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Updated: June 25, 2025
He was twenty-nine years of age; the Princess was twenty-five. The ennui of unused powers and corroding heart-hunger had made the Princess old before her time. Scheffer's fight with adversity had long before robbed him of his youth. These two eyed each other curiously.
Scheffer's Christus Consolator was upon the walls, and the benign figure seemed to spread wider its arms of mercy, to take in a few sad hearts more. Hope bore Emilia into the light and purity and warmth, while Malbone was shut out into the darkness and the chill.
It was Ary Scheffer's mother whose beautiful features the painter so loved to reproduce in his pictures of Beatrice, St. Monica, and others of his works that encouraged his study of art, and by great self-denial provided him with the means of pursuing it.
And my Gretchen is greater than Scheffer's." What else mattered very much, after all, except what they would say in Paris of Gretchen? People saw that Bébée had grown very quiet. But that was all they saw.
Music poured from her lips as from the throat of a nightingale. The words she sang were Norwegian, and her listeners understood nothing of them; but the melody, the pathetic appealing melody, soul-moving as all true melody must be, touched the very core of their hearts, and entangled them in a web of delicious reveries. "Talk of Ary Scheffer's Gretchen!" murmured Lorimer with a sigh.
This picture, which represents so vividly the profound pathos and depth of soul which Ary Scheffer could put upon a canvas, can now be seen in the Louvre. But the best collection of Scheffer's portraits and historical pictures is at Versailles. In the gentle companionship of his beloved daughter, Scheffer found the meed of joy that was his due.
"Gave it to Job Scheffer, William's father. Will has it now, though I think it is broken." "Very well. What have Dr. Scheffer's habits been, by the way? Was he as fond of turning the cards as the other young fellows?" "Oh, yes, poor boy! There was a rumor some years ago that he was frightfully involved in Baltimore that it would ruin the old man, in fact, to clear off his debts of honor.
A few masterly portraits by Scheffer's hand indicate his power of reproducing individual character. Among these we may name that of his mother, which is said to be his finest work, one of the Queen, a picture of Lamennais, and another of Emilia Manin, to which we shall again refer.
The marriage of Doctor Marjolin and Cornelie Scheffer was a happy mating; and both honored the gifted father and ministered to him in every kindly way. But so susceptible was Scheffer's nature that when his daughter had given her whole heart to another, the fine edge of his art was dulled and blunted.
His daughter was sent for, and when she came the sick man's longing desire was to get back to France. If he was to die, he wanted to die at home. "To die at home at last," is the prayer of every wanderer. Ary Scheffer's prayer was answered. He expired in the arms of his beloved daughter on June Fifteenth, Eighteen Hundred Fifty-eight, aged sixty-three years.
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