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Updated: June 21, 2025
He was, moreover, a poet, author of "an often-translated song"; he wrote verses to discourage Duerer from spending his time in producing the doggerel rhymes which at one time he was moved to attempt, framing poems of didactic import, and publishing one or two on separate sheets with a woodcut at the top, in spite of the inappreciative reception given to them by Spengler and Pirkheimer.
He had painted, besides portraits of Froben and others, at least three portraits of Erasmus by 1524. For in June of this year the latter writes to his friend Pirkheimer, at Nürnberg, to say that he has sent two of these portraits by the "most accomplished painter" to England; while the artist himself, he adds, has conveyed still a third to France. It is a masterpiece of penetration and technique.
Duerer was an excessively subtle disputant, and refuted his adversary's arguments, just as if he had come fully prepared for the discussion. Thereupon Pirkheimer, who was rather a choleric man and liable to very severe attacks of the gout, fired up and burst forth again and again into such words as these, "What you say cannot be painted."
Or perhaps Herr Pirkheimer would send me the design of it he would be doing me a great favour. I want also to know how much a set of impressions of all your prints costs, and whether anything new has come out at Nuernberg relating to my art. I hear that our friend Hans, the astronomer, is dead.
"Private papers of Willibald Pirkheimer," she said, "ancestor of the von Herkomers sixteenth century. He was a friend of Dürer's." Her lips closed crisply on the words. He looked at her, a smile under the trim mustaches. "You hope they will furnish a clew?" he asked tolerantly. She made no reply. Her wrinkled face was raised to the picture. "You have one Dürer." He motioned toward a small canvas.
This is the only evidence against her, and that so sane and sensible a man as the artist lived with her all his life and cherished her, is evidence enough that Pirkheimer didn't tell the truth. When Durer died he was in good circumstances and instead of being overworked, he for many years had done no "pot-boiling," but had followed investigations along lines that pleased him.
It is easy to imagine that there was many a supper and dinner, when a thousand strange subjects were even more strangely discussed; when Pirkheimer now made them roar with a hazardous joke, or again dumbfounded them with Greek quotations pompously done into German, or made their flesh creep and the superstitions of their race stir in them by mysteriously enlarging on his astrological lore, for to his many weaknesses he added this, which was then scarcely recognised as one.
He was esteemed, as he deserved to be; he had a true friend in his comrade Pirkheimer; he had his art; he had the peace of a good conscience; he had the highest of all consolations in his faith in Heaven. Certainly it is not from Albrecht himself that the tale of his domestic wretchedness has come.
If the original inscription contained a dedication to Pirkheimer or some other notable Nuremberger, there was every reason for the artist who stole the picture to obliterate this and add a new one: or this may have been done when it became the property of the town, for those who sold it may have wished that it should not be known that it might have been an heirloom in their family.
The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. "Good-by, my friend." He held out his hand frankly. Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're friends?" he said. "Always." "And you will never want if I can help you." "Never!" The tone was hearty and proud. Pirkheimer turned away with a look of contentment. "I shall hold you to it," he said. "It is a promise."
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