Part 6 (1/2)

Frida spent much of her time in the congenial atmosphere of my parents'

house. We had always been devoted to her; how much more now! She loved music, and that, with us, was a sort of staple commodity to be found as surely as the daily bread. It was not an easy task to divert her thoughts from her trouble. All her girlish brightness had vanished, and she seemed, without a warning, to have had womanhood, suffering womanhood, thrust upon her. But she loved to be soothed by music, and more than once I remember my father improvising strains of consolation on his grand Erard, that seemed to go straight to her heart and strengthen her.

”Will you sit for me, Frida?” I asked one evening. ”I should like to draw a portrait of you.”

I had known Frida for four or five years, and had never asked her to sit, so the question surprised her, and it startled my mother, who was seated at the other end of the drawing-room on a little raised platform, surrounded by palms and a variety of plants with curiously shaped and fancifully speckled leaves. Her spinning-wheel, that had been going round with the regularity of clockwork, suddenly stopped--perhaps the thread had snapped. Catching my eye she reproachfully signalled behind Frida's back: ”How can you, my dear? Surely this is not the time to use the poor girl as a model?” Frida evidently thought so too; she was at a loss for an answer, and there was an awkward silence. For an instant I wished I had not spoken; my request, I felt, was really ill timed; but, once out, I adhered to it, insisting, ”Do, Frida; if nothing else, it will keep me out of mischief this evening.”

She knew the thought of mischief was for from my mind, and she simply answered:

”Very well, Felix, if you wish it, I will sit.” And with that she gave me an encouraging look.

I was anxious to get her to sit, for a picture of that girl in her sadness had gradually been ripening in my mind; it was so complete that it seemed only to want putting down, and no more difficult of accomplishment than the writing out of any lines that I might have learnt by heart. It was a case of ”Don't begin till it's finished.” That I have often since found a good maxim, but one not so easily lived up to. The picture, then, such as I had conceived it, I was wedded to, for better or for worse. I must draw her all but full-face. The light from above, and slightly from the left, will model and bring out the delicate beauty of her features. It was all ready to be transcribed: the smooth hair with the black ribbon tied in a large symmetrical bow on the top of the head, the plain dress, the background, and, above all, that expression, reflecting the yearnings of a poor chilled soul. On the surface, bewilderment, helplessness; beneath, a substratum of trust, of faith; and far below, hope, the spark of life that glimmers and glows on, even under mountains of despair.

We got the lamp that had served my purpose more than once, and the two candles, with the little special shades I had brought from Paris (I have them still), and Frida sat. Not once, but often, for the more I drew the more I was eager to pursue that will-o'-the-wisp, the realisation of an idea. Many a time I had to point my crayons, Conte No. 2, and to blacken the little paper stumps, the cla.s.sical tortillons, before I could make up my mind to admit that I had finished.

And what was the result? Perhaps it was very poor; probably it was; certainly, if you like--but I don't want to know it if it was. I want to think it was good and true, like the knight that serves the lady. If it is an illusion, bear with me and let me keep it.

I had a grey mount put round it and a cheap little black frame; and then--may the G.o.ds forgive my presumption!--I felt as if the crayons and the humble tortillons might possibly have been working for the ends of Providence; I packed up the picture and sent it with all my love to the Magisterin.

”Try it,” I said; ”he may like it.” And she tried it, and--to that poor little drawing of mine it was given to work a miracle--gradually, but surely, it rent asunder the veil that obscured my dear Magister's mental vision.

It was not till long afterwards that I learnt what had happened on that critical day. The Magisterin told me all as we sat on a stone bench in the garden at the back of their house. It was a hot day and the Magister was in s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, pruning and tending his rose-trees, perhaps removing the blight that had settled on some leaf to warp and waste it.

For once in the way the good Hausfrau vouchsafed to stop knitting, and took my hand as she began:--

”Your drawing came in the morning, my Lixchen. It was as I had fancied it, for Frida had well described it in her letters. It touched me deeply, but I could not even give a stray thought to my own feelings.

'Try it,' you had said, and a wild rush of conflicting emotions quite overcame me. How should I try it? I wished you were there, you or Reclam, to tell me what would be best. Might it not give him a shock and do him harm? I never felt as utterly helpless as all that morning. I waited. At one o'clock he was lying on the sofa and resting; he seemed to slumber more peacefully than usual. You know he had the desk with the little Mendelssohn bust sent from Leipsic; it was the only thing he had asked for. I stood the drawing up against it. He would be sure to see it when he awoke.

”Then I sat down and prayed.

”He rose as usual and seated himself at the table. Hours pa.s.sed. His face was turned away from me, but I could see his hands as they lay clasped before him. At last he got up and went to the bookcase. 'They have changed everything,' I heard him say to himself. 'Where is my Sophocles? Ah! to be sure, to be sure.'

”He sat down, but got up again directly, found paper and pen, and laid out everything, just as he used to do at the old writing-table before beginning work. He took up the pen, but he did not write; occasionally he pa.s.sed the quill over his forehead. I dared not move or speak. Oh, how long the hours seemed!

”The daylight was fading. Martha came home with the cows, and old Gunther made his rounds and bolted the front gate. After that all was quiet. Yes--all was quiet,--quite quiet for a while.

”Suddenly he rose. He turned round and stood still. He looked at me,--a look I knew. My heart beat fast and the clock ticked so loud.

”He looked, and, ach, mein Lixchen, he smiled at me, just a little feeble smile, and an instant afterwards he rushed up to me and he burst into a flood of tears as he buried his face in my lap.

”'O Hannerl, my heart's treasure, tell me: Where is my Frida? Why is she not with me?'”

The dear old Magisterin could say no more; tears of grat.i.tude choked her voice. I pressed her hand with my right, and with my left hand I brushed away something that had got between my eyelashes.

CHAPTER III

LEIPSIC IN 1847 AND 1848--MENDELSSOHN'S DEATH

I well remember that first year of my stay in Leipsic, when all our interests seemed to centre in the friend we were to lose so soon.