Months had passed. It was winter, Parisian winter, the snowless,
penetrating winter of mid-February; and it was night, pitch dark, and
the hazy fog, like thick smoke, dimmed the street lamps on the Avenue,
even the stronger lights around the corner of the adjacent Champs
Elysées spread only a glow without illumination. There was the stillness
of a winter night everywhere, the stillness of a belated hour, long past
midnight, the stillness of a great city asleep.
In a room on the fifth story of a drab looking building, Albert was
struggling for breath. He had coughed so much that he had no more
strength to cough aloud, only his chest was heaving and the expression
on his emaciated face, resembling a grim grin, betrayed acute suffering,
the suffering beyond expression. He was propped up with pillows in a
reclining posture to ease his breathing, and from time to time he
hoisted his right shoulder as if to help his breathing. A candle light
on a nearby table cast a shadow in the room, and beyond the shadow sat
the woman attendant, dozing.
The clock on the white marble mantle struck the hour. Semi-consciously
the invalid counted the strokes—“One, two, three, four!”
The nurse jumped up, picked up a little bottle and spoon from the table,
and crossed the chamber toward the bed.
The invalid stirred and shook his head.
“But Monsieur Zorn, the Doctor will scold me if I don’t give you the
medicine punctually,” the nurse said.
“Be at ease! I’ll tell the doctor myself that I did not want to drink
it. Medicine does me no more good.”
She did not understand him, for the past two days he had been addressing
her in German, which was unknown to her beyond “_Ja_” and “_Nein_.”
However, she divined his meaning and put the medicine away with a kindly
smile.
He turned his head away and promptly forgot the attendant and the
medicine. The strokes of the clock were still dinning in his ears; they
sounded to him like church bells, like the strange sounds of psalters
and harps, like—his mind wandered—the bells of St. Lombard’s Church
were ringing and he was watching Christian Lutz jerk his forefingers in
and out of his ears. Christian said angels floated around the belfry
when the bells rang. Albert laughed. Angels never flew that low, he
insisted, but hovered around God’s throne; only pigeons flew around the
belfry. And that pug-nosed Fritz with his fishing rod screeched
“Al—ber!” . . .
Would that clock ever stop striking the hour? It was positively
deafening. He was glad Marguerite slept in a room at the furthest end of
the apartment, so she could not hear him cough at night, and now she
wouldn’t be disturbed by that crazy clock that was striking endlessly.
He wished to call the nurse to make her stop the clock but some one was
choking him—some one was gagging him—he could not make a sound! . . .
Presently he was lying on his back perfectly still . . . stretched at
full length on a mossy rock on the bank of the Rhine, watching the
fleecy clouds shaped like the ruins of a castle against patches of deep
blue . . . What bird was that singing so melodiously? No, it was not a
bird—it was the string instruments at the Swiss Pavilion on the
_Jungfernstieg_—the leader of the orchestra had a funny nose that
looked like a suckling pig’s snout, and it wiggled like one . . . And
Miriam was standing on a pedestal in front of the palace at Sans Souci.
Miriam had no arms and there was a strange smile on her lovely lips
. . . He was glad that he was all alone in the Louvre—not a soul around
. . . . He rose on his tip-toes and kissed those beautiful cool lips,
the moonlight shining over his left shoulder . . . His mother said he
must not kiss marble statues . . . His mother—poor mother—the old
house in Hamburg must be very cold in the winter . . . She was in tears
because her pearls were gone . . . He, too, was in tears and . . . his
sister was playing the piano . . . . Was the door bell ringing? Somebody
was coming to visit him. He began to count the mounting
footsteps—“forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four”—The
footsteps stopped. Someone must have called on the floor below . . .
Yes, people called on everybody but no one called on him . . . no one
. . . not even curiosity seekers . . .
Suddenly all melancholy thoughts left him and he breathed easier. He
felt no pain at all. Strange that all at once he was well again and he
was promenading indolently, dreamily along the Rhine. He was strolling,
swinging his cane and humming a song . . . No, he was flying . . . He
had never realized that one needed no wings to fly . . . He was flying
over the Hartz Mountains, over the dark firs of the Black Forest, over
the slender silver birches silhouetted in the moonlight, in his ears the
babbling of brooks, the laughter of girls, the song of the nightingale
. . . and he was sailing . . . sailing . . . sailing through the purest
air . . . .
_The End._