CHAPTER III.
THE SECOND MEETING.
It had at first been intended to give the tableaux vivants, or as they call them in Germany, lebende Bilder, in the small hall of the pretty little Malkasten, or artists’ club; but so numerous had been the applications for places, that it was decided instead to have them in a larger room belonging to the building where all the concerts were held—the public Tonhalle. This proved quite successful, and every seat was taken a week beforehand.
It was a very pretty sight: all Elberthal was there; assembled, too, in good time, and everyone talking, laughing, moving about with a freedom, an ease, and an absence of ceremony peculiar to German entertainments of the kind.
Sara Ford and Avice went with the Wilhelmis, who, being important persons in the affair, had naturally secured a number of the uppermost seats. Sara’s parts were in the second and fourth pictures. She accordingly had to go and dress for her part of Thusnelda while the first picture was being given. She left Avice, seated between Luise Wilhelmi and her mother, and therefore safely chaperoned. Luise was in a state of wild excitement, which indeed was her chronic condition. She was a very sprightly, pretty brunette, fond of brilliant colours, and given to attiring herself in a somewhat stagey manner. On this occasion she was strikingly but becomingly dressed in hues of amber and pomegranate, with many slits and slashes, tags and ends and furbelows. Nothing would induce her to yield to her father’s requests that she would dress with a noble and classic simplicity, or to her lover’s representations that white muslin and blue ribbon and a generally inexpensive shepherdess style of thing would become her wonderfully well. Fräulein Luise loved silk and satin, rich fabrics and bright jewels, and so long as anyone could be found to provide her with them, she would wear them. Avice Wellfield, beside her, looked like an inhabitant of another world. It was the first time she had been out anywhere since her father’s death; and her plain black frock and white crêpe ruffles at neck and wrists formed a pointed contrast to Luise’s flashing colours and glittering rings and chains and bangles. Avice had plaited her hair up into a coronet, which gave her an older, staider look. The girl was fulfilling, more and more every day, Sara’s prophecy to her brother, that she would one day be beautiful. Her new life, happier despite its poverty than the old one, had called forth that beauty, while the intellect, which had formerly been repressed and was now in every way encouraged to develop itself, gave dignity and depth to the mere outward loveliness of hue and feature and moulding. She sat quite still, watching with enchantment what was to her an entirely new scene. It was her first entertainment of the kind; and she enjoyed it with a zest only known in such long-deferred pleasures. Luise was jumping up and sitting down twenty times in five minutes, teasing her father to know how Max would ‘do,’ and if he was nervous—if it would be better for her not to look at him too hard, at which Avice suppressed a smile, and Wilhelmi, with his rollicking Jovine laugh, cried:
‘Look at him as hard as you can stare, little simpleton. Do you think he will turn his head to look at you? It would ruin the whole artistic effect of the picture, and to-night it is Art who will be paramount before even you.’
At which she pouted, and the orchestra suddenly struck up most eloquent music; delicious to hear, and unseen singers accompanied them. It was a portion of Liszt’s Entfesselter Prometheus that they played and sang, a chorus of grape-gatherers, and the melody was exquisitely sweet, and was dying gently away as the curtain rose upon a magic scene—a ‘midday rest in the grape-harvest.’ The picture thus copied was a celebrated one. A background of vine-covered, autumn-tinted Italian hills, and in the foreground a richly picturesque group of men and maidens, women and children, in every attitude of beauty and grace that could be imagined. In the very centre stood a splendidly handsome woman, dark, tall, and amply formed, in an Italian peasant’s dress; her arms were thrown upwards as she shook a tambourine and looked behind her to a youth who raised a spray of deeply tinted vine-leaves to bind them in her abundant strong black hair. The others were variously occupied; some in watching this principal couple and in jesting aside about them. One child was industriously devouring grapes; two lads were half wrestling with one another; a couple of girls were whispering with their lovers. The music still played soft strains, and the Chor der Winzner died into silence, while every figure stood out with a mellow distinctness, breathing and living, yet still—still and motionless, as the painted figures on the canvas themselves.
Twice the beautiful picture was shown, amidst applause and delight. Then ensued the first interval, during which comments were freely exchanged, and much laughter and gossip about the various performers went on.
‘It must be fearfully difficult,’ remarked Avice, in an almost awestruck tone. ‘How could she go on holding the tambourine for so long without its making even one tiny tinkle?’
‘Wait till the next,’ said Wilhelmi, who appeared to have pinned his hopes on the Hermannsschlacht picture. ‘Luise, pray that thy Max may not lose his heart to the Princess of Germania.’
Luise laughed a heart-whole laugh. The frantic devotion of her huge lover to his tyrannical little bride was too well-known for her to feel any qualms of jealousy.
Just then the band began to play a solemn battle march, through which might be heard, like an undercurrent, the clashing of martial instruments, and the angry mutter of war. Then slowly the curtain rose. Expectation grew so intense, that even applause was hushed, and only a murmur went through the assembly, when at last the picture was fully displayed before them. The picture which was copied gave the very spirit of the poet’s dream, as he pictured that ancient chieftain and his princess, and the living picture was an idealisation of the painted one.
They appeared to be seated beneath a mighty spreading oak—a primeval monarch of the forest. The trunk of the tree was at the extreme left. Above, its foliage overhead spread over almost the entire scene. Stretching away to the right from Hermann and Thusnelda, appeared a soft, grassy sward, fallen leaves, and forest flowers. In the background, almost in the centre, burnt a steady, reddish light, while to the right a high-flaming cresset cast fitful gleams upon the centre-point of interest—Hermann, Prince of the Cherusker, and Thusnelda, his wife.
The warrior, in the armour and dress of his tribe, was reclined upon the ground, half raised on one elbow; his short coat of mail, and small-pointed helmet, with the crest a-top, his long yellow hair and moustache, wild and fearless blue eyes; the massive and almost savage grace and power of the whole figure were splendid. A half-smile, at once grim and bitter, curved his lips as he looked up into Thusnelda’s face, and with one great hand lifts up a heavy lock of the waving, golden-brown hair which sweeps over her shoulders, and touches the ground, confined above by a gorgeous diadem of gold and precious stones, the one which she has previously told him ‘thou brought’st me of late from Rome;’ the diadem which Ventidius had arranged for her, with what intent has she not just heard from Hermann?
Sara Ford, as Thusnelda, is also seated upon the ground at the foot of the tree, clad in a loose, flowing white dress of some fine soft web. Leaning a little over towards the warrior, she rests her weight upon her left hand, and appears to question him with amazement and indignation. The music stopped, and behind the scenes some one read a portion of that magnificent scene—a scene such as perhaps no one but Heinrich von Kleist could have written quite in that way.
The unseen readers recited, or read, with dramatic effect.
Thusnelda.
Who is’t will shear my head?
Hermann.
With whom I just have sealed a firm alliance.
Thusnelda.
Hermann.
And yet the Roman ladies really must,
When they adorn themselves, have decent hair.
Thusnelda.
Hermann.
Not fair, and dry, and golden, like this of thine.
The voices ceased, and at this point the applause burst out in a storm. Avice passed her hand over her eyes, starting violently at being thus dragged back to the every-day world. So life-like had been the scene, one seemed to be transported to those strange, far-back primitive days—the days before that dim and distant Hermannsschlacht, about which historiographers are even yet not agreed. But far more wonderful to Avice was the way in which her friend had, as it were, transformed herself from the collected, well-bred, sophisticated young lady of to-day, into an ancient Teuton chieftainess, a primal Germanic mother, in whose beautiful face there were not wanting passion and fierceness—whoso reads the rest of the play may learn the pitiless brutal vengeance which Thusnelda wreaked upon Ventidius—not wanting her elements of ‘the tiger and the ape.’ And yet how grand she was—how majestic! And how tameless looked this Teuton princess! It was not fear that troubled her—she felt no fear—but anger, and boundless haughty astonishment. The Roman women, forsooth! What was she to them, or they to her? She felt as if she could crush a dozen of them with one blow of her ample hand.
This picture was shown twice. Wilhelmi rubbed his hands in rapture.
‘Splendid!’ he cried, ‘worth coming miles to see. Didn’t she do it grandly?—didn’t she look every inch the Teuton queen?’
‘Max might have given me one look!’ said Luise; ‘he knew I was in the very front row. I shall scold him about it.’
‘Foolish baby! I forbid thee to do anything of the kind. Where would the picture have been if he had been ludicrously rolling his eyes about in search of thee? And why should he look for thee? Was not Thusnelda his lawful consort?’ said her father, delighted to torment her if possible.
Luise was about to make some malicious retort, when an official came and whispered something to Wilhelmi, who, with an exclamation of pleased surprise—a ‘ Nun, das freut mich!’—rose, and made his way towards the bottom of the crowded room.
The third picture was soon put on the stage. It was a ‘Village Funeral,’ and was excellently well done, but it lacked the poetry and excitement of the last scene. The curtain went down, and still the Professor did not return. Sara remained behind the scenes; she took a part in the next picture—the part of a lady of high degree, on whose ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ her lover of low degree waits anxiously. There was a long interval, full of noise and talking and laughing. When the curtain rose again, Wilhelmi had still not returned; and Luise, who was never happy without him at such a scene, muttered discontentedly, ‘ Wo bleibt denn der Papa?’
This picture—this Ja, oder Nein—had an interest, apart from its style and subject, in the fact that it was the last one finished by the artist who had died.
A long, old-fashioned, richly-furnished room was displayed, and, standing in the midst of the grandeur, plainly dressed, proud and upright, a young man in the costume of the present-day. He was handsome, and had a fine, open, resolute face. The expression of earnest, attentive, eager waiting, not degenerating into anxiety or servility, was admirable. Nothing showed that he was nervous—he had not taken the trouble to get himself up in visiting costume. It appeared that he had been walking: his shoes were dusty and travel-soiled, his dress a rather shabby grey suit, hands gloveless, wrists cuffless, nothing either costly or fashionable about him; and yet, one of nature’s gentlemen. His white straw-hat lies on a table beside him. He has been speaking, you see, probably strongly, earnestly, and ardently, and now he waits the answer. The young lady who stands before him, in a highly fashionable costume of the present day, as rich and costly as his is poor and worn, holds a fan in one hand, and with the other seems to be half closing it. The attitude is one of reflection, of pausing; the eyes are downcast. Will she say ‘Yes,’ or ‘No’?
Beautiful groups of vine-reapers, primæval forests, and historical legends have their charms, no doubt; but a yet more potent spell is excited when the poetry is touched which underlies this present-day life of ours—when romance is manifest, clothed in a grey tweed suit and a fashionable afternoon costume. He is unabashed by her wealth and splendour. Will she resent his audacity, or accept it? In the painting there was a sweet mystery: none could say, from looking at it, what course would be taken by that fair lady. Sara Ford was perhaps thinking of some past scene. There was the shadow of an expression upon her face which caused a murmur:
‘After all, she will say yes.’
It was at this juncture—just when the interest was deepest, when necks were being craned forward, and whispers exchanged—comments upon him and her: ‘How well Ludwig does it!’—‘Of course she will say yes!’—‘How wild Amalia Waldschmidt would be if she saw Ludwig now!’ and so on, that Professor Wilhelmi, accompanied by another man, returned to his seat. There was an empty chair next to Avice Wellfield, and the stranger took it, and fixed his eyes upon the lebendes Bild on the stage. Suddenly the face of the lady became no more like the face of a picture. It changed—it was certainly a living face. Most distinctly her eyes moved, her expression altered; some persons said afterwards that she had started, but that may be a libel. What is quite certain is, that the expression of the face did change, and that the gentleman who had come in with Professor Wilhelmi turned to Avice Wellfield with a smile, and remarked in a low voice:
‘Miss Ford has recognised me, and is so surprised to see me that she has moved.’
‘Do you know Miss Ford?’ asked Avice, not moving her eyes from the picture.
‘Yes,’ replied Rudolf Falkenberg. ‘I met her a month or two ago at Ems—Nassau, rather, at the Countess of Trockenau’s.’
He continued to gaze intently at the living picture, while Miss Ford on her part soon had her features and expression entirely under her own control again. She posed admirably for the remainder of the scene, and for the repetition of it which was stormily demanded. The shade of expression on the lady’s face was of the very slightest; but it was enough for the audience to be all of one mind as to what it meant, and ‘She will have him’ was the universal verdict.
At last the curtain finally fell upon this picture, and with it ended Sara’s share in the performance. The two last ‘ Bilder’ were also admirably done, but they did not excite the interest which had been called out by the last. One was a scene from Schiller’s Wallenstein, and the other from Goethe’s Egmont.
In the bustle of the interval ensuing between the two last pictures, Sara came into the room with Wilhelmi, who had been behind the scenes to fetch her away. Everyone was standing up, and almost everyone in animated conversation, so that Miss Ford gained her place almost unobserved.
Not altogether unnoticed, though, for before anyone else could speak, Falkenberg had held out his hand with a smile, saying:
‘Thus we meet again, Miss Ford.’
‘Not exactly “thus,”’ said Sara, laughing. ‘I saw you suddenly, and was so surprised that I am afraid I moved, or laughed, or something. The impulse to bow to you, and say “How do you do?” below the breath, as one does, was almost irresistible.’
‘I ought to have remained in the background where I was, and from whence I saw you in Thusnelda. I would not have disturbed that for the world.’
‘And that reminds me,’ here observed Fräulein Wilhelmi in a plaintive voice, ‘Miss Ford, where is my poor Max?’
‘Behind the scenes, dressing for Egmont,’ replied Sara, laughing.
‘I shall never consent to this sort of thing again,’ said Luise. ‘Or if I do, I shall take a part as well. Did you only come to-day, Herr Falkenberg, or did papa know that you intended to visit us?’
‘No; I only decided yesterday to come, and I only arrived by the evening train from Frankfort. I went to your house, and found where you all were, and came here.’
‘Of course you are staying with us, as usual?’ observed Luise.
‘Your father has kindly asked me to do so,’ he replied, smiling.
Sara, watching his face, felt an indescribable satisfaction in it, and as if an old friend, and one who could be trusted, had suddenly been present. Those were the same honest, critical brown eyes which had looked kindly upon her, as they sat and spoke of friendship in the little Ruheplatz beneath the cathedral walls at Lahnburg. As for Falkenberg, after the first words of greeting, he scarcely spoke to Sara, but allowed himself to be monopolised by Luise, who, true to her nature, had flirted with him, or tried to do so, since she was two years old. Though he did not speak much to Sara, his eyes wandered now and then towards her with an inquiring, considerate expression. She was very quiet, but looked marvellously handsome, in her black velvet gown and pearl necklace. Excitement, pleasure, high, strong emotion, never made her talkative, but they brought a soft glow to her dark grey eyes, which beautified her wonderfully. To-night the pleasure had been very great, the excitement very strong, and she looked proportionately splendid.
Here the curtain went up for the last picture, and when that was over, came the crush to get out of the hall.
‘Look here, mein Bester!’ observed Wilhelmi to Herr Falkenberg. ‘My womenkind will be more than enough for me. Will you take Miss Ford and Miss Wellfield under your charge, and see them home?’
‘With pleasure,’ was the reply; and with an exchange of hasty good-nights, the Wilhelmis were carried forward in the crowd, while Falkenberg and the two English girls made their way slowly after them.
Seated in their Droschke, and driving towards the Jägerstrasse, Falkenberg said:
‘May I call at your atelier soon, Miss Ford, as I am staying here? I dare say I shall be at the Wilhelmis’ for some little time.’
‘I shall be very glad if you will,’ responded Sara; ‘though,’ she added, after a pause, ‘I am afraid there is not much for you to see.’
‘To-morrow afternoon,’ he suggested, ‘or will you be too tired?’
‘I shall not be tired at all. Pray come, and have coffee with me, if you care to remain.’
‘Thank you. I shall not fail,’ he answered, as the cab stopped, and he handed them out.
‘We all owe you a debt of thanks, mein Fräulein, for acting as you did to-night,’ he said, as he shook hands with her.
‘I am glad you were pleased, and I hope the affair will bring some money to poor little Frau Goldmark. Then, till to-morrow, Herr Falkenberg.’
‘Till to-morrow. Gute nacht, meine Damen.’