The Rise and Fall of Albert Bierstadt: Artist-Priest of the Westt

By David M. Delo

The Rise and Fall of Albert Bierstadt: Art-Priest of the West (Revised), 117,000 words

This is the true story of Bierstadt's dramatic if not frantic and tragic life. He was the best known American landscape artist in the mid-1800s. Like many other artists of the Hudson River School (1840-1880) he did not commit to art until age 23. Then, in one decade, he became a top notch artist, studying at the artist's club in Dusseldorf, Germany, toured Europe, returned to become #1 artist in NYC, married his best friend's wife, and sold six-foot by ten-foot paintings for up to $30,000 each. (Close to $400,000 in today's terms)

The following decade, the gods deserted him. He cascaded downward until he died at age 72 in 1902. During his fall, he created a font-page scandal in NYC newspapers, lost his reputation and his income, then lost his mansion to fire that included hundreds of his paintings and a life's worth of western and Indian paraphernalia. Lastly, he lost his wife, the woman he loved intensely, to tuberculosis. It took her 17 years to die.

Sixty years after his death his major paintings recognized, reevaluated, and are now in more than 100 museums in America and in museums throughout Europe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingfisher Creations
• Release date: Apr 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393701736

David M. Delo

Bio of author David M. Delo I’ve never been great at anything, but I have been around and have had as many failures as I have successes. After college, I was a C.I. agent for NATO (US Army) in Europe. Back in the USA, I became an educational administrator for the American Geological Institute, in Washington, D.C.; a systems analyst and V. P. at Levi Strauss & Co. in San Francisco; owner of a guest ranch in Wyoming; a P. R. writer for a university library in Illinois and grants writer for a not-for-profit organization in Montana; owner of a publishing company (Kingfisher Creations) through which I authored 10 books; and a semi-professional photographer for half a century. I have also been an artist since 1993 and I have been bipolar II since the mid-1960s. I guess you could say I have had a colorful life. Since the turn of the century, I have resided within the world of creativity. My books (and paintings) are my children and my heritage. My action-mysteries are based on my years in Europe. My historical novels are all based on places to which I have ventured, and I still love my protagonists with whom I identify–a geologist, an artist, a photographer, and an intrepid explorer of the west.

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The Rise and Fall of Albert Bierstadt:

Artist-Priest of the West

© 2021 by David M. Delo

This is a book of fiction. It is also a revision of the first edition.

Reproduction, in any manner, in whole or in part, in English or any other language, without permission of the author is prohibited.

Published by Kingfisher Creations

Delta, CO

Find your dream and follow it through; it will lead you to the myth-world in which you live. But just as in dream, the subject and object, though they seem to be separate, are really the same.

Joseph Campbell, Hero with a Thousand Faces

Chapter 1: 1853, Withdrawal

AT AGE TWENTY-THREE, Albert Bierstadt committed himself to the first stages of the hero’s cycle—Separation and Withdrawal. He proceeded toward a dark and foreign land, known as the Threshold full of trepidation, for he knew not the structure or the duration of his challenge. He simply had experienced a powerful inner force to which he became a thrall. Albert guessed correctly he might undergo extensive tests and trials. If he responded in proper fashion, he would succeed; if he hesitated or failed to commit himself, he would fail, be forced to abandon the  journey, and return home under a shroud of defeat.

THE BRIGANTINE Porpoise, driven by a steady wind, chased an endless row of brittle waves. Her two-hundred-foot-long deck rolled and swayed like a dancer caught in the slow rhythm of a pagan dance. More than a dozen bark-rigged sails held the ship taut before the wind. On the poop, her coxswain watched the rise and fall of the horizon and made unconscious adjustments to her head with easy turns of the wheel.

All boded well aboard ship this sixteenth day of December, 1853. Her eastbound human cargo included two British families, a handful of American merchants, and a representative of the American government. The only passenger on deck that late afternoon, however, was a young, husky lad with a full set of matching black mustache and beard, and thick black hair. He strode across the deck, his hands deep in the pockets of his knee-length, single-breasted Inverness. Now and again he leaned against the waist-high rail between the stern and the mizzenmast to watch a distant storm play out at sea.

His name was Albert Bierstadt, and he was anxious to hear the yell of Land Ho! and the slap of the gangplank. He pictured himself half running onto the wharf at Düsseldorf, Germany, then striding forth like a prodigal son, confident, proud, and filled with anticipation. He turned his back to the wind and glanced west. The ship’s jagged wake created a string of bubbles that disappeared behind the waves. The heave of the sea did little to change the razor-edge horizon. Rays of the lowering sun made the ocean edge of the sky look like the flange of a ruler.

Thirteen days ago, when Albert had embarked from his home in New Bedford, Massachusetts, his ocean crossing signaled a withdrawal, a separation from everything he had ever known. Beneath a layer of anxiety, he welcomed the journey. He felt he was being called to a new land replete with dark, unknown trials, and a promise of unasked-for delights. Behind his beard he was excited, brimming with nervous anticipation. He had no notion of how his first day in Germany would play out; nonetheless, he prodded his imagination to supply details so he might picture the home of his mother’s cousin, Johann Hansenclever. His cousin’s abode would be Albert’s new residence for the coming year.

Albert’s imagination also took him to the door of the Kunst Akademie, the greatest-known art school in the western world, a giant institution of granite angles situated close to the edge of the river. In Albert’s mind, cousin Hansenclever would introduce him to school staff, then Albert would immediately set to work. The life he faced could not be more perfect, for he knew his cousin would not only house and feed him, but might show him how to become as great a painter.

He couldn’t forget he’d made a one-way commitment. He was embarking on a totally new adventure to become an full-time artist. The psychological weight of that leap of faith made him shake with the trepidation of a kid with a fist full of stolen money. His worst fear was the possibility of failure. He had chosen art as his path; would it be his true one? He rubbed and blew on cold knuckles as he walked to the north side of the vessel. There, for the tenth time, he reviewed the decision that had prompted his journey.

SIX MONTHS AGO, ALBERT had taken a two-day sojourn into the White Mountains with his mentor and friend, the Reverend Thomas Starr King. The two stood at the edge of a grassy field while a thunderstorm gathered its forces behind Mt. Washington. King talked about how incredible it would be if Albert could commit to life as a landscape painter. You will be a purveyor of the truths of the wilderness, perhaps one of the best landscape artists in the country—an Artist-Priest, he declared.

King had then walked into the meadow as he talk about how landscape was a pathway to God. His dialogue brimmed with the transcendentalism of Emerson and Thoreau. As he spoke, the thunderstorm breached Mt. Washington and raced across the meadow toward them , inhaling everything in its path. Then it hesitated at their feet. In its sublimity, fierce winds hammered them and rain coated them as in a baptism.

When a huge bolt of lightning lit the heavens, the Reverend King immediately shouted, God is here! and he peeled away his clothes as one who would meet his maker as a child of the universe. Here I am, God, he shouted, quoting Emerson’s vision of man in nature: Standing on bare ground, head bathed by the blithe air and lifted into infinite space. I see all; the currents of the universal being circulate through me; I am part or parcel of God. Like original man, he knelt with arms reaching upward in his belief that mankind must yield to the sublimity of God’s messages.

The moment King had started walking into the meadow, Albert was gripped by an epiphany that showed him how foreground, middle ground, and background merged within a landscape painting and how receding planes of light and dark created chiaroscuro. That night at the inn, the dream that had been evolving in Albert’s mind for months, reached its conclusion. Originally, the dreamscape had been full of fog and blurry elements. Then he saw landscape and a man sitting with his back to him. The man was slightly bent over, engaged in some activity. At first Albert thought he might be his father.

This night, however, Albert saw color for the first time. It defined a landscape with mountains. The man he had seen before was sitting, painting. He turned to Albert and spoke. Yes, Albert; I have been calling you, he said. When Albert noticed the man had a full black beard and mustache, he suddenly realized it was him, his future! He levitated upright in bed and announced, My God! I’m going to be a landscape artist. 

Of course you are, muttered Reverend King from the shared mattress. Why the Hell do you think I brought you up here?

BY THE TIME THE TRAIN arrived back at New Bedford, Albert’s mind was clear, and he started making plans. He needed someone to teach him. His Quaker artist friend in New Bedford, William Wall, wouldn’t take the time; he was too caught up in his own survival. A Boston artist? Albert reviewed acquaintances he had known in Boston but rejected them all. Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw the exhibit that had hung in the Düsseldorf Gallery—paintings by German artists from Düsseldorf, Germany—and his eyes began to glow.

At his studio, he rummaged through his paintings with the hope of selling a few to Mr. Thompson, the famous Boston art patron who was know to assist many young local artists like himself. Albert found a half dozen. None were great, but he would sell what he could, then paint all summer. Once Mr. Thompson knew why he needed money, perhaps he might buy more, even provide him an advance against future work.

And if these efforts yield too little? he thought. He couldn’t look to his brothers; they had little extra cash. They were wood turners, and money not earmarked to support his parents was set aside to improve their business. Then they would marry. Besides, Albert already owed both.

That left Albert’s father.

When Albert imagined his father as his last resort, he exhaled as though punched and he nervously chewed the hairs of his beard. He would ask though, if only because he knew his mother kept Johann Hansenclever’s address. He needed to write to Hansenclever to ask about coming to live with him in Dusseldorf. Albert couldn’t ask his mother for that address without her knowing what he was thinking He wasn’t the kind of son to resort to flummery.

As Albert walked the deck of the Porpoise, his mind kept flashing unbidden images of the day he had spoken to his parents about his future. The topic was a true first for him. He saw in his parents’ eyes they knew he was about to make some heavy pronouncement. When he told them he planned to go to Germany to be trained as an artist—his mother sagged mutely in her chair as though suddenly gripped by extreme fatigue.

Knowing family values were important, Albert talked first about his mother’s cousin Johann Peter Hansenclever, the well-known German social artist. If I can live with him, I will have a room, three meals a day, and someone to instruct me and criticize my work.  And since he was famous, he might introduce me to other artists which could open doors to great opportunities. Would this not be ideal?

As for the Kunst Akademie, better known as Die Dusseldorfer Malerschule, Albert admitted he needed formal instruction . I see no reason why I would not be accepted at the Akademie. It’s reputed to be the best art school in the world. I have been painting for several years, exhibited work regularly at the Music Store here in New Bedford, and had pieces accepted in several Boston exhibits. He knew he had only been mildly successful at teaching, so he didn’t mention that. And don’t forget, he said with a diffident grin, I am German. In Dusseldorf this will be in my favor.

Neither parent interrupted their son as he scrambled through his monologue. They looked a bit confounded, so he finished by stating he would have his passport issued from Boston and would become a naturalized citizen by fall.  Mother, I need to write cousin Hansenclever to tell him my plans, to ask if I can stay at his house—at least until I had a studio of my own. Naturally, he stammered, I’ll need your approval for that address.

How sure are you of this decision, Albert? she had asked in German in a tremulous voice. You and I both know you have started a number of little businesses in the past, but none have held your interest. She did not have to say that when Albert was thirteen, his older brothers Charles and Edward were already years into their chosen trade. Now they had their own business—Bierstadt Brothers, Wood Turners.

Albert sensed his mother didn’t want to openly admit she lacked confidence in his abilities, but he knew she did not believe he had sufficient talent to make a living as an artist. He believed her trepidation was her image of New Bedford’s Mr. Wall who claimed to be New Bedford’s leading artist yet had trouble meeting his bills. Wall struggled financially, even though his canvasses were far in advance of what Albert could produce.

Mrs. Bierstadt knew Albert was different from her other sons. Yet here at last, her youngest, at the late age of twenty-three, was talking about learning a trade, one that would take him away from family. Moving away from family was not German, and she had tried her best to keep their cultural heritage alive. In her heart, the best of who they were kept each member of the family German.

For the first few years in New Bedford she had forbidden her children to speak English at home. When it became clear the boys were quickly learning English, she was forced to relent. Neither she nor Mr. Bierstadt had a need for English, and little use for American customs, even though they were a natural part of the forces that brought them to America.

Mr. Bierstadt had provided so well for the family in New Bedford since their emigration, she was free to spend her time raising her children, cooking, and tending their home. That was a welcomed opportunity; her children constituted the center of her world, and she was determined to guide their attitudes and behavior. It was imperative they would leave home steeped in good German values. Work hard and act in a way that will never bring disrespect on the family. Carry a strong sense of family pride at all times and never share your emotional life with strangers. A public display of emotion, either anger or affection is American, not German. Practice self-control and speak sparingly. When you are grown and independent, remember the economic needs of your parents are above your own profit.

At the same time, she never lost her fear they would become too American, be lured by the urge of material fulfillment. Letters from German friends in other America cities were full of stories of many second-generation Germans who abandoned their heritage and became enraptured with a life of wealth and showy posture. Her boys were on their own now, and like all mothers, Mrs. Bierstadt looked to their deeds, their successes, and their support as measures of her how well she had done her job.

Unlike his wife, Mr. Bierstadt was a hard man to read. Like a good German, he kept most of what he felt to himself. He remained disappointed in his youngest son, Albert. He did not understand the business of painting and art, nor did he know successful German artists in America. He did know, however, of successful Germans who were highly skilled tradesmen, especially bakers, carpenters, and brewers in Philadelphia. Germans took jobs where they could develop good reputations for industriousness, punctuality, reliability, and neatness. This business of art smelled risky. In addition, it would take Albert away from home. Mr. Bierstadt felt the way Mrs. Bierstadt did: neither attribute was German.

Every year, since Abort was in his middle teens, he had pushed harder to force his youngest son to make a decision about his future. He saw Albert refused to bind himself to a common trade; now he was saying that this is what he wanted to do—make art his career. He made his choice and he wanted training. If the trade was not a common one, at least the lad knew he needed training. That was important. It sounded to him his son had confidence in his abilities and had thought it through. So be it.

Before he spoke, he saw Albert was not through talking. He concluded correctly that his son was going to ask him for money, a loan perhaps to see him through a portion of his training. If so, Mr. Bierstadt would lend his son the funds he needed, with one condition which could never be set aside.

WITH A THUMP THAT SHOOK the vessel, the Porpoise hammered away at a larger set of waves. Albert stared at the ocean while his right hand closed over the letter from cousin Hansenclever nestled deep in his inner coat pocket. Albert had received it ten days before leaving America. Such enthusiasm! Come on over, Albert! Yes! Stay at my house. Düsseldorf and I will make a great painter of you. Albert smiled inwardly, but the words of the last sentence bothered him. Had his cousin not meant the Kunst Akademie and he?

I cannot fail, Albert said to himself; I cannot fail because I have no safety net. There was none, for after his father wrote the amount he would send cousin Hansenclever for his son’s support, he stated his irrevocable condition. Albert had sighed, nodded, accepted the limitation, and prayed he would never have to face the consequences of failing.

Suddenly the top of a heavy wave of water smacked into Albert and almost knocked him over. He stepped back, shocked, and soaked. He had not expected to be so blindsided. At the moment of impact, he also heard a voice—a voice that called to him. Albert! It was a man’s voice, a solitary call of tremendous sadness, a heavy, last-breath sadness. Albert looked around. He was alone, but the voice was real. Where could it have come from? It almost sounded like a plea, a plea of caution perhaps? 

The voice, more than the cold, left him dazed. He shook his head, knowing the accident had been his fault. Where had his mind been? He’d been distracted. Life had hit him hard when he was unprepared and he had paid for it. Feeling foolish and off balance, Albert dug inside himself, where he found a little poem he recited whenever something went wrong. Es wird besser gehen, es wird besser gehe; die welt ist rund, und muss sich drehen. It will get better, it will get better; the world is round, and keeps on turning.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then walked toward the passengers’ quarters to change his clothes. He vowed this blind-sidedness had been a chance occurrence. It would not happen again. Yet deep inside, he knew his tacit oath was wrong; and sure enough, throughout his life, it would happen again and again, and he would pay for it every time.

THREE DAYS LATER ON Christmas eve, an hour before sunset, the Porpoise reached Düsseldorf, a town of thirty thousand that sprawled on the south side of the Rhine at the influx of the Dusselbach River. Albert smiled when he realized there was no smell of whale oil or seaweed as in New Bedford, nor was there fog or tall-masted vessels in long rows. Yet the facades of the buildings facing the wharf ,vertical, flat, and several stories tall, were a lot like those in his hometown; these, however, were painted colorfully in soft reds and greens.

The remains of the old part of the city lay close to the Rhine; the rest of Dusseldorf was modern, it ramparts regularly laid out in wide streets and squares. Everything looked neat and clean. Albert lifted his satchel with his right hand, clutched his art materials in his left, and strode across the neatly laid cobblestones.

At Konigs Platz, Albert found Kaiser Strasse, the street on which his cousin resided. Its slightly raised sidewalks were made of large, tightly fitted blocks of grey limestone. At the rear edge of the sidewalk with no setback, buildings rose straight up, a series of brick façades with tall, narrow first-floor windows braced with wooden shutters. By the time Albert found the correct number and knocked it was clear to him Düsseldorf was wealthy as well as picturesque. He was going to love it here. He knocked again, this time harder, and waited.

No one answered and the door was locked. Albert frowned. Hansenclever wrote he never locked it. Just go in and make my house yours, he’d written. Albert shrugged, left his belongings by the front door and walked off to find the Hofgarten. Toward its far end he would find Jacobi Strasse which would take him to the Malkasten, the artists’ club where Hansenclever said he was likely be found any evening after five.

The Hofgarten was the town’s central park, a huge woodland twice as long as it was wide. Its edges were sharply defined by wide gravel sidewalks on which massive baroque stone urns sat on evenly spaced pedestals. At every entrance, a long avenue of towering elms led one toward its center. Even though the trees were bare, Albert could not see where the park ended. Wide pathways crisscrossed about every hundred yards, and large grassy areas were nicely defined by sculptured arrays of bushes. A fountain gurgled quietly. A droshky with driver wearing a top hat past quickly.

He found Jacobi Strasse, followed it, and saw Jacobi House, home to the Malkasten, a well-designed, several-story house. He could see people, mostly men, coming and going. Many held large black rectangles and nearly everyone donned a full beard and mustache. As he drew closer, he heard Achenbach’s name mentioned several times. His heart rate jumped; he was going to be among the most notable artists of Germany! For a brief moment, he stood in front of the club to check his appearance, then ascended the steps.

The walls inside the front lounge were covered with paintings—exquisite landscapes! Students and graduates smiled and nodded or said excuse me as they inched around him while he stood just inside the entrance. He heard laughter and smelled cigars and pipe tobacco from somewhere in back. A sloping corridor took him to a gasthaus. Albert smiled broadly as he took in the plank floor, arched beams, and small nooks, each filled with a table and chairs. The smell of cigar smoke permeated everything. Here he would find cousin Hansenclever.

The room did not feel crowded yet it was full of men who sat at tables or hovered over those who were seated. A few were eating dinner. Groups of two and three smoked cigars and long-stemmed pipes and drank beer from large steins. He heard the click of billiard balls and a call for drinks. Everything was ensconced in a warm yellow light from a great number of hanging lanterns and candles. Dark, polished wood of the room's supporting posts and long bar added a sense of  comfort, intimacy, and familiarity. 

After he scanned the room, he walked to the bar. The bartender had a broad apron covering his mid-section, rolled-up shirtsleeves, and he sported a full beard and friendly eyes. Haven’t seen you before, have we, lad? he asked in German. New to the Malkasten?

Albert gestured towards the crowd and smiled. Yes, this is my first time. I just got off a boat from America. I’m looking for my cousin Johann Hansenclever.

The man looked him up and down quickly in a solemn manner, then lifted a finger as though to ask Albert to wait. Be right back.  Then he excused himself. Albert watched him walk to a table close to the back of the room, bend down and talk to one of three seated men. While he was talking, one man at the table leaned back in his chair and looked in Albert’s direction. The bartender made several gestures, then nodded and walked back toward the far side of the bar. At the same time, the man he had been talking to rose from his chair and walked toward Albert.

The fellow was tall, slender, and wore a suit with a vest as did many in the lounge that evening. His longish face was made to look longer by a severely receding hairline, a full brown beard, and a well-groomed mustache. As he approached, he extended his hand, smiled, and said in English, Hello! Welcome to the Malkasten. I understand you’re a cousin of Johann Peter Hansenclever. I’m Worthington Whittredge from Cincinnati. Please, come join our table.

Before Albert could say anything, the man led him across the room and introduced him to two American artists, an Eastman Johnson and a Carl Lewis. As Albert put his portfolio down, the two suddenly stood, apologized, and said they had other appointments.

Albert turned to Whittredge. "Uh, do you know where I could—.’

Find your cousin? Yes, of course, said Whittredge quickly. Yes. I know—I know him. How about a beer? Whittredge raised his arm, caught the bartender’s eye, and pointed at Albert with a twist of the wrist.

Albert wasn’t sure what to say or do. He felt like an imp in a land of giants. He had been quickly overwhelmed by the richness of the atmosphere. As strange as it seemed, no one appeared in a hurry to inform him of the whereabouts of his cousin. Whittredge had just signaled the bartender for two beers when a redheaded man stepped into the room. The newcomer stopped an artist who was leaving, clapped the fellow on the back and laughed heartily at something he said. The redhead’s voice was deep and full. Albert thought he looked a little familiar.

Whittredge stood, smiled, and said, Stay right here, Albert. I’ll be right back. Uh, try your beer. He strode over to the man with red hair. They talked at length, then the redhead nodded and they both came back to the table where Albert was sitting. The red-haired man was as tall as Whittredge, a well-proportioned gentleman of handsome features who carried a rounded and well-groomed beard. His mustache was clipped above his mouth but reached out like branches of a tree and curved heavily downward. His eyes seemed to sparkle, and he carried himself with an easy confidence. His gestures and expressions were quick and aristocratic, a combination that left others no doubt that he was a powerful individual in more ways than one.

As Whittredge was sitting down, he pointed to the man he’d brought with him. Albert, this is Emmanuel Leutze.

Albert was astonished. As Leutze was pulling out a chair, Albert leapt to his feet. He was in such a hurry to extend his hand, he knocked his chair over. What a pleasure, uh, Mr. Leutze. I’ve seen your—uh, paintings at the Dusseldorf Gallery. Then, turning red, he quickly righted his fallen chair.

Hey! boomed Leutze with a grin and calming gesture, Sit and relax. It’s Albert, right? This is the Malkasten, Albert. There are no formalities here. He pointed to himself with a long thumb. I’m Leutze, and this bony piece of Americana is Whittredge. He slapped Whittredge on the arm and they both laughed again.

The bartender brought Leutze a glass of red wine which he raised, eyed the others. Prosit. They all drank a quick draft, then Whittredge asked Albert, Did you tell me how long you were you aboard ship?

Almost three weeks, said Albert as he wiped beer foam from his beard with his sleeve. He tried to remember the date of his departure.

So, on the sixteenth, you were, uh, about half way across the ocean. Whittredge made it a statement, not a question. As he pushed back in his chair and looked down at the table with a sober expression, Albert  suddenly realized the sixteenth was the day the wave had hit him and he had heard the voice. 

Albert, the sixteenth was the day that, uh—.

It was the day your cousin Hansenclever died, finished Leutze. He looked at Albert’s vacant expression, canted his head to one side, and added. We buried him late afternoon the same day. We’re very sorry. Hansenclever was a good man and a great artist, one who expressed himself clearly and forcefully. He was, in fact, regarded as the chief artist of social criticism in Germany. The funeral gathering was immense. Leutze glanced at Whittredge. I think half of Düsseldorf came to pay their respects.

At least half, Whittredge exclaimed, with a sense of relief. He will be very much missed; there will never be another Johann Peter Hansenclever.

In the silence Albert heard his own voice crack. They later said he sat with an open mouth. Oh, Mein Gott, he muttered. Time had stopped. There was no air. Cousin Hansenclever was dead. I never met him, he said without thinking. His words sounded hollow.

Were you visiting him for the Christmas season? asked Whittredge.

Albert’s mouth was still open. He heard the voice again, calling him. It was laced with heavy sadness. The possibility that Hansenclever would not be here had never entered his mind. What on earth will I do? he wondered. The edges of the table, the chairs, and the background lost definition, as though out of focus, and Whittredge’s voice carried an echo. As Albert started to speak, he reached out and knocked over his stein of beer before Leutze could grab it. He didn’t realize his eyes no longer focused. To the others he appeared only to stare past Whittredge where there was a staircase and wall.

Neither Leutze nor Whittredge paid attention to the beer that dripped between the open boards of the table onto the floor. They were watching Albert’s attempt to assimilate the reality of what they had told him.

Albert took a deep breath as though he had run out of air and suddenly realized the implications of what they have said. He looked up at Whittredge, then shook his head slowly. What was the question? Christmas? Oh, no; I c-c-came to, uh—. Silence. He wet his lips and passed a sleeve over his mouth. I was going to—. More silence. He, uh, he told me I could —. Albert swallowed and raised a hand to cover his face. He never remembered having said, This can’t be real.

The next microsecond took a day to pass. The room disappeared. In its place, a smelly room of damp stone . He was inside a castle, seated before a long oak table lighted by candles in a chandelier above his head. He heard, then felt a howling wind as it churned down a corridor. It entered the room with a sudden rush and extinguished the candles. The sound or the smell it brought raised the hair on the pack of snarling dogs that had been quibbling over bones at the foot the table. They howled and raced away to the echoes of a derisive laughter. Chaos! Albert smelled sawdust and mold. His hands gripped the table. What was reality? Where was he? We buried him the same day.

Outside the castle, the light from a full moon surrounded with foul-colored clouds lighted a large graveyard. Albert passed a series of gravestones then stood on the edge of a cliff. He looked down on tarns and snowfields scattered haphazardly along a barren, granite landscape a thousand feet below. An icy wind whipped his face and clothes. One more step and he would free fall. If he fell with arms outstretched, he would scatter sea birds in his path as he screamed the denial of one who had just lost his soul.

In that brief click of time they later said his face turned ashen. Leutze had been watching closely. Herman, he yelled with a wave of his wrist, still watching Albert. Quickly, man, give us a brandy.

The sound of someone else’s voice brought Albert back from the brink. He found himself thinking: Come on over, Albert! Düsseldorf and I will make a great painter of you. All his plans, dust; his dreams, shattered. Hansenclever had abandoned him. No longer would there be a place to stay, introductions, a leg up in the study of landscape painting, a bed, perhaps even a shared studio. Albert looked through Whittredge with a glimmer of terror. He suddenly realized he was stranded in a strange town in a country he had never known. He was alone, penniless, in Düsseldorf, Germany. Everything is gone. What will I do now?

The smell and taste of the brandy brought him back but he still couldn’t speak. He knew he should be thinking how terrible it was that cousin Hansenclever had died so young. He had been in his early forties and still had a great career ahead of him. A tragedy. But Albert couldn’t get past the fact that his hopes and plans had been blown out like the chandelier in the castle of his dream in the span of a single sentence.

If time, a few seconds earlier, had almost stopped moving, his mind now leapt ahead with improbable speed, and it rang with echoes from his conversation with his father. If you help me, father, he had said, I will have as good a chance to succeed as anyone. I will be among those who waste no time. I will have personal instruction, be among accomplished artists, and shall have the chance to examine the finest collection of paintings in the world. Without this advantage, I do not think I would try to become an artist. I know initially, it will be expensive. I will sell every painting I have this summer, but I do not think I will have saved enough.

His father had blinked once, then nodded. All right, Albert, I will send money to Hansenclever to be used in your support, with one condition. If, at any time between now and the end of one year, your efforts for whatever reason do not work out, you will come home and join your brothers in their new wood turning trade.

The inside of Albert’s mouth was rimmed with chalk. His hands were numb. Somebody was urging him once again to drink from the brandy snifter, but all he could do was to hum the little tune his mother had taught him: Es wird besser gehen,es wird besser gehe;die welt ist rund,und muss sich drehen. It will get better, it will get better; the world is round, and keeps on turning.

Chapter 2 1854: The Acolyte

In his new world, Albert encountered challenges to which he responded honestly, immediately, and with enthusiasm. He might quit at any time, for this path was not for everyone. The halls of mythology were heavy with the cries of heroes who had lost heart, caved in, or simply failed. His metamorphosis would begin by his own effort. Instruction remained thin, guidance sparse.  Success was his alone.

WORTHINGTON WHITTREDGE strode across a corner of the Hofgarten toward the studio. The air was crowded with an assortment of mingled winter scents: horse droppings, moisture, fallen leaves, a hint of the river. He shrugged his shoulders and shivered as he crossed a set of rusty railroad tracks, then tightened the collar of his anorak and pulled on the flaps of his fur cap to prevent the cold from giving him headaches.

The  room on the second floor of the ancient railroad station was twice as long as it was wide, it’s ceiling twenty feet off the floor. Three easels stood at a forty-five-degree angle from windows on the north side. A corner of the studio held a pile of artist supplies and tools. Aside from a small metal stove mounted on a slab of limestone, the ancient hall appeared an empty box except its oak flooring lay beneath a grimy