When he found himself in his room free from Aaron’s chatter he grew sad
again, the sadness of disappointment gripped him. Not a word of welcome
from his uncle. And that fat pompous man in the bank—he had puffed and
sputtered like a porpoise—that man called him a boy!—had not even
introduced himself or said a friendly word to him! The thought burned in
his brain; his heart was filled with bitterness. He was received like a
poor relation—He! Albert Zorn, who was soon to make the world talk of
him as they were now talking of Byron! Ah! that haughty man in the bank
had looked at him as if he were an errand boy! He, Albert Zorn, with
scores of lyrics in his valise and the first draft of a tragedy that
would vie with Schiller’s “Wallenstein”, with “Childe Harold”! That
red-faced, pompous man, proud of his purse—a mere money-bag! Huh! “That
boy with the valise at the door”!
He paced up and down the room and finally paused before the window
overlooking the garden. The garden of Aaron’s vision was a little
courtyard with a pine tree in the center, encircled by meagre little
shrubs. For a moment he stood gazing upon the lonely tree absently.
Aside from the few stunted shrubs around it there was not a shade of
green in sight. He soon felt a kinship with the tree. It was
symbolical—like the fir tree before him he stood alone on the barren
heights of the north, wrapt in a white coverlet of ice and snow, and
dreaming of a palm tree in distant sunny lands . . .
His disappointment awakened in him crushing melancholy. Lonely and in
silent sorrow on the scorching rock precipice! Tears trickled down his
cheeks, though he was not conscious of them. Never had he felt so
lonesome, so forsaken, the ground under him so barren and cold; and
never had his heart so yearned for the warmth of the sun . . .
A door opened somewhere. It sounded loud in the quiet courtyard. The
window before him was open and he leaned dreamily forward. He heard the
voice of Frau Rodbertus on the threshold, escorting someone to the door.
Another voice reached his ears—a silvery voice, the voice of a young
girl, with the music of feminine sweetness in it. Sudden joy leaped into
his heart. He did not feel so lonesome now. He felt as if a tender hand
was soothing his irritated nerves; the sweet murmur of a brooklet was in
his ears. He leaned a trifle forward. A young girl, with a green parasol
in her hand, was taking a step at a time backwards, and talking to Frau
Rodbertus. He found himself studying the girl’s face and figure, a
strange tingling in his blood. A girl with soft brown eyes—that looked
large and dark—black hair and a dainty yet vigorous little body. As she
kept retreating he became conscious of the movement of her feet—there
was something deliciously sweet, almost rhythmical, about her tripping
movements, and about the swaying of her skirt.
“_Au revoir!_” The girl was taking leave of Frau Rodbertus in the soft
accent of the French, not in that harsh voice of the German when
interspersing French words in their conversation.
“_Au revoir!_”
The portal closed, the door downstairs was slammed. A feeling of
delicious cheer in Albert’s being. The ground under his feet was no more
barren and cold; he no longer thought of his uncle’s neglect, of that
pompous man in the bank. He was dreaming of sunny lands . . . He again
paced up and down the room but with throbbing joy in his heart.
He soon rushed to the little oak table at the window and sat down, as if
something was propelling him to quick action. Volatile thoughts played
hide and seek with his brain. He leaned back, his sensitive lips parted
slightly, as of a person in a fever, his half-closed eyes as if in
stupor. “Sweet eyes—blessedly sweet brown eyes,” he murmured. The tips
of his delicate fingers moved slowly as if he were caressing a smooth
cheek, his heart was pulsating in short, panting beats, and removing a
sheet of paper from his breast pocket, as if in a dream, scribbled a
line or two, murmured the words over and over, again and again,
unearthly bliss stealing over his countenance . . .