The weird shadow-pictures and the biting epigrams of his new friend
haunted Felix all the way down the four flights. His head was in a
whirl with them; his heart felt a keen sympathy for this extraordinary
being. "What a life!" he said to himself. "How much power is rusting
and going to decay there in the dark! And who is to blame for it?--and
I, who knows but what I--"
He pursued his soliloquy no further. As he stepped into the sunny
streets a carriage rolled quickly past, and from it fluttered a
silver-gray veil. In a moment all his thoughts were upon Irene again.
Of course it could not have been she; not to-day, at all events. But
if she should return from her excursion to-morrow and drive by like
this--what then? What would she think? That he had followed her and was
seeking an opportunity for reconciliation, after she had bidden him go?
Anything rather than such a suspicion! Even though he knew that he was
not entirely blameless, his pride was too deeply hurt, his honor was
too deeply wounded, for him to make any advances or to suffer even the
suspicion of doing so. That she was not running after him, and that she
had not the slightest idea in what direction he had turned his steps,
he did not for a moment doubt. He knew her proud spirit so well, that
he only feared one thing, and that was, that upon catching the faintest
hint of his being anywhere near her, she would throw aside all her
plans and insist upon leaving the city again; indeed, would rather face
the Italian summer and all the dangers of sickness, than give rise to
the suspicion that she felt she had been too hasty with him and wished
the unfortunate letter unwritten.
The simplest and at the same time the most chivalrous way of getting
out of the difficulty would have been for him to have gone out of her
way himself; but after brief consideration he rejected this plan as
altogether impracticable. An uncontrollable love of art was suddenly
aroused in his soul--a strong conviction as to his duty toward Jansen
and his own future; and it seemed to him so humiliating to have to
confide to his friends the reasons which induced him to run away from
school again so soon, that he hastily struck into the nearest way to
the studio, as if he felt that there was the place where he would be
safest from all vexations and temptations.
Besides, he had a whole day left in which to take serious counsel with
himself, to look at the matter from all sides, and to decide what it
was best to do.
As he entered the court he saw a carriage standing at the door of the
rear house. Although he knew it could not be hers, it gave him a sharp
start, and he beckoned to the janitor and asked him who had come to
call. "A lady, neither young nor old, with two gentlemen; and they
spoke French." It was evidently a matter of no interest to him, and so,
without devoting another thought to it, he opened the door of Jansen's
studio and went in.
The visitors were standing directly before the Adam and Eve, with their
backs to the door, and did not hear him enter. Jansen gave him a nod of
welcome, and old Homo rose slowly from his tiger-skin to rub his gray
head against Felix's hand. For a moment, therefore, he could examine
the three visitors at his leisure. In the youth with the curly black
hair he immediately recognized the young Greek he had met in
"Paradise." He was pointing to different parts of the work with
animated gestures, and seemed to be expressing to the lady his
enthusiastic admiration. The latter, holding an eye-glass close to her
eyes, stood silent and motionless before the group, to all appearances
completely carried away by it. She was dressed with simple elegance,
was rather _petite_ than tall, and her face, seen as Felix saw it, in
very slight profile, was not exactly youthful or of special beauty, but
was striking because of the whiteness of the skin and a certain
expression of force and intelligence in the slightly-parted lips.
The Slavic type could be recognized at the first glance, even before
she opened her lips, and expressed her admiration to Jansen with that
soft modulation which is so peculiar to the Poles and Russians.
The gentleman on her left took advantage of the first pause to put in
his word. He was a lean, elderly, carelessly-dressed man, who
continually swayed his long body to and fro while speaking, and raised
his eyebrows with an odd expression of importance, he, too, spoke with
a foreign accent; but it turned out, in the course of his conversation,
that he was a born German, and had merely acquired this touch of Slavic
pronunciation by long residence in Russia. He had introduced himself as
an art-collector and professor of aesthetics; and explained that, while
making a professional journey to Italy and France, he had, to his great
joy and surprise, encountered at the hotel the countess, whom he had
known before in Berlin as an ardent art-lover. Although he had never
visited Italy, he spoke of its masterpieces of sculpture with the
greatest confidence; nor did he seem to find anything in Jansen's
studio for which he had not a formula at his tongue's end.
In the mean while Stephanopulos had turned round and recognized Felix,
and had hastened to introduce him to the lady. Her keen, brown eyes
rested with evident pleasure upon the stately figure of the young man;
she asked him how long he had enjoyed the good-fortune to be the pupil
of such an artist, and wished to see some of his own productions, a
favor which Felix politely but firmly refused to grant.
"Do you fully realize," said she, in her deep, mellow voice, "what an
enviable being you are? You unite the aristocracy of blood and talent,
and the fact that you have decided in favor of sculpture sets the crown
to your happiness. What is life, what is all other happiness in life,
but an endless series of excitements? What are all other arts but oil
to the fire, fuel for the passionate soul that yearns to free itself
from the trammels of the world, and seeks repose in the ideal, and,
instead of repose, finds merely more inspired emotions? I express
myself very awkwardly--you must supply what I mean. But, really, now,
in regard to sculpture--is it not, if only because of its material,
peculiarly suggestive of moderation and repose, even in the liveliest
plays of lines and forms? Take, for instance, that Bacchante over
there--what person, no matter how light of foot and fond of dancing,
feels when he looks at it the time of the music in the tips of his
toes, as if he heard a dance played? Even the storm and whirl of the
maddest reel is controlled by the law of beauty, much as one conceives
of the idea of the unfettered air in the spirit of the Creator of the
universe. And then this unutterably grand group of the first human
beings! All disquiet and trouble, all the fates that were reserved for
mankind, repose here as if in the germ--in the bud. In the presence of
this wonderful work, one forgets all petty wishes and weaknesses! But
why haven't you finished the head of your Eve, honored master?"
A sudden blush suffused Jansen's face as he replied that he had not
quite made up his mind in regard to the type of face. He was, according
to his wont, monosyllabic and almost awkward in the presence of this
eloquent woman. But it struck Felix that his face did not darken with
suppressed disgust, as was usually the case when he received tiresome
visitors, but that he preserved the same patient, smiling mien during
the wise utterances of the professor and the rambling scintillations of
the lady. They had not met for two days. Felix had no suspicion of what
had happened in the mean time that caused his friend's eyes to sparkle
with such unwonted mildness and animation.
Meanwhile the countess was engaged in inspecting the statues that stood
about the studio. The professor had previously expressed the opinion
that the greater the genius of the man the less he was capable of duly
estimating his own labors, and that for that reason he ought to have
his own works explained to him; and, in accordance with this sentiment,
he now relieved Jansen of the trouble of acting as _cicerone_ in his
own workshop. The casts of separate limbs in dimensions larger than
life seemed to interest the lady, and the beautifully-shaped breast of
a young girl afforded the professor an opportunity to launch into a
long discourse on the form of the Venus of Milo as compared with that
of the Venus of Medici.
Suddenly the lady turned to a little female figure which stood, still
in clay, on the modeling-board near the window, and which must have
been a work of the last few days; for even Felix had never seen it
before. Although the head was not larger than a child's fist, and the
execution was, as yet, only very sketchy, it was easy to see at the
first glance that Julie's picture had floated before the eyes of the
sculptor. The beautiful figure leaned gently against the back of a
simple _fauteuil_, her right arm, from which the sleeve was pushed
back, resting on the arm of the chair, her cheek pressed against her
hand, while her left arm hung listlessly down so that the long,
exquisitely-formed fingers just touched the head of a dog that was
sleeping by her side. The eyes were half closed, just as Julie's
generally were; and, quickly as the features had been designed, an
expression of thoughtful attention, of earnest and loving sympathy, was
clearly conveyed in the face.
In this position she had sat before him while he told her his unhappy
story. Amid all the remembrances of the past his eyes had been
enchained by the charm of the present, and with that strange,
independent action of the artistic temperament, that capacity of the
senses for observing closely while the soul smarts and bleeds, he had
taken in every line of the beloved figure.
Then, when he had returned to his studio, where Felix did not make his
appearance that day, and no one else broke his solitude, he had begun,
at first with a careless hand, to form from a piece of clay the picture
that never left him, until at length he had grown serious over his
pastime, and had produced in an incredibly short time the whole
charming figure. A spirit of life, a natural grace, breathed through
the whole work, and was still further heightened by its diminutive
proportions, reminding one of the fairy-tale about the pygmy maiden who
was carried about by her happy lover in a casket.
The aesthetic professor took advantage of the occasion to hold forth
concerning sitting statues from the time of the Agrippinas down to that
of Marie Louise in Parma; about the importance of portraits in general,
and about other profound subjects of like nature. As for Stephanopulos,
he was sincerely carried away by the charm of the figure, and expressed
his admiration in enthusiastic terms.
The countess remained silent for a considerable time. Enthusiastically
as she had expressed herself concerning Jansen's other works; she
evidently found it hard to conquer a certain jealousy in regard to this
beautiful woman.
"How often did the lady sit to you?" she asked, at length.
He answered, with a peculiar smile, that he had made the sketch from
memory.
"Really? Then you are something more than a magician. You not only
conjure up spirits, but spirit and body together. To be sure, we know
what helping spirit assists artists in their works of magic--a spirit
that rules all other men, and is the servant of genius only.--Or don't
you believe, professor," said she, turning to her companion, "that
Raphael and Titian could conjure up those whom they loved before their
imaginations more vividly than they could other mortals?"
The professor delivered a few brilliant remarks about the power of
fancy, which the countess received with an absent smile; for she was
once more deeply absorbed in contemplation of the statue.
"Does she live here, and is she to be seen?" she said, suddenly
interrupting his flow of eloquence.
"I think, madame, you will give yourself useless trouble in trying to
make her acquaintance," replied Jansen, dryly. "The lady lives in a
very retired way, and I doubt--"
"Very well, very well, I understand; you are miserly with your
treasures, and want to keep the most beautiful to yourself.
Unfortunately, it is impossible to be angry with anything genius does!
Present my compliments to the charming, mysterious original, and tell
her--but who is that playing up-stairs?"
At this moment they heard Rosenbusch's flute, which had been playing a
light prelude for some time, strike up a grand _bravura_ movement with
all the power and feeling of which its owner was capable.
Jansen gave Felix a meaning look. Then he told as much about Rosenbusch
as was necessary to excite the lady's curiosity. Upon taking leave, she
gave the master and his pupil an invitation for that evening.
"You _must_ come," she said; "to be sure, I haven't much to offer you,
especially no such beautiful women as you are accustomed to. But we
shall have music--you love music, too, don't you? And, for the rest,
you must be contented with what we can do for you. I live in the hotel;
a bird of passage never has a comfortable nest. But only come to Moscow
some time; I own a few good old pictures and some sculptures there.
Will you? We will talk of this again. Well, good-by until this evening.
Here is my address, in case you should be as forgetful as geniuses and
friends of beautiful women generally are. _Au revoir!_"
She gave Jansen her card and a shake of the hand, bowed cordially to
Felix, and left the studio, followed by her two adjutants.
"Our rat-catcher has made a lucky hit again," laughed Jansen, as they
heard the strangers going up-stairs; and immediately afterward the
flute stopped in the room above. "When I have visitors, he invariably
becomes musical, in order to remind them that there are other people
living in the top story. This time I am especially grateful to him.
Upon my word, my patience and politeness were put to a hard test."
"You are right; the professor certainly was a tough morsel,"
interrupted Felix. "But, as for the lady--although I know enough of her
kind not to be deceived--still, for all that, it is a game of the sex
that one never fails to follow with interest."
"A charming game!" cried Jansen, and his face darkened. "I would rather
see the most stolid Esquimaux or Hottentot standing before my works
than one of these highly-cultured, artificially-excited devotees of
art, hungry for emotion--seeking in everything nothing but their own
gratification, and worrying a really earnest man to death by their
conceited coquetry with all that he holds most sacred. There is nothing
which will awe them into silence, or even make them forget themselves.
Just as they interest themselves in living creatures only so far as
they tend to increase their own importance, so all works of art exist
for them only so far as they can be made of use in setting off their
beloved _ego_. This same woman visited me once before, a good while
ago, and I was so rude to her that I hoped I had shaken her off
forever. But even rudeness excites these _blase_ women of the world,
just as _Pumpernickel_ does the palate when one has been eating too
much sugar-cake. In reality, she cares as little for sculpture as for
anything else; unless, perhaps, the study of the nude interests her.
And she is here in Munich in search of very different things--trying to
gain proselytes for the new school of music."
"I can't help thinking you are rather unjust to her. The very fact that
she feels a respect for you, and even a sort of secret fear, shows that
you interest her. That is one thing I like about these women; they are
strongly attracted by anything that represents power, and is capable of
producing something."
"Yes," laughed Jansen, "until this power humbles itself to be a
foot-stool for their restless little feet; then it will be thrown
aside. No, my dear fellow, the only reason these comets are not more
particular is because they are forced to keep adding to their tails;
I'd be willing to bet that even our harmless little Rosebud will not be
thought too insignificant to be enrolled in her body-guard. But let her
do whatever she likes--what difference does it make to us? But where
have you been hiding yourself these last few days? and what is the
matter with you now? You are staring at the Russian's visiting-card as
if your senses had suddenly been spirited away to Siberia!"
"It is nothing," stammered Felix, putting down the card again. He had
read the name of the hotel on it; it happened to be the same one in
which Irene was stopping. "'Countess Nelida F----;' I assure you I
never heard the name before. Are you going to-night?"
"Possibly, unless something should happen to prevent. It is a matter
of perfect indifference to me now with what sort of people I mix,
since I--"
He hesitated. His eye glanced involuntarily toward the statuette. Then,
after a pause, he said:
"Listen: all sorts of things have happened since we last met. Don't you
notice any change in me? I thought I must have grown ten years
younger."
Felix looked at him searchingly.
"That could make no one happier than it would me, old Daedalus. And,
since we are on the subject, it has somewhat depressed me to find--I
must out with it--a different man from the friend I left ten years ago.
I always thought it must be my fault that made you so much more
reserved and distant toward me than you used to be. If you would only
be the same old fellow again--but mayn't I know what has brought this
about?"
"Not yet," answered the sculptor, seizing the hand Felix held out to
him, and pressing it with evident emotion. "I haven't got permission
yet, much as the secret burns in my breast. But, take my word for it,
my dear fellow, all will come right now. I tell you miracles and
wonders still happen; a withered staff burgeons and flourishes, and is
filled once more with green sap and white blossoms. The winter was a
little long, and no wonder that even you felt the cold."
A knock on the door interrupted him. They heard the voice of the
battle-painter outside, eagerly demanding admission.
Jansen drew the bolts which, in his disgust, he had fastened behind the
aesthetical professor, and let Rosenbusch in.
"Well!" cried he to his friend, "what do you say to this divine
creature? Hasn't she been making herself agreeable to you too? A woman
of the gods, by my life! How she hits the nail on the head with every
word, draws out the most secret thoughts of the soul, so that one has
only to keep his ears and mouth open, and always nod an affirmative!
There isn't a horseshoe in all my Battle of Luetzen about which she
didn't show a profound knowledge; and if she remains in Munich any
length of time, she says she shall visit me often, so as to watch me at
my work. I am on the only true road, she said; art is action, passion,
excitement--a battle for life and death, and other things of the sort,
which she actually seemed to snatch from my mouth. A devilish smart
woman, and her traveling companion also seems to be a first-rate judge
of art. Of course you have been invited to the musical _soiree_ this
evening. She wants me to bring my flute with me; but I sha'n't be such
a fool as to expose myself before this northern Semiramis. What are you
laughing at?"
"We are only laughing at the rapid progress of this friend of art in
discovering what fits the occasion. Down here she declared that true
art was repose. A flight higher and the sight of the Battle of Luetzen
caused a new light to be thrown on the subject, and she finds that art
is nothing but turmoil and excitement. Yon have effected a speedy
conversion, Rosenbusch. If it is only as permanent as speedy!"
For once the battle-painter failed to see the humor of the thing.
"All the same," he said; "I am devilish anxious to continue this
acquaintance. Why shouldn't a talented woman be many-sided? So this
evening at eight o'clock I will call for you, baron. What a pity that I
should have shaved off my beard and cropped my hair just at this time!
I should have been much more imposing with my former romantic head than
in this bald, Philistine guise. However, if the spirit is only unshorn
and free--and in any case my velvet jacket will carry me through!"