"We are so pleased to know you," she said, speaking in a voice which had lost all ring."It is charming to find some one in these parts who can help us to remember that there is such a thing as Art.We had Mr.C--- here last autumn, such a charming fellow.He was so interested in the native customs and dresses.You are a subject painter, too, I think? Won't you sit down?"She went on for some time, introducing painters' names, asking questions, skating round the edge of what was personal.And the young man stood before her with a curious little smile fixed on his lips.'She wants to know whether I'm worth powder and shot,' he thought.
"You wish to paint my nieces?" Mrs.Decie said at last, leaning back on her settee.
"I wish to have that honour," Harz answered with a bow.
"And what sort of picture did you think of?""That," said Harz, "is in the future.I couldn't tell you." And he thought: 'Will she ask me if I get my tints in Paris, like the woman Tramper told me of?'
The perpetual pale smile on Mrs.Decie's face seemed to invite his confidence, yet to warn him that his words would be sucked in somewhere behind those broad fine brows, and carefully sorted.Mrs.
Decie, indeed, was thinking: 'Interesting young man, regular Bohemian--no harm in that at his age; something Napoleonic in his face; probably has no dress clothes.Yes, should like to see more of him!' She had a fine eye for points of celebrity; his name was unfamiliar, would probably have been scouted by that famous artist Mr.C---, but she felt her instinct urging her on to know him.She was, to do her justice, one of those "lion" finders who seek the animal for pleasure, not for the glory it brings them; she had the courage of her instincts--lion-entities were indispensable to her, but she trusted to divination to secure them; nobody could foist a "lion" on her.
"It will be very nice.You will stay and have some lunch? The arrangements here are rather odd.Such a mixed household--but there is always lunch at two o'clock for any one who likes, and we all dine at seven.You would have your sittings in the afternoons, perhaps?
I should so like to see your sketches.You are using the old house on the wall for studio; that is so original of you!"Harz would not stay to lunch, but asked if he might begin work that afternoon; he left a little suffocated by the sandalwood and sympathy of this sphinx-like woman.
Walking home along the river wall, with the singing of the larks and thrushes, the rush of waters, the humming of the chafers in his ears, he felt that he would make something fine of this subject.Before his eyes the faces of the two girls continually started up, framed by the sky, with young leaves guttering against their cheeks.
V
Three days had passed since Harz began his picture, when early in the morning, Greta came from Villa Rubein along the river dyke and sat down on a bench from which the old house on the wall was visible.
She had not been there long before Harz came out.
"I did not knock," said Greta, "because you would not have heard, and it is so early, so I have been waiting for you a quarter of an hour."Selecting a rosebud, from some flowers in her hand, she handed it to him."That is my first rosebud this year," she said; "it is for you because you are painting me.To-day I am thirteen, Herr Harz; there is not to be a sitting, because it is my birthday; but, instead, we are all going to Meran to see the play of Andreas Hofer.You are to come too, please; I am here to tell you, and the others shall be here directly."Harz bowed: "And who are the others?"
"Christian, and Dr.Edmund, Miss Naylor, and Cousin Teresa.Her husband is ill, so she is sad, but to-day she is going to forget that.It is not good to be always sad, is it, Herr Harz?"He laughed: "You could not be."
Greta answered gravely: "Oh yes, I could.I too am often sad.You are making fun.You are not to make fun to-day, because it is my birthday.Do you think growing up is nice, Herr Harz ?""No, Fraulein Greta, it is better to have all the time before you."They walked on side by side.
"I think," said Greta, "you are very much afraid of losing time.
Chris says that time is nothing."
"Time is everything," responded Harz.
"She says that time is nothing, and thought is everything," Greta murmured, rubbing a rose against her cheek, "but I think you cannot have a thought unless you have the time to think it in.There are the others! Look!"A cluster of sunshades on the bridge glowed for a moment and was lost in shadow.
"Come," said Harz, "let's join them!"
At Meran, under Schloss Tirol, people were streaming across the meadows into the open theatre.Here were tall fellows in mountain dress, with leather breeches, bare knees, and hats with eagles'
feathers; here were fruit-sellers, burghers and their wives, mountebanks, actors, and every kind of visitor.The audience, packed into an enclosure of high boards, sweltered under the burning sun.
Cousin Teresa, tall and thin, with hard, red cheeks, shaded her pleasant eyes with her hand.
The play began.It depicted the rising in the Tyrol of 1809: the village life, dances and yodelling; murmurings and exhortations, the warning beat of drums; then the gathering, with flintlocks, pitchforks, knives; the battle and victory; the homecoming, and festival.Then the second gathering, the roar of cannon; betrayal, capture, death.The impassive figure of the patriot Andreas Hofer always in front, black-bearded, leathern-girdled, under the blue sky, against a screen of mountains.
Harz and Christian sat behind the others.He seemed so intent on the play that she did not speak, but watched his face, rigid with a kind of cold excitement; he seemed to be transported by the life passing before them.Something of his feeling seized on her; when the play was over she too was trembling.In pushing their way out they became separated from the others.
