Arachne. Georg Ebers
presence here.
She had come to obtain a clear understanding between him and herself.
She stood here as a judge.
She must know whether she had been betrayed or deceived.
He should confess what his intentions toward her were. The next moments must decide the fate of her life, and she added, drawing a long breath, perhaps of his also.
Suddenly Ledscha started. She had not heard Hermon enter the studio, and was now startled by his greeting.
It was not positively unkind, but certainly not a lover’s.
Perhaps the words might have been warmer, but for his annoyance at the insolent boldness with which she had removed the coverings from his works. He restrained himself from openly blaming her, it is true, but he exclaimed, with a tinge of gay sarcasm: “You seem to feel very much at home here already, fairest of the fair. Or was it the goddess herself who removed the curtain from her image in order to show herself to her successor upon this pedestal?”
But the question was to remain unanswered, for under the spell of the resentment which filled her heart, and in the effort not to lose sight of the object that brought her here, Ledscha had only half understood its meaning, and pointing her slender forefinger at the face of his completed work, she demanded to know whom she recognised in this statue.
“The goddess Demeter,” he answered quietly; “but if it pleases you better, as you seem to be on the right track, also the daughter of Archias.”
Then, angered by the wrathful glance she cast at him, he added more sternly: “She is kind-hearted, free from disagreeable whims and the disposition to torture others who are kindly disposed toward her. So I adorned the goddess with her pleasant features.”
“Mine, you mean to say,” Ledscha answered bitterly, “would be less suitable for this purpose. Yet they, too, can wear a different expression from the present one. You, I think, have learned this. Only I shall never acquire the art of dissimulation, not even in your society.”
“You seem to be angry on account of my absence yesterday evening?” Hermon asked in an altered tone, clasping her hand; but Ledscha snatched it from him, exclaiming: “The model of the Demeter, the daughter of the wealthy Archias, detained you, you were going to tell me, and you think that ought to satisfy the barbarian maiden.”
“Folly!” he answered angrily. “I owe a debt of gratitude to her father, who was my guardian, and custom commands you also to honour a guest. But your obstinacy and jealousy are unbearable. What great thing is it that I ask of your love? A little patience. Practise it. Then your turn will come too.”
“Of course, the second and third will follow the first,” she answered bitterly. “After Gula, the sailor’s wife, you lured my innocent young sister, Taus, to this apartment; or am I mistaken in the order, and was Gula the second?”
“So that’s it!” cried Hermon, who was surprised rather than alarmed by this betrayal of his secret. “If you want confirmation of the fact, very well—both were here.”
“Because you deluded them with false vows of love.”
“By no means. My heart has nothing what ever to do with these visits. Gula came to thank me because I rendered her a service—you know it—which to every mother seems greater than it is.”
“But you certainly did not underestimate it,” Ledscha impetuously interrupted, “for you demanded her honour in return.”
“Guard your tongue!” the artist burst forth angrily. “The woman visited me unasked, and I let her leave me as faithful or as unfaithful to her husband as she came. If I used her as a model—”
“Gula, whom the sculptor transforms into a goddess,” Ledscha interrupted, with a sneering laugh.
“Into a fish-seller, if you wish to know it,” cried Hermon indignantly. “I saw in the market a young woman selling shad. I took the subject, and found in Gula a suitable model. Unfortunately, she ventured here far too seldom. But I can finish it with the help of the sketch—it stands in yonder cupboard.”
“A fish-seller,” Ledscha repeated contemptuously. “And for what did my Taus, poor lovely child, seem desirable?”
“Over opposite,” Hermon answered quickly, as if he wished to get rid of a troublesome duty, pointing through the window out of doors, “the free maidens, during the hot days, took off their sandals and waded through the water. There I saw your sister’s feet. They were the prettiest of all, and Gula brought the young girl to me. I had commenced in Alexandria a figure of a girl holding her foot in her hand to take out a thorn, so I used your sister’s for it.”
“And when my turn comes?” Ledscha demanded.
“Then,” he replied, freshly captivated by the magic of her beauty, in a kinder, almost tender tone, “then I will make of you, in gold and ivory, you wonderfully lovely creature, the counterpart of this goddess.”
“And you will need a long time for it?”
“The oftener you come the faster the work will advance.”
“And the more surely the Biamite women will point their fingers at me.”
“Yet you ventured here to-day, unasked, in the broad light of noon.”
“Because I wish to remind you myself that I shall expect you this evening. Yesterday you did not appear; but to-day-I am right, am I not?—to-day you will come.”
“With the greatest delight, if it is possible,” he answered eagerly.
A warmer glance from her dark eyes rested upon him. The blood seethed in his veins, and as he extended both hands to her and ardently uttered her name, she rushed forward, clinging to him with passionate devotion, as if seeking assistance, but when his lips touched hers she shrank back and loosed her soft arms from his neck.
“What does this mean?” asked the sculptor in surprise, trying to draw her toward him again; but Ledscha would not permit it, pleading in a softer tone than before: “Not now; but—am I not right, dearest—I may expect you this evening? Just this once let the daughter of Archias yield to me, who loves you better. We shall have a full moon to-night, and you have heard what was predicted to me—to-night the highest bliss which the gods can bestow upon a mortal awaits me.”
“And me also,” cried Hermon, “if you will permit me to share it with you.”
“Then I will expect you on the Pelican Island—just when the full moon is over the lofty poplars there. You will come? Not to the Owl’s Nest: to the Pelican Island. And though your love is far less, far cooler than mine, yet you will not defraud me of the best happiness of my life?”
“How could I?” he asked, as if he felt wounded by such distrust. “What detains me must be something absolutely unavoidable.”
Ledscha’s eyebrows contracted sharply, and in a choked voice she exclaimed: “Nothing must detain you—nothing, whatever it may be! Though death should threaten, you will be with me just at midnight.”
“I will, if it is possible,” he protested, painfully touched by the vehemence of her urging. “What can be more welcome to me also than to spend happy hours with you in the silence of a moonlight night? Besides, my stay in Tennis will not be long.”
“You are going?” she asked in a hollow tone.
“In three or four days,” he answered carelessly; “then Myrtilus and I will be expected in Alexandria. But gently—gently—how pale you are, girl! Yes, the parting! But in six weeks at latest I shall be here again; then real life will first begin, and Eros will make the roses bloom for us.”
Ledscha nodded silently, and gazing into his face with a searching look asked, “And how long will this season of blossoming last?”
“Several months, girl; three, if not six.”
“And