friends decided to
take a walk and then dine together at Benda's.

In the hallway they met the Ruediger sisters as they were returning from
their daily stroll through the garden. Benda greeted them with an
antiquated politeness; Daniel just barely touched the rim of his hat.
The sisters lined up as if ready for a cotillion, and returned the
greetings with infinite grace. Fraeulein Jasmina let a rose fall, and
when Benda picked it up for her, she pressed her hand against her
scarcely noticeable breast and gave voice to her gratitude, again with
infinite grace.

When they reached the street, Benda said in a tone of compassion: "They
are three delicate creatures; they live their lonely lives like vestal
virgins guarding a sacred fire."

Daniel smiled. "Yes, a sacred fire? Do you refer to the incident with
the painter?"

"Yes, I do; and he was no ordinary painter, either, let me tell you. I
heard the whole story the other day. The painter was Anselm Feuerbach."

Daniel knew nothing whatever about Anselm Feuerbach. He was impressed,
however, by the name, which, by virtue of a mysterious magic, struck his
ear like the chime of a noble bell. "Tell me about him," he said.

The story was as follows: Four years before his death, that is, six
years ago, Anselm Feuerbach came to Nuremberg for the last time to visit
his mother. He was already sick in body and soul, and was much
disappointed in his alleged friends. The incessant torture resulting
from lack of appreciation had told on his health. A few of the more
enlightened citizens, however, recalled his fame, as it floated about in
the heavy air of Germany, somewhat befogged and quite expatriated, and
the Chamber of Commerce placed an order with Feuerbach for a painting to
be hung in the Palace of Justice. Feuerbach accepted the order, choosing
as his theme Emperor Ludwig in the act of conferring on the citizens of
Nuremberg the right to free trade. When the picture was completed, there
was a great deal of dissatisfaction with it. The merchants had expected
something totally different: they had looked for a cheap but striking
canvas after the style of Kreling, and not this dignified, classical
work by Feuerbach.

Nor was this all. The hanging space was so small that several inches of
the canvas had to be run into the wall, and the light was wretched. The
Chamber of Commerce proceeded at once to make trouble with regard to the
paying of Feuerbach's bill. An ugly quarrel ar