The door was shut, the footsteps of the two men died away--Ferdinanda
had not moved.
"Una principessa!" she murmured. "He is the only one who understands
me. What use is it to be understood by him? If he were a prince,
indeed! And yet it is delicious to know that one is loved like
that--delicious and dangerous! He watches every step I take, nothing
that I do escapes him; but really yesterday he does not seem to have
been at home. He does not know yet that I dare not do anything when he
is near."
She sank down upon a stool, and took the letter from her bosom which
_he_ had given her yesterday over the garden wall. She already knew it
by heart, but she liked to see the trace of the loved hand.
"Why did you not try to let me know that you would be at the station?
You could have written quite safely to Schönau; it was mere chance that
I came by that train--mere chance that I made acquaintance with your
cousin in the carriage. How can we ever get on, how can we even prolong
our present miserable existence, if we leave everything to chance? If
we do not struggle for our happiness by boldly meeting our cruel fate?
As it was, I had to find some excuse for tumbling head over heels out
of the carriage; and how easily I might have missed you, or found you
with your father, and then there would have been another opportunity
lost! I hope now things may be a little better. Your cousin is, so he
told me, acquainted with my sister, and she herself explained how they
had made acquaintance on the road, and he made himself extremely useful
to the party. My sister speaks of him very highly, and assures me that
my father is delighted with him. He will, of course, call upon my
father; at all events I shall come and thank my 'comrade' for the
service he has done my belongings, either commissioned by Elsa and my
father, or without any commission at all--leave that to me. At all
events it will give us an opening that will be very useful, as your
cousin seems a pleasant fellow, with whom little ceremony will be
necessary. Get on good terms with him, and make use of 'my cousin' to
take you out walking and to concerts, theatres, and exhibitions. By the
way, go to-morrow--splendid opportunity--to the Exhibition. I shall
only be on duty till twelve o'clock, so perhaps at half-past twelve I
may persuade Elsa to go, as she has already expressed a wish to do so.
I can take the opportunity of introducing you to her all the more
easily that we were formally introduced yesterday; so be prepared for
it. I write these lines, as usual, in flying haste, during the few
minutes that I dare steal away from the family circle; forgive such a
scrawl. I kiss your lovely hand now in my thoughts as I did erewhile
when you gave it me over the garden wall for the first time--not for
the last, I swear!" ...
She let the letter fall into her lap. And no word of his father! not a
word that could show that he was in earnest, in real earnest; that he
would at least make an attempt to free them from their present
humiliating situation! And he knew nothing yet of last night's scene!
She crumpled up the paper which lay under one hand, and seizing it the
next moment with both hands covered it with kisses, smoothed it
carefully out, and replacing it in her bosom, laid her hot forehead
upon the marble slab of the little table.
"Una febbre che mi divora," she murmured; "il sangue mi abbrucia, il
cervello mi si spezza--sono stanca di questa vita! Yes, yes!" she
cried, starting up, "I am tired of this life, which is no life at all,
but a hideous mockery of life, a death before death--worse--a living
grave! I will force my way out of this ghastly tomb, or die by my own
hand!"
She walked up and down the room, wringing her hands and sobbing, now
throwing herself upon a chair and gazing wildly before her, now
starting up and again wandering about with gestures of despair. The
loud clang of the great bell caught her attention for a moment. She
knew that it was something quite unusual--perhaps some great accident
had happened: a boiler burst, the saws of one of the machines bent, and
the wall to which it was fastened pulled down and in ruins, as had
happened a few months ago; perhaps a fire--what did it signify to her
whether people were crushed and killed, or all burnt together? Was not
she broken and wounded in soul and body, wandering amongst the ruins of
the happiness which had never existed except in her dreams! A
despairing woman, to whom a hair shirt would be suitable and ashes on
her head, that head that she had once carried so proudly--like her
father! It was all his fault. He it was, who had declared war between
them! And he did not know yet; but the hour was coming soon, even
to-day if she were followed--and then?
She had lain awake the whole night thinking over that question; she had
racked her mind over it the whole morning. And then? and then?
How could she alone find an answer without him? And he--he! When last
night she described in a few hasty words the scene that had taken place
at table, had he given the one only answer that she had expected--"Then
we must try to settle it without our fathers' consent!" He had answered
nothing, not a word! and his silence confirmed what she had most
feared--the only thing that she had feared and dreaded--that he was not
prepared to carry the matter out to the last, to its extreme end--that
he did not love her as she loved him!
Of what use were her courage and determination? She was helpless!
She--helpless!
She stood still before a looking-glass which she was just passing. She
examined her face, her figure as though she were the model whom she had
ordered for the next day, and wished to see whether the form thus
reflected were really what it laid claim to be. Was she really as
beautiful as they all said? Was the great French sculptor right who
came to see Justus last year, and at sight of her stood thunderstruck,
and then exclaimed that till he saw her he had never believed that
nature could have produced so perfect a form.
But Antonio, too, was beautiful--beautiful as a dream, and yet she did
not love him. And was he, who was not even an artist--was he to let
beauty alone so fascinate him that he should give up family prejudice,
rank, social position, all--for what? A woman never asks such questions
if she loves; she makes no calculations, no bargains--she loves, and
gives freely, joyfully, everything that she has to give--she gives
herself.
She leaned back in her chair, buried her face in the cushions, and shut
her eyes.
"He does not know how passionately I love him, how I would cover
him with kisses," she murmured; and yet, how did it go? "The only
charm which a man cannot withstand, and which he follows unresistingly
... and his gratitude for which is, in fact, only recollection and
longing----"
It was from a French novel that she had gathered this melancholy piece
of knowledge--not a good book--and she had not read to the end. But
this sentence, which she did not dare repeat entirely to herself, had
fallen into her heart like a spark of fire, and smouldered and burnt
there--in her heart, in her cheeks, in her closed eyes, in the beating
pulses of her temples--air! air!
She started up and clutched at the empty air like a drowning man. "I am
lost," she cried, "I am lost, lost!"
A knock at the door, which she had already heard once or twice, now
sounded louder. She let her arms fall, glanced round the room, grasped
the letter hidden in her bosom, and passed her hands over her hair and
brow and eyes and cheeks. "Come in!"
"I was afraid of disturbing you," said Reinhold, standing in the open
doorway.
"Oh, come in and shut the door."
It was the Ferdinanda of last night, with the half-careless,
half-sullen, impenetrable manner, and the deep, monotonous, tired
voice.
Reinhold did as he was desired. She replaced the modelling tool, which
she had caught up at random, on the little table, and gave him her
hand.
"I have been waiting a long time for you."
"I should have been here sooner," answered Reinhold, "but a handsome
young fellow next door, whom I seemed to disturb in the act of
dressing----"
"Antonio, an Italian--Herr Anders' assistant."
"He either could not or would not give me any information. So I have
been through the yards and the machinery department in search of your
father, and--did you not hear the noise?"
"No."
Reinhold stared with astonishment, his heart was still beating and his
mind still full of what he had seen and heard. The clang of the bell
had frightened Aunt Rikchen out of the house, where he had just led her
back only half quieted; the servants had run and stood in the distance,
staring anxiously; blind Cilli had come into the doorway and had said a
few kind words to him as he passed by; and here, fifty yards off, his
own daughter had heard nothing!
"Do you artists live in a world of your own?" he asked in astonishment,
and then he explained what had happened. "I am afraid," he added, "that
half the manufactory will have to be closed. My uncle will suffer
immense loss, for he has heavy contracts to fulfil, so the men told me
before. Heaven only knows how it will all end!"
"What will it signify to my father?" answered Ferdinanda, as a bitter
smile played about her lips. "The world may come to an end if only he
can have his own way! You do not know my father quite yet," she
continued more quietly. "We, unhappily, are accustomed to this sort of
thing; all we know is that we live over a volcano. If we left off work
every time there was a storm we should have no peace, and should never
finish anything."
She had taken off her great apron. Reinhold was standing looking at her
work.
"How do you like it?" asked Ferdinanda.
"It is beautiful," answered Reinhold, with sincere admiration; "but I
could wish it were less beautiful if it might be less sad. The
expression of the mouth, the look of the eyes as they are shaded by the
head--the whole effect of the otherwise lovely face seems to me not
quite in keeping with the peaceful and rural occupation suggested by
the sickle and wheatsheaf. As I came in I fancied a maiden looking out
for her lover. She is looking out for him, but woe to him when he
comes! He had better be careful of the sickle! Am I right?"
"Perfectly," answered Ferdinanda. "And now I am more glad than ever
that I am going with you to the Exhibition. It must be a pleasure to
look at the work of real artists with any one who can so closely
criticise the work of an amateur."
She was standing at the end of the room, and let the water from a tap
in the wall run over her hands into a washhand-basin. "Excuse me," said
she, "but that is what we are obliged to do here. Now tell me how you
slept."
"Perfectly as soon as I got to sleep. I was a little excited at first."
"So was I. I had to walk for a long time in the garden before I could
calm myself. May I confess? I was so ashamed of my father's losing his
temper before you, as you could not know what he was like in such
matters, and that he can work himself up into a perfect fury over a
mere nothing. Luckily, he only fights these battles in imagination;
and, for example, if the son of the man whose very name--heaven only
knows why--puts him into such a state, if Herr von Werben were to pay
you a visit, and my father met him, he would be courtesy itself. I tell
you that because I presume you will not be able to avoid some
intercourse with the Werbens, and might think the situation more
serious than it really is. Indeed, I am convinced that if I had not, in
my extreme nervousness, cut short the introduction yesterday at the
station, and my father could have seen that Herr von Werben is a man
very much like other men, that scene never would have occurred. But one
can't think of everything."
So said Ferdinanda as she slowly walked through the garden, which led,
by a back door, from the studio to the house. The sun threw a shadow
from the trees upon the garden wall, as the moon had done last night.
"It really was only a shadow on the wall," said Reinhold to himself.