He dropped on his pillows, a hectic flush on his bloodless cheeks. His
eyelids sealed, his right arm limply on the coverlet, he lay musing,
half dreaming. In this somnolent manner he often spent hours, conjuring
up sweet recollections, pleasing fantasies, and more often composed
lyrics.
Presently Marguerite stood before him. Her approaching steps irritated
him. Only the other day he had jested about the blessing of his growing
blindness—it spared him the sight of Marguerite getting fat! Fat women
had always offended his sense of beauty and even now he could not bear
the thought that his Marguerite—the slim pretty girl he had first
known—was tipping the scale at two hundred pounds. No wonder, that
spendthrift had of late thought of nothing but rich food and gaudy
clothes. And now while her Albert, nothwithstanding his paralysis, was
laboring all day with his pen to provide her wants, she was only
thinking of many course dinners and pretty dresses. He had pretended not
to notice this. He wished to banish unhappy broodings—his life was
unhappy enough without tormenting thoughts.
“Who was that girl?” she asked.
“Oh, some friend sent her here,” he replied perfunctorily. “In the
absence of my secretary she might be of some service to me. She is quite
proficient in both French and German.”
“She is quite chic—that girl——”
For a bare second he made no rejoinder. He seemed to hold his breath.
Then he said, with evident constraint, “Rather amiable—and bright.”
The next moment he heard her making her toilette preparatory to going
out. She was always going out, he was saying to himself with increased
irritability. In the past few years this thought frequently crossed his
mind, only to be brushed away by a counterthought of sympathy for his
poor wife, chained to a corpse. He pitied her, his martyr.
Presently as he heard her splashing in the next room, talking loudly to
the nurse, and laughing lustily, his irritation grew. He was vexed and
angry. He wondered whom she was going to meet. She usually stayed away
hours—sometimes almost the whole day—and when he pressed her for an
explanation she would burst in tears and say that after she had walked
blocks and blocks in order to save cabfare he ill-treated her; and then
he would call himself a brute and would reprimand her for her
niggardliness. No, he did not want his devoted wife to wear her legs off
for the sake of a couple of francs; for even though he was paralyzed he
was working and earning as much as many an able-bodied man, he added
boastfully.
This moment he was sure that she had always lied to him. She was having
secret rendezvous. No, no, he was not jealous. A paralyzed man, with a
wasted body, could hardly compete with half a million able-bodied men in
Paris! he would say to himself cynically. Ah! he did not care whom she
was going to meet if she only did not laugh so boisterously. He could
not bear that booming, loud laughter of hers coming now from the
adjoining room.
He was annoyed beyond words. No wonder the young visitor who had just
left had mistaken Marguerite for a servant.
The young Swabian girl had made a _faux pas_. She had referred to
Marguerite as his servant and when he had enlightened her she blundered
still worse. The woman who had opened the door for her looked so
ordinary, she had said, that she could not imagine her idol would have
chosen such a fat woman for his mate. No, he did not blame this young
girl for her blundering speech. Marguerite was an ordinary fat woman,
not the fit companion of a poet, who had always worshipped feminine
beauty.
He was glad Marguerite was going out, and would leave him in peace.
Between the parrot’s screeching and Marguerite’s laughter he did not
know which to choose, but when both were exercising their lungs life was
unbearable. He felt quite relieved when his wife, in swishing silk,
presently bade him _au revoir_ and slammed the door, leaving an odor of
cosmetics behind her.
He was again calm, frolicsome thoughts playing in the attic of his
brain. He was thinking of his mysterious visitor, the Butterfly. She was
charming. Her voice came back to him like a sweet chime. A delectable
sensation was rising within him. The voice of the sweetest romance was
calling to him. His chest heaved. She had been kind to Metzger and had
given him her ring as a souvenir because he was the friend of her poet,
and the deluded soul thought she was in love with him! A happy smile was
on his face. He was very fond of Metzger. Had he not said in print he,
Albert Zorn, aside from being the greatest living poet in the world, had
the kindest heart, the noblest soul? And Metzger was handsome. Even in
his days of bloom, Albert could not boast of such manly beauty as his
friend, Albert owned to himself. And this mysterious Swabian damsel had
always been in love, with him ever since she was a child, she had said!
All his pains disappeared. The romanticism of his youth was returning.
Indeed, his body was wasted but his spirit, his heart, was as young as
of yore! Real poets die young! Youth remains in their hearts even if
they reach the age of Methuselah! Yes, he was young again. The lure of
love was in his blood once more. The dying candle sent forth a leaping
flame.
He was soon feverish with anxiety, as feverish as when he waited for
Miriam under the willows near Gnesen. His fancy lent color to his vision
of this mysterious stranger. He had only a glimpse of her but the
impression of her face was indelible. With his eyes closed the picture
of her was most vivid.
He stirred and reached for the portfolio that contained his paper and
pencil—which always lay by his side. He rose higher on his pillows and,
gripping his long pencil, began to scrawl. He had always had a beautiful
handwriting but now he could only scratch long irregular letters. He was
glad that she had left him her address. Why had she left him her
address? Honey flowed in his veins. Did she hope he would write to her?
She was but womanly; wanted to be wooed by her lover . . .
“Lovable and charming Person:—” he scribbled hastily,
“I regret most keenly having seen so little of you on your first visit.
You left a most agreeable impression upon me, and I have the greatest
desire to see you again. Don’t stand on ceremony but come as soon as
possible—tomorrow if you can. I am ready to receive you at any time. I
should prefer that you come at four and stay until—as late as you
please. I am writing to you with my own hand, in spite of my poor
eyesight, because, as you know, I have no secretary whom I can trust.
The deafening noises around me cause me incessant pain, and your
sympathy has meant so much to me. Superstitious as I am, I imagine that
a good fairy has visited me in my hour of affliction. My hours of
affliction? No, if you are a good fairy this is an hour of bliss. Or
will you be a bad fairy? I must know this at once.
Your Albert Zorn.”