Having finished the letter he left his room. He meant to take a stroll,
as he often did late at night when despair seized him.
On his way out, Frau Rodbertus greeted him cheerily, “_Guten Abend_.”
“_Guten Abend_,” he returned sulkily, and was about to pass her.
“_Bon soir_,” another voice called.
He paused. He recognized the voice of Eugenie Chauraux, the girl of whom
he had caught a glimpse on the first day of his arrival here. He had
since met her a number of times. She was a frequent visitor at Frau
Rodbertus’. He had often admired her luminous brown eyes and black hair
and her beautiful hands. Her hands particularly attracted him. They were
not small but owing to her long fingers they seemed like small palm
leaves, and they appeared peculiarly soothing when shaking hands with
her; in spite of her warm clasp her hand was cooling.
Eugenie always talked French to him. She had told him she was glad to
find one who spoke her native tongue so well and that she detested the
French spoken by most Germans. Albert was not averse to flattery. He had
often remained chatting with her while the sly widow would steal out of
the room and leave “the children” alone. Frau Rodbertus was childless
and was very fond of Eugenie. She was also fond of her lodger. She
mothered him, and he liked to be mothered. She would frequently scold
him for his peevishness in a gentle, motherly tone and would cater to hi
whims. At times he would act towards her as if she were his mother. If
his handkerchiefs were not easily found in the proper place, or when he
forgot to send his linen to the washerwoman, or if an expected letter
had not come, he would storm like a spoiled child as if Frau Rodbertus
were to blame, and she would laugh or scold him with maternal good
nature.
She was sentimental, and when she learned that Albert wrote poetry she
became even more solicitous and obliging. She had the tenderness and
delicacy of a French woman. Her voice was soft, almost soothing, and
when she would pucker her lips and turn upon him her large dark eyes he
would at once become docile. And while he had determined to keep his
poetic aspirations to himself—he had been warned by his uncle that
publicity of this fact might hurt him in his standing as a young
business man—he frequently forgot his resolution and spoke of his
_Lieder_ to her. He even recited some of them to her. He had found in
her an enthusiastic audience, almost as enthusiastic as Christian. And
though he had abjured her not to divulge his secret he knew that she had
spoken of his verses to Eugenie. The girl never made mention of it but
he felt that she knew.
“_Bon soir, Mademoiselle_,” he said to Eugenie and was about to proceed.
Eugenie’s face was turned upwards, the candle light through the open
door catching the light of her eyes. Albert hesitated in his step.
“It’s too hot to walk, Herr Zorn” said Frau Rodbertus.
“Just for a stroll and then to bed.”
“It’s too early for bed,” Frau Rodbertus said laughingly.
Eugenie’s eyes were upon him.
Albert sat down on the threshold next to Eugenie.
After a space Frau Rodbertus asked Eugenie to play something.
“It’s terribly hot, and too late,” pleaded Eugenie.
“It is never too hot nor too late for music,” coaxed Frau Rodbertus.
When Albert joined in the request, Eugenie rose promptly and in rising
supported her palm against Albert’s knee. He was pleasantly conscious of
the contact of her hand. As he rose to follow her into the house his
erstwhile loneliness was robbed of its sadness. Without analyzing
himself he felt the genial warmth of these two as contrasted to the
frigid kindness of his relatives. The former were human, stripped of all
artifice, the latter formal, studied, cultivated.
Albert had no trained ear for music but his knowledge of melody, like
all knowledge that came to him, was intuitive. And although his
preference for music was limited to vocal and the violin—the
staccato-like notes of the piano never appealed to him—he had a keen
appreciation of all music.
Eugenie played with feeling, her slender body swaying with the rhythm of
the music, casting a shadow in the room which was brightened by only one
candle. Albert found himself making mental notes of everything about
her. Her body swayed with the pliancy of a sapling. The irregular
features of her face blended into a harmony of their own. Her fine
eyebrows sloped at the ends abruptly like Japanese eyes, her nose rather
narrow which made it seem longer than it was, and the middle of her
upper lip protruded like a half opened bud. When she opened her mouth it
was the upper lip that rose with a sudden jerk upward, disclosing
longish white teeth. Her laughter—for her faintest smile was a musical
laugh—was confined to her eyes; sparks of sunshine danced in the iris.
He soon forgot all about his vexing thoughts. He had no thoughts. Seated
indolently, with eyes almost closed, he yielded to the pleasure of the
moment. He was half-dreaming, the music but vague, distant echoes in his
ears. And Eugenie played selection after selection, without being urged,
without even being asked. She seemed eager to play, to go on with the
galloping of her emotions, like a frightened horse that goes tearing
wildly through the streets. She never turned her eyes either way but sat
bent over the keys, breathing fast as she played.
Frau Rodbertus, her arms folded, watched the girl’s glowing cheeks. She
understood Eugenie. She had not yet forgotten her own youth, and those
heavenly moments when one’s blood courses like sparkling Burgundy. She
sat in the shadow, sat and sighed softly as she remembered those
blissful moments of her own life, never, never to come back. No, she was
not envious. The profligate liberality of the drunkard was in her heart.
She soon tiptoed out of the room and into the courtyard, unnoticed by
either Eugenie or Albert, and when the last note had died away, she
breathed softly, her very being in suspense.
Eugenie at last rose from the piano and stretched her arms as if she
were alone in the room: She barely looked in Albert’s direction.
“You play beautifully,” he murmured.
She remained standing in the darkened part of the room, beyond the
circle of the dim candle-light, her fingers clasped in front of her,
without moving.
He made another remark but that, too, remained unanswered. A few more
silent moments. Neither moved. Albert was watching her silhouette, astir
with semi-conscious feelings.
She soon passed him silently, her dress barely brushing his clothes. He
rose and followed her in silence. Frau Rodbertus was not outside. The
little courtyard was deserted—nothing but the lonely pine-tree in the
centre casting an almost invisible shadow in the darkness. Not a sound
anywhere. A voice from the street accentuated the stillness of the
enclosed courtyard.
Eugenie re-seated herself on the door-step and Albert followed her
example as if he were mimicking her. They heard footsteps inside the
house, through the open door,—the soft, pattering, slippered footsteps
of Frau Rodbertus—and soon the glimmer of the candle-light was gone.
Albert became more conscious of Eugenie’s nearness, of the torpid heat,
of the intense darkness. Presently his eyes penetrated the darkness and
he saw the outline of Eugenie’s face, loose strands of her hair breaking
the curved lines. They sat for a few moments like bashful children
brought together for the first time and left alone.
“It’s getting late—I must go home,” she soon said and rose abruptly.
He became conscious of his heart-beats. He did not rise. Something
checked his voice.
She went into the house and he heard her calling “Good night” to Frau
Rodbertus, who answered that she was coming down to accompany her home.
Albert jumped up and said he would see her home. Eugenie rushed up the
stairs and some words were exchanged between her and Frau Rodbertus and
she soon came down and accepted his proffered escort.
They walked through the courtyard gate silently. He wished to touch her
arm, to help her across the step of the portal, but he was keenly
conscious of diffidence and barely touched her elbow, quickly letting it
go.
He grew more loquacious after they had covered some distance. He was
telling her how much he admired the French and that he had loved them
from his early childhood.
“My father hates the Germans,” said she with a nervous laugh. “He would
like to go back to France but mother died last year and he has many
debts in the city. As soon as he pays his obligations we’ll go back
home.”
Albert insisted that one must hate no one.
“But you can’t love everybody.”
He agreed that one could not love everybody.
They were now passing through a main thoroughfare, encountering more
pedestrians.
“_Guten Abend, Herr Zorn_,” a cordial voice addressed Albert.
He turned and saw little Aaron Hirsch, accompanied by his lean little
wife. Aaron was walking in front, his hands behind, letting his gnarled
cane drag over the sidewalk, his wife lagging half a step behind.
On his return home Albert made no light. He liked the darkness. His
headache was gone, his bitterness departed, but he was sleepless.
Eugenie’s presence had filled him with a pacifying joy. Something had
stimulated him without irritation.
He soon found himself comparing Eugenie with Hilda and the difference in
the atmosphere of their respective presences. Hilda was German, German
to the core in spite of her Semitic blood. Her keen sense of caste, her
haughty manner because of her father’s wealth, her materialistic outlook
upon life, her lack of self-abandon—all the well-defined traits of the
wealthy German, were easily discernible in her. Albert felt all this as
he contemplated his beloved, and yet he was drawn to her. But her
attraction for him was tantalizing, and made him restive, while that of
Eugenie was free from this. Eugenie’s presence filled him with a
pacifying joy, without irritation; it made him conscious of her charm
without combative influences. He vaguely wondered if a man could love
two women at the same time. Why not? One could love two children with
the same devotion at the same time. And then one unexpectedly comes
across an exotic flower—with the perfume and color of the tropics—and
yet loves none the less the rose and the lily. If one loves the rose is
there any reason why he could not at the same time love the lily? As he
prepared to retire a fugitive memory flitted across his brain. Eugenie
had said something about blue eyes. He was conscious of disappointment.
For while his eyes appeared blue they were really greenish. He wondered
if Eugenie was equally fond of greenish eyes.
When he was in bed, lapsing into sleep, Eugenie’s face was before him,
and he remembered her laugh. Hilda never laughed so freely, so
whole-heartedly; there was always restraint in her laughter as there was
restraint felt in everything about her. He thought of warbling of a
canary, the voice flowing joyously into the air. And he also liked the
dancing sunshine in her eyes when she laughed. Every time her upper lip
rose he felt a strong desire to kiss her on the mouth. And that hand of
hers—those long, soft, cool, yet clinging, fingers! His last
semi-conscious thought was of those clinging fingers . . .