Justus, who had caught the glance, laughed. “You are not so ignorant as you pretend, Herr von Werben! You appear to know very well where we get our inspirations. But that you may see that other people can not only inspire forms, but also create very beautiful ones—may we, Fräulein Ferdinanda?” and Justus pointed to the door of her studio.
“Certainly,” said Ferdinanda, while her heart beat fast. Now or never was the time. Antonio had not looked round; perhaps he had not heard. It might be possible to go in with Ottomar while the others lingered behind. And so it happened. Philip and Reinhold were disputing about one of the symbols assigned to Trade; Philip, annoyed and irritated by the contradiction that met him on all sides today, in a loud, excited voice. Justus, however, was following her and Ottomar closely. As she got to the door, she turned and whispered to him, “Philip is unbearable today; do try and make peace between them?”
Justus answered, “Oh! it means nothing,” but turned back.
Ferdinanda entered quickly, followed by Ottomar. She walked a few steps to the left, till she was quite concealed from those in the other studio. Her arms encircled him, while she felt his arms around her. Their lips met, while he tasted the sweetness of her first kiss.
“This evening?”
“As you will.”
“, in the Bellevue Gardens!”
“As you will.”
“Darling!”
“Darling!”
They did not venture on a second kiss, fortunately, as Justus appeared, bringing with him, for greater security, the disputants.
They stood before the Reaper, while Justus explained that it had been begun in the spring and intended at first for a pendant to the kneeling Roman Shepherd Boy in the Exhibition—a girl, who, in the solitude of her maize field, deep in the Campagna, hears the Ave Maria ring out from the neighbouring convent, and who, laying aside her sickle and her sheaf, folds her hands for a moment in prayer; that the figure was nearly completed, attitude, gesture and expression, all quite admirable, and would have done honour to the greatest sculptors; that the greatest sculptors in Berlin had expressed their admiration; the Milanese Enrico Braga, who had been there on a visit in the summer, was quite overpowered. “And now, gentlemen, I ask you whether it is possible for any woman, even the most gifted, to carry out persistently a clearly defined aim! The statue is almost finished, only a few touches are wanted, but those touches are not given; we are not in the vein, we will wait for a more favourable day. One, two months pass, the day does not come; the clay dries up in the most unfortunate manner, breaks and splits everywhere—we have lost all inclination for the work. I had made up my mind, at the risk of the deepest displeasure, to have the Reaper secretly cast at night before it quite fell to pieces; when about four weeks ago, one fine morning, I entered the studio—the sweet, dreamy face, was changed into a Medusa head, whose terrible eyes, under the hand that had in the meantime been laid on her brow, stared into the distance, apparently expecting someone. I should not like to be that someone. Would you, Captain?”
Reinhold nodded to the sculptor; the statue had made exactly the same curiously mingled impression upon him, and he had almost expressed it in the same words. He said, smiling: “No, indeed!”
“Put it to the vote!” exclaimed Justus eagerly. “Would you, Herr von Werben?”
Ottomar did not answer. The work was begun in the spring; in the spring he had exchanged the first tender love-tokens with Ferdinanda; then had ensued a long, weary interval, during which she had altogether avoided him; and though four weeks ago she had given way to his imploring glances and resumed again their secret understanding, it had acquired in the interval a totally different character; a gloomy, passionate character, from which even he sometimes shrank. Was this the image of her love? Was it he who was here waited for?
All this passed through his brain with the speed of lightning, but his fixed glance had betrayed something of what was in his mind.
“Why say so much about it?” exclaimed Ferdinanda; “a work that must be put to the vote is not worthy to exist.”
She had seized the heavy mallet which lay on the table amongst her other tools and swung it towards the statue. Justus caught hold of her arm.
“Are you mad, Fräulein Ferdinanda? Cannot you understand a joke? I swear to you that it was only a joke! That I admire it even more than the former one! That you have surpassed yourself and me.”
Justus was quite pale with excitement; the others hastened to assure her that they were quite of the master’s opinion, that they thought the statue surpassingly beautiful, that they did not wish to see one feature altered. Ottomar was foremost with his praises, and his beautiful eyes entreated for forgiveness; but Ferdinanda was not to be appeased.
“It is too late,” she said, “the sentence has gone forth, and I am too proud, I confess, to accept praise which comes as an afterthought. Calm yourself, Anders; I will not destroy the statue, but I will never finish it, that I swear!”
“And I am to be calm?” exclaimed Justus; “may I break stones in the road if I do, if I—what is it, Antonio?”
Antonio had entered, whispered a few words to Anders and then retired; as he went out he cast a gloomy look at the statue of the Reaper.
“A gentleman from the committee,” said Anders, “there is always somebody coming; they will drive me wild. I will be back directly.”
He hurried into his studio; Ottomar suggested that they had already troubled the young lady too long: he expected that Ferdinanda would press them to
