THE PRIMA DONNA AND THE SCULPTOR

New Zealand Tablet, 29 May 1913, Page 9

THE PRIMA DONNA AND THE SCULPTOR

She was singing in the new opera 'Joan of Arc,' and all New York was at her feet, as London and Paris and Vienna had been before. There was a spice of mystery about her and the opera that lent an additional attraction to her impersonation of the soldiermaid, for the composer piqued public curiosity by withholding his name, although the critics had unanimously described the composition as a work of genius. Moreover, after each performance the diva hastened to her waiting car and was whirled away northward—none knew where. Those who were intrusted with the secret of her dwelling-place were either unbelievably discreet —' Well, it was no use speculating,' decided a youth who strolled homeward after being present at the performance for perhaps the tenth t'rae, and having been disappointed on nine of those occasions in his efforts to obtain speech of the singer. To all his entreaties the same answer had been returned:

' Madame does not receive visits at the theatre —• and all further inquiries had failed to elicit even the faintest hint of the place of her residence. Ralph' Henderson shrugged his shoulders and walked to the

end of the block; then he boarded a north-bound car. The ' Great White Way ' had lost its fascination for him, ' and he passed with unseeing eyes its brilliant illuminations ' and its glimpses of fair women, sumptuously clad, who were wont to inspire him. He got off the car at a street north of the park and turned into the hall of a tall apartment house. The elevator-boy looked at him curiously, missing the usual short chat and cheery ' good-night/ that Mr. Henderson ordinarily indulged in before entering his own apartment. It was a small one, just a bedroom, a studio, and a bathroom, which last served the young artist as a kitchen also when he ate in his own rooms. He walked into the studio first—a large room with an ingenious system of lighting by means of concealed lamps that enabled him to do considerable work at night. On a pedestal in a far corner was a clay model of a life-sized statue of Black Heron, the last of a tribe of western Indians. The chieftain had sat to him, but had died before the modelling was completed, and he had finished it with the aid of a death-mask. The work had brought him great praise irom the few who had seen it, but it would have cost him too much to put it into marble, and so it waited until the wheel of fortune should turn in his direction and put him in funds to finish the most important work of his life. There were other statues and busts scattered about on shelves or pedestals, and a large screen that, drawn across a corner, seemed to veil another effort of the artist's genius. He moved toward it, but drew back again with a gesture of impatience. 'No—I won't look at it again to-night!' he said, ■' it makes me mad. There is something that I can not get— I have never failed to catch an expression before. What is there, I wonder, in Madame Lacour's face that baffles me ? If only I could get her here for an hourhalf an hour—l would astonish the world

I—Ralph Henderson, struggling sculptor—would have made my name. With such a work fame would bring me orders ——you would have a chance, Black Heron!' He seated himself on the corner of a table and lighted a cigarette, swinging one foot slowly back and forth as he thought hard over the problem. Then he flung away the end of his cigarette with an exclamation and went to his bedroom. It was a very tiny apartment, and order was evidently not his strong point—at the head of the bed hung a small crucifix. Somehow it offended his eye, and he took it down and threw it carlessly into an open drawer. 1 Stuff!' he cried. 'lt's all very well for women. That kind of thing gets on my nerves. Religion is all very well in its way when — get old, perhaps—' the effort to devise a means of surmounting his difficulty broke in on his train of thought and he kicked off his shoes absently. It was quiet up there on the top floor of the house; he could just dimly hear the noises in the street below him; now and again the bell of a streetcar sounded, but softly, with the haze of a long distance between. His trouble kept him awake for a long while, but when the great night silence fell over the resting city, and the sleeping population of the artists' quarter where he dwelt, he too fell asleep. He woke with a start. The early light was coming in dimly at the uncurtained casement. A long way down below his window he could hear the whistle of a letter-carrier, the clattering of a heavy waggon, and the rush and .grind of the elevated trains with their burden of toilers, and he rose.

A new idea had come to himthe sequel to a forgotten dream it might have been — the prompting of an anxious guardian angel. With infinite care he wrote and rewrote a passionate appeal to the diva to give him just one sitting—only one —and he would be her servant forever after. For hours he labored over the simple message, until the day began to wane and he sallied forth to purchase flowers. He was gazing absently into the window of a florist undecided on his choice— sudden touch on his arm took his attention for a moment, and looking down he saw a very small deformed girl who held out a shaking hand to him: Violets, sir?' she said in rather a shrill voice, and her face startled him even as her deformity had repelled him. Half mechanically he put out his hand—he

- . , v ' K ■ ■ needed flowersas well, these as others—-there was but little chance of success, anyhow, he thought; for with the waning light his optimism had disappeared again, leaving him depressed and despondent. Then he realised that if he intended to go to the theatre he must hasten ; he thrust a coin into the girl’s hand, turned on his heel, and hurried home. The note seemed poorer and less persuasive than ever, but there was no time to write it over again, and he insinuated it amongst the flowers of, his little bouquet in such a manner that it would not easily fall out. , . • The house was thronged, but he contrived to get a seat in the front row at one side of the circle. From there he watched the great singer, thrilling in response to the brilliant impersonation that made her Joan of Arc the shepherdess— soldier-maid martyr. He had forgotten the brilliant actingthe theatre; -it was all real to. him until the thunders of applause that shook the house woke him to the present; then, when the diva came to the front he rose with the rest and flung his little bunch of violets at her feet. Ah ! he had luck ! She stooped and raised themto her face—them alone amidst the shower of blossoms at her feet. Then, with a final salutation, she fled. He knew where she had gone; he knew that the waiting car had already carried her away, and he went home. The studio struck him as unusually disorderly, and he occupied himself for a while in arranging and ordering it; then, with a kind of despair, he sought his bed. * * * * * The following morning he was up early with a sort of feeling that something was going to happen; he didn’t know what; he scarcely dared guess ; but he set to work to remedy the disorder of his home, and the time passed swiftly. The telephone rang and he hastened to answer it ‘ Yes yessend her up,’ he said, and waited at his door to receive his visitor. Never had the elevator seemed so long in climbing to his floor. Now and again it stopped and he gave a little shrug of impatience. Ah! it had passed the last floor. now—it was coming —■ she was here. He scarcely dared believe his eyes—but yes, it was sheshe who had all New York and London and Paris at her feetand the look in her eyes that had puzzled him so long was there still. He made a little movement of invitation and stood aside, for her to enter. He was too much agitated to speak; he only knew that the impossible had happened that the great artist had responded to the cry of a struggling brother. She looked at him steadily as though she would read the purpose of his soul, and a little shade of sadness settled in the depths of her eyes and rested on her smooth white brow. ‘ How can I help you?’ she said uncertainly. He started; he had forgotten that she did not know of his need. ‘ Come, Madame, I will show you,’ he said, and led her into the studio. She paused before the figure of Black Heron '

‘A noble heathen!’ she commented, and he wondered a little at her choice of terms. And youwhat do you want of me she asked again. He went to the screenhesitated—and folded it up. She stood before a life-sized figure of herself as Joan of Arc, the simple peasant girl. The pose was perfect—the semblance feature by feature correct; yet there was something lacking, some subtle expression of mouth and eyes, something indefinably true and pure about the brow; he looked from her to the model and frowned. ‘Permit me to try again,’ he said apologetically., and she seated herself with a smile. For an hour he fought and struggled, but he could not get what he desired. She saw his distress and it pained her. Almost unconsciously she had learned a great deal about him from his surroundings, the works that stood about, his very impatience itself. He stepped back from the unfinished model; there was a light of angry determination in his eyes.

'I will get it!' he exclaimed to himself, but another trial left him just where he was before. She spoke and he turned at her word

‘I must go now, Mr. Henderson, my time is not my own,' she smiled; then, approaching the statue of Joan of Arc —‘ You have made her a heathen too,’ she said. : He started. • ‘ A heathen, Madame Ido not understand.’ She sighed a little. * You have left out the soul,’ she said. * Ah ! the soul! But one can not make souls out of marble.’ She laughed gently.

'No ? Well, I am not a sculptor, you see. •It is for you to discover how; but there are statues in marble that have souls, for I have seen them.' .He bowed her to the door.

'I thank you for your goodness to a struggling artist, Madame. I will succeed yet.' ' I will come again before I leave New York,' she said, and he stepped into the elevator to accomoany her to the door. Her car was waiting, and he stood by it while she seated herself.

' Home !' she said to the chauffeur. He knew no better than before where she lived, though the great prima donna had visited him in person. * He made another effort to catch the expression that baffled him; then he threw down his tools in despair and went out. At the corner of the street he met the deformed girl with her unsold violets, and the icy wind swept up the street till the ill-clad child trembled with cold. He stopped and bought some of the flowers, for he had come to a sudden decision to send them to the theatre as an offering of gratitude to his benefactress. A gleam of happiness that crept into the girl's eyes arrested his attention; she had a beautiful face—not in the least like his Joan of Arcbut he noted the same subtle elusive quality in it.

' Come with me !' he ordered masterfully, ' I am an artist—l want to model your face.' She shrank back. ' I can not go with you,' she said decidedly. ' I would pay you well.' Excuse me, sir. I can not go with you.' He divined her reasons. New York is no place in which a girl may trust to a stranger. ' Then permit me to sketch your face here,' he said, and produced 'a note-book. A sort of enthusiasm that came to his aid enabled him to catch the quality that he needed; he forgot the icy chill that would have hindered him at another time, and a few rapid strokes gave him all that he wanted. Then he strode quickly in the direction of his home, not speaking, not even thanking the girl of the violets; and in his hands he bore the flowers that she had thrust into them as he turned away.

Joan of Arc waited for him in the corner of his studio, and to his excited fancy she seemed to live. He studied her as he mixed the clay and prepared his tools, for he had resolved to model an entirely new head. He worked quickly with a great enthusiasm that grew to reverence as his work approached completion. The result was not entirely satisfactory, but it was better than anything that he had achieved hitherto. That night — the first time in many monthshe prayed, and then shamefacedly he hung the little crucifix in its old place. The perfume of violets reminded him of the little flower-girl and that he had sent no message of thanks to Madame Lacour. He remembered her promise to come again, and resolved to rise early that he might complete his work. The morning light brought him the realisation of a great need and he went out again. It was long since he had knelt in a —many months, a year or two it might have —and he hesitated about entering one then. The thought of his work decided him; for his art's sake he entered diffidently and knelt in a 'dark corner at the bottom of the church. His eyes fell upon the deformed flower-girl who knelt before him and then upon a tall figure clad in warm furs who stole softly up the aisle and knelt a little apart in a side chapel as though she sought solitude. He watched them both, and when the Mass was over he stayed for God's sake, and made his peace with Heaven. Somehow he got what he wanted easily enough when he returned from the performance of that duty, and he stepped back from Joan of Arc with a little sigh of satisfaction, for he had made her a Christian. He

had prisoned a living soul in clay; it would be in. marble by and by. The clang of the elevator did not disturb him nor the soft knock on his door— the voice of the colored boy who called to him:

'Madame Lacour to see you, sir!' He turned at the word and saw her standing "in the entrance with her hands full of violets:

'Excuse me!' he said hurriedly, and with a nod to the boy outside he closed the door. ' You have come!' he said, and his voice trembled.

' I have come to say good-bye,' she said, and looked down so that he could not see her eyes. l ' You have seen my work he asked abruptly. 'Yes —you have succeeded—l• congratulate you.' ' And I thank you. Tell me, what made you pick up my bunch of violets?' he asked suddenly. ' They were near me—' she said and hesitated. 'Yes—

' They seemed to me the offering of a poor one some one who could not afford much —they were such a contrast, I suppose,' she said lamely. ' And you love violets!'

' How did you know?' He pointed to the violets that she held in her hands.

' I bought them from a poor little cripple on Broadway.' . ' With a beautiful face ? Yes, I know her too—• she completed your good work.' ' She has the expression that I was ' seeking—one that baffled me in Joan of Arc.'

' She has a soul!'

' Yes, Madame, she has a soul—and ' he added with the diffidence of a reserved nature, ' I have found my soul again.' Her glance met his freely now. 'I am glad!' she exclaimed; 'glad, my friend, if you will permit me to call you so. I live with my brother, who is an invalid; he is the composer of "Joan of Arc." ' He said no word, but a sigh escaped him; she laughed lightly. 'ls it so much of a surprise, Mr. Henderson? Come and see us to-night, I shall not be singing.' ' I shall be delighted,' he answered as he led her to the door.

Joan of Arc proved to be the great sculptural triumph of the season, and Ralph Henderson found himself in a position to offer his hand and his prospects to Rose Lacour. ' You have proved yourself the greater artist, for you have graven the image of God on my soul,' he said to her after the silence that succeeded their betrothal.

'No, Ralph, it was not my work,' she said reverently, ' it was the work of God!'— Benzigers.