Saint Michael

Wehlau had in the harshest terms refused to supply his son with the means for renting a studio, and Hans, who as yet had no income of his own, was forced to submit. But that very day he took possession of the garden pavilion, sent for masons and carpenters, had everything arranged according to his wishes, and when his father returned from a short excursion he found the bill for the whole upon his writing-table. Of course the Professor was furious; he protested that he would have nothing of the kind upon his property, and would not even glance towards the pavilion; but he paid the bill, and Hans had again carried his point.

At the present moment the young artist was standing before his easel, painting away at a large picture, while Michael stood opposite him with folded arms, leaning against a short pillar. Conversation was evidently at a stand-still, quite ten minutes having passed without a word from either of the two; suddenly Hans paused in his work and said, "I tell you what, Michael, you're no good to-day."

Michael seemed to have entirely forgotten that he was there as a model for his friend. There was something in his look of the old boyish dreaminess. At the sound of Hans's voice he started as if awakening. "Who? I? Why not?"

"There it is! Yon start like a somnambulist suddenly awakened. What were you thinking of? You have been a perfect John-a-Dreams since we came back from the mountains. You are not the same fellow at all."

The young captain passed his hand across his forehead and smiled in a constrained way. "I think I need active service. I may have overtasked my brain during these last few months."

"Probably. You are a thorough fanatic in respect to work,–quite unlike myself. But please do me the favour of adopting another expression of countenance; I can do nothing at all with your present melancholy air."

"How shall I look, then?"

"As furious as possible. Just as my papa looks when he surveys my studio at the distance of a couple of hundred paces, only grander, more heroic. Oh, you can look just as I want you to, and I have been tormenting myself for weeks with trying to put what I mean on canvas, and in vain. I must copy it from nature, and you must help me."

"I cannot understand why you are so persistently determined to make use of my face," Michael said, impatiently. "It is not at all suitable for an ideal picture, and it is not in the least like the face you have put upon your canvas."

"You don't understand," Hans declared, with an air of conviction. "Your face is the best model I could have. Of course I shall not make the thing a portrait. All that I can use of your features is already in the picture. But the expression,–the eyes are all wrong! I wish I could provoke you to the last degree,–put you into such a passion with something that you would like to hurl it into an abyss ten hundred thousand fathoms deep, after the example of your namesake with the Evil One,–then I should be all right!"

"Your desire is very disinterested. Unfortunately, there is little hope of its fulfilment, for I am not in a mood to be provoked."

"No, you are in a very tiresome mood, to which your face is admirably adapted; we must give it up for to-day. 'Tis a pity; I should like to give the characteristic expression to my archangel to-day, for he is to be marched out before the aristocratic family whose patron saint he is."

He laid aside his palette and brush with a sigh, but Michael had suddenly grown attentive.

"Before whom is he to be marched out?" said he.

"Before the Countess Steinrück and her daughter– What's the matter?"

"Nothing; I am only surprised that they should visit your studio. Did you invite them to come?"

"Not exactly, but it came about in the course of conversation. I met the ladies yesterday at Frau von Reval's; they asked about my pictures, the subject of this one seemed to interest them, and they arranged to come here to-day. I have a suspicion that they are thinking of giving me a commission for the church of their patron saint, which would gratify me hugely, for it would prove to my father that my 'daubing' might have practical results; at present he thinks it all child's play. What! are you going?"

"Certainly; you do not want me any longer."

"No; but I told the Countess, who asked after you, that you were always at home at this time, and would be delighted to pay your respects to her."

Michael's face grew dark; he seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then said, coldly, "Then I cannot but stay."

"Assuredly not, if you would atone in any degree for your unconscionable behaviour in the summer. The Countess Hertha was evidently provoked about it; I perceived that very clearly when you were spoken of. Moreover, she was very grave and depressed yesterday."

"Happily betrothed as she is?"

There was contempt in the tone of inquiry, but Hans took no notice of it as he went on: "Why, as for her future happiness, I should hardly go surety for that. If the old general thinks he can restrain his grandson and keep him within bounds by this marriage, he is greatly mistaken."

"How so? What do you know of the young fellow?" asked Michael.

"I hear enough of him. An artist frequents all kinds of society, and I have met the young Count several times. He is undeniably attractive, talented, chivalrously amiable, but I am afraid– There come the ladies. Their carriage has just driven up. I call that punctuality."

He had cast a glance through the window, and had seen the Countess Steinrück and her daughter in the act of alighting from their carriage, which was drawn up before the garden-gate. He hastened to receive them, and in a few minutes ushered them into the studio.

Captain Rodenberg had not seen the ladies since meeting them at St. Michael's, although they had been in town for six weeks, for they frequented aristocratic circles almost exclusively. The Countess returned his salutation with her accustomed gentle cordiality. She no longer reproached him for not coming to Castle Steinrück, in spite of her express invitation, for she had learned in conversation with the general that the young officer for some reason or other was not liked by his chief. He probably was aware of this, and hence his reserve; but the gentle lady felt herself all the more called upon to treat him with the greatest kindness.

"We have not seen each other for a long time," she said, offering him her hand; "and our last meeting at St. Michael was disturbed by my daughter's indisposition. Hertha was very imprudent to stay out in the open air while a storm was coming up, and then to come home through the rising tempest. It was fortunate that the rain fell only in the valleys, or her cold might have had serious results."

Michael touched the offered hand with his lips, and bowed low to the young Countess, who had taken advantage of the first available pretext to avoid a meeting which, after the scene on the mountain roadside, would have been impossible for each of those concerned. He had seen the ladies only for an instant, when he had taken leave of them as they were getting into their carriage. Now the young Countess hastily interposed, "It was of no consequence, mamma; I begged you to hasten your departure only because I knew how anxious you always are."

"Nevertheless, you were indisposed for several days," observed her mother. "I am sure that Lieutenant Rodenberg, or rather–" She glanced at his uniform. "You have since been promoted, I see. Let me congratulate you, Captain Rodenberg."

"He has worn his new dignity for two weeks now," said Hans. "I have begged permission to paint the future general as soon as that rank is attained."

The Countess smiled. "Well, who knows? Captain Rodenberg advances quickly in his career. We, too, have had an event in our family, of which you may have heard; my daughter has been betrothed."

"I am aware of it." Michael turned to Hertha, whose eyes for the first time encountered his own. He was forced to utter his good wishes upon the occasion of her betrothal; but if she looked for any sign of agitation in his manner, any trace of the passionate gleam that sometimes proved the traitor to his cold reserve, she was mistaken. His bow was as coolly courteous as his words were purely conventional. They could not have been more politely or more indifferently uttered to one whom he had never before seen.

"Countess Hertha is in her haughtiest mood to-day," Hans thought, observing the air with which she received Michael's good wishes, as he led the ladies to the picture, which occupied the prominent place in the studio, although it was only partly finished. The life-size figure of the Archangel stood forth powerfully and effectively upon the canvas, but the face was unfinished, and the head of the Fiend was only sketched in. Nevertheless, the grandeur and boldness of the conception of the picture were manifest, as were also the technical skill and the artistic force of the young painter, who might well be content with the impression produced by his work.

Hertha, who first approached the picture, shuddered slightly, and cast a glance of surprised inquiry at the artist, while her mother, who had followed her immediately, exclaimed, eagerly, "That is–no, it is not Captain Rodenberg, but you have made your archangel strikingly like him."

"Very naturally, since he was my model," Hans said, with a laugh. "I have indeed only made use of his characteristic expression,–one of indignant reproof."

The Countess seemed quite carried away by the picture, and was lavish in her praise. Hertha thought the conception fine, the composition broad, the colouring magnificent, but while noticing and admiring all this, she had no word of praise for the countenance of the Saint.

Hans, with his wonted amiability, played the part of cicerone to the ladies in his studio, since they were desirous to see all his work. He brought out a picture that had been leaning face to the wall, set it up, and was endeavouring to place it in the best light, while the Countess opened a large portfolio lying upon the table, containing a number of sketches and studies, all the result of the young artist's last autumnal excursion,–clever drawings of huntsmen and peasants in the national costume, with here and there a head of some pretty peasant-girl; there was a sketch–slight enough, but wonderfully like–of the priest of Saint Michael, and there were various mountain and forest views, all so fresh and full of life that the Countess turned over leaf after leaf with delight. Suddenly Hans perceived what she was doing, and hurried towards her as if to guard his portfolio from attack: "Allow me, madame,–the portfolio is very awkwardly placed. Let me show you the sketches," he said, hastily, pushing forward a chair with eager courtesy, and beginning to lay the sketches out upon the table one by one. As he did so, he took one of them, apparently by chance, and laid it aside.

"Am I not to see that drawing?" the lady asked, a fleeting glimpse having shown her a study of the head of a young girl.

"Oh, it is not worth showing. A mere study,–a failure," the young man declared, but his face flushed as he spoke.

The Countess shook her finger at him: "Aha! Herr Hans Wehlau seems to have secrets of his own. Who can tell what romances have been woven among the mountains?"

Hans defended himself with a laugh; but when the portfolio had been looked through, and the Countess turned to the picture he had placed on an easel, he thought it best to hide his 'failure' behind a window-curtain, where it was quite safe from curious eyes.

Hertha was still standing before the large painting, and Michael was at her side. He made no attempt to avoid her, but kept his place with perfect composure, and went on talking of his friend's talent, of his prospects, of his intention to compete for the prize offered for a large historical painting, and of the sketches he had already made of it. The entire absence of constraint in his conversation was a relief to the young Countess, although it slightly embarrassed her. Woman of the world though she were, she could hardly adopt the same tone after–after that hour at Saint Michael.

"I frankly confess," she said, in an undertone, "that this picture of Herr Wehlau's surprises me. We have known only one side of his talent. His sketches and caricatures at M–, where we met him, were clever, and abounded in merriment, like himself. I should not have credited him with the force, the energy, shown in this work."

"And yet it has been play to him," observed Rodenberg. "Hans is one of those fortunate beings who attain the highest aims almost without any effort. To all his other physical and mental endowments a kind fate added this talent, which lifts him far above all commonplace existence."

"A kind fate, indeed. Do you not envy your friend these gifts?"

"No; I should scarcely know how to prize them, for I value highest what must be struggled for. Hans, with his constantly cheerful, sunny disposition, is born for the smiles and sunshine of existence; I am created more for the tempests and conflicts of life. Each has a part to play."

Hertha gazed at the picture that portrayed a scene of tempest and conflict. She knew that the man beside her could contend not only with an enemy from without, but with himself, if need were. She had seen him when his every fibre was quivering with passion, and yet here he stood beside her, perfectly composed and calm; not one traitorous glance gave the lie to his repose of manner. Her presence seemed to produce not the slightest effect upon him.

"Do you prefer conflict, then?" she asked, with something of a sneer. "You seem to me very ambitious, Captain Rodenberg."

"It may be so. I certainly wish to rise, and no one can do so who does not at the outset fix his eyes upon a lofty goal. I can never be aided and abetted by circumstances, like my friend Hans, but it is surely worth something to be conscious of being entirely self-dependent; to know that you have no one save yourself, and that you likewise belong to no one save yourself."