“It is a pity you had not a replico, for your work will never become known, thus disposed of.”
“Ay, but how much is lost that deserves to remain! Those sketches cost me seven years of more than labor; all I have thought, lived, suffered; the first dream of youth; the stern repose after the struggle with fate! I sacrificed all—I spared not even the spark of life; and I thought, when the work was finished, the laurel would at least deck the brow of the dead. Dreams, fantasies! Wherever I offered my work, I was repulsed. The publishers thought the undertaking too expensive; some said I might draw scenes from the Seven years’ war, like M. Chadowiski; others shook their heads, and called my sketches wild and fantastic.”
“Yes, yes!” murmured the old man, musingly. “Lessing, who died three years ago, was right when he said to me, ‘All the artist accomplishes beyond the appreciation of the multitude brings him neither profit nor honor.’ Believe me, Theodore, I know well by experience what is meant by the saying ‘The highest must grovel with the worm.’”
“And I must grovel on, old friend! As long as I can remember, I have had but one passion—for my art! The beauty of woman moved me with but the artist’s rapture! Yet must I degrade my art to the vain rabble; must paint apish faces, while visions of divine loveliness float before me; must feel the genius within me comprehended by none; must be driven to despair of myself! Gifted as few are, free from guilt, I must ask myself, at five and twenty, wherefore have I lived?”
“Live;—you will find the answer.”
“Have you found it—at seventy-four? You cannot evade the question; it presses even on the happy. Had I obtained what I sought, the answer might be—I have lived, and wrought, to win the prize; to shine a clear star in the horizon. So shines Raphael to me; and to you, some old master of your art; and we are doomed to insignificance and disappointment.”
“Be silent!” exclaimed the old man; “that leads to madness, and madness is terrible! They tell me I was thus a long while.”
“Have no fear of that, old friend! We are both too near a sure harbor! Come, finish the wine; welcome the New year! Hark! to the music and the revelry below in the streets; and we are exalted like the ancient gods on the top of Olympus, sipping the precious nectar, and laughing at the fools who rejoice in their being. Drink, as I do! Well, yonder is your bed, and here is mine. I am weary, and wish you a good night!”
The old man also retired to rest; the storm ceased to rage without. The music and ringing of bells continued throughout the night.
The first beams of the sun poured into the chamber, and awoke the old man. It was a clear and cold morning; the air was keen and bracing, the sky blue and cloudless, and the frost had wrought delicate tracery on the panes.