entage, his boyhood in the Bavarian village of Schrobenhausen, his early struggles and prompt achievement of renown, is widely known. One day, some years ago, when driving out with Princess Bismarck in the neighborhood of Varzin, the carriage passed a cottage on the wall of which a mason was working. Lenbach turned to the Princess, and, with that wistful smile of his, said: "Just look at that man, Princess. I, too, was once at work like that poor fellow."

Lenbach's father was a village builder with a large family. His charge for drawing up the plan of a cottage was about one florin-or one shilling and eightpence in English money. So it may well have been within the functions of his gifted son to lend a helping hand occasionally with brick and mortar. He told me that he lived on less than a pound a month during the days of his apprenticeship. Long before he died, the peasant's son had become, what Tiziano Vecellio was once before him, "The painter of kings and a king among painters." But even this description of Lenbach's scope of activity is inadequate. For the painter of kings in his case did not include the court painter, but the term comprised the limning of those for whom the German language has coined the beautiful, untranslatable term of "Geistesheroen": Heroes of the Mind. These were indeed the only kings of whom Lenbach would have cared to be called the painter. He was not impressed by rank, and though he had probably painted more exalted personages than any other artist of his time, he had refused almost as many commissions as he accepted. He declined an invitation of the Emperor Alexander III. to come to St. Petersburg, and I was present when he likewise declined a telegraphic summons to come to London to paint Mr. Cecil Rhodes. Show

ing me the telegram he said, "Let him come to Munich."

The extraordinary position Lenbach occupied in the social and artistic world of Germany was due almost as much to his strong character as to his eminence as an artist. Forty years ago a German Art critic thus described the impression Lenbach made upon

him:

Although not endowed with engaging manners, there was something in the peculiar, piercing, yet meditative, glance of this intellectual, Mephistophelian figure which produced an immediate impression. Simple and dignified withal; retiring and yet boldly self-conscious, the nonchalant, almost disdainful, manner of speaking of this young man was very striking. You could see at a glance that he was neither in harmony with himself nor with his surroundings. His demeanor betrayed the uneasy, dissatisfied restlessness of an ideal nature, strenuously calling for the highest attainable standard from the outer world as well Poor as a church as from himself. mouse, he would have accepted or declined the gift of a Kingdom with equal equanimity. There was a natural distinction about the man; he never appeared to be excited or flurried, much less carried away by feeling. And yet beneath outward calm, a perfect discipline of self-control, you could still discern a burning ardor of temperament and conviction lurking within. All this caused him to exercise a fascinating influence over many others besides myself.

Lenbach was one of the small number of great artists who followed through life the full bent of an artistic temperament, without suffering shipwreck in the process: standing here in marked contrast to Rembrandt, the genius with whom he has been most often compared. During the critical period in which many talented men nurse their chances of "getting on" in the world, Lenbach, whether in Rome,

Vienna or Madrid-whilst working as hard as only the strong can work-yet led a high-strung life in the midst of a society composed of lovely women and cultured men. Heedless of the morrow, he breasted the flood of fancy and passion on the full tide of a happy-golucky existence. Few are privileged to wander with impunity under the figurative palm tree, where endless pitfalls, the searchings of a morbid sensibility, await unwary genius. But the æsthetic refinement, the innate strength-what Carlyle would have called the "valor" of the man-carried him through all and brought him at last safely into the haven of home life. There, with his devoted wife and their children around them, he worked to the last, harder and more successfully than ever, excelling the productions of his earlier years in richness of color as well as in power of composition and execution. The work of his last period surprised even those who had been his life-long admirers. His portrait of Leo XIII. was unanimously proclaimed to be the finest rendering of a Pontiff since Raphael limned Julius II. and Velasquez painted Innocent X.

Somebody once asked Lenbach what might be his price for a portrait. "That all depends," he replied. "From 20,000 marks which I may ask, down to 5,000 marks, which I may be willing to pay for the privilege of painting an exceptionally interesting face." This answer supplies a key to the character of the man. It illustrates his indifference to money where his artistic instincts were called into play.

In many cases he was able to ask practically what he liked. Yet he never went beyond a certain figure, which was considerably less than rumor credits certain English, French and American artists with getting for their work. He told me that he disliked asking what he considered to be an excessive price, even when certain

of obtaining it. Where an exceptionally high price was offered to induce him to reconsider a previous refusal, he never went back upon it. He once mentioned the exact amount which the German Emperor had paid for a portrait. It was not excessive, and I said as much. But Lenbach replied that it was ample, that he was well paid, and that he would not have cared to accept more. He did not like the idea of receiving more than he thought his work was fairly worth.

As a rule, Royal personages did not appeal to him, though there were exceptions. There was little in them that interested him; and even from a business point of view, strange to say, they are not always satisfactory customers. They want too much for their money and are difficult to please. Besides, the etiquette which surrounds them is tedious. Lenbach was willing to suppress his individuality for days together when in contact with exacting genius, but it was irksome to him to be obliged to do so in the presence of royal mediocrity.

A wealthy friend of mine wanted Lenbach to paint his wife's portrait, and, as I was going to Munich, asked me to make the suggestion to him. "What does his wife look like?" queried Lenbach. I gave a flattering description of the lady, but Lenbach was not in a humor to do business. He was in one of those moods in which he felt it to be almost an artistic degradation to paint anybody merely because they were prepared to pay for the job. "Tell him," he said, "that you did not mention the matter to me. That is the easiest way to get out of it; besides, I am busy painting my little girl."

His dealings with possible clients did not always pass off so smoothly as this particular one, for although incapable of intentionally causing pain, he was sometimes unable to repress the temptation to speak his mind, if provoked to

do so. A Berlin banker once asked him point blank what he would charge for painting his portrait. Lenbach mentioned an unusually large sum-this being a playful trick of his when disinclined for a job, to avoid being obliged to give a direct refusal. "But surely that is too much?" blurted out the close-fisted millionaire. "I bought a portrait which you painted of Prince Bismarck for less than half that price." "That may be," replied Lenbach, quietly. "It was a pleasure to me to portray him; but surely, Herr X—, without offence, you do not imagine that it would be an equal pleasure to me to paint you."

Sympathy and antipathy of a personal as well as of an artistic nature were strong influences with him. Some years ago a few friends of Professor Virchow intended to present him with his portrait, and approaching Lenbach with a view to his accepting the commission, asked what his price would be. Lenbach declared that he would consider it an honor to paint the great scientist's portrait, and named a comparatively small sum, but added that if Professor Virchow had not been such an inveterate enemy of Prince Bismarck, he would have been only too pleased to paint his portrait for nothing.

When he had struck a bargain he often made his sitter a present in addition of a pastel sketch, or even a finished painting. I doubt if an artist has ever lived who gave away so much in money value of his own work as this extraordinary man. For even his fugitive sketches, the work of a few hours, fetch high prices. He scarcely had a friend to whom he did not at one time or another present one or more valuable specimens of his work. To those to whom he was specially attached, for instance Prince Bismarck, he presented priceless portraits in oil. If a face interested him he would make a sketch

of it and when finished give it to the owner. If a countenance did not appeal to his artistic sense, he would evince no desire to reproduce it-even though it were that of an intimate friend. In such cases, however, he would still gratify his gift-giving propensities, and surprise his friend with the offer of a sketch of Bismarck or of some beautiful woman. Anything as long as he could give pleasure to those around him.

Lenbach's generosity was of a princely kind and, indeed, boundless. It was, as already stated, partly an outcome of the enjoyment it afforded him to give pleasure to others, partly also of the influence of the two mainsprings of his artistic nature: his love of the characteristic in man and of the beautiful in woman. The following is an authentic instance of the latter:-One day a gentleman accompanied by a beautiful girl came to see him at his studio in Rome. They turned out to be a Venetian banker of the name of Rombo and his daughter Annina. After admiring everything, they gave the painter a cordial invitation to be sure to come to Venice and pay them a visit. Passing through Venice some time afterwards, Lenbach met them again and expressed a wish to be allowed to paint the daughter. The preliminaries were soon arranged, when an unexpected hitch presented itself. Signor Rombo was desirous of arranging the price he was to pay for his daughter's portrait; when, to his surprise, Lenbach insisted on painting her for nothing. He said it was no labor to him to paint a head of such classical beauty, but an enjoyment which would yield him untold artistic gratification and for which he could take no payment whatever. Signor Rombo declined to accept such a present and insisted on paying for the portrait. As both sides proved obstinate the matter fell through, and the lady in question-to-day the renowned

Venetian beauty quite recently distinguished by the German Emperor and known to the world as Countess Morosini-was denied the privilege of being immortalized on canvas by Lenbach.

This story might well seem incredible, or it might be suspected, at least, that some undisclosed item altered its true import, were it not that authentic instances are positively without end of Lenbach's lavish prodigality where his artistic instincts were called into play. So much so, that those who are best acquainted with his record in this respect might well marvel how he was ever able to make the amount of money he did-seeing how much he gave away. Happily, however, his marvellous industry, his capacity for work, was on a par with his generosity. Even by accepting payment for about half, or let me say, two-thirds of what he painted-the rest being given away-he was yet able to earn a handsome income, to support a number of his poor relatives, and to leave his wife and children adequately provided for.

To say that the magnanimity of the man was now and then not appreciated is only to state a common experience of human nature, but it was also abused by some whose wealth and high station should have rendered such a thing impossible. During his sojourn in Rome in the early eighties, a friend one day brought a lady to visit his studio whose beauty made a great impression upon him-a by no means unusual occurrence. Although Lenbach was overwhelmed with commissions at the time, he yet threw everything on one side and begged to be allowed to make a sketch of so lovely an apparition. The lady came again and again, and before many days had passed Lenbach had dashed off four separate portraits of her. In his enthusiasm he packed them up and sent them to her hotel, with a few lines begging her to honor him by accepting what it had afforded

him so much artistic gratification to produce; a present, which at the rate he was readily paid for his work, represented a money value of about a thousand pounds. The lady's husband, an American millionaire, felt that such a present required a quid pro quo and sent the artist a cheque for fifty pounds. Lenbach returned the cheque, but the portraits did not come back.

To be in Lenbach's confidence was to enlarge one's knowledge of the meanness underlying the pomp and glitter of the great international world of Society. To know him intimately was to marvel at the self-restraint of a noble nature which never allowed itself to utter a word in anger or complaint of human turpitude.

Although Lenbach did not speak a word of English, he had a great liking for England. He called London "beautiful." When in need of a holiday he repeatedly took it by coming straight from Munich to London for a few days. He studiously avoided seeing anybody, although people were ever anxious to meet him. In October, 1894, he came over to see the Exhibition of Old Masters at the Grafton Gallery. He stayed here a week, and, except that I took him to hear my friend, James M. Coward, play the organ-an instrument he loved, and of which he declared Mr. Coward to be the best player he had ever heard-he literally spoke to no living soul outside my family during his stay. He told me that he had more than enough of Society in his own country.

went to see the pictures at Hampton Court and Greenwich. He was not particularly struck by the former-he did not care much for Lely or Kneller. He also found fault with the shabby way in which the pictures are kept at Hampton Court. He was more favorably impressed with Greenwich. The National Gallery he declared to be in many respects the finest public collection of paintings in the world. I have taken him there in the morning and left him there the best part of the day. He would then expatiate endlessly on the glories of the English eighteenth century portrait painters. But his admiration was not restricted to those masters. He was almost as eloquent in his appreciation of Constable and Turner. I have heard him say that the best work of Constable and Turner possessed higher merit than the whole sum of landscape painting of some countries. In fact, he did not think the world had produced their equals. However, his keenest sympathies were reserved for Reynolds and Gainsborough. He envied these masters the beautiful women, the distinguished looking men that had sat to them. He was amused when I told him that they were not always appreciated at their present high value in England, and that I had read somewhere in one of Charles Lamb's essays how Reynolds was compared to his disadvantage with some secondrate Italian. Even the work of the lesser lights of this great school, such as Romney, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Raeburn, etc., Lenbach held to be superior to the best contemporary art; for they are already hallowed by the efflux of time, according to him the only true criterion of all art. For all

3 Sir Walter Armstrong, director of the National Gallery of Ireland, and author of the "Lives of Velasquez and of Gainsborough," does not believe in Lenbach's modest estimate of his own powers, for he writes me as follows:

"I do not believe in Lenbach's estimate of

that he believed that the enormous prices which their work fetches to-day are exaggerated and will not last; particularly as many of the pictures are not in a good state of preservation.

Of living English artists I recall his appreciative reference to Orchardson, and particularly to G. F. Watts. But in general he dwelt upon the ephemeral character of the art products of our time, which, with few exceptions, he believed destined to pass away, or at least to be priced hereafter at about the cost of their frames.

"What makes you think that such will be their fate?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "you have only to judge for yourself by bearing in mind that comparatively little has come down to us of the artistic work of the past. All the rest has disappeared. Besides," he added, "take the experience of our own lifetime. What is left to-day of many of the reputations of thirty years ago? Look at Germany, instance, where are K. . . and M.. and many others to-day?"

for