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.”