It may not be known to all the admirers of the genius of Albert Durer,
that that famous engraver was endowed with a "better half," so peevish in
temper, that she was the torment not only of his own life, but also of his
pupils and domestics. Some of the former were cunning enough to purchase
peace for themselves by conciliating the common tyrant, but woe to those
unwilling or unable to offer aught in propitiation. Even the wiser ones
were spared only by having their offenses visited upon a scapegoat.
This unfortunate individual was Samuel Duhobret, a disciple whom Durer had
admitted into his school out of charity. He was employed in painting signs
and the coarser tapestry then used in Germany. He was about forty years of
age, little, ugly, and humpbacked; he was the butt of every ill joke among
his fellow disciples, and was picked out as an object of especial dislike
by Madame Durer. But he bore all with patience, and ate, without
complaint, the scanty crusts given him every day for dinner, while his
companions often fared sumptuously.
Poor Samuel had not a spice of envy or malice in his heart. He would, at
any time, have toiled half the night to assist or serve those who were
wont oftenest to laugh at him, or abuse him loudest for his stupidity.
True, he had not the qualities of social humor or wit, but he was an
example of indefatigable industry. He came to his studies every morning at
daybreak, and remained at work until sunset. Then he retired into his
lonely chamber, and wrought for his own amusement.
Duhobret labored three years in this way, giving himself no time for
exercise or recreation. He said nothing to a single human being of the
paintings he had produced in the solitude of his cell, by the light of his
lamp. But his bodily energies wasted and declined under incessant toil.
There was none sufficiently interested in the poor artist, to mark the
feverish hue of his wrinkled cheek, or the increasing attenuation of his
misshapen frame.
None observed that the uninviting pittance set aside for his midday
repast, remained for several days untouched. Samuel made his appearance
regularly as ever, and bore with the same meekness the gibes of his
fellow-pupils, or the taunts of Madame Durer, and worked with the same
untiring assiduity, though his hands would sometimes tremble, and his eyes
become suffused, a weakness probably owing to the excessive use he had
made of them.
One morning Duhobret was missing at the scene of his daily labors. His
absence created much remark, and many were the jokes passed upon the
occasion. One surmised this, and another that, as the cause of the
phenomenon; and it was finally agreed that the poor fellow must have
worked himself into an absolute skeleton, and taken his final stand in the
glass frame of some apothecary, or been blown away by a puff of wind,
while his door happened to stand open. No on thought of going to his
lodgings to look after him or his remains.
Meanwhile, the object of their mirth was tossing on a bed of sickness.
Disease, which had been slowly sapping the foundations of his strength,
burned in every vein; his eyes rolled and flashed in delirium; his lips,
usually so silent, muttered wild and incoherent words. In his days of
health, poor Duhobret had his dreams, as all artists, rich or poor, will
sometimes have. He had thought that the fruit of many years' labor,
disposed of to advantage, might procure him enough to live, in an
economical way, for the rest of his life. He never anticipated fame or
fortune; the height of his ambition or hope was, to possess a tenement
large enough to shelter him from the inclemencies of the weather, with
means enough to purchase one comfortable meal per day.
Now, alas! however, even that one hope had deserted him. He thought
himself dying, and thought it hard to die without one to look kindly upon
him, without the words of comfort that might soothe his passage to another
world. He fancied his bed surrounded by fiendish faces, grinning at his
sufferings, and taunting his inability to summon power to disperse them.
At length the apparition faded away, and the patient sunk into an
exhausted slumber.
He awoke unrefreshed; it was the fifth day he had lain there neglected.
His mouth was parched; he turned over, and feebly stretched out his hand
toward the earthen pitcher, from which, since the first day of his illness
he had quenched his thirst. Alas! it was empty! Samuel lay for a few
moments thinking what he should do. He knew he must die of want if he
remained there alone; but to whom could he apply for aid?
An idea seemed, at last, to strike him. He arose slowly, and with
difficulty, from the bed, went to the other side of the room, and took up
the picture he had painted last. He resolved to carry it to the shop of a
salesman, and hoped to obtain for it sufficient to furnish him with the
necessaries of life for a week longer. Despair lent him strength to walk,
and to carry his burden. On his way, he passed a house, about which there
was a crowd. He drew nigh, asked what was going on, and received for an
answer, that there was to be a sale of many specimens of art, collected by
an amateur in the course of thirty years. It has often happened that
collections made with infinite pains by the proprietor, have been sold
without mercy or discrimination after his death.
Something whispered to the weary Duhobret, that here would be the market
for his picture. It was a long way yet to the house of the picture dealer,
and he made up his mind at once. He worked his way through the crowd,
dragged himself up the steps, and, after many inquiries, found the
auctioneer. That personage was a busy man, with a handful of papers; he
was inclined to notice somewhat roughly the interruption of the lean,
sallow hunchback, imploring as were his gesture and language.
"What do you call your picture?" at length, said he, carefully looking at
it.
"It is a view of the Abbey of Newburg, with its village and the
surrounding landscape," replied the eager and trembling artist.
The auctioneer again scanned it contemptuously, and asked what it was
worth. "Oh, that is what you please; whatever it will bring," answered
Duhobret.
"Hem! it is too odd to please, I should think; I can promise you no more
than three thalers."
Poor Samuel sighed deeply. He had spent on that piece the nights of many
months. But he was starving now; and the pitiful sum offered would give
bread for a few days. He nodded his head to the auctioneer, and retiring
took his seat in a corner.
The sale began. After some paintings and engravings had been disposed of,
Samuel's was exhibited. "Who bids at three thalers? Who bids?" was the
cry. Duhobret listened eagerly, but none answered. "Will it find a
purchaser?" said he despondingly, to himself. Still there was a dead
silence. He dared not look up; for it seemed to him that all the people
were laughing at the folly of the artist, who could be insane enough to
offer so worthless a piece at a public sale.
"What will become of me?" was his mental inquiry. "That work is certainly
my best;" and he ventured to steal another glance. "Does it not seem that
the wind actually stirs those boughs and moves those leaves! How
transparent is the water! What life breathes in the animals that quench
their thirst at that spring! How that steeple shines! How beautiful are
those clustering trees!" This was the last expiring throb of an artist's
vanity. The ominous silence continued, and Samuel, sick at heart, buried
his face in his hands.
"Twenty-one thalers!" murmured a faint voice, just as the auctioneer was
about to knock down the picture. The stupefied painter gave a start of
joy. He raised his head and looked to see from whose lips those blessed
words had come. It was the picture dealer, to whom he had first thought of
applying.
"Fifty thalers," cried a sonorous voice. This time a tall man in black was
the speaker. There was a silence of hushed expectation. "One hundred
thalers," at length thundered the picture dealer.
"Three hundred!" "Five hundred!" "One thousand!" Another profound silence,
and the crowd pressed around the two opponents, who stood opposite each
other with eager and angry looks.
"Two thousand thalers!" cried the picture dealer, and glanced around him
triumphantly, when he saw his adversary hesitate. "Ten thousand!"
vociferated the tall man, his face crimson with rage, and his hands
clinched convulsively. The dealer grew paler; his frame shook with
agitation; he made two or three efforts, and at last cried out "Twenty
thousand!"
His tall opponent was not to be vanquished. He bid forty thousand. The
dealer stopped; the other laughed a low laugh of insolent triumph, and a
murmur of admiration was heard in the crowd. It was too much for the
dealer; he felt his peace was at stake. "Fifty thousand!" exclaimed he in
desperation. It was the tall man's turn to hesitate. Again the whole crowd
were breathless. At length, tossing his arms in defiance, he shouted "One
hundred thousand!" The crestfallen picture dealer withdrew; the tall man
victoriously bore away the prize.
How was it, meanwhile, with Duhobret, while this exciting scene was going
on? He was hardly master of his senses. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and
murmured to himself, "After such a dream, my misery will seem more cruel!"
When the contest ceased, he rose up bewildered, and went about asking
first one, then another, the price of the picture just sold. It seemed
that his apprehension could not at once be enlarged to so vast a
conception.
The possessor was proceeding homeward, when a decrepit, lame, and
humpbacked invalid, tottering along by the aid of a stick, presented
himself before him. He threw him a piece of money, and waved his hand as
dispensing with his thanks. "May it please your honor," said the supposed
beggar, "I am the painter of that picture!" and again he rubbed his eyes.
The tall mall was Count Dunkelsback, one of the richest noblemen in
Germany. He stopped, took out his pocketbook, took out a leaf, and wrote
on it a few lines. "Take it, friend," said he; "it is a check for your
money. Adieu."
Duhobret finally persuaded himself that it was not a dream. He became the
master of a castle, sold it, and resolved to live luxuriously for the rest
of his life, and to cultivate painting as a pastime. But, alas, for the
vanity of human expectation! He had borne privation and toil; prosperity
was too much for him, as was proved soon after, when an indigestion
carried him off. His picture remained long in the cabinet of Count
Dunkelsback, and afterward passed into the possession of the King of
Bavaria.
Notes.--Albert Durer (b. 1471, d. 1528) lived at Nuremburg, Germany. He
was eminent as a painter, and as an engraver on copper and wood. He was
one of the first artists who studied anatomy and perspective. His
influence on art is clearly felt even at the present day.
Newburg, or Neuburg, is on the Danube, fifty miles south of Nuremburg.
Bergen Abbey was north of the village.