VIII

The candles had almost burned to the bottom when the little company decided it was time to break up.  It was a half holiday, the stone-cutters had stopped work sooner than usual, and the other rooms were dark and deserted.  The artists used the stumps of the candles to light the company about.  In passing through the first studio, Lobkowitz partially uncovered pieces meant for the Chicago Exposition, colossal plaster casts and models in clay representing commerce, manufacture, agriculture and the like.  They threw enormous shadows on the walls and ceiling.

“You can’t get results in art from large figures,” said Ritter, though the statues were full of animation, and there was something prepossessing in them.

“Everything for the anniversary of 1492, everything for the Chicago Exposition,” said Willy.  “A Viking ship is coming over from Norway.  The last descendant of Christopher Columbus, a knock-kneed Spaniard, is to be passed around for show, a tremendous humbug, always an acceptable dish to the Americans.  Ritter owes this big order to his monkey-like quickness.  The building commission applied to various sculptors, and Ritter sent them sketches for all the statues before the other artists had even wet their clay.”

“I was working in my little studio in Brooklyn,” said Ritter, “and for forty-eight hours in succession I didn’t take my hands out of clay.  These figures don’t bother me in the least.  After the Exposition they won’t exist except in photographs.”

“That’s the way the Americans are.  Please, Ritter, do give us a Washington memorial.  Perhaps you have a Washington memorial ready-made in your waistcoat pocket.”

“No, but by eight thirty-five this evening I will have one for you.”

“He can do it, too,” said Willy, patting his idol.  “That is why he fits so well into the United States of America.”

The men now entered Ritter’s real workshop.  Here there were pieces very different in spirit.  While the large figures for the Chicago Exposition showed traces of commercialism, here everything was thoroughly artistic.  A companion piece in clay to the bas-relief in the club-house, a group of singing girls not yet completed, was standing on a heavy scaffolding.  It showed the same noble qualities that Frederick had observed in the relief of the singing boys.  Had these works been displayed in Germany, they would undoubtedly have been epoch-making.  A bust of an old woman had some of the traits of Donatello.  Everything in the room testified to the facility with which the youthful master created.  There was a long decorative frieze in clay, putti with goats, dancing fauns, maenads, Silenus on his donkey, a procession of bacchantic figures celebrating the vintage and reproducing all the bacchic joyousness, the drunkenness, of men and women vintagers, as they cut and trod the grapes and drank the wine.  Another uncompleted