eggar himself, wasted and palsied, the rich man counts with
his fingers the gain of the years to come.

But of those years, infinite that are to be, Holbein says nothing. 'I
know not; I see not. This only I see, on this very winter's day, the low
pale stumbling-block at your feet, the altogether by you unseen and
forgotten Death. You shall not pass _him_ by on the other side; here is
a fasting figure in skin and bone, at last, that will stop you; and for
all the hidden treasures of earth, here is your spade: dig now, and find
them.'

177. I have said that Holbein was condemned to teach these things. He
was not happy in teaching them, nor thanked for teaching them. Nor was
Botticelli for his lovelier teaching. But they both could do no
otherwise. They lived in truth and steadfastness; and with both, in
their marvelous design, veracity is the beginning of invention, and love
its end.

I have but time to show you, in conclusion, how this affectionate
self-forgetfulness protects Holbein from the chief calamity of the
German temper, vanity, which is at the root of all Duerer's weakness.
Here is a photograph of Holbein's portrait of Erasmus, and a fine proof
of Duerer's. In Holbein's, the face leads everything; and the most lovely
qualities of the face lead in that. The cloak and cap are perfectly
painted, just because you look at them neither more nor less than you
would have looked at the cloak in reality. You don't say, 'How
brilliantly they are touched,' as you would with Rembrandt; nor 'How
gracefully they are neglected,' as you would with Gainsborough; nor 'How
exquisitely they are shaded,' as you would with Lionardo; nor 'How
grandly they are composed,' as you would with Titian. You say only,
'Erasmus is surely there; and what a pleasant sight!' You don't think of
Holbein at all. He has not even put in the minutest letter H, that I can
see, to remind you of him. Drops his H's, I regret to say, often enough.
'My hand should be enough for you; what matters my name?' But now, look
at Duerer's. The very first thing you see, and at any distance, is this
great square tablet with

"The image of Erasmus, drawn from the life by Albert Duerer,
1526,"

and a great straddling A.D. besides. Then you see a cloak, and a table,
and a pot, with flowers in it, and a heap of books with all their
leaves and all their clasps, and all the little bits of leather gummed
in to mark the places; and last of all you see Erasmus'