After Long Years and Other Stories
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Translated from the German by Sophie A. Miller and Agnes M. Dunne >> After Long Years and Other Stories
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One day, at Eastertide, Antonio returned home for a short visit. Ashmed
and his family called upon Antonio, to whom they presented a letter
which they had just received. In it, Antonio read the greetings which
his friend, the lawyer, extended to him, together with thanks to him and
Ashmed for their kind helpfulness in securing his liberty for him.
On the following day, as the guests were all seated at the table, a
knock announced some strangers. They were the old fisherman and the
young sailor who had been captives with Antonio, but were now free and
had come to offer their thanks. It was a touching sight.
Ashmed said, "Don't thank me, but rather this boy. He is your
emancipator."
"Yes," said the old fisherman, "this is the boy who appeared to us, like
an angel, and comforted us as we sat in chains. We now lay our thanks
at his feet."
Antonio waved them back and said, "Thank my dear parents, for they
taught me by word and example; and everything I have done is due to
their training."
Then Antonio's father stepped into their midst and raising his eyes to
heaven, said: "All honor and praise we give to God. As always, He has
made everything turn out for the best. He sends us great sorrows for
some good purpose; but He also sends us great joys. When a child follows
the good instructions received from good parents, makes good use of his
talents, and forgets not to be grateful, he will become an instrument of
good for the benefit of humanity. Antonio was sent to you in your
captivity, and through Antonio you were all led back to your liberty.
Let us give thanks."
After a long silence, the conversation again became animated. The men
narrated the varied incidents in their lives, and talked about their
future prospects.
Ashmed gave the men some ready money with which to start in business,
and they promised to repay him as soon as they were able. Ashmed did not
wish the money refunded, but they felt that it would be more manly to do
this.
As the time for departure arrived, the men bade Antonio and Ashmed
good-bye, and were off.
The next day Antonio returned to college. He continued his studies there
for several years, and was graduated with high honors.
In the course of time he became an opera singer of international fame.
He always maintained a dignified bearing, free from any vanity; and
recognizing his gift as coming from God, accepted the praise and
acclamation of the world in all humility.
He found time in his busy life to help the needy, and later became a
director of the society which we have said was organized for the rescue
of the outcast. He devoted his voice, his hands, his strength and his
life to the betterment of mankind.
THE ARTIST'S MASTER-PIECE
CHAPTERS.
I. THE GIFT.
II. UNDER THE EMPEROR'S BUSH.
III. No PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY.
IV. THE CONDITION.
V. THE FULFILMENT.
[Illustration: "Hans, undaunted, stepped up to her father."]
THE ARTIST'S MASTERPIECE
CHAPTER I
THE GIFT
A little village with its scattered glimmering lights lay in peaceful
dreams. Just as a black swan draws her young under her, so the mighty
Cathedral rested in the midst of the low houses, which seemed to creep,
like birds, under its wing.
It struck twelve from the church tower, and larger and smaller clocks,
near and far, carried the message onward. Dead silence again hovered
over the sleeping village.
Just as dawn bathed the hills in sunlight, two stately men wandered
along the Cathedral Square. One seemed somewhat older, with his full
gray beard. His hair, rich and abundant, curled beneath his velvet cap.
He walked so majestically that one could see, at the very first glance,
that he was no ordinary person, but one upon whose shoulders an
invisible weight rested. Handsome, tall and noble, just as one would
picture the highest type of man--a king from head to foot.
Here, in the little village of Breisach, as he named it, Emperor
Maximilian liked to rest from the cares of his Empire. Here, in this
little retreat, filled with calm and quietude, he loved to wander. From
here he sent letters full of tender thoughts to his daughter in the
Netherlands.
He loved the place well, and christened it "Care-Free."
As Emperor Maximilian walked proudly, but with heavy tread, along the
parapet of the Cathedral Square, his eye rested upon the gay scene at
his feet. To-day the invisible world of care pressed heavily upon his
shoulders. Suddenly he stood still, and turning to his private
secretary, he said, "I wonder who those children are who are so
industriously planting a rose-bush in the niche of the wall?"
The children, a girl and a boy (the former about eight, and the latter
twelve years of age), were so engrossed in their work that they had not
noticed the approach of the Emperor, until his presence was so near that
it startled them. They turned full face upon him. Then the boy touched
the girl and said, "It's the Emperor!"
"What are you doing there?" he asked, and his artistic eye feasted on
the beauty of this charming pair.
"We are planting a rose-bush," said the boy, undaunted.
The Emperor smiled, and said, "What is your name?"
"Hans Le Fevre, sir."
"And the little one, is she your sister?"
"No, she is Marie, our neighbor's child."
"Ah!--you like each other very much?"
"Yes, when I'm old enough, and when I own a knife, I'm going to marry
her."
The Emperor opened his eyes wide, and said, "Why do you need a knife?"
"Surely," answered the boy, earnestly, "if I have no knife I cannot cut,
and if I cannot cut I can earn no money. My mother has always said that
without money one cannot marry. Besides, I should have to have much
money to enable me to marry my little friend Marie, as she is the
Counselor's daughter."
"But," questioned the Emperor, "what do you want to cut?"
"Wood!"
"Ha! ha! I understand. You want to be a wood-carver. Now, I remember
that I once met two young boys, named Le Fevre. They were studying in
Nurnberg, with Durer, 'The Prince of Artists.' Were they, perhaps, your
relatives?"
"Yes, my cousins, and once I saw them carve, and I would like to learn
how, too; but my father and uncle are dead, and my mother never buys me
a knife."
The Emperor thrust his hand into his pocket, and after much fumbling and
jingling, pulled out a knife with an artistically carved handle. "Will
that do?" said he.
The boy flushed, and one could see how beneath his coarse, torn shirt
his heart beat with joy.
"Yes," stammered the boy, "it's beautiful."
"Well, take it and use it diligently," said the Emperor.
The boy took the treasure from the Emperor's hand as carefully as if it
were red hot and might burn his fingers.
"I thank you many times!" was all that he could say; but in his dark
eyes there beamed a fire of joy whose sparks of love and gratitude
electrified the Emperor.
"Would you like to go to your cousins in Nurnberg, and help them in
plate-engraving! There's plenty of work there."
"I would like to go to Durer in Nurnberg, but I don't want to be a
plate-engraver. I would rather cut figures that look natural."
"That's right," said the Emperor, "you will be a man, indeed; always
hold to that which is natural and you will not fail."
At that moment the Emperor drew a leather bag from his velvet riding
jacket and gave it to the boy.
"Be careful of it. Save the golden florins within; give them to no one.
Remember, the Emperor has ordered that they be used toward your
education. Study well, and when you are full-grown and able to travel,
then go to Durer, in Nurnberg. Convey to him my greetings; say to him
that, as I, while in his studio one day, held the ladder for him lest he
fall, so should he now hold the ladder of fame for you, that you may be
able to climb to the very top of it. Will you promise me all that, my
boy?"
"Yes, your majesty!" cried Hans, inspired, and, seizing the Emperor's
right hand, he shook it heartily and kissed it. Then the Emperor passed
on, while the boy stood there in a dream. Marie still held tightly to
her apron.
Just at that moment a servant appeared who had been in search of Marie.
The children ran to meet her and related their experience with the
Emperor. The servant called all the townsfolk together to see the knife
and the contents of the bag, but wise Hans kept the bag closed.
The next day the Emperor rode off; but for many days to come his talk
with Hans was the town topic. "Surely, it is no wonder," said the
envious ones. "Hans always was a bold boy and knew how to talk up for
himself, so why shouldn't he know how to talk to the Emperor?" This
speech was decidedly undeserved; but Hans was too young to understand
their meanness. He was absorbed in the Emperor's greatness and
kindliness.
CHAPTER II
UNDER THE EMPEROR'S BUSH
Years passed. Hans Le Fevre lost his mother and Marie hers; and closer
and closer did the bond of companionship draw these children.
In the evening, when her father was busy with a committee-meeting and
the housekeeper was gossiping with the neighbors, Hans and Marie would
climb the garden wall. Here they would sit together, while Hans cut
beautiful toys for her, such as no child of those times had. He would
talk with her about all the beautiful pictures and carvings he had
lately seen, and of the masters in the art of wood-carving; for now he
was attending art lectures and studying hard. Hours were spent in this
way; but often, when the opportunity offered, they would run off to the
Cathedral and water the rose-bush, which Hans had now christened the
"Emperor's Bush."
There they loved best to linger, for there they hoped always that the
Emperor would return. And often they would cry out aloud, "Your Majesty,
Your Majesty, come again!"
But their voices died away unanswered; for, far from them, the Emperor
was concerned with the affairs of State. The children waited for him in
vain. The Emperor came no more.
As the time went by, the children grew, and the rose-bush grew also.
Just as if the tender threads of love in their hearts had unconsciously
entwined them as one around the roots of the little bush, it kept
drawing them to itself, there in the niche of the wall. There they found
each other, day after day. The bush was like a true friend, who held
their two hands fast in his. But their true friend was not strong enough
to hold together what other people wished to separate.
The lovely, highly respected Counselor's daughter was no longer
permitted to meet Hans. Her father forbade her one day, saying that Hans
was not only poor but was not even a native of the town. His ancestors
were Hollanders who had wandered into Breisach. A stranger he was, and a
poor stranger at that. He was a sort of Pariah and could not be fitted
into their time-honored customs. Then, too, he did not pursue any
regular trade. "He expects to be an artist." At that time that was as
good as to be a robber, or a tramp or a conjurer.
Whatever Hans did or whatever he worked at, he kept a secret. He had
bought the little house in which he dwelt, and since his mother's death
had lived there all alone. Nobody came or went, except a famous sculptor
who had quarreled one day with a native in Breisach and been obliged to
leave the town. People said that Hans helped him get away. Ever since
that time Hans had been in ill-repute with his rich neighbor, the
Counselor.
Often Hans met Marie at the "Emperor's Bush," and these little meetings
seemed to make them like each other more than they had ever dreamed.
After Hans had missed Marie for many days, he sang a little song beneath
her window.
The next day she met Hans at the "Emperor's Bush," and there they
promised to be true to each others always. Then, in a moment of ecstasy,
Hans cried out, "Would that the Emperor were here!" Just as if he felt
that no one but the Emperor was worthy of sharing his great joy.
As the Emperor did not come, Hans cut the initials "M." and "H." in the
bark of the rosebush, and above it a little crown. This meant "Marie,
Hans and Emperor Maximilian."
The fall passed and winter came; and the children now seldom saw each
other. Hans sang so frequently beneath Marie's window that her father
heard him one night, and in great anger threatened to punish her if she
continued her acquaintance with this boy.
One evening Hans and Marie stood for the last time under the rose-bush
which they had planted eight years before. He was now a youth of twenty
years; she a rosebud of sixteen summers.
It was a lowering day in February. The snow had melted and a light wind
shook the bare branches of the bush. With downcast eyes she had related
to him all she had been forced to hear concerning him; and big tears
rolled down her cheeks.
"Marie," said the boy in deep grief, "I suppose you will finally be made
to believe that I am really a bad person?"
Then she looked full upon him, and a light smile played over her
features as she said: "No, Hans, never, never. No one can make me doubt
you. They do not understand you, but I do. You have taught me (what the
others do not know) everything that is good and great and noble. You
have made me what I am; just as your artistic hands have cut beautiful
forms out of dead wood." She took his big, brown hands and gently
pressed them to her lips. "I believe in you, for you worship the Supreme
with your art; and the man who does that, in word or deed, cannot be
wicked."
"And will you always remain true, Marie, till I have perfected myself
and my art, and can return to claim you?"
"Yes, Hans, I will wait for you; and should I die before you return, it
is here under this rosebush, where we have spent so many happy hours,
that I wish to be buried. You must return here to rest, when wearied by
your troubles; and every rose-leaf that falls upon you will be a good
wish from me."
Her tears fell silently, and their hearts were sorely tried by the grief
of parting.
"Don't cry," said Hans, "all will yet be well. I am going to Durer, as
the Emperor bade me. I will learn all that I can; and when I feel I know
something, I will seek the Emperor, wherever he may be, tell him my
desires, and beg him to intercede for me with your father."
"Oh, yes, the Emperor--if he were only here, he would help us."
"Perhaps he will come again," said Hans. "We will pray that he be sent
to us, or I to him."
They sank upon their knees in the cold, soft winter grass; and it seemed
to them as if a miracle would be performed, and the rose-bush be changed
into the Emperor.
There--what was that? The big clock on the church struck slowly,
solemnly, sadly--
The two looked up. "What is it, do you suppose? A fire--enemies,
perhaps? I sense a great calamity," said she.
Just at that moment people were coming toward the church. Hans hurried
up to them, to find out what was the trouble, while Marie waited.
"Where have you been, that you don't know? Why, yonder in the market
place the notice was read--'the Emperor is dead!'" they cried.
"The Emperor is dead?"
There stood Hans, paralyzed. All his hopes seemed shattered. As soon as
quiet reigned again, he returned to Marie, and seated himself on a
bench. Leaning his head in uncontrollable grief against the slender stem
of the rose-bush, he moaned aloud: "Oh, my Emperor, my dear, good
Emperor, why did you leave me?" Lightly Marie touched his shoulder in
sympathy.
The last rays of the setting sun had now departed. The last tones of the
dirge had died away. Everything was still and deserted, as if there
could never again be spring.
"Oh, Marie!" lamented Hans, hopelessly, "the King will never come
again."
"Bear up," said Marie, "for we have each other." And as she gazed far
off in the twilight, her eyes seemed like two exiled stars, yearningly
seeking their home.
As Hans gazed at her, standing there before him with her hands crossed
over her breast, in all her purity and humility, a great joy lit up his
countenance. He folded his hands, inspired.
"Marie," he whispered, "let us not despair. In this very moment I have
received an inspiration, and if I can bring to pass that which I now see
in my mind's eye, I shall be an artist who will need the help of no one
--not even an Emperor."
The dawn of the next day found Hans ready to set out on his journey. He
carried a knapsack on his back, and on his breast the little leather bag
which the Emperor had given him, with the few florins that remained. He
closed the door of his little house, put the key into his pocket, and
walked slowly off. Loud and clear sounded his rich, soft voice as he
sang, "On the rose thorn, on the rose thorn, there my hope is hanging!"
Softly in Marie's house a window was raised, and with a little white
handkerchief she gently waved her mute farewell.
Quickly mastering himself, Hans grasped his staff more firmly, and now
only his heavy tread echoed through the streets.
CHAPTER III
NO PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY
Year after year passed. Hans Le Fevre had not been heard from. People
thought of him, however, when they passed his house with the front door
firmly locked and the shades drawn, and wondered who would next lay
claim to it.
Only Marie thought constantly of him, and hoped and waited longingly. No
pleading, no scolding, no threats could arouse her. She never left the
house, unless it was to visit the rose-bush which she watered and tended
so well that it had now grown tall and stately. She knew that the sight
of it would cheer his faithful heart on his return. It was the only bond
between them. He had planted it with her, and they both loved it. It was
almost as high as the niche where it stood, and seemed as if it wished
to stretch beyond. Marie bent it and fastened it to the wall with a
string, so that its flowering top had to bend beneath the vaulted niche.
These quiet acts were her only joy, her only recreation. In work and
prayer she passed her days, and her fresh young cheeks began to pale.
Her father noticed the change, but without pity.
It was fortunate for her that his busy life took him away from home so
often.
Just at this time the people of Breisach desired a new altar for their
church. A proclamation was accordingly sent forth to all German artists
to compete, by submitting drawings and estimates for the work. To the
one who sent the best the contract would be given to carry out the
design.
Marie heard little about this, as she seldom came in contact with the
people. She lived lonely in her little home. It was now the fifth year
since Hans' departure, and long ago his letters had ceased to come,
because her father had forbidden any correspondence. Hans had no friends
in Breisach through whom he could communicate. But such uncertainty
gnaws. Marie was tired of waiting--very tired.
One afternoon she seated herself at her desk and started to write her
last wish. Her father was absent, and she was unwatched.
"When I die," she wrote, "I beg you to bury me yonder beside the
Cathedral wall, under the rose-bush which I planted in my childhood.
Should Hans Le Fevre ever return, I beg you--" she paused, for just then
a song, at first soft, then louder, greeted her ears.
No star ever fell from heaven, no swallow ever flew more quickly than
flew the maiden to her window, drawn by this call.
In trembling tones the final words of the song died away. Her paper, her
ink, her pen, everything had fallen from her in her haste. As a captive
bird, freed from its cage, flies forth joyously, so Marie bounded forth
from her home. Faster and faster she went, never stopping till she
reached the rose-bush. Breathless and with beating heart, she halted.
There before her stood Hans Le Fevre.
They seated themselves upon the bench. Long, long they sat silently.
At last Hans said, "My dear, true girl, how pale you have grown. Are you
ill?"
She shook her head. "No more, and I trust never again. But you stayed
away much too long. Couldn't you have come back sooner?"
"No, my dear, I could _not_. Had I returned as a poor, struggling
carver your father would have banished me from his door-step. We should
then have seen each other again, only to be parted for the second time.
So I waited till I had accomplished what I set out to do. I have
traveled extensively and feasted my eyes on the beautiful works of art
in great cities. I have studied under Durer, and now my name is
mentioned with honor as one of Durer's pupils."
"Oh, Hans, do you really believe that that will soften my father's
heart?" said Marie, anxiously.
"Yes, Marie, I don't think that he can fail me. I heard in Nurnberg that
a new altar is to be built in this Cathedral, so I hastened here to
compete. Should I be deemed worthy to do such a piece of work, what
could your father have against me?"
Marie, however, shook her head doubtfully; but Hans was full of hope.
"But see how our rose-bush has grown!" cried Hans in astonishment. "You
tended it well; but it seems almost as if the roses had taken from you
all your life and strength and health. Return my darling's strength to
her," Hans said laughingly; and taking a handful of roses, he softly
stroked her face with them; but her cheeks remained white.
"Rejoice, my rosebud, rejoice, my darling, for the spring will soon be
here; and with my care you will soon be well."
A half hour later, the beadle walked timidly into the council hall of
the high-gabled Council House, and said, "Honored Counselor, will you
graciously pardon me, but there is a man without who pressingly begs to
be ushered into your presence."
"Who is it?" asked the Counselor.
"It is Hans Le Fevre," answered the beadle, "but he is handsomely
attired. I hardly recognized him."
This was a great surprise to all. Hans, the runaway, the tramp, who
slipped away by night--to me. "See! see! ingeniously thought out," cried
he.
"But just to design a thing is far easier than to carry it out," said
another.
"Hans Le Fevre never did this kind of work before."
"Perhaps he has progressed," remarked the Mayor, "and possibly he would
do it cheaper than the renowned Master Artist."
This idea took root. "But," said one, "it would be an unheard of thing
to give such an exalted work to a simple boy like Hans Le Fevre, whom
everybody knew as a stupid child, and whom we looked upon disdainfully.
The appearance of the thing alone would not justify us in selecting
him."
But this remark had its good side, too; for the gentlemen now decided
that, in order that the work be given to the most competent, it would be
advisable to send to Durer all the designs thus far submitted, and ask
his opinion in the matter.
Marie cried bitterly when she heard of the treatment Hans had received;
but Hans did not yet despair. At the same time that these worthy
gentlemen dispatched the designs to Durer, Hans sent a letter to his
great friend and teacher, in whom he had great faith.
Weeks elapsed. The Counselor's attention was directed to affairs of
state, and thus withdrawn from his daughter, who lived and bloomed with
the returning spring.
Hans had opened his desolate house, for which, in the meantime, he had
carved a beautiful front door. Notwithstanding all the depreciation
expressed for the native artist's ability, this door caused quite a
sensation.
Durer's answer was long delayed. At last, after four weeks, the letter
arrived. Who can describe the astonishment of the assembled committee,
as the contents of the letter revealed the design of the disdainfully
rejected applicant, Hans Le Fevre.
Durer wrote, "With the very best intentions, I could recommend no wiser
course for you to pursue than to use the sketch presented by my friend
and pupil, Hans Le Fevre; and I will furnish security for the complete
execution of his plan. I cannot understand how a town that harbors in
its midst such a genius, should look abroad for other artists. Hans Le
Fevre is such an honorable lad and such a great artist, that the town of
Breisach should be proud to name him as her own, and should do
everything in its power to hold him captive; for to Hans the world lies
open, and only his attachment to Breisach has moved him to return there
once more."
Directly upon receipt of this letter, an unheard of number of villagers
crowded the narrow street. Hans, who was working quietly in his shop ran
to the window to see what the noise was about. But lo! the crowd had
stopped at his house and loudly did they make the brazen knocker
resound, as it struck the carved lion's head upon the door.
Hans came forth, and before him stood a deputation of men in festive
attire, followed by a throng of residents.
"What do you desire of me?" asked Hans, surprised.
"Hans Le Fevre," began the speaker, "the honorable Counselor makes known
to you that he has finally decided to honor your application, with the
instruction that if money be needed for the purchase of materials,
application may be made to the clerk of the town."
Hans clapped his hands in glee. "Is it true--is it possible!" said he.
"To whom am I indebted for this good fortune?"
"The Council sends you this letter which we will now read before these
assembled people." Hans had not noticed in his joy that his neighbor,
the Counselor, had angrily closed his windows, as if the praise bestowed
upon the young artist might offend his ears.
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