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 Madr