II

The atelier was on the ground floor at the end of a German garden full

of angular desolations. It was a large, bare, dusty apartment, the glare

of the August sun tempered by green shades nearly obscuring the big

window facing the north. A young woman sat high on a revolving platform.

She was very fat. As the sculptor fixed her with his slow glance he saw

that her head, a pretty head, was too small for her monstrous bulk; her

profile, pure Greek, the eyes ox-like, the cups full of feeling, with

heavy accents beneath them. Her face, almost slim, had planes eloquent

with surface meanings upon the cheeks and chin, while the mouth, sweet

for a large woman, revealed amiability quite in accord with the

expression of the eyes. These were the glory of her countenance, these

and her resonant black hair. Isolate this head from the shoulders, from

all the gross connotations of the frame, and the trick would be done. So

thought the sculptor, as the problem posed itself clearly; then he saw

her figure and doubted.

"I _am_ hopeless, am I not, Herr Arthmann?" Her voice was so frankly

appealing, so rich in comic intention, that he sat down and laughed. She

eagerly joined in: "And yet my waist is not so large as Mitwindt's. We

always call her Bagpipes. She is absurd. And such a chest--! Why, I'm a

mere child. Anyhow, all Germans like big singers, and all the German

Wagner singers are big women, are they not, Herr Arthmann? There was

Alboni and Parepa-Rosa--I know they were not Wagner singers; but they

were awful all the same--and just look at the Schnorrs, Materna, Rosa

Sucher, poor Klafsky and--"

"My dear young friend," interrupted the sculptor as he took up a pointer

and approached a miniature head in clay which stood upon a stand, "my

dear"--he did not say "friend" the second time--"I remarked nothing

about your figure being too large for the stage. I was trying to get it

into harmony with your magnificent shoulders and antique head. That's

all." His intonation was caressing, the speech of a cultivated man, and

his accent slightly Scandinavian; at times his voice seemed to her as

sweetly staccato as a mandolin. He gazed with all his vibrating artistic

soul into the girl's humid blue eyes; half frightened she looked down at

her pretty, dimpled hands--the hands of a baby despite their

gladiatorial size.

"How you do flatter! All foreigners flatter American girls, don't they?

Now you know you don't think my shoulders magnificent, do you? And my

waist--O! Herr Arthmann, what shall I do with my waist? As Brünnhilde,

I'm all right to move about in loose draperies, but as Fricka, as

Gutrune--Gutrune who falls fainting beside Siegfried's bier! How must I

look on my back? Oh, dear! and I diet, never drink water at meals, walk

half the day and seldom touch a potato. And you know what that means in

Germany! There are times when to see a potato, merely hearing the word

mentioned, brings tears to my eyes. And yet I get no thinner--just look

at me!"

He did. Her figure was gigantic. She weighed much over two hundred

pounds, though the mighty trussing to which she subjected herself, and a

discreet manner of dressing made her seem smaller. Arthmann was

critical, and did not disguise the impossibility of the task. He had

determined on a head and bust, something heroic after the manner of a

sturdy Brünnhilde. The preparations were made, the skeleton, framework

of lead pipe for the clay, with crossbar for shoulders and wooden

"butterflies" in position. On the floor were water-buckets, wet cloths

and a vast amount of wet clay--clay to catch the fleshly exterior, clay

to imprison the soul--perhaps, of Fridolina. But nothing had been done

except a tiny wax model, a likeness full of spirit, slightly encouraging

to the perplexed artist. The girl was beautiful; eyes, hair, teeth,

coloring--all enticed him as man. As sculptor the shapeless, hopeless

figure was a thing for sack-like garments, not for candid clay or the

illuminating commentary of marble. She drew a silk shawl closer about

her bare shoulders.

"And Isolde--what shall I do? Frau Cosima says that I may sing it two

summers from now; but then she promised me Brünnhilde two years ago

after I had successfully sung Elsa. I know every note of 'Tristan,' for

I've had over a thousand piano rehearsals, and Herr Siegfried and Caspar

Dennett both say that in time it will be my great rôle." "Who was it you

mentioned besides the Prince Imperial?"--they always call Siegfried

Wagner the Prince Imperial or the Heir Apparent in Bayreuth--"Mr.

Dennett. He is the celebrated young American conductor--the only

American that ever conducted in Bayreuth. You saw him the other night at

Sammett's garden. Don't you remember the smooth faced, very good-looking

young man?--you ought to model him. He was with Siegfried when he spoke

to me." "And you say that he admires your Isolde?" persisted Arthmann,

pulling at his short reddish beard. "Why, of course! Didn't he play the

piano accompaniments?" "Was his wife always with you?" "Now, Herr

Arthmann, you are a regular gossipy German. Certainly she wasn't. We in

America don't need chaperons like your Ibsen women--are you really

Norwegian or Polish? Is your name, Wenceslaus, Bohemian or Polish?

Besides, here I am alone in your studio in Bayreuth, the most

scandal-mongering town I ever heard of. My mother would object very much

to this sort of thing, and I'm sure we are very proper." "Oh, very,"

replied the sculptor; "when do you expect your mother? To-morrow, is it

not?"

The girl nodded. Tired of talking, she watched with cool nervousness the

movements of the young man; watched his graceful figure, admirable

poses; his long, brown fingers smoothing and puttering in the clay; his

sharply etched profile, so melancholy, insincere. "And this Dennett?" he

resumed. She opened her little mouth. "Please don't yawn, Fridolina," he

begged. "I wasn't yawning, only trying to laugh. Dennett is on your

mind. He seems to worry you. Don't be jealous--Wenceslaus; he is an

awful flirt and once frightened me to death by chasing me around the

dressing-room at the opera till I was out of breath and black and blue

from pushing the chairs and tables in his way. And what do you suppose

he gave as an excuse? Why, he just said he was exercising me to reduce

my figure, and hadn't the remotest notion of kissing me. Oh, no, he

hadn't, had he?" She pealed with laughter, her companion regarding her

with tense lips. "No one but a Yankee girl would have thought of telling

such a story." "Why, is it improper?" She was all anxiety. "No, not

improper, but heartless, simply heartless. You have never loved,

Margaret Fridolina," he said, harshly. "Call me Meg, Wenceslaus, but not

when mamma is present," was her simple answer. He threw down his wooden

modelling spatula.

"Oh, this is too much," he angrily exclaimed: "you tell me of men who

chase you"--"a man Wenceslaus," she corrected him earnestly--"you tell

me all this and you know I love you; without your love I shall throw up

sculpture and go to sea as a sailor. Meg, Meg, have you no heart?" "Why,

you little boy, what have I said to offend you? Why are you so cynical

when I know you to be so sentimental?" Her voice was arch, an intimate

voice with liquid inflections. He began pacing the chilly floor of the

studio.

"Let us be frank. I've only known you two months, since the day we

accidentally met, leaving Paris for Bayreuth. You have written your

mother nothing of our engagement--well, provisional engagement, if you

will--and you insist on sticking to the operatic stage. I loathe it, and

I confess to you that I am sick with jealousy when I see you near that

lanky, ill-favored German tenor Burgmann." "What, poor, big me!" she

interjected, in teasing accents. "Yes, you, Fridolina. I can quite

sympathize with what you tell me of your mother's dislike for the rôle

of Isolde. You are not temperamentally suited to it; it is horrible to

think of you in that second act." "How horrible? My figure, you mean?"

"Yes, your figure, too, would be absurd." He was brutal now. "And you

haven't the passion to make anything of the music. You've never loved,

never will, passionately--" "But I'll sing Isolde all the same," she

cried. "Not with my permission." "Then without you and your permission."

She hastily arose and was about to step down from her pedestal when the

door opened.

"Mother! Why, mamma, you said you weren't coming until Sunday." Mrs.

Fridolin could not see very well in the heavy shadows after the blinding

sunlight without. "What are you doing here, Margaret, and of all things

alone up there on a throne! Is this a rehearsal for the opera?" "I'm not

alone, mother. This is Wenceslaus--Mr. Wenceslaus Arthmann, the

sculptor, mamma, and he is doing me in clay. Look at it; isn't it sweet?

Mr. Arthmann, this is my mother--and who is the young lady, mamma?"

"Oh, I forgot. I was so confused and put out not finding you at the

station I drove at once to Villa Wahnfried--" "Villa Wahnfried!" echoed

two voices in dismayed unison. "Yes, to Frau Cosima, and she directed me

here." "She directed you here?" "Yes, why shouldn't she? Is there

anything wrong in that?" asked the stately, high-nosed lady with the

gray pompadour, beginning to peer about suspiciously. "Oh, no, mamma,

but how did Frau Cosima know that I was here?" "I don't know, child,"

was the testy answer. "Come, get down and let me introduce you to my

charming travelling friend, Miss Bredd." "Miss Saïs Bredd," put in the

Western girl; "I was named Saïs after my father visited Egypt, but my

friends call me Louie."--"And Miss Bredd, this is Mister--" "Arthmann,

madame," said the sculptor. They all shook hands after the singer had

released her mother from a huge, cavernous hug. "But Meg, Meg, where is

your chaperon?" Fridolina looked at the young man: "Why, mamma, it was

the _Hausfrau_ who let you in, of course." Miss Bredd smiled cynically.