For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on
the floor of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer had demanded his
treasure--sometimes with jests, and sometimes with threats. But the
picture had remained unmoved against the wall.
Journeys to Italy and to the Netherlands had intervened. Pirkheimer's
velvet purse had been dipped into again and again. Commissions without
number had been executed for him--rings and stones and tapestries,
carvings and stag-antlers, and cups and silks and velvet--till the
Pirkheimer mansion glowed with color from the South and delicate
workmanship from the North. Other pictures from Duerer's brush adorned
its walls--grotesque monks and gentle Virgins. But the Face bided its
time against the wall.
To-day--for the first time in twenty-five years--the Face of the Christ
was turned to the light. The hand that drew it from its place had not
the supple fingers of the painter. Those fingers, stiffened and white,
lay upon a quiet breast--outside the city wall.
The funeral cortege had trotted briskly back, and Agnes Duerer had come
directly to the studio, with its low, arched window, to take account of
her possessions. It was all hers--the money the artist had toiled to
leave her, the work that had shortened life, and the thousand Rhenish
guldens in the hands of the most worthy Rath; the pictures and
copperplates, the books he had written and the quaint curios he had
loved--they were all hers, except, perhaps, the copperplates for
Andreas. Her level glance swept them as she crossed to the canvas
against the wall and lifted it to a place on the easel. She had often
begged him to sell the picture. It was large and would bring a good
price. Her eyes surveyed it with satisfaction. A look of dismay crossed
the smooth face. She leaned forward and searched the picture eagerly.
The dismay deepened to anger. He had neglected to sign it! She knew well
the value of the tiny monogram that marked the canvases about her. A
sound clicked in her throat. She reached out her white hand to a brush
on the bench beside her. There would be no wrong done. It was Albrecht's
work--his best work. Her eyes studied the modelling of the delicate,
strong face--the Christ face--Albrecht's face--at thirty-three.... Had
he looked like that? She stared at it vaguely. She moved away, looking
about her for a bit of color. She found it and came again to the easel.
She reached out her hand for the brush. A slip of paper tucked beneath
the canvas caught her eye. She drew it out slowly, unfolding it with
curious fingers. "This picture of the Christ is the sole property of my
dear and honored friend, the Herr Willibald Pirkheimer. I have given it
to him and his heirs to have and to hold forever. Signed by me, this
day, June 8, 1503, in my home in Nuernberg, 15 Zisselstrasse, Albrecht
Duerer."
She crushed the paper in firm fingers. A door had opened behind her. The
discreet servant, in mourning garments, with downcast, reddened eyes,
waited. "His Highness the Herr Pirkheimer is below, my lady."
For a moment she hesitated. Then her fingers opened on the bit of
paper. It fluttered to the table and lay full in sight. She looked at it
with her thin smile. "Ask Herr Pirkheimer to ascend to the studio. I
shall receive him here," she said.
He entered facing the easel. With an exclamation he sprang forward. He
laid a hand on the canvas. The small eyes blinked at her.
She returned the look coldly.
"It is mine!" he said.
She inclined her head, with a stately gesture, to the open paper on the
table beside her.
He seized it in trembling fingers. He shook it toward her. "It is mine.
You see--it is mine!"
"It is yours, Herr Pirkheimer." She spoke with level coolness. "I had
read the paper."
With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned again to the canvas. A smothered
oath broke from his lips. He leaned forward, incredulous. His round
eyes, bulging and blue, searched every corner. They fell on the wet
brush and bit of color. He turned on her fiercely. "Jezebel!" he hissed,
"you have painted it out. I saw him sign it--years ago--twenty-five
years!"
She smiled serenely. "It may have been some other one," she said
sweetly. Her glance took in the scattered canvases.
He shook his head savagely. "I will have no other," he shouted; "I
should know it in a thousand!"
"Very well." Her voice was as tranquil as her face. "Shall I have it
sent to the house of the honored Herr Pirkheimer?"
He glared at her. "I take it with me," he said. "I do not trust it out
of sight."
She bowed in acquiescence. Standing in her widow's garments, with
downcast eyes and gentle resignation, she waited his withdrawal.
He eyed her curiously. The years had touched her lightly. There were the
same plump features, the same surface eyes, and light, abundant bands of
hair. He heaved a round sigh. He thought of the worn face outside the
city wall. He gathered the canvas under his arm, glaring about the low
room. "There was a pair of antlers," he muttered. "They might go in my
collection. You will want to sell them."
The downcast eyes did not leave the floor. "They are sold," she said,
"to Herr Umstaetter." A little smile played about the thin lips.
"Sold! Already!" The round eyes bulged at her. "My God!" he shouted
fiercely, "you would sell his very soul, if he had left it where you
could!"
She raised the blue eyes and regarded him calmly. "The estate is without
condition," she said.
He groaned as he backed toward the door. The canvas was hugged under his
arm. At the door he paused, looking back over the room. His small eyes
winked fast, and the loose mouth trembled.
"He was a great man, Agnes," he said gently. "We must keep it clean--the
name of Duerer."
She looked up with a little gesture of dismissal. "It is I who bear the
name," she said coldly.
When he was gone she glanced about the room. She went over to a pile of
canvases and turned them rapidly to the light. Each one that bore the
significant monogram she set aside with a look of possession. She came
at last to the one she was searching. It was a small canvas--a Sodom and
Gomorrah. She studied the details slowly. It was not signed. She gave a
little breath of satisfaction, and took up the brush from the bench. She
remembered well the day Albrecht brought it home, and his childish
delight in it. It was one of Joachim Patenir's. Albrecht had given a
Christ head of his own in exchange for it. The brush in her fingers
trembled a little. It inserted the wide-spreading A beneath Lot's flying
legs, and overtraced it with a delicate D. She paused a moment in
thought. Then she raised her head and painted in, with swift, decisive
strokes, high up in one corner of the picture, a date. It was a safe
date--1511--the year he painted his Holy Trinity. There would be no one
to question it.
She sat back, looking her satisfaction.
Seventy-five guldens to account. It atoned a little for the loss of the
Christ.