belongings in the studio, but with very different feelings from the first
time.

He was a man, he now knew what the right "word" was, life lay open before
him, and the paradise of Art was about to unclose its gates.

The studies he had finished in Madrid aroused his compassion; in Italy he
would first really begin to become an artist: there work must bring him
what it had here denied: satisfaction, success!  Gay as a boy, half
frantic with joy, happiness and expectation, he crushed the sketches,
which seemed to him too miserable, into the waste-paper basket with a
maul-stick.

During this work of destruction, Isabella entered the room.

She was now sixteen.  Her figure had developed early, but remained
petite.  Large, deep, earnest eyes looked forth from the little round
face, and the fresh, tiny mouth could not help pleasing everyone.  Her
head now reached only to Ulrich's breast, and if he had always treated
her like a dear, sensible, clever child, her small stature had certainly
been somewhat to blame for it.  To-day she was paler than usual and her
features were so grave, that the young man asked her in surprise, yet
full of sympathy:

"What is  the matter, little  one?  Are you not well?"

"Yes, yes," she answered, quickly, "only I must talk with you once more
alone."

"Do you wish to hear my confession, Belita?"

"Cease jesting now.  I am no longer a child.  My heart aches, and I must
not conceal the cause."

"Speak, speak!  How you look!  One might really be alarmed."

"If I only can!  No one here tells you the truth; but I--I love you;
so  I will do it, ere it is too late.  Don't interrupt me now, or I shall
lose courage, and I will, I must speak."

"My studies lately have not pleased you; nor me either.  Your father...."

"He has led you in false paths, and now you are going to Italy, and when
you see what the greatest artists have created, you will wish to imitate
them immediately and forget Meister Moor's lessons.  I know you, Ulrich,
I know it!  But I also know something else, and it must now be said
frankly.  If you allow yourself to be led on to paint pictures, if you do
not submit to again become a modest pupil, and honestly torment yourself
with studying, you will make no progress, you will never again accomplish
a portrait like the one in the old days, like your Sophonisba.  You will
then be no great artist and you can, you must become one."

"I will, Belita, I will!"

"Well, well; but first be a pupil!  If I were in your place, I would, for
aught I care, go to Venice and look about me, but from there I would ride
to Flanders, to Moor, to the master."

"Give up Italy?  Can you be in earnest?  Your father, himself, told me,
that I.....well, yes....in portrait-painting, he too thinks I am no
blunderer.  Where do the Netherlanders go to learn anything new?  To
Italy, always to Italy!  What do they create in Flanders?  Portraits,
portraits, nothing more.  Moor is great, very great in this department,
but I take a very different view of art; it has higher aims.  My head is
full of plans.  Wait, only wait!  In Italy I shall learn to fly, and when
I have finished my Holy Family and my Temple of Art, with all the skill
I intend to attain...."

"Then, then, what will happen then?"

"Then you will perhaps change your opinion and cease your tutoring, once
for all.  This fault-finding, this warning vexes me.  It spoils my
pleasure, it clouds my fancy.  You are poisoning my happiness, you--
you....the croaker's voice is disagreeable to me."

Isabella sadly bent her head in silence.  Ulrich approached her, saying:

"I do not wish to wound you, Belita; indeed, I do not.  You mean well,
and you love me, a poor forsaken fellow; do you not, little girl?"

"Yes, Ulrich, and that is just why I have told you what I think.  You are
rejoicing now in the thought of Italy...."

"Very, very much, unspeakably!  There, too, I will remember you, and what
a dear, faithful, wise little creature you are.  Let us part in
friendship, Isabella.  Come with me; that would be the best way!"

The young girl flushed deeply, and made no answer except: "How gladly I
would!"

The words sounded so affectionate and came so tenderly from the inmost
depths of the heart, that they entered his soul.  And while she spoke,
her eyes gazed so faithfully, lovingly, and yearningly into his, that he
saw nothing else.  He read in them love, true, self-sacrificing love; not
like pretty Carmen's or that given by the ladies, who had thrown flowers
to him from their balconies.  His heart swelled, and when he saw how the
flush on Isabella's dear face deepened under his answering glance,
unspeakable gratitude and joy seized upon him, and he could not help
clasping her in his arms and drawing her into his embrace.

She permitted it, and when she looked up at him and her soft scarlet
lips, from which gleamed two rows of dazzling white teeth, bloomed
temptingly near him, he bent his, he knew not how, towards them.  They
kissed each other again and again, and Isabella flung her little hands
around his neck, for she could not reach him with her arms, and said she
had always loved him; he assured her in an agitated voice that he
believed it, and that there was no better, sweeter, brighter creature on
earth than she; only he forgot to say that he loved her.  She gave, he
received, and it seemed to him natural.

She saw and felt nothing except him and her happiness; he was wholly
absorbed by the bliss of being loved and the sweetness of her kiss; so
neither noticed that Coello had opened the door and watched them for a
minute, with mingled wrath and pleasure, irresolutely shaking his head.

When the court-artist's deep voice exclaimed loudly:

"Why, why, these are strange doings!"  they hastily started back.

Startled, sobered, confused, Ulrich sought for words, and at last
stammered:

"We have, we wanted....the farewell....  Coello found no time to
interrupt him, for his daughter had thrown herself on his breast,
exclaiming amid tears:

"Forgive us, father-forgive us; he loves me, and I, I love him so dearly,
and now that we belong to each other, I am no longer anxious about him,
he will not rest, and when he returns...."

"Enough, enough!"  interrupted Coello, pressing his hand upon her mouth.
"That is why a duenna is kept for the child; and this is my sensible
Belita!  It is of no importance, that yonder youth has nothing, I myself
courted your mother with only three reales in my pocket, but he cannot
yet do any really good work, and that alters the case.  It is not my way
to dun debtors, I have been in debt too often myself for that; but you,
Navarrete, have received many favors from me, when you were badly off,
and if you are not a scamp, leave the girl in peace and do not see her
again before your departure.  When you have studied in Italy and become a
real artist, the rest will take care of itself.  You are already a
handsome, well-formed fellow, and my race will not degenerate in you.
There are very different women in Italy, from this dear little creature
here.  Shut your eyes, and beware of breaking her heart.  Your promise!
Your hand upon it!  In a year and a half from to-day come here again,
show what you can do, and stand the test.  If you have become what I
hope, I'll give her to you; if not, you can quietly go your way.  You
will make no objection to this, you silly little, love-sick thing.
Go to your room now, Belita, and you, Navarrete, come with me."

Ulrich followed the artist to his chamber, where the latter opened a
chest, in which lay the gold he had earned.  He did not know himself,
how much it was, for it was neither counted, nor entered in books.
Grasping the ducats, he gave Ulrich two handfuls, exclaiming:

"This one is for your work here, the other to relieve you from any care
concerning means of living, while pursuing your studies in Venice and
Florence.  Don't make the child wretched, my lad; if you do, you will be
a contemptible, dishonorable rascal, a scoundrel, a....  but you don't
look like a rogue!"

There was a great deal of bustle in Coello's house that evening.  The
artist's indolent wife was unusually animated.  She could not control her
surprise and wrath.  Isabella had been from childhood a great favorite of
Herrera, the first architect in Spain, who had already expressed his love
for the young girl, and now this vagabond pauper, this immature boy, had
come to destroy the prosperity of her child's life.

She upbraided Coello with being faithless to his paternal duty, and
called him a thoughtless booby.  Instead of turning the ungrateful rascal
out of the house, he, the dunce, had given him hopes of becoming her
poor, dazzled, innocent daughter's husband.  During the ensuing weeks,
Senora Petra prepared Coello many bad days and still worse nights; but
the painter persisted in his resolution to give Isabella to Ulrich, if in
a year and a half he returned from Italy a skilful artist.




ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Among fools one must be a fool






A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 4.


CHAPTER XXI.

The admiral's ship, which bore King Philip's ambassador to Venice,
reached its destination safely, though it had encountered many severe
storms on the voyage, during which Ulrich was the only passenger, who
amid the rolling and pitching of the vessel, remained as well as an old
sailor.

But, on the other hand his peace of mind was greatly impaired, and any
one who had watched him leaning over the ship's bulwark, gazing into the
sea, or pacing up and down with restless bearing and gloomy eyes, would
scarcely have suspected that this reserved, irritable youth, who was only
too often under the dominion of melancholy moods, had won only a short
time before a noble human heart, and was on the way to the realization of
his boldest dreams, the fulfilment of his most ardent wishes.

How differently he had hoped to enter "the Paradise of Art!"

Never had he been so free, so vigorous, so rich, as in the dawn of the
day, at whose close he was to unite Isabella's life with his own--and
now--now!

He had expected to wander through Italy from place to place as
untrammelled, gay, and free as the birds in the air; he had desired to
see, admire, en joy, and after becoming familiar with all the great
artists, choose a new master among them.  Sophonisba's home was to have
become his, and it had never entered his mind to limit the period of his
enjoyment and study on the sacred soil.

How differently his life must now be ordered!  Until he went on board of
the ship in Valencia, the thought of calling a girl so good, sensible and
loving as Isabella his own, rejoiced and inspired him, but during the
solitary hours a sea-voyage so lavishly bestows, a strange transformation
in his feelings occurred.

The wider became the watery expanse between him and Spain, the farther
receded Isabella's memory, the less alluring and delightful grew the
thought of possessing her hand.

He now told himself that, before the fatal hour, he had rejoiced at the
anticipation of escaping her pedantic criticism, and when he looked
forward to the future and saw himself, handsome Ulrich Navarrete, whose
superior height filled the smaller Castilians with envy, walking through
the streets with his tiny wife, and perceived the smiles of the people
they met, he was seized with fierce indignation against himself and his
hard fate.

He felt fettered like the galley-slaves, whose chains rattled and
clanked, as they pulled at the oars in the ship's waist.  At other times
he could not help recalling her large, beautiful, love-beaming eyes, her
soft, red lips, and yearningly confess that it would have been sweet to
hold her in his arms and kiss her, and, since he had forever lost his
Ruth, he could find no more faithful, sensible, tender wife than she.

But what should he, the student, the wandering disciple of Art, do with a
bride, a wife?  The best and fairest of her sex would now have seemed to
him an impediment, a wearisome clog.  The thought of being obliged to
accomplish some fixed task within a certain time, and then be subjected
to an examination, curbed his enjoyment, oppressed, angered him.

Grey mists gathered more and more densely over the sunny land, for which
he had longed with such passionate ardor, and it seemed as if in that
luckless hour, he had been faithless to the "word,"--had deprived himself
of its assistance forever.

He often felt tempted to send Coello his ducats and tell him he had been
hasty, and cherished no desire to wed his daughter; but perhaps that
would break the heart of the poor, dear little thing, who loved him so
tenderly!  He would be no dishonorable ingrate, but bear the consequences
of his own recklessness.

Perhaps some miracle would happen in Italy, Art's own domain.  Perhaps
the sublime goddess would again take him to her heart, and exert on him
also the power Sophonisba had so fervently praised.

The ambassador and his secretary, de Soto, thought Ulrich an unsocial
dreamer; but nevertheless, after they reached Venice, the latter invited
him to share his lodgings, for Don Juan had requested him to interest
himself in the young artist.

What could be the matter with the handsome fellow?  The secretary tried
to question him, but Ulrich did not betray what troubled him, only
alluding in general terms to a great anxiety that burdened his mind.

"But the time is now coming when the poorest of the poor, the most
miserable of all forsaken mortals, cast aside their griefs!" cried de
Soto.  "Day after to morrow the joyous Carnival season will begin!  Hold
up your head, young man!  Cast your sorrows into the Grand Canal, and
until Ash-Wednesday, imagine that heaven has fallen upon earth!"

Oh! blue sea, that washes the lagunes, oh!  mast-thronged Lido, oh!
palace of the Doges, that chains the eye, as well as the backward gazing,
mind, oh! dome of St. Mark, in thy incomparable garb of gold and
paintings, oh!  ye steeds and other divine works of bronze, ye noble
palaces, for which the still surface of the placid water serves as a
mirror, thou square of St. Mark, where, clad in velvet, silk and gold,
the richest and freest of all races display their magnificence, with just
pride!  Thou harbor, thou forest of masts, thou countless fleet of
stately galleys, which bind one quarter of the globe to another,
inspiring terror, compelling obedience, and gaining boundless treasures
by peaceful voyages and with shining blades.  Oh! thou Rialto, where gold
is stored, as wheat and rye are elsewhere;--ye proud nobles, ye fair
dames with luxuriant tresses, whose raven hue pleases ye not, and which
ye dye as bright golden as the glittering zechins ye squander with such
small, yet lavish hands!  Oh!  Venice, Queen of the sea, mother of
riches, throne of power, hall of fame, temple of art, who could escape
thy spell!

What wanton Spring is to the earth, thy carnival season is to thee!  It
transforms the magnificence of color of the lagune-city into a dazzling
radiance, the smiles to Olympic laughter, the love-whispers to exultant
songs, the noisy, busy life of the mighty commercial city into a mad
whirlpool, which draws everything into its circle, and releases nothing
it has once seized.

De Soto urged and pushed the youth, who had already lost his mental
equipoise, into the midst of the gulf, ere he had found the right
current.

On the barges, amid the throngs in the streets, at banquets, in ball-
rooms, at the gaming-table, everywhere, the young, golden-haired,
superbly-dressed artist, who was on intimate terms with the Spanish
king's ambassador, attracted the attention of men, and the eyes,
curiosity and admiration of the women; though people as yet knew not
whence he came.

He chose the tallest and most stately of the slender dames of Venice
to lead in the dance, or through the throng of masks and citizens
intoxicated with the mirth of the carnival.  Whithersoever he led the
fairest followed.

He wished to enjoy the respite before execution.  To forget--to forget--
to indemnify himself for future seasons of sacrifice, dulness, self-
conquest, torment.

Poor little Isabella!  Your lover sought to enjoy the sensation of
showing himself to the crowd with the stateliest woman in the company on
his arm!  And you, Ulrich, how did you feel when people exclaimed behind
you: "A splendid pair!  Look at that couple!"

Amid this ecstasy, he needed no helping word, neither "fortune" nor "art;
"without any magic spell he flew from pleasure to pleasure, through every
changing scene, thinking only of the present and asking no questions
about the future.

Like one possessed he plunged into passion's wild whirl.  From the
embrace of beautiful arms he rushed to the gaming-table, where the ducats
he flung down soon became a pile of gold; the zechins filled his purse to
overflowing.

The quickly-won treasure melted like snow in the sun, and returned again
like stray doves to their open cote.

The works of art were only enjoyed with drunken eyes--yet, once more the
gracious word exerted its wondrous power on the misguided youth.

On Shrove-Tuesday, the ambassador took Ulrich to the great Titian.

He stood face to face with the mighty monarch of colors, listened to
gracious words from his lips, and saw the nonogenarian, whose tall figure
was scarcely bowed, receive the king's gifts.

Never, never, to the close of his existence could he forget that face!

The features were as delicately and as clearly outlined, as if cut with
an engraver's chisel from hard metal; but pallid, bloodless, untinged by
the faintest trace of color.  The long, silver-white beard of the tall
venerable painter flowed in thick waves over his breast, and the eyes,
with which he scanned Ulrich, were those of a vigorous, keen-sighted man.
His voice did not sound harsh, but sad and melancholy; deep sorrow
shadowed his glance, and stamped itself upon the mouth of him, whose
thin, aged hand still ensnared the senses easily and surely with gay
symphonies of color!

The youth answered the distinguished Master's questions with trembling
lips, and when Titian invited him to share his meal, and Ulrich, seated
at the lower end of the table in the brilliant banqueting-hall, was told
by his neighbors with what great men he was permitted to eat, he felt so
timid, small, and insignificant, that he scarcely ventured to touch the
goblets and delicious viands the servants offered.

He looked and listened; distinguishing his old master's name, and hearing
him praised without stint as a portrait-painter.  He was questioned about
him, and gave confused answers.

Then the guests rose.

The February sun was shining into the lofty window, where Titian seated
himself to talk more gaily than before with Paolo Cagliari, Veronese, and
other great artists and nobles.

Again Ulrich heard Moor mentioned.  Then the old man, from whom the youth
had not averted his eyes for an instant, beckoned, and Cagliari called
him, saying that he, the gallant Antonio Moor's pupil, must now show what
he could do; the Master, Titian, would give him a task.

A shudder ran through his frame; cold drops of perspiration, extorted by
fear, stood on his brow.

The old man now invited him to accompany his nephew to the studio.
Daylight would last an hour longer.  He might paint a Jew; no usurer nor
dealer in clothes, but one of the noble race of prophets, disciples,
apostles.

Ulrich stood before the easel.

For the first time after a long period he again called upon the "word,"
and did so fervently, with all his heart.  His beloved dead, who in the
tumult of carnival mirth had vanished from his memory, again rose before
his mind, among them the doctor, who gazed rebukingly at him with his
clear, thoughtful eyes.

Like an inspiration a thought darted through the youth's brain.  He could
and would paint Costa, his friend and teacher, Ruth's father.

The portrait he had drawn when a boy appeared before his memory, feature
for feature.  A red pencil lay close at hand.

Sketching the outlines with a few hasty strokes, he seized the brush, and
while hurriedly guiding it and mixing the colors, he saw in fancy Costa
standing before him, asking him to paint his portrait.

Ulrich had never forgotten the mild expression of the eyes, the smile
hovering about the delicate lips, and now delineated them as well as he
could.  The moments slipped by, and the portrait gained roundness and
life.  The youth stepped back to see what it still needed, and once more
called upon the "word" from the inmost depths of his heart; at the same
instant the door opened, and leaning on a younger painter, Titian, with
several other artists, entered the studio.

He looked at the picture, then at Ulrich, and said with an approving
smile: "See, see!  Not too much of the Jew, and a perfect apostle!  A
Paul, or with longer hair and a little more youthful aspect, an admirable
St. John.  Well done, well done! my son!"

Well done, well done!  These words from Titian had ennobled his work;
they echoed loudly in his soul, and the measure of his bliss threatened
to overflow, when no less a personage than the famous Paolo Veronese,
invited him to come to his studio as a pupil on Saturday.

Enraptured, animated by fresh hope, he threw himself into his gondola.

Everyone had left the palace, where he lodged with de Soto.  Who would
remain at home on the evening of Shrove-Tuesday?

The lonely rooms grew too confined for him.

Quiet days would begin early the next morning, and on Saturday a new,
fruitful life in the service of the only true word, Art, divine Art,
would commence for him.  He would enjoy this one more evening of pleasure,
this night of joy; drain it to the dregs.  He fancied he had won a
right that day to taste every bliss earth could give.

Torches, pitch-pans and lamps made the square of St. Mark's as bright as
day, and the maskers crowded upon its smooth pavement as if it were the
floor of an immense ball-room.

Intoxicating music, loud laughter, low, tender whispers, sweet odors from
the floating tresses of fair women bewildered Ulrich's senses, already
confused by success and joy.  He boldly accosted every one, and if he
suspected that a fair face was concealed under a mask, drew nearer,
touched the strings of a lute, that hung by a purple ribbon round his
neck, and in the notes of a tender song besought love.

Many a wave of the fan rewarded, many an angry glance from men's dark
eyes rebuked the bold wooer.  A magnificent woman of queenly height now
passed, leaning on the arm of a richly-dressed cavalier.

Was not that the fair Claudia, who a short time before had lost enormous
sums at the gaming-table in the name of the rich Grimani, and who had
invited Ulrich to visit her later, during Lent?

It was, he could not be mistaken, and now followed the pair like a
shadow, growing bolder and bolder the more angrily the cavalier rebuffed
him with wrathful glances and harsh words; for the lady did not cease to
signify that she recognized him and enjoyed his playing.  But the
nobleman was not disposed to endure this offensive sport.  Pausing in the
middle of the square, he released his arm with a contemptuous gesture,
saying: "The lute-player, or I, my fair one; you can decide----"

The Venetian laughed loudly, laid her hand on Ulrich's arm and said: "The
rest of the Shrove-Tuesday night shall be yours, my merry singer."

Ulrich joined in her gayety, and taking the lute from his neck, offered
it to the cavalier, with a defiant gesture, exclaiming:

"It's at your disposal, Mask; we have changed parts.  But please hold it
firmer than you held your lady."  High play went on in the gaming hall;
Claudia was lucky with the artist's gold.

At midnight the banker laid down the cards.  It was Ash-Wednesday, the
hall must be cleared; the quiet Lenten season had begun.

The players withdrew into the adjoining rooms, among them the much-envied
couple.

Claudia threw herself upon a couch; Ulrich left her to procure a gondola.

As soon as he was gone, she was surrounded by a motley throng of suitors.

How the beautiful woman's dark eyes sparkled, how the gems on her full
neck and dazzling arms glittered, how readily she uttered a witty
repartee to each gay sally.

"Claudia unaccompanied!" cried a young noble.  "The strangest sight at
this remarkable carnival!"

"I am fasting," she answered gaily; "and now that I long for meagre food,
you come!  What a lucky chance!"

"Heavy Grimani has also become a very light man, with your assistance."

"That's why he flew away.  Suppose you follow him?"

"Gladly, gladly, if you will accompany me."

"Excuse me to-day; there comes my knight."

Ulrich had remained absent a long time, but Claudia had not noticed it.
Now he bowed to the gentlemen, offered her his arm, and as they descended
the staircase, whispered: "The mask who escorted you just now detained
me;--and there....see, they are picking him up down there in the court-
yard.--He attacked me...."

"You have--you...."

"'They came to his assistance immediately.  He barred my way with his
unsheathed blade."

Claudia hastily drew her hand from the artist's arm, exclaiming in a low,
anxious tone: "Go, go, unhappy man, whoever you may be!  It was Luigi
Grimani; it was a Grimani!  You are lost, if they find you.  Go, if you
love your life, go at once!"

So ended the Shrove-Tuesday, which had begun so gloriously for the young
artist.  Titian's "well done" no longer sounded cheerfully in his ears,
the "go, go," of the venal woman echoed all the more loudly.

De Soto was waiting for him, to repeat to him the high praise he had
heard bestowed upon his art-test at Titian's; but Ulrich heard nothing,
for he gave the secretary no time to speak, and the latter could only
echo the beautiful Claudia's "go, go!"  and then smooth the way for his
flight.

When the morning of Ash-Wednesday dawned cool and misty, Venice lay
behind the young artist.  Unpursued, but without finding rest or
satisfaction, he went to Parma, Bologna, Pisa, Florence.

Grimani's death burdened his conscience but lightly.  Duelling was a
battle in miniature, to kill one's foe no crime, but a victory.  Far
different anxieties tortured him.

Venice, whither the "word" had led him, from which he had hoped and
expected everything, was lost to him, and with it Titian's favor and
Cagliari's instruction.

He began to doubt himself, his future, the sublime word and its magic
spell.  The greater the works which the traveller's eyes beheld, the more
insignificant he felt, the more pitiful his own powers, his own skill
appeared.

"Draw, draw!"  advised every master to whom he applied, as soon as he had
seen his work.  The great men, to whom he offered himself as a pupil,
required years of persevering study.  But his time was limited, for the
misguided youth's faithful German heart held firmly to one resolve; he
must present himself to Coello at the end of the appointed time.  The
happiness of his life was forfeited, but no one should obtain the right
to call him faithless to his word, or a scoundrel.

In Florence he heard Sebastiano Filippi--who had been a pupil of Michael
Angelo-praised as a good drawer; so he sought him in Ferrara and found
him ready to teach him what he still lacked.  But the works of the new
master did not please him.  The youth, accustomed to Moor's wonderful
clearness, Titian's brilliant hues, found Filippi's pictures indistinct,
as if veiled by grey mists.  Yet he forced himself to remain with him for
months, for he was really remarkably skilful in drawing, and his studio
never lacked nude models; he needed them for the preliminary studies for
his "Day of Judgment."

Without satisfaction, without pleasure in the wearisome work, without
love for the sickly master, who held aloof from any social intercourse
with him when the hours of labor were over, he felt discontented, bored,
disenchanted.

In the evening he sought diversion at the gaming-table, and fortune
favored him here as it had done in Venice.  His purse overflowed with
zechins; but with the red gold, Art withdrew from him her powerful ally,
necessity, the pressing need of gaining a livelihood by the exertion of
his own strength.

He spent the hours appointed for study like a careless lover, and worked
without inclination, without pleasure, without ardor, yet with visible
increase of skill.

In gambling he forgot what tortured him, it stirred his blood, dispelled
weariness; the gold was nothing to him.

The lion's share of his gains he loaned to broken gamblers, without
expectation of return, gave to starving artists, or flung with lavish
hand to beggars.

So the months in Ferrara glided by, and when the allotted time was over,
he took leave of Sebastiano Filippi without regret.  He returned by sea
to Spain, and arrived in Madrid richer than he had gone away, but with
impoverished confidence in his own powers, and doubting the omnipotence
of Art.




CHAPTER XXII.

Ulrich again stood before the Alcazar, and recalled the hour when, a poor
lad, just escaped from prison, he had been harshly rebuffed by the same
porter, who now humbly saluted the young gentleman attired in costly
velvet.

And yet how gladly he would have crossed this threshold poor as in those
days, but free and with a soul full of enthusiasm and hope; how joyfully
he would have effaced from his life the years that lay between that time
and the present.

He dreaded meeting the Coellos; nothing but honor urged him to present
himself to them.

Yes--and if the old man rejected him?--so much the better!

The old cheerful confusion reigned in the studio.  He had a long time to
wait there, and then heard through several doors Senora Petra's scolding
voice and her husband's angry replies.

At last Coello came to him and after greeting him, first formally, then
cordially, and enquiring about his health and experiences, he shrugged
his shoulders, saying:

"My wife does not wish you to see Isabella again before the trial.  You
must show what you can do, of course; but I.....  you look well and
apparently have collected reales.  Or is it true," and he moved his hand
as if shaking a dice-box.  "He who wins is a good fellow, but we want no
more to do with such people here!  You find me the same as of old, and
you have returned at the right time, that is something.  De Soto has told
me about your quarrel in Venice.  The great masters were pleased with you
and this, you Hotspur, you forfeited!  Ferrara for Venice!  A poor
exchange.  Filippi--understands drawing; but otherwise....  Michael
Angelo's pupil!  Does he still write on his back?  Every monk is God's
servant, but in how few does the Lord dwell!  What have you drawn with
Sebastiano?"

Ulrich answered these questions in a subdued tone; and Coello listened
with only partial attention, for he heard his wife telling the duenna
Catalina in an adjoining room what she thought of her husband's conduct.
She did so very loudly, for she wished to be overheard by him and Ulrich.
But she was not to obtain her purpose, for Coello suddenly interrupted
the returned travellers story, saying:

"This is getting beyond endurance.  If she does her utmost, you shall see