Longing for Love

On my long, plodding way down (in my nurse’s arms), I took notice of the many dark paintings on the walls. They were all much bigger than I--some ten feet by five, some made up of layered bush strokes that seemed unconnected (I learned the term impressionistic later), light-hearted and colorful--but the majority seemed fit for dungeons--with iron bars, moldy castles, surrounded by the turbulent waters of the sea, often with an erie creature decked in a white gown, poking its pale face out a gothic window. They were altogether revolting pictures to me. I have never learned since to like them.

As the last flight of stairs was crossed, and my teetering nurse grasped the railing to catch her breath, I found myself peering into a great sitting room from the entry where we stood. I could just see the back of a woman’s fair head, her dark hair elegantly curled into ringlets that gathered into a sort of bun--but not that, really, for that would sound too plain--more of a Cleopatra for beauty.

When Dorcas finally came panting to a stop at the bottom the staircase, she set me down roughly, and whispered, “Now, Master Albert—go to them.”

I looked up frightfully. Dorcas was pointing ahead. Turning in the direction indicated, I stood in awe, slowly beginning to teeter towards her, with the hidden fear that I should be sent away again, back into my dull attic room. I did not want that—anything but that. Devising a plan, I decided I should say nothing, in the hope that I would be allowed to remain with them. If I was peevish and fretful, as Dorcas had said I was, it should be best for me to remain silent at all costs.

At length, the fair woman turned, and smiled a dew-like smile on me, simply mesmerizing. I gazed on her with wide eyes, only hoping that she would not send me away. “Why Albert, my dear, won’t you come to me?” she cooed, holding her delicate hands out to me in a babying manner. “Come to Mother, won’t you dear?”

She took me up in her lap--rather laboriously, much as a toddler picks up a fat tabby cat. She was clearly a dainty, refined lady.

Perhaps I was heavier than she had expected. In her lap, with my head against her chest, I could still feel no warmth of love, no strong affection, no motherly caress. She must think she loved me, for she was my mother; but no love crossed over to me, and I felt, in an awkward way--that I could give no love in return.

My mother held me there for some time, rubbing my tiny hands in her soft, delicate ones, cooing and muttering little expressions of blabbering--baby talk. I remained unaffected--yet enjoyed to hear her dew-like voice in my ears. It awakened something in me that her actions could not--something of remembrance of a past experience, perhaps. At any cost, it was pleasant.

Then, perhaps realizing she could not act the part of love (for I saw through her feigned contrivance), she sighed, and bid my nurse show me to my father, before I was to be taken back up again.

Across the long table that seemed to stretch for miles, I saw a young man seated, comfortably reading a newspaper. His face was buried behind it, but as he turned the page, and half-folded it down, I caught a glimpse of what he looked like. He had fiery red hair, with a noble bearing and stately countenance. His blue eyes flashed across the paper with interest, fully absorbed. I should have liked to trot over to him and have him take me in his lap, that I might peer along with him, but he seemed not to notice me—or perhaps, as I believe was the case, purposefully ignored me.

After a time, my mother glanced towards him and said sternly, “Eugene!”

The man, whom I assumed was my father, turned suddenly, with a stunned look on his face, as though he were recalled from another world. Taking the hint of her tone, he glanced at me, at first in curiosity, if not to say interest—and then carelessly, finally drawing his eyes away again, and reabsorbing himself in his paper, utterly ignoring me.

“Eugene, I am ashamed of you,” my mother’s voice rose again. My father let his paper fall, in the same startled manner, and looked doggedly at her, muttering some apology, as he uttered a heavy sigh. “Dorcas, bring him over here,” he said, in another careless tone, almost one of drudgery. Dorcas obeyed, and I was carried to him, rather obstinately on my part, for I rather feared his flashing eyes. While still reading his paper, he lazily let his hand fall across my forehead, and gingerly patted it, nearly knocking me over by his bad depth perception. Obstinately, he continued with his paper.

My mother, from across the table, sat quite rigidly and cast a warning look of wrath on my father. “Kiss Albert good-night,” she said, in a forcedly calm voice, though her tone was as sharp as a dagger.

My father’s face flushed at the words, his eyes dilating, as he glanced in my general direction. Ever so slowly, he lowered his face, examining me with scorn. I shut my eyes, trembling, as his cold lips touched my forehead. When I opened them again, he did not look at me, but was hurriedly flipping the pages that interested him, and waved for Dorcas to take me away.