“I have begged you fifty times to stop that dreadful whispering, Rike! What is the matter now?”
A slight flush of anger rose in Aunt Rikchen’s withered cheeks as the hated name sounded in her ear; but she answered in the voice expressive of resigned indifference, with which she was accustomed to reply to her brother’s reproofs:
“Oh, nothing! I only asked Ferdinanda whether Justus was not coming this evening.”
“Who is Justus?” asked Reinhold, delighted that a fresh subject had been started.
“Rike likes to call everybody by their Christian names,” said Uncle Ernst.
“And why not, when they almost belong to the family?” replied Aunt Rikchen, who seemed determined this time not to be put down. “Justus, or, if your uncle prefers it, Herr Anders, is a young sculptor.”
“Aged one and thirty,” said Uncle Ernst.
“Aged one and thirty,” pursued Aunt Rikchen, “or, to be more precise, three and thirty. He has lived here—who knows how long he has lived here?”
“Don’t you know, Ferdinanda?” asked Uncle Ernst.
“Ferdinanda is in fact his pupil,” continued Aunt Rikchen.
“Oh!” said Reinhold. “I congratulate him.”
“It is not worth while,” said Ferdinanda.
“His favourite pupil!” exclaimed Aunt Rikchen. “He told me so only yesterday, and that the committee are very much pleased with her Shepherd Boy. I must tell you that Ferdinanda has sent to the exhibition a shepherd boy, executed from the description in Schiller’s poem—”
“ ‘Uhland,’ aunt.”
“I beg your pardon, I have not had such advantages in education as some people—now I don’t remember what I was saying.”
“It won’t make much odds,” grumbled Uncle Ernst.
“You were speaking of Ferdinanda’s Shepherd Boy,” said Reinhold, coming to her assistance.
His aunt shot a grateful look at him, but before he could answer the bell rang, and a clear voice was heard asking whether they were still at supper.
“It is Justus!” cried Aunt Rikchen. “I thought so. Have you had any supper?”
IV
“Not yet, Aunt Rikchen,” said the newcomer. “How are you all? I must apologise, Herr Schmidt, for coming so late. Captain Schmidt? Should have known you from the family likeness, even if I had not heard you were expected to day. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Now no ceremony, Aunt Rikchen; I only want a bit of bread and butter and a cup of tea, if there is one, nothing more. How goes the world with you, Fräulein Ferdinanda? The Shepherd Boy has got a capital place in the first room by the window. My bust’s in the second—not so bad except for that abominable reflected light; but my group in the third! Night and darkness surrounds them; nor will silence be wanting—the silence of the public—broken by the shrill cackle of the critics. We poor artists! Might I ask you for a piece of sugar, Herr Schmidt?”
Reinhold could hardly help laughing. The appearance, manners, and speech of this bearded, partially bald-headed little sculptor, his cheerfulness, friendliness, and ease, all formed such a marvellous contrast to the rather stiff and irritable tone of the former occupants of the table. And now he was asking Uncle Ernst for a bit of sugar! It seemed rather like asking a lion to dance! But the lion did what he was asked, and did it amiably, with a kindly smile such as was seldom seen on that stern face.
“He succeeds better than I do,” thought Reinhold. “More shame to me.”
At sight of this man, who with the innocence of a child seemed able to go about the world either not seeing, or at least not caring for its dangers, Reinhold quite recovered his usual temper, and hailed with joy the appearance of this more cheerful addition to the party. The sculptor on his side was attracted by the powerful-looking man, the frank open countenance, clear blue eyes, and curly brown beard; his own small, restless, rather red eyes constantly turned in that direction, and he addressed his conversation mostly to him.
“Don’t let your uncle put you out of conceit with Berlin,” said he. “Let me tell you it is a charming place, and is getting more so every day. We have now got the only thing that was wanting—money, and when our pockets are full of money, you don’t know all that we can do here in Berlin. Berlin is to be the capital of the world. Don’t look so indignantly at me, Fräulein Ferdinanda. It is an old story for us, but Captain Schmidt is probably not in the secret yet, and we must warn him lest he should be utterly overpowered with astonishment when the sublime image of the monster is unveiled before him tomorrow, with its hundreds and thousands of heads, legs, and arms. What trouble we take over it. We feed the monster with our heart’s blood. I am nothing but skin and bone as it is, and that reminds me that I have got another commission, Aunt Rikchen.”
“Another monument in memory of our victories?” asked Aunt Rikchen eagerly.
“Of course! You must know, Captain Schmidt, that no small town exists, however insignificant, but must have its monument. And why not? The good people in Posemuckel are quite as proud of the six brave fellows whom they sent into the field, as we are of our six hundred or our six thousand, and are anxious to let posterity know how Tom, Dick, and Harry fought and conquered in so many battles and skirmishes, and that Fritz Haberstroh, widow Haberstroh’s only son, was shot dead as a doornail at Sedan for the honour and glory of the German Empire. And quite right and proper too, I think, and the fact that they always collect a few pounds less than will pay any living man to make anything for them, is not their fault.”
“And how do you get over that difficulty?” asked Reinhold.
“He just puts a new head on an old statue, and the Victory of Germany is ready,” said Uncle Ernst.
“I protest utterly against such
