The Breaking of the Storm

cast at which Justus was working, the latter standing with Ferdinanda. Ottomar and Philip had followed him so quickly, that they had all got into the middle of the large room before the two, who were engaged in earnest conversation and bewildered by the noise around them, heard them come in, till Justus’s Lesto⁠—a shaggy little monster, of whom it was difficult to tell which was his head and which was his tail⁠—flew with a loud bark at Philip, whose polished boots seemed to arouse his wrath. In the tumult caused by this bold attack⁠—while Philip, fearing for his trousers, took refuge on a stool, and Justus, nearly dying of laughter, vainly called “Lesto! Lesto!” and the four or five assistants, with Antonio amongst them, moved a few obstacles out of the way, and brought chairs⁠—Reinhold had not noticed the deep blush that overspread Ferdinanda’s beautiful face when she perceived Ottomar, and the embarrassment with which the latter greeted her. By the time the confusion was somewhat allayed, and Lesto had subsided into quiet, the two had recovered their presence of mind, and the more easily that the first glance that passed between them was one of reconciliation. He had returned to her after three long anxious days, which she had passed in longing and despair. Now all was made up⁠—all was forgiven and forgotten. After the first happy and tremulous glance, she had not again looked at him, and was now chatting with Reinhold and Philip; but to Ottomar, the fact that she remained, that she did not after the first greeting retire into her studio, the door of which stood open, was an infallible proof of her penitence perhaps, certainly of her love. And then the full, somewhat deep tone of her voice⁠—he seemed to hear it for the first time; and he did hear it for the first time. Till today they had only exchanged hasty whispered words. Her laugh⁠—he had never thought that she could laugh⁠—it seemed to him a very miracle; her figure, whose classical form appeared more beautiful in the straight, clinging, grey working dress than it could have done in the most coquettish attire; the rich brown hair, drawn simply back from her brows and loosely knotted together low down in her neck⁠—he had never known how beautiful she was! He stood before finished and unfinished works⁠—they might have been the slides of a magic-lantern; he spoke to one and the other, chatted and joked; he had no idea what he said or what they answered; he was in a dream⁠—a sweet and delicious dream⁠—but for a few minutes only; then he awoke to a sense of the situation in which he found himself⁠—a situation which he could hardly have wished more favourable, and the advantages of which he was determined to profit by with rapid soldier-like courage and rashness.

And Ferdinanda was also dreaming the sweet, delicious dream of happy love, while she chatted and laughed with the others; only she never forgot or mistook the danger of the situation. From Reinhold, Justus, and Philip she feared nothing; a little prudence, a little clever acting, would suffice to protect her from any shadow of suspicion as far as they were concerned. But what prudence, however cunning, what acting, however clever, would protect her from Antonio’s gleaming black eyes? It was true, he had returned to his work in the farthest corner of the room, and hammered and chiselled away, apparently quite unconcerned with anything that passed around him. But this very quietness, which was only apparent, alarmed her a thousand times more than if his glittering eyes had been continually upon her. What he did not see he heard. She knew the incredible sharpness of his senses; if he did not look round before, he would do so at the moment which she saw approaching. And that moment had come. Ottomar, thinking himself safe, approached her and whispered a word that she did not understand, so low was it breathed. But what matter? She read it in his eyes, on his lips: “I must speak to you alone⁠—in your studio!”

But how was it to be managed? The moments were passing; there was so much to be seen in Justus’s studio, and the talk seemed endless. There were the four life-sized allegorical figures for Philip’s staircase.

“Trade, a bearded man of Oriental appearance and dress, calling to mind Nathan on his journey home. Industry, as you will perceive, rather vaguely represented by a female figure of the present day, with some half-dozen emblems, which may mean anything you please⁠—all possible things⁠—exactly as Industry herself makes everything possible out of all possible things. This Greek youth, gentlemen, with his winged sandals and hat, may be recognised at any distance as the genius of railroads, as Hermes, if he had lived long enough, would undoubtedly have been appointed Postmaster-General in Olympus. The tall, beautiful, stately lady, in the dress of a Nuremberg lady of rank of the fifteenth century, will be recognised by the mural crown on her head and the square and level in her hand, as patroness of architecture⁠—a neat allusion to the suburban streets which the worthy possessor has had to pull down, in order to build for himself in the middle of the town the house the vestibule of which these masterpieces are to adorn.”

“You are responsible for at least half a street, Anders!” cried Philip, laughing.

“Ah!” said Justus, “that is the reason then that the lady looks so gloomy and melancholy under her mural crown! I could not imagine what was the meaning of the expression that, without my intending it⁠—and even against my will⁠—would come out clearer and clearer; the good lady has a pang of conscience which I ought to have had! Will anyone say now that we do not bestow our best heart’s blood on our creations?”

“This last figure strikes me as being particularly beautiful, if I may venture to make an observation on a matter on which I