"Take the position that you find most comfortable," he had instructed his beautiful model. "You can take none that will not be lovely."
The long spring days glided slowly by. When the two ladies first went to Lozoncyi"s studio the gray stone of the garden wall was easily seen behind the vines and bushes; now the green alone showed everywhere,--the roses were in bloom, and the hawthorn had nearly faded.
The studio, too, was changed. When they first came, it had been absolutely bare of all decoration; now when they came, which was three or four times a week, it was filled with the loveliest flowers.
When they left he heaped up all of these that had not been touched by the heat in their gondola, which sometimes returned alone to the Hotel Britannia, laden with the flowers, while Lozoncyi escorted his guests to their home by some picturesque roundabout way.
It was a great pleasure to walk with him. No one knew as he did how to call attention to some artistic effect, some bit of colour that might have easily escaped one less sensitive to picturesque detail.
"Good heavens!" said the old Countess, "I have been through these alleys a hundred times, but you make me feel as if I never had been here before. You have a special gift for teaching one the beauty of life."
"Indeed? Have I?" he murmured. "It is a gift, then, for teaching what I cannot learn myself."
By degrees Erika came to see with his eyes, and sometimes more quickly than he was wont to do. She was especially pleased when she could first call his attention to some artistic effect that had escaped him, and he always exaggerated the value of these discoveries of hers, a.s.suring her that he had never seen a woman with so keen a sense of the beautiful, and rallying her upon her artistic skill. Once when the old Countess asked what they were talking about, Lozoncyi replied, "The Countess Erika and I are teaching each other to find life beautiful." And once he turned to Erika and said, sadly, "It is a pity that it must all come to an end so soon."
All the sentences abruptly broken off which just touched the brink of a declaration of love, but were never really such, Erika naturally interpreted in one way: "He loves me, but dares not venture to hope for a return of his affection: he is convinced that I am too far above him."
At first she was proud of having inspired a man so rare, so gifted, so flattered, with so profound a sentiment; then----
"To what can this lead?"
For the hundredth time Lozoncyi asked himself this question.
"To what can this lead?"
He was standing in his studio before Erika"s unfinished portrait--unfinished!
"It must be finished at the next sitting. For the last ten days I have simply put off its completion from one sitting to the next, and all because I cannot tell how I can endure seeing her no more. And, yet, to what can it all lead?"
He was very pale, and the moisture stood upon his forehead. He would have turned away from the portrait, but was drawn towards it as by a spell. "A glorious creature!" he murmured; "and not only beautiful, but absolutely unique. It raises a man"s moral standard to be with such a creature. H"m! before I knew her I was not aware that I had a moral standard." He laughed bitterly, and continued to gaze at the picture.
"She is beautiful!" he muttered between his teeth. "It is folly for a being like her to be so beautiful,--a waste,--a contradiction of nature!" He stamped his foot, vexed that any but the purest thoughts should intrude upon his admiration of Erika. "A strange creature! What eyes!--so clear, so deep, so penetrating!" He could think of nothing save of her; his nerves thrilled with pa.s.sion for her.
Strive as he might, his artist imagination could not force itself from the contemplation of her beauty.
He loved her; he had known that for some time. But hitherto his love for her had been a tender, n.o.ble sentiment, something of which he had not supposed himself capable, something that exalted him in his own estimation. He had been refreshed, revived, by her presence, by intercourse with her. But that was past.
"The charm of love is the dream that precedes it," he murmured. The dream was over: what now?
Then an insane idea occurred to him: "She is unlike all others: there is a magnanimous, exaggerated strain in her composition, which exalts her above all pettiness. If she loved me, could she ever have been induced to marry me?"
He shivered. "No! no! it is worse than folly to imagine it. In spite of all her enthusiasm, in spite of her immense power of compa.s.sion, she is too much the Countess to ever dream of such a possibility."
His lips were dry; an iron hand seemed clutching his throat. He turned his back to the picture and went out into the garden. The skies were covered with gray clouds: the flowers drooped; there was a distant mutter of thunder.
"Yet if it could be!" he murmured.
CHAPTER XXII.
Erika was sitting by the window in her boudoir. Although outside the night had not yet fallen upon the earth, it was too dark to read. Her window looked out upon the hotel-garden,--which at this season of the year was like one huge bed of roses intersected by a narrow gravel path. The sweet breath of the roses was wafted in at the window, but with it there mingled always the sickening odour of the lagoon.
A couple of distant clocks were striking the hour, and the water was lapping the feet of the old palaces.
Lost in thought the girl sat there. The mission in life for which she had so yearned was revealed to her in the n.o.blest, most attractive form.
She could not doubt that Lozoncyi loved her. Mistrustful as she usually was concerning the sentiments she was wont to arouse, there could be no uncertainty in this case.
The future lay before her bright and alluring. How could she have despaired in this wonderful life of ours? She seemed to have always known that she was foreordained for some special service.
Why had he never yet made a direct confession of his sentiments? Her pride replied to this question, "He dare not venture."
It was for her to take one step to meet him. Reserved as she was, the mere thought of so doing sent the blood to her cheeks, but she took herself sternly to task, admonishing herself that cowardice on her part would be paltry in the extreme.
It would surely be possible to allow him to read her heart, without any indelicate frankness on her part.
Thus far her thoughts had led her, when Marianne brought her a card: "Herr von Lozoncyi."
"Did you tell him I was at home?"
"No; I said I would see. When her Excellency is away I never say anything decided," replied the maid.
The old Countess had gone out a little while before, to pay a short visit in the neighbourhood; Ludecke had accompanied her.
Erika hesitated a moment, then turned up the electric light and told Marianne to show in the visitor. Immediately afterwards he entered, and she arose to receive him. She was startled as she looked at his face, it was so pale and wan.
"Are you ill?" she exclaimed; "or have you come to tell us of some misfortune that has befallen you?" The sympathy expressed in her tone agitated him still further.
"Neither is the case," he replied, trying to a.s.sume an easy air. "I came only to----" There he paused. Why had he come? The thought that she might entertain a warmer sentiment for him--a thought that had occurred to him to-day for the first time--would not be banished. He had dragged the sweet, racking uncertainty about with him for an hour through the loneliest streets of Venice, without being able to rid himself of it. He would see her,--would have certainty; and then----
Ah, he could not gain that certainty: he could only long for her.
He had invented some explanation of his visit, but he could not remember it; instead he said, "You are very kind to receive me in Countess Lenzdorff"s absence, and I will show my appreciation of your kindness by making my visit a short one."
"On the contrary," she rejoined, "I hope you will spend the evening with us. My grandmother will be here in a few minutes, and will be very glad to find you here."
How soft and sweet her voice was! Could it be--could it be----?
His agitation became almost intolerable. He knew that he ought not to stay, but he could not bring himself to leave.
The evening minstrels of Venice were beginning their rounds, and in the distance they sang "_Io son felice--t"attendo in ciel!_"
"Bring your present expression to the studio tomorrow!" Lozoncyi said, hoa.r.s.ely: "I will transfer it to the canvas as well as I can, in memory of the n.o.blest creature I have ever met. You are coming to-morrow?"
"Certainly. The portrait is almost finished, is it not?"