by Mary Howitt.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.1 #16 (17 Apr 1847).
What Engele's baptismal name was, I am sorry I cannot tell you. Her parents knew, no doubt, and so did her grandmother, but I never heard of anybody else who did. Engele she was called, and I'll tell you why. Her father was a painter, and his name was Paul; he painted the most beautiful pictures that ever were seen; he painted angels, and the Virgin Mary, and little Jesus, and all kinds of beautiful saints, with white lilies in their hands. He was a sort of strong, good angel himself: he had a grave, but loving countenance; his hair, which was of a deep brown, hung down in rich waves on his shoulders, and he had a handsome short beard, and moustache. It was quite a picture to see him in his dark painting gown, and black velvet cap, standing before his easel, and working out some heavenly picture in which his wife and his child always made a part. I wish you could have seen Engele's mother! but as you cannot, I will tell you how she looked. She was young, and had more of the peasant in her than the lady; she was not rich, you must understand; both husband and wife were peasant born; and though they had come to live in the city because he was a painter, they still both of them were as simple in their lives as when they were little children in the village together. The child was called Engele, because almost ever since she was born she had served as the model for her father's angels. When she was a baby, swaddled up in baby clothes, she had served for the new-born Jesus on his mother's knee, the Virgin always being the sweet mother of Engele; as she grew older, she stood, and sate, and slept, for every kind of angel, and so she gained the name of Engel or Angel. They called her, however, Engelein or little angel, and this they shortened in their old-fashioned dialect into Engele—and that was the reason of her name.
Engele was now seven; she was quite too old for the new-born Jesus, or the infant Jesus. She would soon be a model for St. Catherine, and such like saints, now she was useful for young John the Baptists. Nothing pleased Engele better than-to be her father's model; she stood for hours and hours to him; he always talked so cheerfully when he was painting, and her mother used mostly to sit at her work in the room, and often at her spinning. Often her mother sang; and sometimes, when Engele was very much tired, her father would take his violin out of its case, to play to her and her mother while she rested.
Engele lived in a little German city; I have forgotten its name, but you might find it on the map, because there is a university in it; if I remember the name, I'll tell you. She had no companions except her parents and her old grandmother, and the student Berthold who lodged at her grandmother's. Berthold was a great friend of her father's, and used often to come to his studio, and that made her feel always at home with him.
One day. Engele heard her parents talking about her father's grand picture which he had been many years painting, and in which she herself had been the model of the new-born Jesus, and then, before the picture was finished, of the eldest of the little angels, as well as of the intermediate ones. She heard them talking about how this picture was gone somewhere, a long way off, for the king to see; and perhaps it would get a gold medal; and if the king bought it, then her father would be rich, and would be able to take them all to Italy for him to study beautiful pictures there. Engele listened to all this, and because she saw that her parents were anxious about the picture, she prayed every night when she went to bed, that God would make the great people admire her father's picture; but she prayed in such a: low whisper, that nobody knew anything about it.
Another thing also she heard her father and mother talking of one day; and of it she thought a great deal. She was lying as a sleeping angel for her father, and he thought she really was asleep, so he and her mother talked freely. They said it was very inconvenient now Engele was getting so big, because her father had no very young model to paint from. He wished so much that they had a baby for a model. The mother sighed, and the father sighed, and then they both were silent for some time, and nothing was heard but the clock ticking and the buzzing of the mother's wheel.
"It is a pity Engele grows so tall," again said the father; "she made such a beautiful model for a baby; I always sold my pictures," said he, "when I had a baby to paint."
"Engele does certainly grow very tall," said the mother; and then all again was still.
This conversation, trifling as it was, made Engele very sad; she wished so much that she could turn herself into a baby again. At night she prayed that somehow or other a baby might come into the house for her father to make lovely pictures with.
The painter and his wife were very cheerful people; there was a deal of love and joy in their house; but for all that at the bottom of her heart Engele was sad. She wished so much for a baby that her father might paint it. She was surprised, after what she had heard her father say, that he should still want her as much as ever for a model; but though now he never painted her as a baby, still she came into every one of his pictures; she was glad of that, glad that she could be useful in any way; but still she was sorry that she could not be that which he wanted most.
Engele had, as we said, a grandmother. She lived just at the other end of the little city, so that Engele had to go from one city gate to the other to visit her. The only times that Engele went out a-visiting was to her grandmother. Her grandmother was lame, and often had the toothache, so she walked with a stick, and always had a handkerchief tied under her chin and on the top of her head to keep her jaws warm. She was a very nice old woman for all that; and she had such beautiful old-fashioned Dresden china in a cupboard with a glass door, and brown squab mandarins that put out their tongues and nodded their heads, and always made Engele laugh; and she had a cuckoo clock in her house. And the student Berthold, who lodged with her, and was a great friend of the painter, he used to play on the guitar and sing such funny songs! Engele was always glad to go to her grandmother's.
Besides the student Berthold, who lodged at the old woman's, six of the oldest boys at the Gymnasium, which was just by, used to come in every day to have their dinners with her; so she had enough to do with cooking for them all, and with her rheumatism which made her so lame; and that was the reason why she did not very often go across the city to her son's.
One day, when Engele was there, she heard the old woman say to the student Berthold: "Yes, and when the baby comes my son will do famously: he wants an infant-model very much; Engele, you see, gets too big for that!"
The student was smoking with a long pipe, on the bole of which was painted a beautiful copy of one of Paul's most beautiful pictures—Mary and Jesus—the models of which had been his own wife and Engele. Engele's eyes were fixed on this as the grandmother spoke. The student said nothing, for he was in a pleasant dream over the fumes of his tobacco; but Engele lost not a word. Was there really, then, a baby coming for her father to paint? It was a strange thought; she could not get it out of her head all day; but she said nothing to any one.
When she got home she could not help looking at all her father's pictures that had young children in them. Such an indescribable love sprang up in her heart for the baby that was coming, and that would be like these, that it seemed to her as if she were already possessed of a great treasure.
Her father had a very fine picture in hand; but as yet it was only an outline cartoon. He often said that that picture would establish his name; so said his wife, and so said the student Berthold. He only, however, worked at it now and then, on what he called his good days. One day he drew it forth; he seemed so happy, and the sun shone into the room, and fell upon his long hair, and made its brown tint almost golden. Engele could not help looking at her father; she thought he looked so like something in his own picture. He had two beautiful white lilies in his hand.
"I shall get on gloriously with my picture," said he, "when the baby comes!" and then he stuck the two white lilies into his wife's hair, and kissed her, and said he would make a study of her head for his grand picture. She had only a grey woollen gown on of her own spinning, a black velvet bodice, which was in part the peasants' costume, a curiously worked leathern pocket outside her dress, and a little bunch of keys hung to a silver chain: but for all that she looked fit to be a great painter's wife.
Engele dreamt that night about her father's grand picture, and about a baby which lay on her mother's knee, and which he was painting; it was such a lovely dream, that she was quite sorry when her father woke her. He woke her very early; he told her to get up and dress herself, and go to spend the day with the old grandmother; he helped her to dress; he plaited her long thick hair, and tied it like a coronet round her head; he put on her little old-fashioned grey woollen frock, with its long waist and full skirts, pinned a little red shawl over her shoulders, and, opening the door which led into the street, told her to go straight to her grandmother's, and he would fetch her in the evening.
Engele had no bonnet on, because she never wore one; nobody but the rich did in that part of Germany, and her family were not rich, so neither she nor her mother wore bonnets. Engele walked all through the city, wondering why she must go so early to her grandmother. It was so early in the morning, that the watchman was only just coming out of the church, in the tower of which he had been keeping watch all night. He nodded kindly to Engele as she passed, and so did the country women, who were seating themselves in the street with their pitchers of sour milk, and their eggs and fruit, which they had brought, early as it was, into the town for sale.
Engele's grandmother did not seem at all surprised to see her; and when Berthold, the student, came in to his breakfast, and saw her there, he went up to the old woman, and asked, in a whisper, but loud enough for Engele to hear, if the baby were come.
The student never went to the University all that day; he played on his guitar, and showed her beautiful pictures in his books, and on his pipes, for he had a great many. Berthold was a rich student: he wore silver spurs, and rode upon a fine black horse. Engele often saw him on horseback; and when he met her anywhere when he was riding, he always took off his cap, as if she were a great lady. She thought Berthold a perfect gentleman; and, besides, he was her father's great friend, and admired his pictures so much.
Berthold dined at an inn; and the six gymnasium boys dined with Engele and her grandmother.
In the afternoon Berthold's fine horse was brought to the door for him to take a ride, and Engele's father came in just at that moment; he looked so handsome and so happy; he kissed the old woman, and said, "Well, thank Heaven! I shall get on gloriously with my picture now. I have now such a baby for a model as never was seen!" Tears were in the old grandmother's eyes, and she said, "Thank God!"
Engele was ready to cry for joy also; but she had no time: the student Berthold caught her in his arms, and kissed her, and said that she should ride before him on his fine black horse, and that he would set her down at her father's door as he went by.
I wish anybody could have seen Engele's face, as she rode up the street sitting before the student!
Instead, however, of going direct to the painter's house, he went down some back streets, and stopped at the post-office. Here they gave him some letters—one only of which he opened.
"Here is good news for us, Engele," said he; "brave good news, and thou shalt take it to thy father. The king has bought his picture—they have conferred a gold medal upon him—and all the world will now acknowledge that he is a great painter!"