
 The conversation once turned upon 
 Dreams, and it was remarked that any one 
 could find out the most secret Thoughts of 
 the Heart of another when he speaks in his 
 Sleep, by seizing and holding him by the 
 great toe of the left Foot ; — then he reveals 
 all. Agnes had once — during the Honey- 
 moon, when she heard Albert speaking in his 
 Sleep, seized and held him by the great toe 
 of the left Foot, had listened and heard him 
 say : " The Serpent with the human Counte- 
 nance pleases me not! — Potiphar's Wife is 
 nothing more than beautiful ! a great fault ! 
 An alluring Sin allures to Sin — Flight would 
 here again be the most desirable !" 
 
 These Words she foolishly applied to her- 
 self,! when they were probably only a suc- 
 
 ♦ This Excuse may be admitted. — W. P. 
 
 t Thus the Superstitions of others may be destractire 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 245 
 
 cession of Images which he beheld in his 
 Dreams. Vain as she was of her Beauty, 
 she had preferred allowing a thousand men- 
 tal Faults to be attributed to her, rather 
 than one bodily. Her Frugality, as it was 
 now explained — the spurring on to work — 
 the brightening up of the Gold, — what else 
 were they but the Penance of a pious Nature, 
 seeking Atonement for a supposed Crime ? 
 
 The Cheerfulness Albert had maintained 
 during the whole of his past Life was gone, 
 was now entirely lost — but his Life — ^by no 
 means so ! His mental Faculties, his Fan- 
 
 to us. It will never be well here, that is, on this side 
 of the Mountains, till Superstition is also banished from 
 the other side, that is, from among the Ultramontanes. 
 There will be no peace till then ; for the Foolish are 
 continually breaking and destroying Peace. To be wise 
 alone is of no avail. Therefore he who has Reason on 
 his side must not be silent; he must not remain inac- 
 tive. It is from Heaven he has received his right to work I 
 —W.P. 
 
246 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 cies, his Desires, had richly indemnified him, 
 and he was enabled to impart to others the 
 feelings of Pleasure which had been denied 
 to himself — Ah ! and also the Powers which 
 he still possessed, without having known or 
 dreamt of them. He now became conscious 
 of a new Faculty in Man, — that of being 
 able to remodel the Past, according to his 
 present Powers and Perceptions ! — a Faculty 
 which almost of itself would demonstrate 
 that Man is of Divine Origin. With the 
 Torch of his present Knowledge he went far 
 back into the Hall of other Days. Images 
 in an innumerable succession of Chambers 
 were there to be seen. And as he began to 
 wander with his Torch, the old Forms which 
 were resting there rose up once again, and 
 they looked at him differently, and he looked 
 at them differently ; they whispered to him 
 and he whispered to them, what he now 
 knew that he knew not formerly ; their 
 Countenances were peaceful, and his Soul 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 247 
 
 came to an Understanding with theirs ; and 
 from the Cultivated of every Age he parted 
 reconciled and with a Smile ; and he roused 
 those of the following Age, and conciliated 
 them also. But he himself was also to be 
 seen there ! a poor, melancholy, embarrassed 
 Man, who sat and painted in all the Cham- 
 bers, and looked pitifully at him ! To this ! 
 Self, during all these long days so desolate 
 and lonely, he also reconciled himself; and 
 his Forms all smiled now, arose, and wished 
 to follow him through all the Chambers of 
 the Hall of other Days, even up into the last 
 Chamber — even out into the great Hall of 
 the Sun — to Agnes., where she now lived 
 and breathed, a changed, improved, and es- 
 timable being, and where he alone was per- 
 mitted to wander — he, the living, the blest ! 
 But they only looked after him and said: 
 We now willingly remain here in the Hall 
 of the Past ; thou hast revived us, and poured 
 fresh Water on us, like faded Flowers I — 
 
248 
 
 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 Thou hast breathed a bright Soul into thine 
 own dead Works. We thank thee that 
 thou didst come down and dwell with us. 
 Mayst thou be happy, till thou comest thy- 
 self, or till thou dost arrive at the end of thine 
 own Course! 
 / He thus filled up again the spoiled Wine 
 ; of his Life with fresh sweet Must, and it 
 fermented and cast out the Dregs, and was 
 ' palatable, although not so sweet as the Must! 
 To see his Agnes thus excused, was a Cor- 
 dial to his Heart, and imparted Power to his 
 Mind yet once more to flame forth. 
 
 But with already broken Heart, he could 
 only now direct her attention to the preserva- 
 tion of his Works. He completed those that 
 were only half finished, destroyed such as 
 were no longer practicable, overlooked every- 
 thing, and rejoiced in his Life. Even the 
 saddest Year has sunny Blinks, and Seed 
 thrives in good Ground even in a bad Year; 
 and the Year is twice beautiful, — when the 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 249 
 
 Trees blossom, and when they exhibit red 
 and yellow Fruits ; in the interval everything 
 is uniformly green and green! There lay 
 now on the large Table the Fruits of his 
 Labours ; his Work ; Instruction ; for the use 
 of all Lovers of the Arts ; four Books on the 
 Proportions of the human Body ; the Great 
 Passion; the Revelation of St. John; the 
 Life of Mary; 104 Sheets of Engravings; 
 367 Sheets of Woodcuts ; the whole of the 
 Pictures in his own list were to the number 
 of 1254 Pieces. The Scholars also whom he 
 had trained arrived to see him ; one of them, 
 indeed, was the Pope's Painter and Architect 
 at Rome. He inspected the Medals which 
 were struck in honor of him ; fifty different 
 Likenesses were scarcely sufficient to supply 
 the demands which came from all quarters. 
 He was most struck with a Medal of him, on 
 which were his arms: An open Gate with 
 two Wings ; on the Crest a grown Man with- 
 out Arms, Thus the Past may often prove 
 
250 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 an indication of the Future ! The open Gate 
 was the Gate to Heaven. The grown Man 
 without Arms was he, the Dead — What was 
 there in his Life that he could now change ? 
 what improve ? It was God alone who could 
 change the Peace he had found in Life, to 
 Peace in Death. So farewell my Albert ! 
 The Italians called thee Alberto Duro ! but 
 that thou wert not, either in Art or in Life. 
 —Thus Albert peacefully awaited Death, as 
 he had peacefully lived. Almighty God be 
 gracious to him, 
 
 and grant him a happy End! 
 * « « 
 
 There sat I, poor Wilibald, leaning on my 
 Hands and Weeping. The foreign Artists 
 who had wished to serenade him, began to 
 do so now, and in the Stillness of the Night, 
 the soft Tones of the Flutes and Flageolets 
 penetrated from the street till they reached 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 251 
 
 my Ear and that of the dying Man. In the 
 room under me, while I was reading, Agnes 
 had sung all sorts of Songs in her Anguish, 
 at last even a drinking Song ! I could not 
 smile at this. Albert had had the enjoyment 
 of one cheerful Heart, and that was his own. 
 He could not otherwise have known what a 
 Treasure God has implanted in the Bosom 
 of Man. His Wife had diligently digged 
 for it, and brought the bright and shining 
 Treasure to the Day. And hoio much he had 
 accomplished ! I therefore now perceived 
 that nothing can repress the energy of a true 
 Artist, and that nothing is a Misfortune to 
 him. He might — perhaps — feel better and 
 easier in one way than another — but whatever 
 is in an Artist's Soul is drawn forth by the 
 World, whether it be in Rain or in Sunshine. 
 And what he succeeded in was no Trifle — 
 for that was his Life. If he experienced 
 Suffering, it was because he loved, and that 
 was better than being happy without loving, 
 
252 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 —if indeed any one can be happy without 
 loving ! Love always makes one's own Heart 
 happy ; let every one rest assured of this. 
 And he who is a genuine Artist is full of 
 Love. A Woman always and everywhere 
 marries the Man alone, and not his Trade ; 
 therefore let every one boldly marry the 
 Woman he loves, and let no Woman fear to 
 marry an Artist, for she may be as happy 
 with him as with another, even were she in 
 all respects an Agones. A Woman without 
 Fault or Failing is an Angel, and will always 
 be so in every situation ; yea, and what is 
 more — will appear so I But had Albert de- 
 scribed himself as an unhappy Man in his 
 married Life ? Certainly not. What had I 
 perceived or discovered on reading it, but 
 just the longing after pure Happiness ? And 
 the description of his Agnes had represented 
 to me very vividly such a Wife as an Artist 
 stands in need of, and better than I could 
 have pictured to myself in the form of a 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 253 
 
 peacefully-happy Wife. And tlins my Albert 
 had had the best possible experience of a 
 Wife. For as he himself as a Painter once 
 said on the subject of Delineation, so it is ) 
 that in a Picture, Light first arises from 
 Shade — that Light indeed becomes only pro- 
 perly visible by means of Shade, and when 
 we perceive that the bright Sun of Heaven 
 shines through them. The great Lord of All 
 could not have imparted to him a more vivid 
 Conception of what the Wife of an Artist 
 ought to be, than by giving him one, by giv- 
 ing him his own, — one, who w^ould have 
 made an Artist miserable^ had he not, as 
 every one can and may, taken refuge in his 
 Art, and in his own high and noble Thoughts 
 and Feelings, as my Albert did. Thus was 
 he nevertheless happy! For in every one 
 who is unhappy, there lies concealed a Ca- 
 pacity for Happiness, yea an inexhaustible 
 Felicity of Soul, if he knows how to call it 
 
254 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 forth ; and if he cannot do so, then he de- 
 serves to suffer. Also Contrast was not 
 awanting to Albert^ but he touched on it 
 slightly and cautiously ; for there soared 
 Crescenzia, and there hovered Clara also 
 over him like an Angel, who wished to 
 come down to him, but dared not. In the 
 Deprivation of Happiness, lies thousand-fold 
 Happiness. Albert thus learned what a Wife 
 might be — and oh ! that they themselves un- 
 derstood what they might be to a Husband ! 
 — and he lived it all in Thoughts and Wish- 
 es, and revelled in the longed-for Enjoy- 
 ment Oh! the sweet Charm of Life! the 
 ever Joy-inspiring race of Women! And 
 thus I now looked upon him as happy ! — 
 happier than one who is led by his Wife all 
 his Life, foolishly occupied with her Dress, 
 her Vanities, her Pleasures, and her worldly 
 ways of thinking. Agnes led him into the 
 Depths of the Heart, led him daily back to 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 255 
 
 the Artist's only true and immovably-clear 
 Source. Even a hard life is better for him 
 than an easy one. 
 
 By these Thoughts, thus excited, I was 
 prepared to see our dear Mistress Agnes 
 enter, whose Sufferings only in reality began 
 with the Death of Albert She now appeared 
 at the Door. I went towards her, and took 
 her Hand, which trembled. She followed 
 me like a Spectre. She looked at the Mas- 
 ter. She looked at the Child. The Flutes 
 sounded on, so sweetly ! so softly ! Ah ! it 
 is at the hour of Death that Music is truly for 
 the first time — Music ; in Life it is only a 
 sound, awakening Remembrance of the Past, 
 or Foreboding of the Future. Now it was 
 truly the Call of the Angels from Heaven. 
 
 A Messenger now suddenly and roughly 
 entered the silent holy Chamber. He be- 
 sought me to come Home. Clara — my poor, 
 gentle sister Clara — was just dead ; per- 
 
256 PEACE IN LIFE. 
 
 haps from Anguish and Fear that Albert was 
 dying! — for she had heard Agnes begging 
 me to go to him. The shivering of the 
 Glass, which Agnes knocked in, had drawn 
 her to the Window over my Head. As I 
 went out, she whispered down to me tender- 
 ly : Do not be angry with him, my Brother! 
 God be with you ! 
 
 Alas ! these then had been her last "Words ! 
 I wept bitterly. Why should I now go 
 Home ? The Dead wait full of Patience. 
 
 Albert had evidently heard the announce- 
 ment that had just been made to me. He 
 opened his Eyes. Agnes scarcely ventured 
 to approach him : she showed as much for- 
 bearance as to allow him to die in Peace, in- 
 stead of grieving him once more by the re- 
 membrance of all his Sufferings, which the 
 sight of her would have called forth. She 
 knelt at his Bed, concealing her Head. He, 
 however, lifted his Hand, laid it on her 
 
PEACE IN LIFE. 257 
 
 Head, and said with a faltering Voice : Fol- 
 low thou me ! thou wert good — I have enter- 
 tained an Angel. 
 
 No ! I have ! sobbed Agnes, and I knew it 
 not, I believed it not ! 
 
 There thou wilt see into my Heart! said 
 he ; how I always told thee ; I was not gen- 
 tle, not good enough — for I suiFered, for I 
 was full of Love 
 
 He expired with the word " Love " upon 
 his Lips. The Flutes sounded on, and it 
 seemed as if their Tones accompanied his 
 Soul to Heaven. In the Churchyard of St* 
 John rests all that was mortal of him. 
 
 Strew Flowers over him, oh Wanderer! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 17 
 
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