Erika was sitting by the window in her boudoir. Although outside the
night had not yet fallen upon the earth, it was too dark to read. Her
window looked out upon the hotel-garden,--which at this season of the
year was like one huge bed of roses intersected by a narrow gravel
path. The sweet breath of the roses was wafted in at the window, but
with it there mingled always the sickening odour of the lagoon.
A couple of distant clocks were striking the hour, and the water was
lapping the feet of the old palaces.
Lost in thought the girl sat there. The mission in life for which she
had so yearned was revealed to her in the noblest, most attractive
form.
She could not doubt that Lozoncyi loved her. Mistrustful as she usually
was concerning the sentiments she was wont to arouse, there could be no
uncertainty in this case.
The future lay before her bright and alluring. How could she have
despaired in this wonderful life of ours? She seemed to have always
known that she was foreordained for some special service.
Why had he never yet made a direct confession of his sentiments? Her
pride replied to this question, "He dare not venture."
It was for her to take one step to meet him. Reserved as she was, the
mere thought of so doing sent the blood to her cheeks, but she took
herself sternly to task, admonishing herself that cowardice on her part
would be paltry in the extreme.
It would surely be possible to allow him to read her heart, without any
indelicate frankness on her part.
Thus far her thoughts had led her, when Marianne brought her a card:
"Herr von Lozoncyi."
"Did you tell him I was at home?"
"No; I said I would see. When her Excellency is away I never say
anything decided," replied the maid.
The old Countess had gone out a little while before, to pay a short
visit in the neighbourhood; Luedecke had accompanied her.
Erika hesitated a moment, then turned up the electric light and told
Marianne to show in the visitor. Immediately afterwards he entered, and
she arose to receive him. She was startled as she looked at his face,
it was so pale and wan.
"Are you ill?" she exclaimed; "or have you come to tell us of some
misfortune that has befallen you?" The sympathy expressed in her tone
agitated him still further.
"Neither is the case," he replied, trying to assume an easy air. "I
came only to----" There he paused. Why had he come? The thought that
she might entertain a warmer sentiment for him--a thought that had
occurred to him to-day for the first time--would not be banished. He
had dragged the sweet, racking uncertainty about with him for an hour
through the loneliest streets of Venice, without being able to rid
himself of it. He would see her,--would have certainty; and then----
Ah, he could not gain that certainty: he could only long for her.
He had invented some explanation of his visit, but he could not
remember it; instead he said, "You are very kind to receive me in
Countess Lenzdorff's absence, and I will show my appreciation of your
kindness by making my visit a short one."
"On the contrary," she rejoined, "I hope you will spend the evening
with us. My grandmother will be here in a few minutes, and will be very
glad to find you here."
How soft and sweet her voice was! Could it be--could it be----?
His agitation became almost intolerable. He knew that he ought not to
stay, but he could not bring himself to leave.
The evening minstrels of Venice were beginning their rounds, and in the
distance they sang "_Io son felice--t'attendo in ciel!_"
"Bring your present expression to the studio tomorrow!" Lozoncyi said,
hoarsely: "I will transfer it to the canvas as well as I can, in memory
of the noblest creature I have ever met. You are coming to-morrow?"
"Certainly. The portrait is almost finished, is it not?"
"Yes; I think to-morrow will be the last sitting; and then----"
"And then----?" she repeated.
"Then it will all be over!"
There was a pause. He turned his head aside. Suddenly a low sweet
voice, that went directly to his heart, said, softly, "Then you will
wish to know nothing more of me!"
He started as if from an electric shock; the room swam before his eyes,
when----the door opened, the Countess Muehlberg appeared, and Lozoncyi
arose to take leave, thanking Heaven for this unexpected interruption.
"Will you not wait until my grandmother returns?" Erika asked.
"Unfortunately, it is impossible."
"Adieu, then. To-morrow at eleven," she called after him. He made no
reply.
It lightened and thundered all through the night, but scarcely a drop
of rain fell; the air the next morning was as sultry as it had been on
the previous day.
When Erika, with her grandmother, entered Lozoncyi's garden punctually
at eleven o'clock, everything there looked withered and drooping.
Lozoncyi himself was pale; his motions had lost their wonted
elasticity, and his face was grave. When the old Countess asked him if
he were ill, he ascribed his condition to the sirocco.
Erika noticed that there were no fresh flowers in the studio: he had
taken no pains to decorate it for his guests, and she was conscious of
a foreboding of misfortune.
"I must subject you to some fatigue to-day, I fear, that the picture
may at last be finished," he said, speaking very quickly. "You must
have patience this last time. I should not like to give you a picture
that was not as good as I knew how to make it."
"You have already bestowed too much of your valuable time upon the
Countess Erika," the old Countess said, kindly.
"Indeed? do you think so?" he murmured, with a bitterness he had never
displayed before. "Do you think we artists should not be allowed to
devote so much time to enjoyment? 'Tis true," he added, in an
undertone, "that we have to pay for it."
Erika looked at him in startled wonder: his words were perfectly
incomprehensible to her, but the expression of his pale face was one of
such anguish that her compassion, always too easily aroused, increased
momentarily.
As usual, she repaired to the adjoining room to change her dress with
Lucrezia's assistance. When she returned to the studio Lozoncyi was
standing with his back to the chimney-piece, his hands in the pockets
of his jacket, while her grandmother, sitting opposite him in her
favourite chair, was asking him, "What is the matter with you,
Lozoncyi? Have you lost money in the stock market?"
He shook his head. "No," he said, trying to answer the question in the
same jesting tone as that in which it had been asked.
"Then what is wrong? Confide in me."
He cleared his throat. "In fact, I----" he began.
Then, perceiving Erika, "Ah, ready so soon?" he cried. "Let us go to
work."
She could not find the pose immediately: he was obliged to move her
right arm. His hand was as hot as if burning with fever, and he had
scarcely touched the girl's arm with it when he withdrew it hastily.
He went to the easel, gazed long and with half-closed eyes at his
model, then turned and began to paint.
Usually there was a constant flow of conversation between Erika and
himself. To-day he spoke not a word; perfect silence reigned in the
studio; the turning of the leaves of the novel which the old Countess
was reading and the twittering of the birds in the garden outside, were
audible; one could even hear now and then the sweep of the brush upon
the canvas.
Thus an hour passed. Then, stepping back a few paces from the picture,
he fixed his eyes upon Erika, added a few touches with his brush, and
looked from her to the portrait.
"Look at it yourself," he said, with a hard emphasis on each syllable.
"So far as I can finish it, it is done. I cannot improve it!"
Both ladies went and stood before it. "I do not know whether it is
like," said Erika, "but it certainly is a masterpiece."
"It is magnificent!" exclaimed her grandmother. "You have flattered the
child, and have done it most delicately,--_en homme d'esprit_."
"Flattered!" he cried. "Hardly! I have tried to produce the expression
which not every one can see in the face. That is the only merit of my
poor performance: otherwise it is a daub. I have never seemed to myself
so poor a painter as when at work upon this picture." As he spoke he
tossed the entire sheaf of brushes which he held in his hand into the
chimney place.
"What are you about?" exclaimed the old Countess. "You are in a very
odd mood to-day."
"Oh, the brushes were worn out," he replied. "I could not have painted
another picture with them."
The blood mounted to Erika's cheek with gratification. She understood
him. His agitation and sorrow did not disquiet her now, so convinced
was she that it was in her power to dispel them by a single word.
"You must leave the picture with me for a time. When it is dry I will
varnish it and send it to you: I must ask you, however, to what
address?"
"I hope we shall still continue to see you," the old Countess replied.
"I assure you that I entertain a sincere friendship for you. The visits
to your studio, although my part in them has been a secondary one, have
come to be a pleasant habit, which I shall find it hard to discontinue.
We shall always be glad to welcome you wherever we are."
Erika, meanwhile, had approached the painter. "I do not know how to
thank you," she said.
"I have done nothing for which thanks are due," he rejoined. "The
thanks should come from me. All I ask of you is to bestow a thought now
and then upon the poor painter who has enjoyed the sight of you for so
long. No, there is one thing more. You will allow me to make a copy of
the picture for myself?"
The grandmother interposed: "Go change your dress, Erika."
And Lozoncyi asked, "Will you take your portmanteau with you, or shall
I send it to you?"
Erika went into the next room. Hurriedly, impatiently, she took off the
white gown and put on her street dress. "Stuff everything into the
portmanteau," she ordered Lucrezia, slipping a gold coin into the
servant's hand.
She was in a strange mood: she felt her heart throb up in her throat.
"Shall I have one moment in which to speak to him alone?" she asked
herself.
"Ready? You have been quick," her grandmother said when she re-entered
the studio. "Have you summoned our gondola, Lozoncyi?"
"Yes, Countess. I wonder it is not here. Meanwhile, I must cut the
roses in my garden for you. I cannot tell for whom they will bloom when
you come no longer."
He went out into the garden. For one moment Erika hesitated; then she
followed him. The skies were one uniform gray; every branch and blossom
drooped wearily. The roses which Lozoncyi tried to cut for Erika fell
to pieces beneath his touch, strewing the earth with pink and white
petals.
Lozoncyi did not look around, but cut unmercifully, with a large pair
of garden scissors. Before he knew it, Erika stood beside him. "I may
be overbold," she half whispered, lightly touching his arm, "but I
cannot help feeling that I have a right to know your troubles. Is
anything distressing you?"
He looked at her and tried to smile. "To say farewell distresses me,
Countess, as you must be aware."
She was overpowered by timidity, but her compassion gave her courage.
She collected herself: they must understand each other. "If to say
farewell really distresses you, I--I cannot see why it should be said,"
she whispered. The tears stood in her eyes, and he----? He was ashy
pale, and the roses dropped from his hands.
At this moment the bell rang loudly, and a woman's voice asked, in
French with a strong Prussian accent, "Does the artist, Paul Lozoncyi,
live here?"
Erika was startled. Where had she heard that voice before? Out into the
drooping garden came a tall, well-formed woman, with regular features,
fair, slightly rouged, every fold of her dress, every curl of her fair
hair,--yes, even the perfume which breathed about her,--betraying her
cult of physical perfection. A scarlet veil was drawn tightly about her
face: otherwise her dress was simple and becoming.
Erika recognized her instantly, and guessed the truth. For a moment the
garden swam before her eyes: she was afraid she should fall. Meanwhile,
the new-comer laid a very shapely and well-gloved hand upon the
artist's arm, and cried, "_Une surprise--hein, mon bebe! Tu ne t'y
attendais pas--dis?_"
"No," he replied, sharply.
She frowned, and, challenging Erika with a look, she said, "Have the
kindness to introduce me."
He cleared his throat, and then, sharp and hard as the blow of an axe,
the words fell from his lips, "My wife."
Erika had recovered her self-possession. She had advanced sufficiently
in knowledge of the world since Bayreuth to know that no one, not even
Frau Lozoncyi, could expect her to be cordial. She contented herself
with acknowledging Lozoncyi's introduction by a slight inclination.
Meanwhile, the old Countess appeared from the studio to see what was
going on. She took no pains to conceal her astonishment, and when
Lozoncyi presented his wife her inclination was, if possible, colder
and haughtier than Erika's had been, as she scanned the stranger
through her eye-glass. Lozoncyi's servant announced the gondola.
Erika offered her hand to Lozoncyi and had the courage to smile.
The old lady also held out her hand to him, but did not smile. Her
manner was very cool as she said, "Thank you for all the kindness you
have shown us. I had hoped you would dine with us to-night; but you
will not wish this first day to leave--to leave Frau von Lozoncyi."
The gondola pushed off. The water gurgled beneath the first stroke of
the oar, and the wood creaked slightly. For an instant the artist stood
upon his threshold, looking after Erika; then he went into the house,
and the light-green door which she knew so well closed behind him.
How did she feel? She had no time to think of that. All her strength
was expended in concealing her agitation. She arranged her dress, and
remarked that the water was unusually muddy. In fact, it had an opaque
greenish hue. The old Countess did not notice it.
"I never suspected that he was married!" she exclaimed. "He should have
told us. A man has no right to conceal such a fact."
And Erika replied, with an air of easy indifference that surprised even
herself, "I suppose, grandmother, he did not imagine that the
circumstance could possess the slightest interest for us."