He sighed, and his hungry eyes sought his lady. His brain was washed clean of life: nothing dwelt in his mind but his dream. And unconsciously he clenched his hands to convince himself for a moment of his ecstasy, and to make that ecstasy more intense....
Those gracious, tender figures on the Acropolis! How chastely their garments hung! They had only life that was life, and perchance even now—oh, yes, now, for a faint slip of moon was gliding down the sky—they were walking, hand in hand, silently, in the Parthenon. They mysteriously were she, his lady, his lady who must never speak to him, but who one day, or one evening like this, would appear among this depravity, and, looking on him, know and for ever remember....
The thought of Olympus dying away in the South came to him, and he stole another glance at the mountain’s almost dead glory. Its summit was white. A small boat heaped up with fruit was at the quay’s edge. Golden oranges were massed together.... Yes: she would wear golden sandals, and on her wrists would be gold, and gold would be on her hair.... His impressions mingled confusedly; thought lay dead.
I do not think that in all Salonika, and perhaps in all the world, there was so happy a man that night as the Dreamer in his hours of watching and longing.
He lingered in his doorway until the streets became silent. She was not coming. Not to-night. She was not coming with her everlasting youth, bringing with her also his own renewed youth. For many years he had waited, but every night she had disappointed him.
The night was now full-starred, for the moon had gone. A dog, shapeless in the dark, nosed in the gutter. Two whispering old men passed close by.
At length, exhausted by his vigil, the Dreamer turned and re-entered his shop. His happiness, his sense of relief, was too great for expression. As he closed the door quickly behind him, it was as though he were shutting out the Dreadful One. He stood dazed in the darkness. The oblong room in which he stood was perfumed and sweet. The white pieces of statuary standing against the walls made themselves just visible; they seemed made of mist, intangible; their outlines were blurred. Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the statuary and smiled. Then he stretched his arms to their utmost above his head and, bending his head back, turned his face to the ceiling. In utmost weariness he stretched himself and yawned.
And then, uttering a cry of delight, he rushed upstairs to his mother. He fumbled with a lamp and lit it. Then he went to his mother’s bedside.
“Oh, mamma, mamma,” he said, “she has not come. It has not happened. My dream has not come true. Oh, I am so happy, so very happy!”
He kissed her cheek. Her eyes, opened wide, searched him through and through, as they had done on so many occasions.