‘The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time
there was not any man died in his own person, namely, in a love-cause.’
I cannot help recalling Rosalind’s words as I look at the photograph
before me; the history of its original so completely disproves her
saucy speech. In my hand I hold the likeness of a man of forty or
thereabouts, with a noble square forehead arching above deep thoughtful
eyes, a large beardless face surrounded by a heavy growth of long hair,
and a thickset form denoting great personal strength. A superficial
observer might call the homely portrait commonplace, and turn to
gaze on the more aristocratic faces of his fellow-artists in the
photographic album; but a careful scrutiny of the coarse irregular
features and the broad brow impresses one with the feeling that this
was no ordinary man; that a spirit dwelt within these steady eyes
purer and mightier than usually falls to the lot of mortal man. But
the closest inspection would still leave much untold. The indomitable
energy, the heaven-sent genius, may be traced in his strong features
and deep eyes; but the exquisite sensibility, the single-heartedness,
the uncomplaining patience, would never be guessed.
But a short time has elapsed since he was one of us, and his story is
still ringing in the hearts of his countrymen—a story so pathetic in
its poverty and its triumph, so touching in its untimely close.
Theodor Mintrop, the original of the photograph, was born near
the village of Werden in Westphalia. From his childhood he had an
uncontrollable desire to draw, which brought nothing but censure from
his elders, substantial _bauers_ and petty farmers, who considered
drawing an unpardonable waste of time. But the talent was not to be
crushed out. In spite of opposition and discouragement, in spite
of his daily hard work on his father’s farm, he practised his art
whenever he had an opportunity; at first sketching rough outlines on
whitewashed walls, and when he could afford it, buying pencils and
paper. In time his fame as an artist spread among the simple peasantry,
and even beyond his own limited circle. ‘The country Raphael,’ he was
popularly called; and made a little money occasionally by painting
signs for country inns, and pictures of the Virgin and Child for the
Catholics. All this time he wrought in the fields at a labourer’s usual
avocations; and it was a hard horny hand that in his leisure moments
wielded the pencil with such surprising genius. He was waiting—waiting
patiently till the tide would turn—waiting till the time would come
when he could study his art and devote himself wholly to it. And thus
he might have spent his entire life, his genius, like an imprisoned
bird, hemmed in by sordid cares and toils, if one of these strange
coincidences that so often bring the unexpected, had not occurred.
A celebrated artist, seeing some of Mintrop’s drawings, was so struck
by their merit, that he immediately set out for Werden, found Mintrop
at the plough, and carried him back to his house in Düsseldorf,
offering him every facility for studying thoroughly his beloved art.
The opportunity had come; but how long the country Raphael had waited
for it! Thirty years had he repressed his ambition, and performed
the duties of farm-labourer for his father and brother. No wonder a
sad weariness can be traced on his features. In Düsseldorf, Mintrop
went through the regular course of instruction, beginning at the very
lowest class, where he, a man of thirty, sat on the same bench with
young lads; but his great genius and intense application soon carried
him through the class-rooms. His art had an amount of originality
and freshness that seemed to breathe of his free country life at
Werden. From his boyhood a great lover of fairy tales, there was a
strain of grotesqueness in his works. His father, a man of an original
turn of mind, had fostered his passion for the weird homely legends
of the German peasantry; and to Theodor, in his imaginative youth,
_kobolds_ had peeped out of the earth, _nixies_ had sung in the
rivers. The fame of the country Raphael soon spread in Düsseldorf;
art critics acknowledged his wonderful genius, and vied with one
another in pointing out the grand simplicity and admirable power of
his compositions. How did the untrained peasant, fresh from his rural
life, bear all this homage? Simply and meekly. With reverence he
regarded the wonderful new life around him, so much more polished,
so much pleasanter than his old one; but the dignity of his art and
his own self-respect saved him from being overborne by it. But no one
guessed that under his homely and somewhat uncouth exterior such an
appreciation for all that was fair and good in life existed, as the
sequel of his life proved.
Behold him now at perhaps the zenith of his career; having attained the
object of his desires, an artistic education; having in a few short
years established a fame that many academical pupils of many years’
standing had failed to win; surrounded by many friends, living in the
home-circle of his first patron and dearest friend in that pleasant
city on the Rhine. His future lay fair and unclouded before him,
leading him on from triumph to still greater triumph. But inscrutable
are the ways of Providence; God’s ways are not man’s ways; and the tree
that promised such glorious fruit was never to reach maturity.
To the house of Geselschap (the name of the artist who had befriended
Mintrop, and in whose house he lived) came one fine summer a young
lady-friend. In the free unrestrained home society, Mintrop had much
opportunity of becoming intimately acquainted with this young girl.
He had been learning much of life as well as art since he came to
Düsseldorf; but women in a higher rank than the peasants he had for
thirty years been familiar with, were ever an object of peculiar
interest and intense admiration to him; and the grace and amiability
of this stranger soon made a powerful impression on him. For a whole
long happy summer this fair young creature lived under the same
roof with him, and treated the grave shy man with the playfulness
and friendliness of a sister, wholly unaware of the passion she had
unwittingly kindled. In short he, the hard-working country Raphael,
engrossed in his art, which he pursued for itself, not for money
(about which he was one of the most careless of mortals)—he, the rough
Westphalian peasant, with hard hands and uncouth figure, had learned
to love this gentle maiden, with all the strength of his noble patient
heart.
That long happy summer passed, and the young lady returned to her
friends. Shortly after, the announcement of her engagement to be
married reached Düsseldorf, piercing the true heart that loved her so
well. To commemorate her marriage, Mintrop composed a wonderful series
of pictures, that will always link her name to his.
The ‘Love of King Heinzelmann’ they were called; seventy scenes in all,
in which he, in the guise of King Heinzelmann, following his beloved
Johanna through every incident in daily life, protects and helps her
as he would fain have done in reality. True to the traditions of his
youth, numbers of quaint dwarfs with long beards, pointed caps, and
trunk-hose, attend on the commands of their king; who is himself a
strange weird vision with a wizened face, pointed cap, and magic wand,
tipped by a burning eye. In a burgher household, these droll figures
sweep and wash, bake and brew, throwing themselves into many strange
contortions, in the service of Anna; the king ever with them, looking
sadder and sadder; for as time goes on, a stranger from America falls
in love with Johanna and carries her away across the sea. The poor
gnome-king loves in vain; and when the day comes that Johanna and her
lover sail away, he and his dwarfs stand sadly on the shore (for they
may not cross the sea) watching the vessel till it fades from sight.
The fantastic legend is imbued with a strange humanity; and the ugly
figure of the gnome-king touches our inmost sensibility with a thrill
of pathos. Such was the love of Mintrop—intense, undying, and hopeless!
Some things are almost too sad to bear speaking of, and the waste of
affection that goes on in this world is one of them. Doubtless there
were many girls in Düsseldorf equal to Johanna in every respect; but
for Mintrop she was the only one, and yet she was another’s.
Three years had passed since Mintrop worked his love into his
art—throwing but a thin veil of grotesqueness over his real feelings;
and Johanna returned from afar with her husband. They settled in
Westphalia; and Johanna, moved by the memories of old days, proposed
that Mintrop should be godfather to their infant daughter. Three years
were gone, and Mintrop thought he had conquered his hopeless love; but
yet the request startles him, and he requires to struggle for composure
before he can determine whether he shall agree to it or not. He goes,
finds the comfortable home where his lost love resides, meets her and
her husband and the various guests present at the ceremony. The priest
comes, and the little soft baby is placed in his arms. He looks at his
sleeping god-daughter as he somewhat awkwardly receives her, and the
child slowly opens her large eyes, so like her mother’s. A thrill runs
through Mintrop’s veins; all the old feelings, the old hopes and fears,
rush through his mind with a force too cruel to be borne. He hastily
places the child in its mother’s arms, and hurries away from the scene.
Not long after, and Mintrop is dying. Some physical cause, the doctor
assigns; but his friends know well what it is. His patient loving heart
has borne too much. The intensity of his feelings has snapped the cord
of life. As his breath leaves him, he thinks of his other love, his
Art, and he sighs: ‘Would I might live long enough to finish my work;
otherwise, I am ready to die!’ And thus the brave gentle spirit went
forth to meet its Maker, regretting only that the promise of its youth
was not fulfilled—the work not yet completed. Alas, alas, for human
love, for human hopes and wishes! My eyes are wet as I trace these
concluding lines; and the face in the photograph is hallowed by a
strange sad interest.
Theodor Mintrop died at Düsseldorf in July 1870; and his sad story,
as given above, speedily found its way into the German newspapers. In
autumn 1871, a bronze bust erected to his memory was unveiled in the
presence of thousands of spectators; and the poet Emil Rittershaus
composed and recited a beautiful poem—a requiem to one who died of a
broken heart.