But the next week he was again hopeful, even confident, of Hilda’s love.
He had written to her and she had answered him. Rejoicing!
His hopes were rising quickly. If only he could make her appreciate his
poems! He felt that she disliked his verses. She did not seem to
understand that the poems he had shown her were inspired by her and were
meant for her eyes alone.
One day he felt the fateful moment had come. He was again at his uncle’s
villa. It was early October, the family was preparing to leave for their
city home. It was a gloomy day, gray clouds in the sky, winds chasing
withered leaves against tree trunks and fences. Yet there was joy in his
heart. Hilda had praised one of his poems. He hung upon her words as if
they had emanated from the lips of the greatest critic.
“If you only knew how many more beautiful poems you could inspire me to
write,” he was saying enthusiastically, with plaintive begging in his
voice.
“How?”
She said this absently, between two numbers of embroidery stitches she
was counting.
“By promising that you’ll marry me some day.”
She seemed caught unawares. She dropped a few stitches and seemed
annoyed.
Her head moved from side to side without looking up. She seemed very
busy with her needle.
“Can’t you even give me hope—in the distant future?”
The color in her cheek was rising.
“You mustn’t think of me, Albert,” she said, without raising her eyes.
“It’s impossible.” The last few words were spoken under her breath,
scarcely audible.
Silence. He did not plead, he made no attempt at persuasion. There was
the finality of death in her tone.
He returned to the city in a state of utter hopelessness. Conquest was
denied everywhere.
He imputed to her a thousand motives for rejecting him; he blamed his
uncle; he saw his aunt at the bottom of it. His sorrow deepened as the
days passed. He sat in his room and brooded and then wandered through
the streets like a restless vagrant. He was telling himself he would
never survive this blow, and out of his poignant pain and the anguish of
his soul sprang verses of despair.
His agony had become unendurable. Nothing mattered now. He did not care
whether he pleased his uncle; he did not care whether he stayed at the
bank or was dismissed. His sorrow was unbearable. He had to talk, to
some one about it. He finally unbosomed himself to his friend,
Christian. It was nearly midnight, his tallow candle sputtering.