FullReads

There was a light tap at the door and it flew open.

The painter looked up quickly. The tense, earnest gaze broke into a sunny smile. “Pirkheimer!” He sprang to his feet. “What now?”

The other man came leisurely across the room, his eyes on the easel. He nodded toward it approvingly.

“Wanted to see it,” he said. His eyes studied the picture. “I got to thinking it over after you left me–I was afraid you might touch it up and spoil it–I want it just as it is.” His eyes sought his companion’s face.

The painter shook his head. “I don’t know–not yet–you must leave it with me. It’s yours. You shall have it–when it’s done.”

“It’s done now,” said the other brusquely. “Here–sign.” He picked up a brush, and, dipping it into a soft color on the palette, handed it to the painter.

He took it doubtfully between his fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly his hand moved toward the canvas. It traced rapidly, below the flowing locks, a huge, uncouth A; then, more slowly, within the sprawling legs of the A, a shadowy D; and finally, at the top, above them both, in tiny figures, a date–1503. The brush dropped from his fingers, and he stepped back with a little sigh.

His companion reached out his hand. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

The artist interposed a hand. “Not yet,” he said.

“It’s mine,” replied the other. “You said it.”

“Yes, I said it–not yet.”

The other yielded with a satisfied smile. His hand strayed to the purse hanging at his side. “What’s to pay? Tell me.”

The artist shook his head. “I would not sell it–not even to you,” he said. His eyes were on the canvas.

“But it’s mine!”

“It’s yours–for friendship’s sake.”

The young man nodded contentedly. Then a thought struck across his face. “You’ll tell Agnes that?” he said quickly.

“Ay, I’ll tell Agnes–that it’s yours. But not what you paid for it,” added the painter thoughtfully.

“No, no, don’t tell her that.” The young man spoke quickly. His tone was half jesting, half earnest. He stood looking at the two faces, glancing from one to the other with a look of baffled resentment. “A living shame!” he muttered under his breath.

The artist looked up quickly. “What?”

“Nothing.” The young man moved vaguely about the room. “I wish to God, Duerer, you had a free hand!” he broke out.

The artist glanced inquiry. He held up his hand, moving the supple fingers with a little gesture of pride. “Isn’t it?” he demanded, smiling.

The young man shook his head. His round face retained its look of dissent. “Marriage–for a man like you! Two hundred florins–for dowry!” He laughed scornfully.

His companion’s face flushed. A swift look came into the eyes.

The other held out a deprecating hand. “I didn’t mean it,” he said. “Don’t be angry.”

The flush faded. The artist turned to the easel, taking up a brush, as if to seek in work a vent for his disturbed thought.

“You’ll spoil it!” said Pirkheimer quickly.

“I shall finish it,” replied Duerer, without looking up.

The other moved restlessly about. “Well … I must go. Good-by, Duerer.” He came and stood by the easel, holding out his hand.

The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. “Good-by, my friend.” He held out his hand frankly.

Pirkheimer caught it in his. “We’re friends?” he said.

“Always.”

“And you will never want–if I can help you.”

“Never!” The tone was hearty and proud.

Pirkheimer turned away with a look of contentment. “I shall hold you to it,” he said. “It is a promise.”

“I shall hold you to it,” laughed Duerer.

When the door had closed, he stood looking down at the picture. He moved once or twice across the room. Then he stopped before a little brazier, looking at it hesitatingly. He bent over and lighted the coals in the basin. He blew them with a tiny bellows till they glowed. Then he placed a pan above them and threw into it lumps of brownish stuff. When the mixture was melted, he carried it across to the easel and dipped a large brush into it thoughtfully. He drew it across the canvas. The track behind it glowed and deepened in the dim light. Slowly the picture mellowed under it. A look of sweet satisfaction hovered about the artist’s lips as he worked. The liquid in the pan lessened and his brush moved more slowly. The mixture had deepened in tint and thickened. Wherever the brush rested a deep, luminous color sprang to meet it. It moved swiftly across the monogram–and paused. The artist peered forward uncertainly. The letters lay erased in the dim light. With another stroke of the brush–and another–they were gone forever.