Decorated Heading.STAGE III.Decorated Horizontal Rule.CHAPTER I.INTERMEDIATE.Decorated First LetterTheProfessor’s grand, rugged face and delicate, artist brow were somewhat clouded. He rose from the chair before the easel, on which he had been sitting, and laid his brush down.‘You have not done much since I was last here,’ he remarked.‘No, I’m afraid not,’ replied Sara Ford, who had been standing near him watching him as he touched her picture here and there. The scenewas her atelier. The time was a broiling afternoon in September; but here, in this sunless room, facing north, it was cooler than elsewhere. She was dressed in a long, plain gown of some creamy white stuff. Her face was pale, and her eyes somewhat heavy and languid. The masses of wavy, chestnut hair lay somewhat heavily and droopingly over the white temples and broad brow. The only spot of decided colour about her was the glossy dark-green leaves of aGloire de Dijonrose which was stuck in the breast of her dress—a species of rose which Professor Wilhelmi, with his keen and observant artist’s eye, had remarked his favourite pupil had lately become very fond of wearing. He had noticed, too, that during the past few weeks she had become, if possible, more beautiful than ever, with a sudden glow and blaze of beauty which was none the less brilliant in that it was accompanied by a silence and quietness greater than of yore. Wilhelmi was an artist to his verysoul. Creed, nationality, and rank counted as nothing, and less than nothing, with him. Genius was his care and his watchword. Two years ago he had, he believed, found that Sara Ford had received a spark of the divine fire, and from that moment she had been as his own child to him—his soul’s child, the child of his highest and purest individuality. And as time went on he had thought also to discover in her the industry which some have saidisgenius. All had gone triumphantly until at the end of last July she had returned from her visit to Nassau, and he, coming to her to resume his lessons, had found that something had taken flight—something else had appeared in its place. The exchange was the more annoying in that he could not name either the one thing or the other. As she spoke to him now, he glanced down at her large white hand, which had been resting on the easel as he and she spoke. Had that ring of sapphires which had replaced the old diamond rose that she used to wear anything to do with the change in her?‘How you have changed my inanimate little daub, Herr Professor!’ she said. ‘It was without life. All that I do now seems without life. Sometimes I think I had better put away my paint and my brushes, and lock up my atelier for the next six months, and not look at a canvas for that length of time.’‘Do so, if you can,’ he replied; ‘but if you do I shall know that your nature has changed.’She was silent, still looking down upon the sketch. Wilhelmi, who looked grave and concerned, did not speak for a short time. At last he said:‘Do you know that poor Goldmark died this morning?’‘Did he!’ exclaimed Sara, a rapid flash of sorrow and sympathy passing over her face. ‘How very sad! Such a talent and such a career cut off in that manner.’‘Ay, sad enough. But there are sadder things than for a career to becut off by death. There is the palsy of self-satisfaction, which has virtually killed the very finest talent over and over again, while leaving the body as strong and flourishing as ever. Poor Goldmark was rather too much the other way. Nothing that he did ever satisfied him.’‘Then do you not think he had genius?’ asked Sara.‘N——no—I cannot call his gift genius. It just fell short of the happy inspired audacity of genius. It was talent of the very highest order.’‘That was always my idea of him. Won’t his wife and children be rather badly off?’‘I am afraid they will. But Frau Goldmark is rather a stirring little woman. Something will be contrived for them, I doubt not.’‘Are you going? This has been a short lesson.’‘It has,’ he answered with the same ambiguous little fold in his forehead. ‘You have not supplied me with much material to teach uponthis time. You must work, my dear child—work while it is to-day,’ he added earnestly. ‘Bear my words in mind. Work while it is to-day, and let nothing interfere, or you will have to repent your idleness in dust and ashes.’With which, not waiting for any reply, he left her.Sara looked after him dreamily. ‘What does he mean?’ she speculated. ‘But I know. He finds a change in me; and I am changed, even to myself. Sometimes I think the old spirit has completely left me, and yet how can that be? It will all come right again, I suppose. But I wish—I wish it might be soon.’She sighed as she put down her palette, and sat down before her easel in the chair which Wilhelmi had lately occupied, and, amid the profound stillness of the quiet afternoon, let her thoughts wander off there where now they were for ever straying. She was too much under the influence of her love for Wellfield to be able to reflect whether thatinfluence were a good or a bad one. That said, all is said; it contains her mental history for the past two months, and accounts for the depression which stole over Wilhelmi’s face and into his keen eyes as he saw her; it accounts too for the nameless paralysis which had stolen the cunning from her right hand, and from her soul the ardent zeal for her art. She was Sara Ford still, but Sara Ford metamorphosed. Wilhelmi sorrowfully told himself one day that there was now more life and spirit in the water-colour sketches whichdie Kleine, as he called Avice Wellfield, made, than in those of his dearest pupil, of which but lately he had been so proud.‘I am certain it’s some wretched love affair!’ he muttered, as he strode abstractedly away from the Jägerstrasse towards his own house. ‘Good heavens! to think ofthatwoman’s talent being palsied by some wretched sentimentalSchwärmerei; it is horrible. Why is not genius created senseless, sexless, sentimentless? But then, of course, itcould never appeal to sense, and sex, and sentiment, as it must if it is to be an influence. It is a thousand pities, it is lamentable. And Falkenberg wrote of her in what might for him be called enthusiastic strains. I wish there were some way of saving her. I wish the man would play false, or that some shock would rouse her from this apathy!’It may here be casually observed that Professor Wilhelmi cherished a conviction that he understood woman, and could account for and cure all her vagaries, had he but the power placed in his hands. It was a delusion broken every day by the conduct of his own wife and daughter, to whom, in all matters outside his art, he was a slave, but he lived in it still, and would live in it till he died.Meantime the Indian summer dawned, and flamed itself out here too, as well as at Wellfield. September went out, and October was ushered in with unusual mildness and glory. It was a sight to gladden the eyes ofan artist, even the low flat country which at Elberthal stretches for unbroken miles on either side the broad Rhine. For there were glorious sunsets, colouring river, and field, and town, with strange glorified lights, and at that sunset-time in the Hofgarten, the yellow golden beams shone in a glowing, dazzling mist through the autumn trees, and flooded every twig, every stick and stone, with mellow radiance. At that time the stalls of the old women at the street corners were piled high with grapes, and plums, and russet pears, which fruits were to be purchased for almost nothing. At that time it was good to sail down the river to Kaiserswerth, or up the stream to Neuss, and to return at sunset, and watch the pomp of it glorifying the majestic river. There was no striking beauty of crag or waterfall, of castled Drachenfels or magic Loreley, but there were the great plains stretching Hollandwards, dressed in their autumn garments; the broad expanse of water sweeping by, strong and untroubled; the busy humming town behind, with itsthrob of varied life, its many interests, its treasures of art and joy, its music and melody, inseparable from all true German life.The two girls lived on, happy and contented. To them came no word of what was going on at Wellfield. They knew nothing of the long parley which their best-beloved was even then standing to hold with baseness and dishonesty, while honour and honesty stood by. Had they known, they too could have told him what perhaps his own conscience had more than once whispered to him: that honour and honesty will not continue such a parley for ever. They will not always remain there, holding out their neglected hands for us to clasp. There comes a time when they will wait no longer, but will withdraw their hands, fold their mantles around them, turn away, and leave us to consort with the company ourselves have chosen.
Decorated Heading.
STAGE III.
Decorated Horizontal Rule.
Decorated First Letter
TheProfessor’s grand, rugged face and delicate, artist brow were somewhat clouded. He rose from the chair before the easel, on which he had been sitting, and laid his brush down.
‘You have not done much since I was last here,’ he remarked.
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ replied Sara Ford, who had been standing near him watching him as he touched her picture here and there. The scenewas her atelier. The time was a broiling afternoon in September; but here, in this sunless room, facing north, it was cooler than elsewhere. She was dressed in a long, plain gown of some creamy white stuff. Her face was pale, and her eyes somewhat heavy and languid. The masses of wavy, chestnut hair lay somewhat heavily and droopingly over the white temples and broad brow. The only spot of decided colour about her was the glossy dark-green leaves of aGloire de Dijonrose which was stuck in the breast of her dress—a species of rose which Professor Wilhelmi, with his keen and observant artist’s eye, had remarked his favourite pupil had lately become very fond of wearing. He had noticed, too, that during the past few weeks she had become, if possible, more beautiful than ever, with a sudden glow and blaze of beauty which was none the less brilliant in that it was accompanied by a silence and quietness greater than of yore. Wilhelmi was an artist to his verysoul. Creed, nationality, and rank counted as nothing, and less than nothing, with him. Genius was his care and his watchword. Two years ago he had, he believed, found that Sara Ford had received a spark of the divine fire, and from that moment she had been as his own child to him—his soul’s child, the child of his highest and purest individuality. And as time went on he had thought also to discover in her the industry which some have saidisgenius. All had gone triumphantly until at the end of last July she had returned from her visit to Nassau, and he, coming to her to resume his lessons, had found that something had taken flight—something else had appeared in its place. The exchange was the more annoying in that he could not name either the one thing or the other. As she spoke to him now, he glanced down at her large white hand, which had been resting on the easel as he and she spoke. Had that ring of sapphires which had replaced the old diamond rose that she used to wear anything to do with the change in her?
‘How you have changed my inanimate little daub, Herr Professor!’ she said. ‘It was without life. All that I do now seems without life. Sometimes I think I had better put away my paint and my brushes, and lock up my atelier for the next six months, and not look at a canvas for that length of time.’
‘Do so, if you can,’ he replied; ‘but if you do I shall know that your nature has changed.’
She was silent, still looking down upon the sketch. Wilhelmi, who looked grave and concerned, did not speak for a short time. At last he said:
‘Do you know that poor Goldmark died this morning?’
‘Did he!’ exclaimed Sara, a rapid flash of sorrow and sympathy passing over her face. ‘How very sad! Such a talent and such a career cut off in that manner.’
‘Ay, sad enough. But there are sadder things than for a career to becut off by death. There is the palsy of self-satisfaction, which has virtually killed the very finest talent over and over again, while leaving the body as strong and flourishing as ever. Poor Goldmark was rather too much the other way. Nothing that he did ever satisfied him.’
‘Then do you not think he had genius?’ asked Sara.
‘N——no—I cannot call his gift genius. It just fell short of the happy inspired audacity of genius. It was talent of the very highest order.’
‘That was always my idea of him. Won’t his wife and children be rather badly off?’
‘I am afraid they will. But Frau Goldmark is rather a stirring little woman. Something will be contrived for them, I doubt not.’
‘Are you going? This has been a short lesson.’
‘It has,’ he answered with the same ambiguous little fold in his forehead. ‘You have not supplied me with much material to teach uponthis time. You must work, my dear child—work while it is to-day,’ he added earnestly. ‘Bear my words in mind. Work while it is to-day, and let nothing interfere, or you will have to repent your idleness in dust and ashes.’
With which, not waiting for any reply, he left her.
Sara looked after him dreamily. ‘What does he mean?’ she speculated. ‘But I know. He finds a change in me; and I am changed, even to myself. Sometimes I think the old spirit has completely left me, and yet how can that be? It will all come right again, I suppose. But I wish—I wish it might be soon.’
She sighed as she put down her palette, and sat down before her easel in the chair which Wilhelmi had lately occupied, and, amid the profound stillness of the quiet afternoon, let her thoughts wander off there where now they were for ever straying. She was too much under the influence of her love for Wellfield to be able to reflect whether thatinfluence were a good or a bad one. That said, all is said; it contains her mental history for the past two months, and accounts for the depression which stole over Wilhelmi’s face and into his keen eyes as he saw her; it accounts too for the nameless paralysis which had stolen the cunning from her right hand, and from her soul the ardent zeal for her art. She was Sara Ford still, but Sara Ford metamorphosed. Wilhelmi sorrowfully told himself one day that there was now more life and spirit in the water-colour sketches whichdie Kleine, as he called Avice Wellfield, made, than in those of his dearest pupil, of which but lately he had been so proud.
‘I am certain it’s some wretched love affair!’ he muttered, as he strode abstractedly away from the Jägerstrasse towards his own house. ‘Good heavens! to think ofthatwoman’s talent being palsied by some wretched sentimentalSchwärmerei; it is horrible. Why is not genius created senseless, sexless, sentimentless? But then, of course, itcould never appeal to sense, and sex, and sentiment, as it must if it is to be an influence. It is a thousand pities, it is lamentable. And Falkenberg wrote of her in what might for him be called enthusiastic strains. I wish there were some way of saving her. I wish the man would play false, or that some shock would rouse her from this apathy!’
It may here be casually observed that Professor Wilhelmi cherished a conviction that he understood woman, and could account for and cure all her vagaries, had he but the power placed in his hands. It was a delusion broken every day by the conduct of his own wife and daughter, to whom, in all matters outside his art, he was a slave, but he lived in it still, and would live in it till he died.
Meantime the Indian summer dawned, and flamed itself out here too, as well as at Wellfield. September went out, and October was ushered in with unusual mildness and glory. It was a sight to gladden the eyes ofan artist, even the low flat country which at Elberthal stretches for unbroken miles on either side the broad Rhine. For there were glorious sunsets, colouring river, and field, and town, with strange glorified lights, and at that sunset-time in the Hofgarten, the yellow golden beams shone in a glowing, dazzling mist through the autumn trees, and flooded every twig, every stick and stone, with mellow radiance. At that time the stalls of the old women at the street corners were piled high with grapes, and plums, and russet pears, which fruits were to be purchased for almost nothing. At that time it was good to sail down the river to Kaiserswerth, or up the stream to Neuss, and to return at sunset, and watch the pomp of it glorifying the majestic river. There was no striking beauty of crag or waterfall, of castled Drachenfels or magic Loreley, but there were the great plains stretching Hollandwards, dressed in their autumn garments; the broad expanse of water sweeping by, strong and untroubled; the busy humming town behind, with itsthrob of varied life, its many interests, its treasures of art and joy, its music and melody, inseparable from all true German life.
The two girls lived on, happy and contented. To them came no word of what was going on at Wellfield. They knew nothing of the long parley which their best-beloved was even then standing to hold with baseness and dishonesty, while honour and honesty stood by. Had they known, they too could have told him what perhaps his own conscience had more than once whispered to him: that honour and honesty will not continue such a parley for ever. They will not always remain there, holding out their neglected hands for us to clasp. There comes a time when they will wait no longer, but will withdraw their hands, fold their mantles around them, turn away, and leave us to consort with the company ourselves have chosen.