Youth lives in the future, middle age in the present, old age in the
past, but Albert Zorn, though still in his early middle life, and in the
greatest vigor of his mentality, found himself nursing memories of the
past. Instead of dwelling upon the present or the future he was now
constantly brooding over the blunders in the days gone by, living over
again the moments of ecstasy, and of passion, long vanished, musing upon
experiences that could never enter his life again. Never a man of
action—his battles were only strifes of ideas—he reached the stage
when no one would take up his challenges. For it was in the middle of
the nineteenth century when there came a lull in the struggle of ideas.
After every sharp world conflict there comes a momentary pause, a
lethargical rest, while man gathers strength for the next combat.
Recently there had been so many clashes of ideas, irreconcilable ideas,
that for the moment no one cared what the other thought.
In spite of his growing fame Albert was living in a modest quarter in
Paris, just he and his Marguerite, as simply as the humblest of workmen,
and worked indefatigably. He wrote poems, the finest fruits of his pen,
he discussed on philosophical themes, with keener insight than the
obtuse pedants who passed for philosophers; he made political
observations, with clearer vision than those whom the world called
statesmen. But his enemies—and all his antagonists were his
enemies—clamored loud enough to drown his voice. Being a radical among
the conservatives and a conservative among radicals his enemies had no
difficulty in confusing the masses as to the meaning of his words. The
enemies of clear thinking and right living have always seen to it that
the masses should fail to understand those that come to their aid. Ah,
the masses, he murmured under his breath, the masses have always
unwittingly stoned those who came to redeem them!
Spring came again, spring in Paris. The sky was clear and blue; blossoms
dazzled in the morning sunshine; delicious fragrance wafted from the
distant fields. Spring always brought melancholy thoughts to Albert’s
mind, and his thoughts this spring were even more melancholy. For
paralysis had spread from his left hand to the whole left side and he
could hardly move without acute pain. However, the more he suffered the
harder he worked because the intensity of creative word deadened his
pain, but when the effort was spent the reaction was all the greater.
One late afternoon he settled at an open window, with his eyes almost
closed, dreams of old songs in his brain. He was tired and, leaning in
an arm-chair, he rested, feeling as if an iron hoop was around his head
and through its tight embrace all his thoughts and ideas had been put to
sleep. Gradually all the sweet memories of the past—and even his past
great sorrows were now sweet memories to him—came back to him. He let
his mind wander . . .
A bird twittered under his window; a sparrow came hopping on his little
feet. He sighed and drew his breath painfully. He could not even hop
like the sparrow. It was years since he had walked the Boulevards, since
he had heard Paris laugh. Oh, Paris! he sighed and nodded his head
woefully. France was to him like a garden where all the beautiful
flowers of the world had been plucked to make one fine nosegay—Paris
was the nosegay. It seemed to him ages since the perfume of this nosegay
had reached his nostrils . . .
His thoughts drifted. He began to feel the ennui of his isolation. His
visitors had grown fewer and fewer and fewer. He realized that no one
cared to see one in misery. Presently his mind dwelt upon his last
glimpse of Parisian life. It seemed to him ages ago. Leaning back in his
cab he had watched the smiling grisettes in the doorways of the shops,
the coquettes on the pavement . . .
He again heaved a sigh and abruptly dismissed that pleasant memory.
There was rancor in his heart. People had called him a libertine, a Don
Juan . . . A bitter smile appeared on his bloodless lips. He a Don Juan!
He who had sung of romance and love! He frowned upon the injustice of
the world’s opinion. He could count on the fingers of one hand the
number of women he had ever loved . . .
He tossed his head, contempt on his face. He did not care what the
people were saying about him.
The next moment his wife’s laughter reached his ears. In the adjoining
room she was munching bonbons and reading a novel by Paul de Kock. He
shuddered. Ah, he should have married a woman who could understand him
. . .
He suddenly raised himself from his arm-chair, picked up his cane,
limped across the room, and was soon in the street. An overwhelming
desire to see the Boulevards again came upon him. He hailed a cab and
leaning back in the conveyance feasted his eyes upon the surging crowds
in the thoroughfares. Reaching the Madeleine he ordered the driver to
turn into Rue Royal, and then along the Tuillerie Gardens up to the
Louvre, when he ordered the coachman to halt and alighted. Half
paralyzed, half blind, leaning heavily upon his cane and dragging his
withered limbs, he proceeded to the palace of art.
It was late in the afternoon, the galleries were deserted, the glow of
the setting sun cast melancholy shadows over the plastic statues of
stone and granite wrought by the hands of the ancient Egyptians and long
forgotten Greeks. There was even vaster melancholy in his heart. The
gods and goddesses he worshipped in his youth seemed to be mocking
him—Bacchus and Apollo, Orpheus and the bearded, horny Pan—they all
seemed to jeer at him. He could not withhold a groan. He fathomed the
despair of Moses, the son of Amram, as he stood on the top of the Pisgah
and yearningly gazed at the land of Canaan—the land for which he had
fought that others might enter but he could not enter. That was the
irony of life, the jest of the gods. He, too, like Moses of old, had
dragged himself to the top of Pisgah to have his last glance at his
promised land!
A thousand sad thoughts flitted through his brain. He limped along the
vast halls and paused before Venus de Milo. A hectic flush came into his
face. He looked up at the armless goddess with the covetousness of a
virgin youth beholding a maiden of rare beauty. Settling down on the
cold stone bench in front of the statue, both of his hands resting on
the head of his cane, his half-blind eyes blurred with tears, he gazed
yearningly at the parted lips of her exquisite mouth. Was she just
smiling, or was she, too, smiling at him? His eyes closed for a moment,
with unbearable pain in his heart. Ah, if he could only die at this very
moment! he reflected. That would be a poetical, pagan, fitting death for
him. His whole life passed before him like a vision. All his life he had
worshipped beauty—the divine figure before him was the symbol of
beauty—her seductive, tantalizing, heavenly smile, her sweet sensuous
lips set his blood boiling. Tears rolled down his wan cheeks, his
enfeebled frame shook with grief and mortification. He must live
perforce and look on as the great, avenging, mocking God was finishing
his diabolic jest . . . .
He struggled to his feet and staggered through the vast corridors,
without turning his eyes in the direction of the artistic masterpieces
of all ages . . .
After that visit at the Louvre Albert was unable to leave his room. His
forebodings were prophetic. That palace of art—the Salle de la Venus de
Milo—was his Mount of Nebo, from which he had caught the last glimpse
of his promised land.