Normberge. 1521. But the trade-mark between these two initials is substantially the same as that found on the inkstand of 1525. We have no choice, then, but to follow Bergau and Seeger and to attribute these two former works, in great part at any rate, to Peter Vischer the younger. And, indeed, they exhibit to a high degree all those qualities which are most characteristic of his work. There is a rhythmic balance in the composition which at once recalls the reliefs on the Sebaldusgrab attributed to him. Here again the artist has seized a fine moment in the dramatic incident he wishes to portray. He has harmonized and subordinated all the characters of that pathetic scene when Christ met the sisters of the dead Lazarus. The noble figure of the Christ who has stepped forward to listen to and to grant the prayer of the bereaved sister forms the centre of a picture whereof the disputing Apostles and the sorrowing women are the necessary complement. With regard to the Apostles themselves it only requires a moment’s comparison to demonstrate that their figures are mere modifications of those on the Sebaldusgrab, and they may have been wrought by any member of the family, therefore, or even by an assistant. For the craftsmen of those days were obliged to take a frankly business view of their handiwork. Michel Wolgemut left much in each of his pictures to be done by his pupils and assistants, and DÜrer, too, following his master’s custom was, in too many cases, forced to adopt the same practice. For a man must live, and DÜrer found that his careful and elaborate style of painting was simply beggaring him. The commissions received by the Vischer family were necessarily executed after something of the same spirit. The design would be sketched out by the old man or one of his sons, or, again, by him and his sons in part and in consultation. Then whilst the more skilful of them wrought the more important figures and details of the piece, the subsidiary details and characters would be left to the ’prentice hands. In the case of the Tucher monument the task of supplying the Apostle figures must have fallen to one of these, and he would naturally base them upon the famous masterpieces of the House in that line. But in the noble figure of the Christ, in the poise and the moulding of the head, and in that spiritual searching gaze with which the Saviour seems to be looking into the very heart of Lazarus’ sister and gauging her faith, we cannot fail to recognize the style of the creator of the St. Peter and St. John of the Sebaldusgrab, and of the author of the Orpheus of the Plaquettes. Equally true is this of the modelling, pose and drapery of the female figures, to which particular attention should be given.

The background, too, is the work of a Master, and the gradual deepening of the relief is worked out with a skill and confidence which argues that it is the work of a Master who has made a considerable study of perspective. The treatment of perspective and the very low relief are indeed entirely in the manner of the early Florentine Renaissance. The same influence is discernible in the style of the architecture in the background. It is interesting to note the favourite device of a Perugino or a Raphael reproduced in the cupola-crowned building which serves as a finish to the picture. It was not for nothing that Hermann Vischer had made his journey south some years before, and returned laden with those sketches which “delighted his old father and provided practice for his brothers.” The deviser of this temple and of those framing pillars with their Corinthian capitals has learnt many a lesson recently from his brother’s work.

In the monument of the Eissen family which is placed in the Church of St. Ægidius at Nuremberg, and belongs to the year 1522, we have a work which must be by the same hand as that which designed the Tucher memorial. The similarity of the signature and of the style is convincing testimony. The subject is the favourite PietÀ, the lamentation over Christ’s body after the descent from the Cross. Here we have the figures of the faithful women, and of John the beloved disciple, and Joseph of Arimathea mourning, whilst Nicodemus is reverently wrapping the corpse in the cerements of the grave. Once more in composing his subject the artist has seized the dramatic moment. The eyes of all these faithful followers are fixed upon the dead body of their Lord. Their gestures and their expressions betoken the intense grief of each, and each has his place and share in the divine tragedy. The unity thus attained is heightened by the dramatic contrast of the one person, the servant, who stares at the body, unaffected save by vulgar curiosity, all unaware that she is in the presence of the world’s most grievous and most wonderful mystery. (Ill. 17.)

The figure and head of Joseph of Arimathea are nobly beautiful, and, like the drapery, remind us of the St. Peter on the Sebaldusgrab. His outstretched hands are eloquent of sorrow and, in common with those of the women who kneel behind their Master, they speak to a study of Italian art and of the drawings of Leonardo da Vinci.

The Christ in this monument resembles in the treatment of the eyes, and the hair and in the moulding of the head that of the Tucher memorial of the previous year. The body is foreshortened, and the foreshortening cannot be termed altogether successful. But successful to an extraordinary degree is the spiritual, sympathetic expression of the countenance, and indicative of a poet’s sympathy with sorrow, and his power of showing it, is that down-hanging arm, masterly executed in strong relief.

The young Peter Vischer had known much sorrow, and was acquainted with grief beyond his years. The bereavements of his father, the loss of his brother’s wife, and afterwards of his brother Hermann himself, must have touched his poet’s heart and deepened his powers of sympathetic imagination. The strong stirring of religious emotion which was at this time abroad in the land would tend still further to chasten the exuberant joyousness of his youthful spirit, and to bring him into touch with the more serious aspects of life. NeudÖrffer has recorded for us his love of the poetical side of life; his own Aquarelle on the Reformation proves the seriousness of his interest in the great religious question of the day, and the evidence of the development of his powers in his own undoubted works of art is potent to demonstrate his enthusiasm for learning. Remembering these facts let us compare for a moment with the sisters of Lazarus in the Tucher memorial, that superb work of art in the Germanic Museum at Nuremberg, which is known as the “Praying Madonna.” (Ill. 18.)

“No second glance is required to assure us that we have here not only the chef-d’oeuvre of Nuremberg carving, but also one of the works of art of all time. And yet the name of the master is unknown, and the very date of the work is a matter of dispute. Clearly the beautiful female figure of this sorrowing Mary, this praying Madonna as she is called (trauende, betende Maria) once formed one of a group, and stood facing St. John at the foot of the Cross, gazing upwards in that bitter grief which is beyond the expression and abandonment of tears. Who can that artist have been who could select that pose of the head, that poise of the limbs, who could carve those robes, which, in purity and flow have never been surpassed in German art, and who could express in the suppliant hands such poignant emotion? Man weiss nicht! And whose touch was so delicate that with his chisel he could stamp on the upturned face those mingled feelings of sorrow so supreme, yearning so intense, love so human, hope so divine? For all this we can read there still, even through the grey-green coat of paint which certainly had no place in the original intentions of the artist. Man weiss nicht! But this much one may hazard—that it was some German artist, touched by the spirit of the Italian Renaissance till he rose to heights of artistic performance never elsewhere attained by him, and scarcely ever approached by his fellows.”

So I have written elsewhere of this beautiful gem of German art. But is it so certain that the author is unknown? The temptation to attribute it to Peter Vischer the younger is extremely strong, especially when we compare it with the figure of Lazarus’ sister.

It has, at different times and by various writers, been attributed to almost every conceivable German craftsman—to Adam Krafft, of course, and to Veit Stoss in turn, amongst others. But the work of none of these artists approaches the style, the beauty, the refinement of this figure, and is, in many essentials, distinctly opposed thereto. But if it is not by these, can it be by Peter Vischer’s great son? The theory, it must be confessed, is more probable than provable. We can only say that in his greatest moment he might have done this thing, in making a model for a projected bronze figure. For the creator of the King Arthur at Innsbruck must be conceded to be potentially capable of any masterpiece in this kind, and the Madonna is not beyond the limits of his power. The slenderness of the figure is a point in favour of this authorship, and not, as has been argued, in opposition to it, for there is noticeable in the female figures of the young Peter Vischer, an increasing tendency to discard the squat Bavarian type and to adopt the slenderer proportions of the Italian model. Observe, further, that in the fall of the drapery of the Madonna there is nothing of severity, nothing of distortion as in other carvings of the same period by other hands. Rather do the sweep and movement of it recall that of certain of the apostles of the Sebaldusgrab and the arrangement of it as regards the feet is similar. It may, in fact, be stated, without fear of contradiction, that the serpentine sweep and the arrangement of the drapery, drawn tight over the right leg and covering, as it does, the thrust out foot below, is a motive practically confined in the German art of that period to the works of the House of Vischer. It reminds us of the Apostles in St. Sebald’s church: it is repeated emphatically in the fall of the drapery of the sisters of Lazarus.

And surely the pose of the sister of Lazarus on the left hand and that of the Madonna is substantially the same, although, in the case of the latter, it has been refined and improved. That pose of the bent leg is one of the most beautiful and eloquent of all the positions of the human body.^[6] But the similarity does not end there.

The right leg, the left arm and hand resting on the hip, the poise of the head and the style of dress are all in the same manner. Nothing, again, is more characteristic of an artist than his treatment of hands. And with those expressive hands of the Madonna we may confidently compare the hands of the woman who is behind the body of Christ or the hands of Joseph in the PietÀ of 1522, or the hands of St. John in the Sebaldusgrab, or of the female figure on the inkstand of 1525. Vischer-like also is the pure, refined expression and type of face, which recalls on the one hand the yearning gaze of the aforesaid figure, and the soulful look of Eurydice on the other.

But enough has been said. Peter Vischer the younger was, we think, capable of producing such a work of art as the Madonna, and of no one else whose work we know can we say as much. Yet such a masterpiece is not thrown off by an unpractised hand. There is good reason, then, for accepting the theory suggested by the remarks of Herr von Bezold^[7] and crediting our craftsman with the glory of this great work. In the next chapter we shall deal with some minor, undisputed works of his, a careful study of which will certainly, in our opinion, not tend to invalidate the claim now advanced on his behalf.