me tonight, and perhaps make you dream of me.’
And taking the flowers from his buttonhole, he put them into mine with one hand, whilst he slipped his left arm round my waist and clasped me tightly, pressing me against his whole body for a few seconds. That short space of time seemed to me an eternity.
I could feel his hot and panting breath against my lips. Below, our knees touched, and I felt something hard press and move against my thigh.
My emotion just then was such that I could hardly stand; for a moment I thought he would kiss me — nay, the crisp hair of his moustache was slightly tickling my lips, producing a most delightful sensation. However, he only looked deep into my eyes with a demoniac fascination.
I felt the fire of his glances sink deep into my breast, and far below. My blood began to boil and bubble like a burning fluid, so that I felt my (what the Italians call a ‘birdie,’ and what they have portrayed as a winged cherub) struggle within its prison, lift up its head, open its tiny lips, and again spout one or two drops of that creamy, life-giving fluid.
But those few tears — far from being a soothing balm — seemed to be drops of caustic, burning me, and producing a strong, unbearable irritation.
I was tortured. My mind was a hell. My body was on fire.
‘Is he suffering as much as I am?’ said I to myself.
Just then he unclasped his arm from round my waist, and it fell lifeless of its own weight like that of a man asleep.
He stepped back, and shuddered as if he had received a strong electric shock. He seemed faint for a moment, then wiped his damp forehead, and sighed loudly. All the color had fled from his face, and he became deathly pale.
‘Do you think me mad?’ said he. Then, without waiting for a reply: ‘But who is sane and who is mad? Who is virtuous and who is vicious in this world of ours? Do you know? I don’t.’
The thought of my father came to my mind, and I asked myself, shuddering, whether my senses, too, were leaving me.
There was a pause. Neither of us spoke for some time. He had entwined his fingers within mine, and we walked on for a while in silence.
All the blood vessels of my member were still strongly extended and the nerves stiff, the spermatic ducts full to overflowing; therefore, the erection continuing, I felt a dull pain spread over and near all the organs of generation, whilst the remainder of my body was in a state of prostration, and still — notwithstanding the pain and languor — it was a most pleasurable feeling to walk on quietly with our hands clasped, his head almost leaning on my shoulder.
‘When did you first feel my eyes on yours?’ he asked in a low hushed tone, after some time.
‘When you came out for the second time.’
‘Exactly; then our glances met, and then there was a current between us, like a spark of electricity running along a wire, was it not?’
‘Yes, an uninterrupted current.’
‘But you really felt me just before I went out, is it not true?’
For all answer I pressed his fingers tightly.
CHAPTER 2
I finally came to my senses. Being now thoroughly awake, my mother made me understand that hearing me groan and shriek, she had come in to see if I were unwell. Of course I hastened to assure her that I was in perfect health, and had only been the prey of a frightful nightmare. She thereupon put her fresh hand upon my hot forehead. The soothing touch of her soft hand cooled the fire burning within my brain, and allayed the fever raging in my blood.
When I was quietened, she made me drink a bumper of sugared water flavored with essence of orange-flowers, and then left me. I once more dropped off to sleep. I awoke, however, several times, and always to see the pianist before me.
On the morrow likewise, when I came to myself, his name was ringing in my ears, my lips were muttering it, and my first thoughts reverted to him. I saw him — in my mind’s eye — standing there on the stage, bowing before the public, his burning glances rivetted on mine.
I lay for some time in my bed, drowsily contemplating that sweet vision, so vague and indefinite, trying to recall his features which had got mixed up with those of the several statues of Antinous which I had seen.
Analyzing my feelings, I was now conscious that a new sensation had come over me — a vague feeling of uneasiness and unrest. There was an emptiness in me, still I could not understand if the void was in my heart or in my head. I had lost nothing and yet I felt lonely, forlorn, nay almost bereaved. I tried to fathom my morbid state, and all I could find out was that my feelings were akin to those of being homesick or mothersick, with this simple difference, that the exile knows what his cravings are, but I did not. It was something indefinite like the Sehnsucht of which the Germans speak so much, and which they really feel so little.
The image of Teleny haunted me, the name of Rene was ever on my lips. I kept repeating it over and over for dozens of times. What a sweet name it was! At its sound my heart was beating faster. My blood seemed to have become warmer and thicker. I got up slowly. I loitered over my dress. I stared at myself within the looking glass, and I saw Teleny in it instead of myself; and behind him rose our blended shadows, as I had seen them on the pavement the evening before.
Presently the servant tapped at the door; this recalled me to self-consciousness. I saw myself in the glass, and found myself hideous, and for the first time in my life I wished myself good-looking — nay, entrancingly handsome.
The servant who had knocked at the door informed me that my mother was in the breakfast-room, and had sent to see if I were unwell. The name of my mother recalled my dream to my mind, and for the first time I almost preferred not meeting her.
— Still, you were then on good terms with your mother, were you not?
— Certainly. Whatever faults she might have had, no one could have been more affectionate; and though she was said to be somewhat light and fond of pleasure, she had never neglected me.
— She struck me, indeed, as a talented person, when I knew her.
— Quite so; in other circumstances she might have proved even a superior woman. Very orderly and practical in all her household arrangements, she always found plenty of time for everything. If her life was not according to what we generally call ‘the principles of morality,’ or rather, Christian hypocrisy, the fault was my father’s, not hers, as I shall perhaps tell you some other time.
As I entered the breakfast-room, my mother was struck with the change in my appearance, and she asked me if I was feeling unwell.
‘I must have a little fever,’ I replied; ‘besides, the weather is so sultry and oppressive.’
‘Oppressive?’ quoth she, smiling.
‘Is it not?’
‘No; on the contrary, it is quite bracing. See, the barometer has risen considerably.’
‘Well,
