"You must know, Mr. Arthmann, that my girl is a spoilt child, as
innocent as a baby, and has everything to learn about the ways of the
world. Remember, too, that I first posed her voice, taught her all she
knew of her art before she went to Parchesi. What you ask--taking into
consideration that we, that _I_, hardly know you--is rather premature,
is it not?" They were walking in the cool morning down the green alleys
of the Hofgarten, where the sculptor had asked Mrs. Fridolin for her
daughter. He was mortified as he pushed his crisp beard from side to
side. He felt that he had been far from proposing marriage to this large
young woman's mother; something must have driven him to such a crazy
action. Was it Caspar Dennett and his classic profile that had angered
him into the confession? Nonsense! The conductor was a married man with
a family. Despite her easy, unaffected manner, Margaret Fridolin was no
fool; she ever observed the ultimate proprieties, and being dangerously
unromantic would be the last woman in the world to throw herself away.
But this foolish mania about Isolde. What of that? It was absurd to
consider such a thing.... Her mother would never tolerate the attempt--
"Don't you think my judgment in this matter is just, Mr. Arthmann?" Mrs.
Fridolin was blandly observing him. He asked her pardon for his
inattention; he had been dreaming of a possible happiness! She was very
amiable. "And you know, of course, that Margaret has prospects"--he did
not, and was all ears--"if she will only leave the operatic stage. Her
career will be a brilliant one despite her figure, Mr. Arthmann; but
there is a more brilliant social career awaiting her if she follows her
uncle's advice and marries. My brother is a rich man, and my daughter
may be his heiress. Never as a singer--Job is prejudiced against the
stage--and never if she marries a foreigner." "But I shall become a
citizen of the United States, madame." "Where were you born?" "Bergen;
my mother was from Warsaw," he moodily replied. "It might as well be
Asia Minor. We are a stubborn family, sir, from the hills of New
Hampshire. We never give in. Come, let us go back to the Hotel Sonne,
and do you forget this foolish dream. Margaret may never leave the
stage, but I'm certain that she will never marry _you_." She smiled at
him, the thousand little wrinkles in her face making a sort of
reticulated map from which stared two large, blue eyes--Margaret's eyes,
grown wiser and colder.... "Now after that news I'll marry her if I have
to run away with her!"--resolved the sculptor when he reached his bleak
claustral atelier, and studied the model of her head. And how to keep
that man Dennett from spoiling the broth, he wondered....
In the afternoon Arthmann wrote Margaret a letter. "Margaret, my darling
Margaret, what is the matter? Have I offended you by asking your mother
for you? Why did you not see me this morning? The atelier is wintry
without you--the cold clay, corpse-like, is waiting to revive in your
presence. Oh! how lovely is the garden, how sad my soul! I sit and think
of Verlaine's 'It rains in my heart as it rains in the town.' Why won't
you see me? You are mine--you swore it. My sweet girl, whose heart is as
fragrant as new-mown hay"--the artist pondered well this comparison
before he put it on paper; it evoked visions of hay bales. "Darling, you
must see me to-morrow. To the studio you must come. You know that we
have planned to go to America in October. Only think, sweetheart, what
joy then! The sky is aflame with love. We walk slowly under the few
soft, autumn, prairie stars; your hand is in mine, we are married! You
see I am a poet for your sake. I beg for a reply hot from your heart.
Wenceslaus." ...
He despatched this declaration containing several minor inaccuracies. It
was late when he received a reply. "All right, Wenceslaus. But have I
_now_ the temperament to sing Isolde?" It was unsigned. Arthmann cursed
in a tongue that sounded singularly like pure English.
V
That night, much against his desire, he dressed and went to a reception
at the Villa Wahnfried. As this worker in silent clay disliked musical
people, the buzz and fuss made him miserable. He did not meet Fridolina,
though he saw Miss Bredd arm-in-arm with Cosima, Queen Regent of
Bayreuth. The American girl was eloquently exposing her theories of how
Wagner should be sung and Arthmann, disgusted, moved away. He only
remembered Caspar Dennett when in the street. That gentleman was not
present either; and as the unhappy lover walked down the moonlit
Lisztstrasse he fancied he recognized the couple he sought. Could it be!
He rushed after the pair to be mocked by the slamming of a gate, he knew
not on what lonely street....
The next afternoon the duel began. Fridolina did not return for a
sitting as he had hoped; instead came an invitation for a drive to the
Hermitage. It was Mrs. Fridolin who sent it. Strange! Arthmann was
surprised at this renewal of friendly ties after his gentle dismissal in
the Hofgarten. But he dressed in his most effective clothes and, shining
with hope, reached the Hotel Sonne; two open carriages stood before its
arched doorway. Presently the others came downstairs and the day became
gray for the sculptor. Caspar Dennett, looking like a trim Antinous with
a fashionable tailor, smiled upon all, especially Miss Bredd. Mrs.
Fridolin alone did not seem at ease. She was very friendly with
Arthmann, but would not allow him in her carriage. "No," she protested,
"you two men must keep Margaret company. I'll ride with my bright little
Louie and listen to her anti-Wagner blasphemies." She spoke as if she
had fought under the Wagner banner from the beginning.
Margaret sat alone on the back seat. Although she grimaced at her
mother's suggestion, she was in high spirits, exploding over every
trivial incident of the journey. Arthmann, as he faced her, told himself
that he had never seen her so giggling and commonplace, so unlike an
artist, so bourgeois, so fat. He noticed, too, that her lovely eyes
expanded with the same expression, whether art or eating was mentioned.
He hardly uttered a word, for the others discussed "Tristan und Isolde"
until he hated Wagner's name. She was through with her work at Bayreuth
and Frau Cosima had promised her Isolde--positively. She meant to
undergo a severe _Kur_ at Marienbad and then return to the United
States. Mr. Grau had also promised her Isolde; while Jean de
Reszké--dear, wonderful Jean vowed that he would sing Tristan to no
other Isolde during his American tournée! So it was settled. All she
needed was her mother's consent--and that would not be a difficult
matter to compass. Had she not always wheedled the mater into her
schemes, even when Uncle Job opposed her? She would never marry,
never--anyhow not until she had sung Isolde--and then only a
Wagner-loving husband.
"And the temperament, the missing link--how about that?" asked Arthmann
sourly; he imagined that Dennett was exchanging secret signals with her.
She bubbled over with wrath. "Temperament! I have temperament enough
despite my size. If I haven't any I know where to find it. There is no
sacrifice I'd not make to get it. Art for art is my theory. First art
and then--the other things." She shrugged her massive shoulders in high
bad humor. Arthmann gloomily reflected that Dennett's phrases at the
Sammett Garden were being echoed. Mrs. Fridolin continually urged her
driver to keep his carriage abreast of the other. It made the party more
sociable, she declared, although to the sculptor it seemed as if she
wished to watch Margaret closely. She had never seemed so suspicious.
They reached the Hermitage.
Going home a fine rain set in; the hoods of the carriage were raised,
and the excursion ended flatly. At the hotel, Arthmann did not attempt
to go in. Mrs. Fridolin said she had a headache, Miss Bredd must write
articles about Villa Wahnfried, while Dennett disappeared with Margaret.
The drizzle turned into a downpour, and the artist, savage with the
world and himself, sought a neighboring café and drank till dawn....
He called at the hotel the following afternoon. The ladies had gone
away. How gone away? The portier could not tell. Enraged as he saw his
rich dream vanishing, Arthmann moved about the streets with lagging,
desperate steps. He returned to the hotel several times during the
afternoon--at no time was he very far from it--but the window-blinds
were always drawn in the Fridolin apartment and he began to despair. It
was near sunset when his _Hausfrau_, the disappearing chaperon, ran to
him red-faced. A letter for Herr Arthmann! It was from her: "I've gone
in search of that temperament. _Auf Wiedersehen._ Isolde." Nothing more.
In puzzled fury he went back to the hotel. Yes, Madame Fridolin and the
young lady were now at home. He went to the second landing and without
knocking pushed open the door. It was a house storm-riven. Trunks
bulged, though only half-packed, their contents straggling over the
sides. The beds were not made, and a strong odor of valerian and camphor
flooded the air. On a couch lay Mrs. Fridolin, her face covered with a
handkerchief, while near hovered Miss Bredd in her most brilliant and
oracular attitude. She was speaking too loudly as he entered: "There is
no use of worrying yourself sick about Meg, Mrs. Fridolin. She's gone
for a time--that's all. When she finds out what an idiotically useless
sacrifice she has made for art and is a failure as Isolde--she can no
more sing the part than a sick cat--she will run home to her mammy quick
enough."
"Oh, this terrible artistic temperament!" groaned the mother
apologetically. The girl made a cautious movement and waved Arthmann out
of the room. Into the hall she followed, soft-footed, but resolute. He
was gaunt with chagrin. "Where is she?"--he began, but was sternly
checked:
"If you had only flattered her more, and married her before her mother
arrived, this thing wouldn't have happened."
"What thing?" he thundered.
"There! don't be an ox and make a stupid noise," she admonished. "Why,
Meg--she is so dead set on getting that artistic temperament, that
artistic thrill you raved about, that she has eloped."
"Eloped!" he feebly repeated, and sat down on a trunk in the hallway. To
her keen, unbiassed vision Arthmann seemed more shocked than sorrowful.
Then, returning to Isolde's mother, she was not surprised to find her up
and in capital humor, studying the railway guide.
"He believes the fib--just as Dennett did!" Miss Bredd exclaimed,
triumphantly; and for the first time that day Mrs. Fridolin smiled.