Читать книгу The Breaking of the Storm - Spielhagen Friedrich - Страница 25

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The youth in the shirt-sleeves who had answered Reinhold with such scant courtesy, slammed to the door, and shaking his fist muttered a big oath in his native language between his sharp white teeth. Then he went back into the room and walked with light steps up to a door which divided his studio from the next one. He put his ear against the door and listened for a minute or two. A smile of satisfaction lighted up his dark face, he drew a deep breath as he stood erect, then stealthily as a cat he ran up the winding iron staircase which led to his own room, whence he had come on hearing Reinhold's knock.

In a few minutes he came downstairs again, this time without attempting not to make a noise; indeed, rather stepping more heavily than was necessary and whistling a tune. He had coat and waistcoat on now, and instead of the slippers which he had worn before, had varnished boots on his small feet, at which he glanced with much satisfaction as he walked downstairs. Arrived at the bottom, he went immediately up to a large and handsome Venetian looking-glass and examined his whole figure with the greatest care, arranged his blue tie, fastened one of the gold studs more securely into his shirt-front, and passed a comb through his shining raven-black hair. He whistled more and more softly, and finally left off altogether. Then coming away from the looking-glass, he moved rather noisily first one and then another obstacle as they came in his way, till there was nothing between him and the door against which he had just now listened.

Seizing a stool, which for this very purpose he had placed within reach against the wall, he stood upon it, and applied his eye, as just now his ear, to the door, close to it; for with great trouble he had bored a hole with a very fine gimlet, and with great trouble, too, had he learnt how to look through it so as to see into the next room, or at least to see her in the place where she worked.

The blood rushed into his dark cheeks as he thus looked. "O Bellissima!" he murmured between his lips, pressing a passionate kiss upon the wood.

Suddenly he sprang down noiselessly like a cat: the stool again leaned against the wall, and he stood before the unfinished marble of a colossal female figure as some one knocked at the other side of the door.

"Signor Antonio!"

"Signora!" exclaimed the young man from where he stood. He had grasped chisel and hammer, so as the better to play the part of one surprised.

"Can you come in here for a moment, Signor Antonio? Fatemi il piacere!"

"Si, signora."

He threw his tools aside and ran to the door, which was now unbolted. Notwithstanding this and his having received an invitation, he knocked before he opened it.

"Ma--entrate! How smart you are, Signor Antonio!"

Antonio dropped his dark eye-lashes and glanced at his slender figure down to the very tips of his varnished boots--but only for a moment. The next the passionate sullen eyes were fixed upon the beautiful girl, who, wearing her ordinary dark morning dress with a long apron, stood before him with her modelling tool in her hand.

"You have no need to think of dress; you are always beautiful!"

He said it in German. He was proud of his German since she had praised his accent during the Italian lessons he gave her and told him that every word in his mouth sounded new, new and delightful like meeting a friend in a foreign land.

"I feel anything but beautiful this morning," answered Ferdinanda, "but I want your help. My model has failed me; I wanted to work at the eyes to-day. You have finer eyes than your countrywoman, Antonio; do stand there just for a few minutes!"

A smile of gratified pride stole over the youth's handsome face. He stood before Ferdinanda in the precise attitude which she had given to her statue.

"Bravo!" said she: "it is difficult to say whether you are a better actor or sculptor."

"Un povero abbozzatore!" he murmured.

"You are no workman," said Ferdinanda; "but as you well know, an artist."

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

"What does that mean?"

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

"What a mad notion!"

She did not say it angrily, but rather in a tone as if she agreed with him, which did not escape the sharp ear of the Italian.

"You know it yourself," he said.

She made no answer, but went on working, though without much spirit.

"She has called me to say something to me," said Antonio to himself.

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

"At my club, signora."

"When did you come home?"

"Late."

"But when?"

"At one o'clock. Ma perché?"

She was leaning over the small table which held her tools and feeling about amongst them.

"I only wanted to know. We went to bed very late last night. We had a visitor, a cousin of mine, and there was a great deal of smoking and talking; it gave me a dreadful headache, and I went into the garden for an hour. Will you sit any longer, or shall we give it up? I dare say it is difficult, and you seem tired."

"No, no," he murmured.

He placed himself again in the attitude, but not so well as before. His brain was full of bewildering thoughts, which made his heart beat.

"When did you come home?"

"I was in the garden for an hour."

Was it possible! No, no, it was impossible--it was only an accident. But if he had met her alone in the garden in the dead of night, what would he have said, what would he have done?

Everything swam before him. He passed his hand, which he ought to have held up to his brow, across his eyes.

"What is the matter?" cried Ferdinanda.

The hand dropped, the eyes, which were fixed upon her, shone like flames of fire.

"What is the matter," he murmured--"what is the matter! 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 piu, che sono stanco di questa vita!"

Ferdinanda had tried to stop this outburst, but without success. She trembled from head to foot; the flaming eyes emitted a spark which penetrated to her own heart, and her voice trembled as she said, as quietly as she could:

"You know I cannot understand you when you speak so fast--so wildly."

"You did understand me," murmured the youth.

"I did not understand anything more than I can see for myself--that you are devoured with fever, that your blood boils to suffocation, that your brain is bursting, that you are tired of life; which means, in German, that you stayed too long yesterday at your club, raved too much about your beloved Italy, and consequently drank too much strong Italian wine."

The veins on his white forehead started out in blue lines, and he uttered a hoarse cry like that of a wild beast. He clutched at his breast, where he usually carried his stiletto, but the pocket was empty, and he looked around as if seeking for some weapon.

"Would you murder me?"

The right hand, which was still clutched in his breast, loosened its grasp and fell by his side; the left hand followed, and the fingers linked themselves together; a rush of tears broke from his eyes: the fire was extinguished, and, sinking on his knees, he faltered:

"Mi perdona! Ferdinanda, l'ho amata dal primo giorno che l'ho veduta, ed adesso--ah, adesso!"

"I know it, my poor Antonio," said Ferdinanda, "and for that reason I forgive you once more, for the last time. If you repeat this scene I will tell my father, and then you must leave the house. And now, Signor Antonio, rise!"

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

"Antonio, Antonio!" called Justus' voice from without, and then a knock was heard at the door, which opened into the yard. Antonio sprang to his feet.

"Is Antonio here, Fräulein Ferdinanda?"

Ferdinanda went herself to open the door.

"Still at work?" said Justus as he entered. "But I thought you were going to the Exhibition with your cousin?"

"I am waiting for him; he has not made his appearance yet. You go on with Antonio; we will meet in the sculpture-room."

"As you like. What you have done to the eyes to-day is no good at all--it is all wrong. You have worked without a model again. When will you learn that without models we are helpless! Andiamo, Antonio! if you are not ashamed to walk through the streets with me."

He had laughingly placed himself by the Italian, as if to amuse Ferdinanda by the comparison which he himself observed between his short little figure in the old velvet coat and light trousers of doubtful newness, and the slim, handsome, smart youth, his assistant. But Ferdinanda had already turned away, and again repeated, "We shall meet in the sculpture-room."

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