Kuno Francke - The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 11

All at once he jumped away – noiselessly as a cat; the seat stood again by the wall, and he himself stood before the half-finished statue of a female figure of heroic size, as a knock was heard at the door on the other side – "Signor Antonio!"

"Signora?" called the young man from where he sat. He had taken up his mallet and chisel, evidently only better to play the rôle of one surprised.

"Can you come in a moment, Signer Antonio? Fatemi il piacere! "

" Si, Signora! "

He threw down the tools and ran to the door, the bolt of which was already shoved back. Notwithstanding the request, he knocked before opening it.

" Ma – entrate! – How finely you have fixed yourself up, Signor Antonio!"

Antonio dropped his eyelashes, and his glance glided down his slender figure to the points of his patent-leather shoes – but only for a moment. The next instant his black eyes were fastened with a melancholy, passionate expression upon the beautiful girl, who stood before him in her simple dark house-dress and her work-apron, holding the modeling tool in her hand.

"You do not need to make yourself beautiful. You are always beautiful."

He said this in German. He was proud of his German, since she had praised his accent repeatedly during the Italian lessons he had given her, and had said that every word sounded to her, when he uttered it, new and precious, like an acquaintance one meets in a foreign land.

"I think I am anything but beautiful, this morning," said Ferdinande. "But I need your help. My model did not come; I wanted to work on the eyes today. You have prettier eyes than your countrywomen, Antonio; do pose for me – only a few minutes."

A proud smile of satisfaction passed over the beautiful face of the youth. He took the same attitude toward Ferdinande that she had given her statue.

"Fine!" she said. "One never knows whether you are greater as actor or as sculptor."

" Un povero abbozzatore! " he muttered.

"You are not a workingman!" said Ferdinande. "You know you are an artist."

"I am an artist as you are a princess!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I was born to be an artist and yet am not one, as you were born to be a princess and yet are not one."

"You are crazy!"

It was not a tone of irritation in which she said this; there was something like acquiescence in it, which did not escape the ear of the Italian.

"And now you know it," he added.

She made no reply, and kept on with her work, but only mechanically. "She called you to tell you something," said Antonio to himself.

"Where were you last evening, Antonio?" she asked after a pause.

"In my club, Signora."

"When did you come home?"

"Late."

"But when?"

"At one o'clock, ma perchè ?"

She had turned around to her little table on which lay her tools, which she was fingering.

"I only asked the question. We did not go to bed till late at night. We had a visitor – a cousin of mine – there was much talking and smoking – I got a fearful headache, and spent an hour in the garden. Will you pose again? Or shall we give it up? It is hard for you; I think you look tired."

"No, no!" he muttered.

He took the pose again, but less gracefully than before. Strange thoughts whirled through his brain, and made his heart throb. – "When did you come home?" – "I was in the garden for an hour." – Was it possible – but no, no, it was impossible, it was chance! But if he had met her alone in the garden, alone, late at night – what would he have said, what would he have done?

His eyes swam – he pressed his hands, which he should have held to his brow, to his eyes.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Ferdinande.

His hand dropped; his eyes, which were fixed upon her, were aflame.

"What is the matter with me?" he muttered. "What is the matter with me? — Ho – non lo so neppur io: una febbre che mi divora, ho, che il sangue mi abbrucia, che il cervello mi si spezza; ho in fine, che non ne posso più, che sono stanco di questa vita! "

Ferdinande had tried to resist the outbreak, but without success. She shook from head to foot; from his flaming eyes a spark had shot into her own heart, and her voice trembled as she now replied with as much composure as she could command, "You know I do not understand you when you speak so wildly and fast."

"You did understand me," muttered the youth.

"I understood nothing but what I could see without all that – that 'a fever consumes you, that your blood chokes you, that your brain is about to burst, that you are tired of this life' – in German; that 'you sat too late at your club last night, and raved too much about fair Italy, and drank too much fiery Italian wine.'"

The blue veins appeared on his fine white brow; a hoarse sound like the cry of a wild beast came from his throat. He reached toward his breast, where he usually carried his stiletto – the side pocket was empty – his eyes glanced about as if he were looking for a weapon.

"Do you mean to murder me?"

His right hand, which was still clutching his breast, relaxed and sank; his left also dropped, his fingers were interlocked, a stream of tears burst from his eyes, extinguishing their glow; he fell on his knees and sobbed: " Pardonatemi! Ferdinanda, l'ho amata dal primo giorno che l'ho veduta, ed adesso – ah! adesso — "

"I know it, poor Antonio," said Ferdinande, "and that is why I pardon you – once more – for the last time! If this scene is repeated I shall tell my father, and you will have to go. And now, Signor Antonio, stand up!"

She extended her hand, which he, still kneeling, pressed to his lips and his forehead.

"Antonio! Antonio!" echoed the voice of Justus outside; immediately there was a rap upon the door which led to the court. Antonio sprang to his feet.

"Is Antonio here, Miss Ferdinande?"

Ferdinande went herself to open the door.

"Are you still at work?" inquired Justus, coming in. – "But I thought we were going with your cousin to the Exhibition?"

"I am waiting for him; he has not yet appeared; just go on ahead with Antonio; we shall meet in the sculpture gallery."

"As you say! – What you have done today on the eyes is not worth anything – an entirely false expression! You have been working without your model again; when will you come to see that we are helpless without a model! — Andiamo, Antonio! If you are not ashamed to cross the street with me!"

He had taken a position by the side of the Italian as if he wished to give Ferdinande the pleasure he found in contrasting his short stout figure, in the worn velvet coat and light trousers of doubtful newness, with the elegant, slender, handsome youth, his assistant. But Ferdinande had already turned away, and only said once more, "in the sculpture gallery, then!"

" Dunque – andiamo! " cried Justus; " a rivederci! "

[Ferdinande says Antonio is the only one, after all, who understands her. She then reads a letter which she has received from Ottomar over the garden wall. Ottomar speaks only of meeting her, but says nothing of seeing her father, or of more serious purposes. Reinhold knocks on her studio door, enters, and sees how the artists live in a world of their own. Ferdinande says her father does not care what she does so long as she can have her own way. Reinhold inspects her work and the studio.]

"But now I am afraid you will spoil me so thoroughly that I shall find it difficult to get back into my simple life," said Reinhold, as he sped on at the side of Ferdinande in his uncle's equipage through the Thiergartenstrasse to the Brandenburgerthor.

"Why do we have horses and a carriage if we are not to use them?" inquired Ferdinande.