LEBENDE BILDER.
TEN days later, Sara, sitting one morning in her atelier, heard a knock
at her door, and answered abstractedly ‘_Herein!_’
Looking up to see who might be her visitor, she saw a little lady in
widow’s weeds.
‘Frau Goldmark!’ she exclaimed, rising in astonishment. Frau Goldmark
was the widow of that young artist of promise, of whose sudden death
Wilhelmi had informed her. Sara had heard constant talk of her for the
last few days, to which talk she had listened in a vague, unheeding
way. Her acquaintance with her was very slight, and had never before
gone so far as an exchange of visits, and she was proportionately
surprised to see her now, and under the existing circumstances, in her
atelier.
‘Yes, _liebe_ Miss Ford, it is I. And you may well look astonished, but
do only hear me.’
‘Come into my sitting-room, then, Frau Goldmark, and tell me what I can
do for you,’ said Sara, leading the way to where Avice was seated with
a book in the parlour.
Frau Goldmark was a slight, pretty, little woman, with round,
important, excited-looking eyes, and a general aspect which did not
altogether charm Miss Ford, who formed indeed, in appearance, and
manner, and everything else, a startling contrast to her visitor. Sara
had heard vague rumours which gave Frau Goldmark the name of a gossip,
and she had never felt any violent desire to make her acquaintance;
but her recent heavy loss, her widowhood, and the inevitable hard
struggle which lay before her, all combined to make Sara lay aside all
considerations save those of kindness. She offered Frau Goldmark a
seat, and waited to hear on what errand she had come.
‘I have come to ask a favour, _mein Fräulein_, an immense one; _ein
unerhörtes_,’ she began.
‘Indeed! I wonder how I can serve you?’ asked Sara, in her most
gracious manner.
Frau Goldmark looked at her keenly, despite her excitement, and found
time for the reflection, ‘She certainly is as beautiful as all these
men say, and if I can only get her to do it—I will ask for both the
scenes while I am about it.’
‘You are aware, dear Miss Ford, of the most lamented death of my dear
good husband,’ said Frau Goldmark, with brimming eyes and a trembling
lip.
‘Yes, indeed! I was most truly grieved to hear of it. We must all
lament it—you that you have lost a good husband, and we artists that a
brother of such promise is lost to us.’
‘You speak most beautifully, Fräulein. It has been a sore blow to us.
I and my babes are left almost penniless. I shall have to work now
to find bread for them, and thanks to the goodness of my friends, I
believe it will be made easy for me.’
‘What _can_ she want?’ Sara was beginning to think, when Frau Goldmark
again took up her parable with great animation, saying:
‘The artists, my husband’s friends, have not forsaken me in my
distress. Herr Professor Wilhelmi has behaved to me like a father.’
‘He is goodness and generosity itself, I know,’ replied Sara, her full
contralto tones in strong contrast with the high-pitched notes of Frau
Goldmark’s voice. She had that great defect, common to so very many of
her countrywomen, a high, harsh, shrill voice.
‘He asked me what he could do for me, and I related my plan to him,
which he approved of. I said that if I had but a little capital I could
earn a living for myself and my children. I would open a photographic
atelier. My father was a photographer, and I am perfectly acquainted
with everything belonging to the art.’ Sara suppressed a smile—this
from an artist’s wife. ‘A very little practice, and I should succeed
admirably. The money to start with remained the only difficulty.’
‘I see,’ said Sara, wondering more than ever what she could be supposed
to have to do with it.
‘Perhaps you have heard, Fräulein, that Professor Wilhelmi, and some
other gentlemen and ladies, have decided, out of their respect and
love for my husband’s memory, to give an entertainment on my behalf of
_tableaux vivants_, for which you know they are so celebrated here.
They are to be given in the _Malkasten_ Club, or, if that is not large
enough, in the _Rittersaal_ of the Tonhalle. They think by this means
that they can realise the sum necessary. Oh, Fräulein Ford, I _beg_ you
to consent!’
‘Consent—to what, my dear Frau Goldmark?’ she asked, in bewilderment.
‘If you will take a part in the two principal pictures, the success is
assured of the whole entertainment,’ was her breathless reply, while
Frau Goldmark half rose from her chair and held out her hands towards
Sara, _flehend_, as she herself would have said, in a theatrical manner.
‘I—oh, I am afraid it is impossible!’ said Sara, hastily.
‘Ah, do not say so, Miss Ford! Think what it means to me. There is no
one else here who can do it as you would do it. The Herr Professor
quite agreed with me. He gave me this note to bring to you.’
Saying which, she suddenly pulled a little note from the bosom of her
dress, and gave it to Sara, who, astonished at the whole affair, read,
in Wilhelmi’s hand:
‘Do, if you possibly can, give your consent to Frau Goldmark’s
request, it is for a good cause; and, if my approval is anything to
you, you have it to the full.
‘WILHELMI.’
Here Avice, who had been listening intently, and who had just realised
what it was all about, chimed in:
‘Oh, do, Sara!—do!’
‘Thank you, _mein Fräulein_, for taking my side,’ exclaimed Frau
Goldmark, quickly.
‘What are the pictures you wish me to take part in?’ asked Sara. ‘Have
you decided upon them?’
‘_Natürlich, mein Fräulein._ They are the two principal ones—a scene
from Kleist’s _Hermannsschlacht_, after the celebrated picture in the
public gallery, with you for Thusnelda, and Herr Max Helmuth, Fräulein
Wilhelmi’s _Bräutigam_, as Hermann; and the last picture of my blessed
_Mann_; his _Ja, oder Nein_, which is still hanging unsold in the
Exhibition.’
Sara was silent, pondering. She knew both the pictures. Frau Goldmark
proceeded:
‘Professor Wilhelmi bade me come to you myself, for he said you
would do that for the poor and afflicted which you would not for the
prosperous and happy.’
‘Are you sure that everyone wishes it?’ asked Miss Ford.
‘As certain as I am that I am here,’ was the emphatic reply, ‘_Denken
sie nur, Fräulein!_ When the scheme was first proposed Amalia
Waldschmidt vowed she would have the part of the lady in my husband’s
picture—she, the stupid, heavy—but pardon! I ought to be grateful to
all; only the Herr Professor quite agreed with me that she was the
last person to take such a part. She has no _Geist_, no _Gefühl_. How
can she give to the picture the expression it requires? But she made
a point of taking that part; they say, because she is so anxious to
act with Ludwig Maas, who takes the part of the bold but poor lover.’
Seeing a strong expression of distaste and disapproval upon Miss Ford’s
face, Frau Goldmark went on quickly:
‘And you know, _liebstes Fräulein_, her father is a man whom we dare
not offend, and _die_ Amalia rules him with a rod of iron.’
Sara bowed assent to this proposition. It was evident that to the
excited little widow this great entertainment formed the representative
event of the modern world.
‘Imagine!’ she went on, ‘Amalia is suddenly taken ill with
_scharlach-fieber_—scarlet fever you call it. Yes, it is so; and it is
providential. Naturally she cannot act the part, nor even appear at
the _lebende Bilder_, for which _Gott sei dank_! though I know it is
very wrong of me to say so. And I hope she will have the fever mildly
and make a speedy recovery; but ah, I am glad she comes not; and I do
_pray_ of you, dear Miss Ford, to take the part, and also that of
Thusnelda. I shall bless you all my life if you only will.’
‘I will take the parts, Frau Goldmark, and will do my best to act them
well,’ said Sara, composedly, anxious to put an end to the widow’s
exaggerated prayers and protestations. Her consent was received with a
perfect whirlwind of thanks and blessings and expressions of joy, which
she cut short by saying:
‘But I beg you will not say anything comparing me with Fräulein
Waldschmidt. It would be very wrong, and if I heard of such a thing I
should instantly give it up.’
‘You may trust me indeed, _mein liebes Fräulein_! And now I go to the
Herrn Professor, to tell him of my success. He will let you know all
about the rest.’
With the most affectionate adieux she departed. Sara and Avice, left
alone, both burst into a fit of laughter.
‘What an absurd little woman!’ exclaimed Avice.
‘Painfully so,’ responded Sara. ‘I own that I wonder to see her going
about doing this kind of thing herself. If it were not that the dear
old Professor evidently desires it so much’—she tossed Wilhelmi’s note
to Avice—‘I should refuse.’
‘They are both very different subjects—the pictures, I mean,’ said
Avice, musingly. ‘You will look splendid as Thusnelda, Sara.’
‘Shall I? It is a splendid picture, certainly.’
It was a picture representing that scene in Kleist’s
_Hermannsschlacht_, in which Hermann, seated beside Thusnelda, listens
to her, while she indignantly relates how the Roman envoy, Ventidius,
had impertinently, and without her knowledge, clipped off a lock of
her hair, upon hearing which Hermann, with a grim and granite humour,
and a mirth bordering on the diabolical, describes to her how that
lock will probably go to Rome, there to excite the cupidity of the
Roman women, who, he informs her, admire hair like that—‘_gold’ und
schön, und trocken so wie dein_,’—and sometimes have it—not growing
on their own heads, but shorn from those of other women, and that the
golden locks of a Teuton princess would be an ornament which they, any
of them, would especially glory in wearing. It was a noble picture,
by a celebrated artist, and Sara, already even, felt some thrills of
pleasure in the idea of taking a part in the representation of it. The
other picture was a rather ambitious _tableau de genre_, Goldmark’s
last, and was called _Ja, oder Nein_.
The next time that Wilhelmi saw Sara, she told him what she had done,
and added:
‘I hope I have been right, but it seems to me that there are many girls
in Elberthal who ought to have had the parts offered to them—your
townspeople,’ she added, smiling.
Wilhelmi laughed as he asked, ‘Do you seriously mean to say you think
there is any one young woman in Elberthal except yourself who would in
the least _look_ the part of Thusnelda?’
Sara laughed, but was obliged to confess that she did not.
She wrote to Jerome, telling him what she was going to do; adding,
‘I hope you don’t mind. My Hermann will only be Max Helmuth; he will
look the part every inch, I must say, but he is quite harmless; he is
engaged to Wilhelmi’s daughter, and wildly in love with her; so say you
don’t mind, because they have set their hearts upon it.’
Jerome replied that she must certainly take the part. ‘I suppose your
Hermann is a contrast to me. One can only think of that enlightened
barbarian as some fair-haired giant, with a fierce yellow moustache.
You will make an ideal Thusnelda, I must say, according to Heinrich
Kleist’s version, at any rate.’
Relieved in her mind at having Jerome’s consent, and Wilhelmi’s
approval, Sara gave herself up with genuine artist’s delight to
rehearsing and preparing her parts; that of Thusnelda in especial,
giving her real joy and pleasure. The festival itself was fixed for the
middle of October.
[Illustration]