The fire in the smithy was extinguished, no hammer fell on the anvil;
for the wounded man lay in a burning fever; every loud noise disturbed
him. Adam had noticed this himself, and gave no time to his work, for
he had to assist in nursing his son, when it was necessary to raise his
heavy body, and to relieve Ruth, when, after long night-watches, her
vigorous strength was exhausted.
The old man saw that the girl's bands were more deft than his own toil-
hardened ones, and let her take the principal charge-but the hours when
she was resting in her room were the dearest to him, for then he was
alone with Ulrich, could read his countenance undisturbed and rejoice in
gazing at every feature, which reminded him of his child's boyhood and of
Flora.
He often pressed his bearded lips to the invalid's burning forehead or
limp hand, and when the physician with an anxious face had left the
house, he knelt beside Ulrich's couch, buried his forehead among the
pillows, and fervently prayed the Heavenly Father, to spare his child and
take in exchange his own life and all that he possessed.
He often thought the end had come, and gave himself up without resistance
to his grief; Ruth, on the contrary, never lost hope, not even in the
darkest hours. God had not let her find Ulrich, merely to take him from
her again. The end of danger was to her the beginning of deliverance.
When he recognized her the first time, she already saw him, leaning on
her shoulder, walk through the room; when he could raise himself, she
thought him cured.
Her heart was overflowing with joy, yet her mind remained watchful and
thoughtful during the long, toilsome nursing. She did not forget the
smallest trifle, for before she undertook anything she saw in her mind
every detail involved, as if it were already completed. Ulrich took no
food which she had not prepared with her own hand, no drink which she had
not herself brought from the cellar or the well. She perceived in
advance what disturbed him, what pleased him, what he needed. If she
opened or closed the curtain, she gave or withheld no more light than was
agreeable to him; if she arranged the pillows behind him, she placed them
neither too high nor too low, and bound up his wounds with a gentle yet
firm hand, like an experienced physician. Whatever he felt--pain or
comfort--she experienced with him.
By degrees the fever vanished; consciousness returned, his pain lessened,
he could move himself again, and began to feel stronger. At first he did
not know where he was; then he recognized Ruth, and then his father.
How still, how dusky, how clean everything that surrounded him was!
Delightful repose stole over him, pleasant weariness soothed every stormy
emotion of his heart. Whenever he opened his eyes, tender, anxious
glances met him. Even when the pain returned he enjoyed peaceful,
consoling mental happiness. Ruth felt this also, and regarded it as a
peerless reward.
When she entered the sick-room with fresh linen, and the odor of lavender
her dead mother had liked floated softly to him from the clean sheets, he
thought his boyhood had returned, and with it the wise, friendly doctor's
house. Elizabeth, the shady pine-woods of his home, its murmuring brooks
and luxuriant meadows, again rose before his mind; he saw Ruth and
himself listening to the birds, picking berries, gathering flowers, and
beseeching beautiful gifts from the "word." His father appeared even
more kind, affectionate, and careful than in those days. The man became
the boy again, and all his former good traits of character now sprang up
freshly under the bright light and vivifying dew of love.
He received Ruth's unwearied attentions with ardent gratitude, and when
he gazed into her faithful eyes, when her hand touched him, her soft,
deep voice penetrated the depths of his soul, an unexampled sense of
happiness filled his breast.
Everything, from the least to the greatest, embraced his soul with the
arms of love. It seemed as if the ardent yearning of his heart extended
far beyond the earth, and rose to God, who fills the universe with His
infinite paternal love. His every breath, Ulrich thought, must
henceforth be a prayer, a prayer of gratitude to Him, who is love itself,
the Love, through and in which he lived.
He had sought love, to enjoy its gifts; now he was glad to make
sacrifices for its sake. He saw how Ruth's beautiful face saddened when
he was suffering, and with manly strength of will concealed inexpressible
agony under a grateful smile. He feigned sleep, to permit her and his
father to rest, and when tortured by feverish restlessness, lay still
to give his beloved nurses pleasure and repay their solicitude.
Love urged him to goodness, gave him strength for all that is good.
His convalescence advanced and, when he was permitted to leave his bed,
his father was the first one to support him through the room and down the
steps into the court-yard. He often felt with quiet emotion the old man
stroke the hand that rested on his arm, and when, exhausted, he returned
to the sick-room, he sank with a grateful heart into his comfortable
seat, casting a look of pleasure at the flowers, which Ruth had taken
from her chamber window and placed on the table beside him.
His family now knew what he had endured and experienced, and the smith
found a kind, soothing word for all that, a few months before, he had
considered criminal and unpardonable.
During such a conversation, Ulrich once exclaimed "War! You know not how
it bears one along with it; it is a game whose stake is life. That of
others is of as little value as your own; to do your worst to every one,
is the watchword; but now--every thing has grown so calm in my soul, and
I have a horror of the turmoil in the field. I was talking with Ruth
yesterday about her father, and she reminded me of his favorite saying,
which I had forgotten long ago. Do you know what it is? 'Do unto
others, as ye would that others should do unto you.' I have not been
cruel, and never drew the sword out of pleasure in slaying; but now I
grieve for having brought woe to so many!
"What things were done in Haarlem! If you had moved there instead of to
Antwerp, and you and Ruth....I dare not think of it! Memories of those
days torture me in many a sleepless hour, and there is much that fills me
with bitter remorse. But I am permitted to live, and it seems as if I
were new-born, and henceforth existence and doing good must be synonymous
to me. You were right to be angry...."
"That is all forgiven and forgotten," interrupted the smith in a resonant
voice, pressing his son's fingers with his hard right hand.
These words affected the convalescent like a strengthening potion, and
when the hammers again moved in the smithy, Ulrich was no longer
satisfied with his idle life, and began with Ruth to look forward to and
discuss the future.
The words: 'fortune,' 'fame,' 'power,"' he said once, "have deceived me;
but art! You don't know, Ruth, what art is! It does not bestow
everything, but a great deal, a great deal. Meister Moor was indeed
a teacher! I am too old to begin at the beginning once more. If it were
not for that...."
"Well, Ulrich?"
"I should like to try painting again."
The girl exhorted him to take courage, and told his father of their
conversation. The smith put on his Sunday clothes and went to the
artist's house. The latter was in Brussels, but was expected home soon.
From this time, every third day, Adam donned his best clothes, which
he disliked to wear, and went to the artist's; but always in vain.
In the month of February the invalid was playing chess with Ruth,--
she had learned the game from the smith and Ulrich from her,--when Adam
entered the room, saying: "when the game is over, I wish to speak to you,
my son."
The young girl had the advantage, but instantly pushed the pieces
together and left the two alone.
She well knew what was passing in the father's mind, for the day before
he had brought all sorts of artist's materials, and told her to arrange
the little gable-room, with the large window facing towards the north,
and put the easel and colors there. They had only smiled at each other,
but they had long since learned to understand each other, even without
words.
"What is it?" asked Ulrich in surprise.
The smith then told him what he had provided and arranged, adding: "the
picture on the standard--you say you painted it yourself."
"Yes, father."
"It was your mother, exactly as she looked when....She did not treat
either of us rightly--but she!--the Christian must forgive;--and as she
was your mother--why--I should like.... perhaps it is not possible; but
if you could paint her picture, not as a Madonna, only as she looked when
a young wife...."
"I can, I will!" cried Ulrich, in joyous excitement. "Take me upstairs,
is the canvas ready?"
"In the frame, firmly in the frame! I am an old man, and you see, child,
I remember how wonderfully sweet your mother was; but I can never succeed
in recalling just how she looked then. I have tried, tried thousands and
thousands of times; at--Richtberg, here, everywhere--deep as was my
wrath!"
"You shall see her again surely--surely!" interrupted Ulrich. "I see her
before me, and what I see in my mind, I can paint!"
The work was commenced the very same day. Ulrich now succeeded
wonderfully, and lavished on the portrait all the wealth of love, with
which his heart was filled.
Never had he guided the brush so joyously; in painting this picture he
only wished to give, to give--give his beloved father the best he could
accomplish, so he succeeded.
The young wife, attired in a burgher dress, stood with her bewitching
eyes and a melancholy, half-tender, half-mournful smile on her lips.
Adam was not permitted to enter the studio again until the portrait was
completed. When Ulrich at last unveiled the picture, the old man--unable
longer to control himself--burst into loud sobs and fell upon his son's
breast. It seemed to Adam that the pretty creature in the golden frame
--far from needing his forgiveness--was entitled to his gratitude for
many blissful hours.
Soon after, Adam found Moor at home, and a few hours later took Ulrich
to him. It was a happy and a quiet meeting, which was soon followed by a
second interview in the smith's house.
Moor gazed long and searchingly at Ulrich's work. When he had examined
it sufficiently, he held out his hand to his pupil, saying warmly:
"I always said so; you are an artist! From to-morrow we will work
together again, daily, and you will win more glorious victories with the
brush than with the sword."
Ulrich's cheeks glowed with happiness and pride.
Ruth had never before seen him look so, and as she gazed joyfully into
his eyes, he held out his hands to her, exclaiming: "An artist, an artist
again! Oh, would that I had always remained one! Now I lack only one
thing more--yourself!"
She rushed to his embrace, exclaiming joyously "Yours, yours! I have
always been so, and always shall be, to-day, to-morrow, unto death,
forever and ever!"
"Yes, yes," he answered gravely. "Our hearts are one and ever will be,
nothing can separate them; but your fate shall not be linked to mine
till, Moor himself calls me a master. Love imposes no condition--I am
yours and you are mine--but I impose the trial on myself, and this time I
know it will be passed."
A new spirit animated the pupil. He rushed to his work with tireless
energy, and even the hardest task became easy, when he thought of the
prize he sought. At the end of a year, Moor ceased to instruct him,
and Ruth became the wife of Meister Ulrich Schwab.
The famous artist-guild of Antwerp soon proudly numbered him among
them, and even at the present day his pictures are highly esteemed by
connoisseurs, though they are attributed to other painters, for he never
signed his name to his works.
Of the four words, which illumined his life-path as guiding-stars, he had
learned to value fame and power least; fortune and art remained faithful
to him, but as the earth does not shine by its own might, but receives
its light from the sun, so they obtained brilliancy, charm and endearing
power through love.
The fierce Eletto, whose sword raged in war, following the teachings of
his noble Master, became a truly Christian philanthropist.
Many have gazed with quiet delight at the magnificent picture, which
represents a beautiful mother, with a bright, intelligent face, leading
her three blooming children towards a pleasant old man, who holds out his
arms to them. The old man is Adam, the mother Ruth, the children are the
armorer's grandchildren; Ulrich Schwab was the artist.
Meister Moor died soon after Ulrich's marriage, and a few years after,
Sophonisba di Moncada came to Antwerp to seek the grave of him she had
loved. She knew from the dead man that he had met his dear Madrid pupil,
and her first visit was to the latter.
After looking at his works, she exclaimed:
"The word! Do you remember, Meister? I told you then, that you had
found the right one. You are greatly altered, and it is a pity that you
have lost your flowing locks; but you look like a happy man, and to
what do you owe it? To the word, the only right word: 'Art!'"
He let her finish the sentence, then answered gravely "There is still a
loftier word, noble lady! Whoever owns it--is rich indeed. He will no
longer wander--seek in doubt.
"And this is?" she asked incredulously, with a smile of superior
knowledge.
"I have found it," he answered firmly. "It is 'Love.'"
Sophonisba bent her head, saying softly and sadly: "yes, yes--love."