He curtailed his visit and returned to Berlin heavy of heart, saddened beyond endurance. His short-lived romance intensified his bitterness against the rulers of Poland. He hurried to Rahel. He knew no one would understand his present woe as well as that all-wise woman. She was not only his literary critic but also his priestess, to whom he confessed everything. And with that sage smile on her refined intellectual features she knew how to console, how to tender sympathy, and listened with genuine concern.
He buried himself in work again but he could not forget his love for Miriam and with it came the depressing memory of Poland. All his innate slumbering passions for justice, for liberty, were aroused to a white heat. Unlike Balaam of old, he had gone to Poland to bless and returned cursing. Why should he care for personal friendships? Why think of selfish advantage? Why consider what a hypocritical society might call poor manners? Like the seers of old he was bidden to speak, and he seized his pen and told the truth as he saw it regardless of all consequences.
This essay was the first gun that he fired in the liberation of theJunker-ridden people. For his caustic utterances not only revealed the tyranny of the Polish nobles but also silhouetted the hideous forms of theJunkers; the censor who had pruned away every trace of humor from the article, unwittingly failed to strike out a sentence fraught with danger.
His first political pronouncement proved a veritable boomerang. It was too daring, too pointed, too truthful. He learned that even in letters, no less than in the drawingroom, truth must be masked, if not altogether suppressed. His acquaintances of rank looked at him askance, his Polish friend and patron shunned him, Prussian officials took notice of him. Even Rahel, herself a passionate lover of truth and no friend ofJunkerdom, advised caution. And when she tried to give him the wisdom of her experience, he only grew peevish and said he was no diplomat and did not wish to be one, and that truth was to be his only guide in life.
He found himself at odds with everybody. He had anticipated applause but instead met with hostility and condemnation.
His cultured Jewish friends, too, took offense at this essay. In speaking of the pitiful conditions of his co-racials in Poland he spoke disparagingly of the elegantly dressed Berliners. He had ironically made a comparison between the exterior of the ungainly Polish Jew, with a heart beating for freedom, and the elegant Berliner, whose head was filled with the silly romanticism of the period, with nothing but vanity in his heart.
One winter evening as he was brooding over his sad plight his landlady informed him that some one wanted to see him.
“I don’t want to see anybody—leave me alone!” he finally cried irritably.
“I’ve tried to send her away but she insists on seeing you—she has come all the way from Poland to see you,” came the landlady’s voice through the closed door.
He jumped up from his bed. He could not even guess who this intruder might be but the word Poland was magic to him, and it was a “she”! Perhaps it was an admirer from that fateful land. The hope of an admirer stirred romance in his soul. He wondered which of his scattered songs had found an echo in the heart of a Polish admirer. Yes, he was becoming famous! The stray children of his brain were traveling far. He opened the door with a flush of joy on his face.
He rushed downstairs to the sitting-room, dimly lighted by a tallow candle. By the door stood a slender girl shivering with cold. He took a step closer to her.
“Miriam!” he cried.
She rushed up to him, tears welling in her luminous dark-blue eyes.
“How did you get here?”
His joy and confusion were bewildering.
“I had your address so I came here,” she murmured in the tone of a helpless child.
He made her sit down and tell him how she had happened to leave Gnesen.
The Beadle had told her father about her and also communicated the scandal to the rest of the community. A committee called on her father and urged that she be sent away from town lest the other girls might be contaminated. The father had almost yielded when his wife prevailed upon him to allow the disgraced daughter to remain at home. But there was no more chance of getting Miriam married. Who would have her now? Life had become unbearable for the poor girl. However, the resourceful marriage-broker had soon found a way out of the dilemma. He knew of a young man, a drover’s son, in a village nearby, who was willing to have Miriam in spite of the stigma. When Miriam was told of the match she seemed indifferent. But two days after the betrothal—it was on a Saturday morning when her parents were at services—Miriam went to her mother’s bed, lifted the heavy feather-bed, and removed from underneath a little packet which contained the family savings for her dowry and trousseau, and unobserved made her way out of town. After many days of travel by foot and by coach, she reached her destination, clutching in her hand the address that Albert had scribbled on a piece of paper.
“And at last I’m near you,” she said with a heaving sigh as she concluded her simple narrative, her eyes turning appealingly upon her perplexed lover.
Albert at once thought of Rahel. He must go to her and place his predicament before her. He was helpless.
Rahel was not only helpful but magnanimous. She received Miriam into her home, clothed her in dresses that were then in vogue, and shared the thrill of romance. Though she had often bandied Albert about his peculiar notions of feminine beauty she was forced to admit that Miriam was adorable. In her Berlin attire no one would have taken her for a native of Gnesen. Her innate modesty, her truthfulness, her sweet temper, her want of city mannerisms, fascinated the woman of the world surfeited with the artifices of society.
At first even Frau Varnhagen, with all her bitter experiences of her younger days, did not think of the consequences of the present situation. She only thought of the poor girl’s plight, of the poet’s love, of the sweet romance acted before her eyes. To her it was an idyll of rare charm.
But before long the sordid facts stared her in the face. When she spoke of this to the lover he saw no problem in it at all.
“Why, I love her as I’ve never loved anybody in the world,” he burst out impulsively.
Rahel, leaning back in herfauteil, her hand thoughtfully raised to her temple, looked enviously at the dreamy youth. She caught the rapture of his soul. To love, and be loved, like this!
“But, my dear Zorn, what good will come of her indefinite stay here—to what end?”
“Why, I’ll marry her, of course, I’ll marry her,” he spoke impulsively.
Frau Varnhagen leaned forward and smiled indulgently. She wondered if he ever would grow up. He was already twenty-five and in many ways a mere child.
“One needs money to support a wife—love alone is not enough.” She paused. She would not intimate that he was living on the charity of his uncle and that he was heavily in debt to many of his friends. Then she added, “It’ll be several years before either your pen or your jurisprudence will crystallize intoLouis d’ors. What will become of this beautiful flower in the meantime—what will become of Miriam?”
But while Frau Varnhagen was attempting to put reason into the poet’s mind she directed the course of the fates more successfully. She called the count and counselled with him. Shortly thereafter, the rabbi came to Berlin and the count interceded between father and daughter; and before Albert was aware Miriam had disappeared.
Poor Albert Zorn! What wereWerther’s Leidencompared with his? Werther had only sorrows of love to bear, but he, indeed, like another Atlas, was bending under the weight of a whole globe of sorrows. TheWeltschmerzwas gnawing at his heart. The furies of a thousand storms were lashing him at once. Disappointment everywhere! No appreciative public, no one would look at his poetic drama, at his tragedy; his essay on Poland had only provoked his enemies without a word of praise from his friends; and his love-dream—the sweetest dream of life—shattered. And, then, theJudenhetzewas corroding his heart. Like Frau Varnhagen, he wished to dismiss the memory of his birth but he could not. Rahel was a philosopher, not a poet, her life was dominated by willpower, but he was only mere gossamer driven by the cruel winds. He could reason even more clearly than Rahel, but reason did not calm his sensitive nerves, did not quiet his raging blood.
He had grown weary of Berlin. He wanted to flee. Everybody here reminded him of his unbearable sorrows. He was weary of Prussia and Prussianism and wished he could leave the land of his birth. Like one suffering from defective lungs, he blamed the air for his hard breathing. The present air was stifling him. He had intimated to his uncle that he wished to leave Germany and go to England or America or France but Uncle Leopold would not listen to such a proposition. Uncle Leopold felt that since he was paying the fiddler it was his privilege to dictate the dances. The banker felt that jurisprudence was the only hope for his incorrigible nephew.
However, he decided to leave Berlin. Here he could not give his undivided attention to his studies because of many diversions. He realized that while he was a law student he was giving too much time to Hegel’s lectures on philosophy and to the reading ofbelles lettres. He would never complete his law course that way. Yes, he must return to that “scholarly hole” of Goettingen, though he shuddered as he remembered that college town.
He left Berlin with no regrets in his heart.
THE MARCH TO CALVARY.
Eventhe wisest often fail to realize that one cannot escape one’s shadow. Albert Zorn imagined that ennui was in Berlin but it was only in his own soul.
He found Goettingen as depressing as before. The college town was covered with snow, the students seemed grim and serious, the professors cold, and he found but few of his old friends. He arrived here as a prodigal son, misgivings in his heart. He recalled theAbschiedskartenhe had sent to the members of the faculty a few years before, after his suspension. He now realized that the mockery, witty as it might have been, that thoseAbschiedskartencontained had not endeared him to his old instructors. And the students seemed so sulky. Prussian tyranny had conquered and killed every manifestation of free speech. TheBurschenschaftand theTurngemeinde—the two most significant fraternities—were but names. The students not only feared their own utterances but even the unguarded speech of their friends. And they had not forgotten Albert’s unguarded tongue.
But while the dullness of the place depressed him he welcomed the quiet of his lodging house on the Rothenstrasse. He gave himself to the study of the law, and “corpus juris” was his “pillow”. He had no difficulty in hushing the muse’s voice, for the muse sang not. For a time he passed a prosaic existence, and while he frequently shuddered at the thought he again wondered if his light had not burned out. His verses scarcely stirred in him more than memories. And when he made attempts at writing he was conscious of the effort, of the lack of spontaneity, and dropped it. Was he a Samson with his locks shorn? He stirred and often went to the Rathskeller to drown his sorrow, but unable to bear drink he turned to the library.
Soon March drew to an end, the winter was gone, the thawing season began. Everything within him was thawing, too. His blood suddenly began to course warmer; there was agitation in his breast; his nerves seemed on fire. A chance acquaintanceship had inspired him to write a few lyric stanzas. He laughed like a mocking satan. Indeed his light had not yet burned out! It had just commenced to burn and would soon redden the sky with its rising flames. Let his enemies in Berlin and Hamburg sneer! What did he care? He had nothing but contempt for the multitude anyhow. They should see! He flung the law books aside and took up an unfinished poem. Byron’s recent death stimulated his energies. Byron was the only man to whom he felt a close kinship, and the poet’s death affected him deeply. He must take Byron’s place; he would be Germany’s Byron.
Spurred by these thoughts and feelings his dullness fled; his imagination was again volatile; his tongue was once more caustic. He was again seen in the beer cellars, arguing, jesting, making sport in his whimsical manner. The students again gathered around him and goaded him on to saying bitter things about their professors, their pedantic colleagues, the Prussian officials. He had the gift of caricature in words. He became his old self again. He was the very life of all student affairs, and at their frequent duels he was either a second or umpire. He was a Byron with a vengeance. He once more took up fencing and fought a duel or two.
Ah! they should see—his enemies at Berlin and Hamburg. They might call him a Jew, but what of that? He became heroic. Race pride swelled in his breast. He was of the race “of which Gods are kneaded”, of the race that needed no apologies, even in his day. Who was there in Germany to take the place of the great who had passed? The Teuton gods were dead! Lessing was gone, so was Schiller, and Goethe, like King David in his old age, “got no heat”; this old Jupiter was no more hurling thunderbolts; his arm was even too feeble to fling pebbles. Who were to take the places of these gods? A number ofSchmetterlinge—mere butterflies—waving their colorful wings in the sunshine and hovering around the blossoming shrubs, with an old bumble bee here and there, without sting, without honey, buzzing around a rosebush. Yes, who were to take the place of the dead heroes? Who was to take Goethe’s place? His blood warmed at the thought. The mantle of this great bard must fall on his own shoulders. Nay more, he would undo many of the things the great Romanticist had done. He would be to his generation what Goethe had been to his. Indeed, he would even go farther than Goethe. Goethe was self-centered, content with his own pleasure, playing with the beautiful thoughts as a juggler plays with balls, but he would give his life and genius to Germany. Goethe never loved the Germans, he mused, but he would liberate the Teutonic mind from its self-imposed imprisonment. Ay, indeed, he would wield a weapon mightier than the sword in the cause of liberty! Let his enemies rave——
But with Albert Zorn there was even less than a step from the sublime to the ridiculous. The next moment he laughed at his own heroics. He understood the heroics of those that smarted under the whips of injustice. The irony of his own situation struck him forcibly. He was humorous and great enough to laugh at himself. Did he not feel a secret pride when his admirers told him that there was not a trace of the Semite in his face; that his nose, though longish, was Grecian? No, Albert could not deceive himself. He saw the tragi-comedy of it all. To be heroic in one’s thoughts was one thing and to be heroic in one’s actions quite a different matter.
But here at Goettingen his fellow-students never reminded him of his birth, and even the professors had accepted the prodigal son rather graciously. And he had a circle of admirers among the literary guild. To be sure, there was petty jealousy among them, but they did not disturb him. Talent must expect jealousy, he reflected soothingly; only the feeble and the dead arouse no jealousy.
Indeed, Albert was now his true self. He pursued his studies regularly, read much, and, as a diversion, made love to a pretty damsel or argued heatedly with a few of his fellow-students. The problems that occupied his mind while at Berlin troubled him no longer. When summer vacation came, instead of spending it with his parents, he took journeys on foot, with a knapsack on his back, through the Hartz Mountains, visiting Halle and Jena and Gotha and Eisenach, and making mental notes of the beautiful scenery around him and of the people with whom he came in contact. He also paid a visit to Goethe, and found, to his astonishment, that this Jupiter “understood German”—though he was prompted to address the god in Greek—so in his confusion he told him that the plums on the way from Jena to Weimar were very, very delicious . . .
After the summer vacation he returned to Goettingen refreshed and encouraged. On his pilgrimage he had learned that while he was still unknown, many of his songs were gaining popularity. In one of the taverns a pretty waitress hummed one of his love songs.
Everything now moved so smoothly; the professors were so kind to him, the dean of the Faculty had invited him to his home and expressed admiration for his ballads—he had compared them to Goethe’s—and the old inner struggles had left him entirely. In a friendly talk the Dean had hinted that there was a great future for him if—the learned gentleman was kind and sensitive and hesitated—“if”—he stammered again.
“If I were not a Jew,” Albert came to the rescue, an ironic smile on his face.
“Yes,” the kindly man intoned. “You see,” he continued, “sooner or later all these disabilities will disappear but in the meanwhile your—your nominal faith is in the way.” He knew Albert’s faith was but nominal.
Albert dwelt on this remark but rather objectively. He only thought subjectively when he suffered deeply. Of late nothing stirred his depths. He followed the lectures of the Goettingen Solons, made merry with the students, was praised for his wit and his verses, and wrote but little; in fact, he had written almost nothing in the past nine months.
And then a letter came from Uncle Leopold with a bill of exchange for his support. The letter irritated him even though the money enclosed afforded him immediate relief. There was something between the lines of his uncle’s letter that intimated that a young man who passed his twenty-seventh year should be self-sustaining. This letter was the first real cause of irritation in months. He had heard that his uncle gave away tens of thousands ofThalersto charity and he begrudged his poor nephew a few marks! Yes, he must rid himself of his uncle’s bounty—and rid himself at any cost.
He grew morose and thoughtful and applied himself at once to his studies preparatory for his Doctor’s degree and to the writing of a series of travel sketches. He burned the candle at both ends. He would show his rich uncle that he could get along without him. He felt particularly hopeful because he had received a nattering letter from the Minister of Justice in Bavaria, who was also a poet. The fates had turned their bright faces upon him. Like Goethe he would obtain a government position, and thus made independent, would pursue the muses. His brain was feverish, his whole being on fire. He felt the approach of a severe headache—from studying and thinking and writing—but he did not care. His dreams were coming true, and the fire of the gods burned luminously. He felt inspired as he penned his sketches. Never before had writing come to him so spontaneously, so free from effort. Again and again the hint dropped by the Dean recurred to him. It no longer offended him nor did the memory of it arouse antagonism within him. Why suffer because of mere formalism? What was it but formalism to him? His faith was only nominal, as the Dean had put it. In what respect was he a Jew? vaguely passed through his mind. He was more Greek than Jew. Certainly the Jewish faith had no tangible meaning to him. Nothing but dogmatism! Why should this meaningless dogmatism stand between him and independence?
One day he woke with a sudden determination. He must not hesitate any longer. He could hope for no assistance from his parents—his mother’s letter a few days before had made that plain enough—and he could not bear the humiliation of further dependence upon his uncle. He was irritable that morning but that was because of his ceaseless work the past few months. He was nervous from too much thinking. No, he must not let this thing trouble him any longer. He laughed grimly to himself. He would change his religion—change non-belief in one for non-belief in another! He laughed but not without bitterness. The next moment the humor of it awakened curiosity. He was to be baptised! He had already talked to a clergyman about his conversion, and noticed with amusement the glow on the good clergyman’s face—the glow on the face of an angler at sensing a nibble. Albert thought of this and laughed to himself. The clergyman suggested a new name for the newly born child—John Baptist Zorn! Albert stood before the open window in his room, looking dreamily in front of him——
It was morning, the sun was shining gloriously upon the Wender Tower, serious-faced students on their way to lectures, a woman with an armful of provisions for breakfast, two flaxen-haired children playing horse, and he was going to have his name changed that day! There was a flutter in his heart and he laughed nervously. The comedy of life struck him forcibly—all life was but a jest of the gods, and he himself was one of the jesters! “John Baptist Zorn!” he murmured to himself, and laughed hysterically. Tears appeared in his eyes. Oh, God, what a comedy life was!
He started to carry out his resolution but suddenly paused. He blushed in the privacy of his room. No, he would not go through this farce. No, no, he could not be false to himself. He did not care for the opinion of others—why should he care for the opinion of the imbeciles to whom not religion but theology mattered, to whom religion was not the consciousness of the glory of the universe and its Creator, but mere heathen ceremonies?—Indeed, it was not the opinion of the masses but he feared his inner self. No, he would not go through with this contemptible farce.
He sat down on his bed, a throbbing at his temples. He was fatigued, a pain in his head, weary of life. He heaved a sigh. His eyes rested on his clothes. They were shabby. His uncle’s stipend had not been sufficient to afford him new clothes and allow him the elegance to which he had been accustomed. Besides, he was so impractical and never did know how his money slipped from between his fingers. In a month the degree of Doctor of Laws was to be conferred upon him. To what purpose?
To what purpose had he spent so much valuable time on the dry study of the law? It had a definite meaning for the other students, his friends at the university. Many of them would at once obtain government appointments—there was one awaiting his friend Christian Lutz; another friend, a poet, had already procured a lucrative appointment—and others would follow their careers as lawyers—they all would use their vocations as a means of subsistence in this complex system of civilized life. But of what use would it be to him? A bitter laugh escaped him. In a month he would be addressed as Doctor Zorn! A title would be conferred on him—to what purpose? He was a Jew and under the Prussian law could not hold office, nor could he practice his profession. Ah, the irony of it! He was still in Egypt under the Pharaohs. Straw was not given him and the tale of bricks had to be delivered!
He jumped out of his bed, stretched his arms, and gnashed his teeth. Jest for jest! Let the foolish angler have his catch!
VAGABONDAGE.
Thegreatest jest in life is that but few see the jest, and these few find it at their own expense.
Albert left the Lutheran clergyman stunned. The ceremony of the baptism, the seriousness of the God-fearing clergyman—these were all a dream but vaguely remembered. Sincerity always found an echo in his heart, no matter how much he differed from the other’s convictions, and the evident conscientiousness of the pious pastor who had performed the ceremony impressed him. It impressed him as if he had witnessed the conversion of a person other than himself. He viewed things from so many different angles that the same object often assumed different shapes, depending upon his mood at the time he viewed it. His mind, like concave and convex mirrors, at times, reflected odd shapes. One moment he was calm and accepted the baptism as a definite change in his views of life, the next he cowered before his perfidy; and then, again, he laughed at the whole thing as if it were aKinderspiel. He wished he could always regard it so. He felt more at peace with himself when the baptism appeared as a mere boyish prank. After all, the sublime and the ridiculous are but viewpoints.
However, he walked through the Wender Gate with a sneaking feeling in his heart. He returned to his lodgings shamefaced. The deed was done; the faltering of years had culminated into action. There was no going back. No matter what he might do or think nothing could undo this act.
Was it really such an important step? He shuddered. He tried to persuade himself that it was but a triviality, a matter of no moment, a mere empty ceremony, but there was a flutter in his heart, a fine perspiration on his pensive countenance. Why should he not have done it? He asked himself almost angrily, as if refuting an accusation. Was he not a German like other Germans? And he always did admire Luther. It was really most fitting that a liberal minded man like himself should follow in the footsteps of the great Luther. He dwelt upon the noble virtues of the great reformer with a keen sense of satisfaction. He visualized the mental struggles of the champions of religious freedom. He felt that he was helping the Man of Worms nail the edict upon the church doors. And he certainly had no reason to regret the affiliation with the great Son of Galilee. He drew a breath of defiance. The lives of all great men were the stories of revolt.
He was mentally fatigued and wished he could stop thinking. One of his nervous headaches was coming on. He must not torture his brain any longer. He must give himself to his studies. In about three weeks he must deliver a discourse on jurisprudence in order to obtain his coveted degree. Jurisprudence!—that accursed study, that pseudo-scientific jugglery, that system of Roman casuistry!—why had he spent three of his fairest, most blooming years on subjects so repugnant to him? One link of thought brought another, an endless chain. If he had not studied law he would not have bent his knee to the cross. He was a martyr yesterday, today a villainous coward!Gestern noch ein Held gewesen—Ist man heute schon ein Schurke!
O, the misery of involuntary thoughts forcing an entrance into one’s brain! He was tired of the whole business. He wanted to laugh, to jest, to invoke his sense of humor. His sense of humor had always been such an outlet for his feelings. He could always laugh away the most serious things in life. And this was not even serious—how the clergyman had rolled his eyes as he offered a prayer for the newborn soul of the convert—some day he would give a humorous description of it in a poem—no, he would describe it in a novel. What was he thinking of? O, yes, the clergyman’s solemnity. For a moment this struck him ludicrously and he burst into laughter. But enough—enough! His head was splitting, a thousand needles were pricking back of his eyeballs, and he was weary, weary unto death. He must stop thinking. He must . . . The whole thing was not worth thinking about . . .
In order to banish these torturing thoughts he began to think of his friend Gustav Moses in Berlin. The thought of Moses always had a soothing effect on him—that great soul! Moses was a sanctuary, a holy shrine, in whose presence all things and beings were pure. Though he was no expounder of new theories, no source of new philosophies, Moses always brought Spinoza to Albert’s mind. There was something of that great philosopher’s simplicity and goodness and purity in Moses. He must write to him and unbosom himself to his precious friend. Moses would understand. Moses understood so many things most people did not comprehend. Yet when he sat down with a quill in his hand sudden shame overwhelmed him. Why was he ashamed? Why should he not discuss this fully with Moses? He had committed many follies and had never hesitated to speak of them to Moses. Besides, Moses, too, had just gone through this ceremony. But to his friend it was an ideal—the conversion of all the Jews as a means of helping humanity—but to himself—no, Albert could not deceive himself. He had not knelt to the cross because of an ideal. He had done it for the same reason that thousands of others had done it, for the same reason that Edward Gans had done it. Oh!—a groan escaped his breast. Only the day before he had written a scathing denunciation of those cowards who were deserting the sinking ship. And now he himself had done it!
He began to write. He forced all other thoughts away.
“Dear Gustav:
“Will I ever grow up? I am still half a child, with all the reflections of maturity mirroring in my being—manhood, old age, godliness, caprice, profligacy, and what not. And just like a child I can’t make up my mind whether to laugh or cry; I can cry and laugh at the same time. O, Gustav, I can’t make up my mind whether I am a lion or a monkey in this great menagerie: I roar one moment and chatter foolishly and wag my tail the next.
“I sat down to write you a long letter, covering many, many sheets full of profound thoughts and instructive wisdom, with many notations on the Book of Life, but I have just returned from a comic play which was so funny that I can not yet check my laughter and can not put myself into a serious frame of mind. There was a clown in the play—dressed like a clown, acting like a clown, and while he was going through his manoeuvres burning tears were coursing down his painted cheeks. I was the clown in the play. So look for no logic in the acts of a clown.
“I love you—Forget everything else.
Albert.”
Ah! he would not acknowledge that he had made a mistake. He sought to justify his act. Not to others but to himself. Since his conversion, life had run smoother for him, he said to himself when he had obtained his degree. The Dean had spoken eloquently of his poetry as he presented the degree to him, and the other members of the faculty overlooked much of his ignorance of legal lore. No one knew better than he that the least of his knowledge was the knowledge of the law, and he felt a deep sense of gratitude for the faculty’s leniency. He felt confident that the worst was over. He would settle down as a government official, or a professor at some university, or at least as a lawyer, and live a well-regulated life, without the aid of his uncle. Yes, he would marry, too. He was about twenty-eight years old and ought not to fritter his life away.
But he would not permit himself to think of his conversion. The exertions which preceded his private and public discourses anent the taking of his degree, his assiduous study of an uncongenial subject, his inner conflicts, fatigued him almost beyond endurance. He looked at his reflection in a mirror and felt even more exhausted. He could see fatigue in every line in his face. There were rings under his eyes; his cheeks had thinned; there was a roving restlessness in his eyes. In his present state he was not fit for literary work though he was bent on completing his book which he had commenced.
There was no question of hard work at present. His nerves were shattered and his headaches were becoming more and more painful. So he wrote to Uncle Leopold, and the generous man, hopeful that his scapegrace nephew would at last settle down, dispatched him a liberal allowance by return mail for a vacation, not without a veiled admonition, however, not to squander the money “on other things.”
He went at once to Nordernay for sea baths and followed the orders of his physician to think of nothing. He also indulged in some pastimes. Among the sea bathers there were a number of attractive young women who had read a few of his songs, and their flattery was not displeasing to him. Though he knew his weakness, he easily yielded to flattery.
Soon his headaches disappeared, healthier color came to his cheeks, frivolous thoughts were again sporting in his brain. Nor was he averse to the furtive glances of strangers as he walked restlessly up and down the beach, dreaming of strange legends that the tossing waves conjured up in his fancy. He felt the thrill of fame, the tumultuous waves making divine music in his ears. And sauntering along the shore in the twilight—the level dunes behind him, before him the seeming endless raging ocean—with all its mystery and tragic beauty, the huge dome of the heavens above him, his imagination took flight and soared to ethereal heights. Noble thoughts filled his brain, compassionate sentiments crowded his breast, and he made resolutions! He would give his life for humanity and, in giving it, would melt the hearts of men with song.
On the shore were sharpshooters aiming at sea-gulls in their flight. He did not enjoy this pastime. His ancestors were no hunters; rather they were of the hunted. His blood revolted at firing at the harmless, innocent creatures.
He recalled his boyhood days when he chanced upon a group of urchins who had brought down a nest from the top branches of a tree by well-aimed missiles. He emptied all his pocket money into the fists of the urchins to bribe them to liberate the featherless baby birds. He knew that the enemies of his ancestors had called them cowards because they could not bear the shedding of blood. His mind wandered. A shot was fired, a sea-gull dropped, a shout of admiration from the onlookers on the shore. Perhaps the fallen bird was a mother of poor little gulls still unfledged, lying in their sandy nests and waiting for their mother to bring them food. No, he would not give his life to this sort of achievement—killing was not in his blood! Rather would he devote his life to helping people live, live in greater freedom, physical and spiritual.
His mind drifted, and his thoughts soon brought him to dwell on Christian Lutz’s life and his own. He had just run into Christian, who was here on his honeymoon. To a certain point their lives had run parallel. First at the Franciscan school, at the Lyceum, at Goettingen, at Berlin and—there it stopped. Christian was now married, with a government position affording him a livelihood, while he—Albert—was nowhere. Always promises—one friend had promised him to intercede with one of the influential men in Berlin to get him a position with the government—but there were nothing but promises in sight. He really did not know himself what would best suit him. He liked the idea of a professorship. He had many ideas about literature and philosophy and felt that he could teach something to the young at the university. But then a government position—a magistrate or judge—would likewise please him. He loved the Germans even though he detested the Prussian government—he always felt that individually the Germans possessed noble virtues, but collectively they were Prussian—and he felt that as a magistrate, or in any capacity as a public official, he could deal out justice tempered with kindness. But so far only promises . . .
Still waiting for the promises to be fulfilled he returned to his parents for a while, made a short stop at Berlin, and went again to Hamburg in the early winter. Every time he returned to Hamburg it was with mingled feelings of regret and expectancy. This time he hoped that the Hamburgers would appreciate him. He was no longer Leopold Zorn’s nephew but Doctor Zorn and a poet of repute. Even his enemies admitted that he had genius for lyric verse. And he had just made arrangements to have his first book of travel published, and the publisher had said he might consider the publication of a collection of his scattered songs that had appeared in various periodicals. True, the publisher had promised no pay for the poems but Albert felt confident that it would bring him renown; and the Hamburgers would no longer regard him as a mere idler. This time he meant to be dignified. He would enter in no controversies with his critics.
Before long, however, he realized that it was useless for him to settle down there. Uncle Leopold had made this clear to him at a stormy meeting between the two. But he had no other place to go to.
He found himself a veritable Ishmael—his hand against every man and every man’s against him. His political views were now well defined and he dipped his pen in gall and continued writing. He would write a second volume of his travels and avenge himself on his enemies, little understanding that the fruit of vengeance is never love. What corroded his heart most was the dawning knowledge that he had made a blunder that could never be rectified; that all the waters of the Jordan and of the North Sea could not wash away the few drops sprinkled upon him by the Lutheran Clergyman. Yet he would not acknowledge that it was a blunder. Peevishly he said to himself that he was glad he was separated from the people who had never befriended him, who had never given him the least encouragement.
More strife, more bitterness, more vexation of soul! Could he ever live in peace! The world had let Goethe sing in peace, and Goethe was as creedless as he. The world knew that Goethe was a pagan and he made no secret of it. Why was he, Albert Zorn, persecuted on every side? His book was well received—and was favorably compared with that of the great Goethe; his songs were being hummed from Leipzig to Hamburg; his wit was on every tongue, his enemies squirmed under his ironic fire; his heart was beating with love for every creature that lived; and yet why were the snakes hissing from every ambush? The Jesuits had at last found in him a target for all their poisonous arrows—as if he had been the first man in Germany to utter liberal views! Ah, the injustice of it all! They had chosen him for their target though he had always cherished a romantic love for the Church of Rome; they hunted him only because he was more vulnerable, because he was born a Jew!
His blood was on fire. And he had crawled on his knees to the Cross! Was he to cower and let them heap hot cinders upon his head because he was related to the Prophets? No, not he; the Jews had bowed their heads to their tormentors long enough. He was no long-bearded Isaac swaying over the Talmud, with an “oi” under his breath; no Rothschild in his counting house, with Kings as pawns! He was a poet, sweet melody in his heart; a critic of life and manners, a mighty instrument in his hand—they shall have thrust for thrust, stab for stab. He would seek for no mercy, he would not whine for justice, he would fight for his rights.
But his boasting was only to conceal the rankling in his breast. His poetry or his prose had not been attacked, but his person. No, he was not ashamed of his lineage—had he been devoid of a sense of humor he would have even bragged of it—but after he had knelt at the font, after he had gone more than half way to eradicate all differences between himself and the Teutons, to be called a Jew! The iron entered his soul! He swept all admonition aside, he would not listen to the counsel of his friends. He was sharpening his arrows and dipping them in poison. His enemies had miscalculated. They thought he could only write love songs. He would make the dogs yelp before the expiring convulsion came! If Teutonia resorted to calling names his ancestors had once pitched their tents by the river Jordan, where calling names was an art.
Yet he hated the conflict. Why must they poison the honey in his heart? Why must they force the sting? He wanted to flee from Germany—flee from Germany and sing instead of “caw-caw” with the rest of the crows at home.
In moments of revolt Albert always thought of leaving his fatherland forever, but then his love for the land that gave him birth would return—his innate fondness of the people about him would possess him, the memories of his childhood on the banks of the Rhine would hold him with chains of steel. He saw every fault in his compatriots, but the faults seemed so glaring to him, and stirred him so deeply, because he loved the people. But what people ever learned that it is its critics, not its flatterers, who love it most sincerely?
He now found himself torn by a thousand conflicts. The censor was most annoying—one could hardly give expression to one’s thoughts—and disobedience meant damp prisons; the officials were arrogant; and the land was full of Cant, Cult, and Culture. One could hardly breathe for want of free air in Germany. In order to divert the people from the tyranny of the nobles and Prussian officialdom the government encouraged orthodoxy on one hand and heterodoxy on the other. “Let the children play hard and forget other foolishness”, has always been the motto of tyrannical governments. Hegelism, Schlegelism, Schellingism, anti-Semitism—in short, anything to engage the public mind and coerce it into submission to the tyrant’s will.
Albert thirsted for freedom. True, his biting irony often escaped the scrutinising eye of the stupid censor—his thoughts emanated properly censored from his brain, he jested—but he craved a moment’s respite. For a time he had again retired to Hamburg and buried himself in work. More songs, the publication of another book, planning new themes, pondering new subjects, ever yearning for love.
One day he received a call to edit a political journal. He was thrilled. He wished to awaken Young Germany; Old Germany, he realized, was hopeless. He meant to speak freely, come what might. He wished to enroll himself among the warriors for the liberation of humanity. On his arrival in Munich he was made to feel that his renown was growing; that, in fact, he was already famous. His name was known, his songs were on everyone’s lips, his epigrams were frequently quoted. He had learned with a keen sense of pleasure that while his first two books had made him many enemies they had also enlarged his circle of admirers.
He felt that the time was ripe for the emancipation of the German mind. Every great mind miscalculates the minds of the people about him. He either underestimates or overestimates them; or rather he underestimates some of its qualities and overestimates others. Albert was no exception to this rule. While he was convinced that when “asses wish to abuse one another they call each other men” he attributed to the masses—stupider than asses—an intelligence and vision equal to his own. He jumped at the conclusion that the masses would get his viewpoint once it was presented to them. And because his clarity of vision enabled him to see the sham, superstition, and hypocrisy of the prevalent fetishes that passed for creeds, and of the tyrannies that passed for government, he imagined that others would see these great evils as soon as they were revealed to them.
The reception accorded his books deceived him. He mistook the people’s laughter for applause. He failed to see that only a handful understood him and sympathized with him. Only the chosen few understood that when one dips his pen in gall his own heart very often brims over with love. The vast majority only laughed at his mordant irony, called him a scoffer and an atheist, and hated him. When a friend had whispered in his ear “Look out for the Jesuits,” Albert only laughed. He thought it was for them to look out for him. He knew no fear.
The reception given him on his arrival at Munich assured him that his friend was wrong. He had no cause to fear the Jesuits.
But the Jesuits in Munich were watching him. He was their sworn enemy, and the report that he would direct the policy of a new journal roused their ire. Munich was then the centre of Jesuitical activities. Ever since their return to Germany, after the fall of Napoleon, they had been hatching plots, creating dissension among the masses, shaping policies for their own selfish ends. They were seeking to rehabilitate themselves. They could not afford to pass in silence the caustic attacks of the jesting Albert Zorn.
Before long, however, he grew tired of political strife. He was again soul-weary. He craved the solitude of the mountains, he longed for the golden mist of the southern heavens, he yearned for the warmth of the sunny climes. A thousand mysterious voices called to him from the land of orange blossoms and echoed in his heart melodiously. He longed for a peep at Italy. Ah, Italy! Italy! When the great God kneaded the earth into shape and set the human insects into motion—the whole swarm of human insects—he allotted the Caucasian steppes to the Tartars, Prussia to the Pedants, to the Hunters he gave the British Isle, France to the gay in spirit, but Italy,—Italy!—the great God breathed upon that colorful spot lovingly, kissed it, and was about to reserve it for his favorites among the angels when he changed His mind and assigned it as a haven for the soul-weary! Alas! with the confusion of the Tower of Babel many a Tartar wandered from his homeland and many a poet strayed from his designated abode.
He wandered through Italy—through Livorno, Bagni di Lucca, Florence, Bologna, Venice—and he wandered among the ruins of antiquity, “a ruin among ruins.” He jested and scoffed, worshipped and blasphemed, honey in his heart. Poetic melodies, like birds of passage driven South, returned to him; his heart once more glowed and beat tumultuously; the nightingale again sang for him. The broken columns, the ruined towers, the shattered classic images spoke to him in a language he understood.
He wanted to forget the past, to obliterate the insults heaped upon him by his enemies. Italian skies inspire sweet dreams and make one forget troubles. The promise of a chair at the University whispered hope. Yes, he would give the rest of his life to champion the rights of the people.
While amusing himself at the Baths of Lucca he was laying plans for the future. He had received a hopeful letter about the professorship. His brain was brimming over with enthusiasm and joy. He would make all his friends proud of him and he would not only repay them with gratitude but also with service. And how gloriously his third book was coming along! The volume was so spontaneous; it was writing itself. Humor and song were flowing from his pen. Not a word of bitterness in this book, he decided. No stings, nothing but the sweetest of honey. He intended to have the third volume mirror the heavenly witchery of Italy and the flowing love of his soul; no, not a word of bitterness. At the worst, only a passage of fun-making at superstition but nothing—not a line—to offend anyone’s sensibilities.
Ah, there was again spring in his heart! Sentiments of love and freedom, like fresh roses, burst forth anew. Above him the rays of the brilliant sun pierced the mist hanging over the mountains and “sucked at the earth’s breast like a hungry suckling child.” He was again in the spring of life, everything thawing, melting, sweet murmurs everywhere. He was in love with life and every breathing creature.
And the arts of man were about him in abundance; the divine ecstasy of generations long dead impressed on palace and ruin; ecstasy filled his being to overflowing. No, not a tinge of bitterness in his heart, no acrid irony in his brain, nothing but goodwill and happiness and the effervescence of life.
But one day in November a gust of wind swept over him; a cold, damp, bleak wind that blighted the blooming flowers in his heart and covered the sun rays with a black cloud and filled his heart with sadness. No more hope for a chair at a university, no prospect of a life of contemplation and peace and song. The Jesuits had stronger influence than his friends. And as if designing to annihilate him completely the Jesuits had attacked him with all their forces.
His third volume was nearly completed when the latest affront reached him. He had quite forgotten his Hebraic strain. In the land of Virgil, with the echo of Homer from the neighboring shores, he thought himself more Greek than Hebrew, but suddenly the evaporated fumes of his smouldering agony were driven back into his heart. He was consumed by a thirst for vengeance. Since his enemies would not let him forget his Hebraism he would be like the God of the ancient Hebrews. No whining, cowering for him! Even as the Macabees of old, his progenitors, he would meet the enemy with piercing arrows and devastating rocks. He was no preacher of love for those that hated him; hate for hate! There was scornful laughter in his heart. His enemies—the Preachers of Love—had hated even those who loved them!
He was then in Florence, that dreary November day, the skies a-drizzling, thick mist screening the banks of the Arno, a severe cold in his head. He had spent six weeks, rambling, dreaming, drinking from the fountain of beauty. With all the quaint narrow streets, the art treasures around him, the buildings mellowed with age, his imagination astir with a thousand memories of antiquity, a thousand raptures to enthrall his soul, his romantic love for Catholic mysticism returned, the slumbering sensuous love he felt in his childhood. Even while he smiled at the faded Madonnas and was provoked to laughter by the hideous saints of early Tuscan conception his heart glowed with reverence and deep emotion. But that day only rancor filled his heart.
He left his lodgings and wandered along the bank of the Arno, unmindful of the cold and the pain in his head. The water of the flowing river did not reflect the azure of the Italian skies. The drizzling rain had stirred the placid surface and, like his heart, was turgid and muddy. Nothing was beautiful around him now. All was grim. For not only woman’s beauty but all beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. He wished to think of other things—he said to himself he would dismiss the “filth and stupidity” of the “congregation” at Munich—but his brain would admit no other thought. But for his birthright—or was it his birth-curse?—he would have been now on his way to assume the duties of a professor of literature and devote the rest of his life to his beloved fatherland. He shuddered, then a cynical smile appeared on his tightly closed mouth. He remembered that morning at the Franciscan school, when he revealed to Christian Lutz the fact that his father’s father had been a little Jew with long whiskers. Every time the world recalled that revelation there was a mob to jeer at him and a Father Scher to shower blows upon him!
He continued along the bank, one moment serious, his eyes closed, the next moment a strange smile on his lips.
When he reached the Ponte Grazie and made his way across the little stone bridge toward the Uffizi, his heart felt lightened. He saw the sublime jest of life; everybody laughing at everybody else. The world was a great lazaretto where every suffering inmate was laughing at the infirmities of the other. Was he not himself a suffering patient mocking the other patients? The irony of it all amused him and made him forget the drizzling rain and the pain in his head.
Presently a priest passed him, a sorry spectacle of a man; pale, emaciated, bent, his bony hands quivering, his lips muttering something. The poor fellow had spent so much time in praying that his lips moved even when not at prayer. What a face! All the pains and sorrows that human flesh was heir to were mirrored in it. Albert’s heart was wrung with pity; there was no mockery in his heart. No, he would not even reply to the attacks of his enemies. Love those that hate you! He now understood that sublime utterance. The great Jew of Galilee must have understood the jest of life, and when one understands one can only pity, not mock.
Then he passed an old church. A woman, her head and shoulders covered with a black cashmere shawl, pulled open the heavy church door and entered. He followed her in. The woman did not turn right or left but walked up to the altar, knelt on the stone steps and began to pray. He stood in the rear, his eyes gazing blankly in front of him. The church was deserted, gloomy, a strange sombre light sifting in through the many colored window-panes, leaving the long archways in twilight dimness; a swinging oil lamp in front of the beautiful image of the Madonna accentuated the nocturnal shadows beyond the reach of this glimmering light. It was noiseless yet there sounded in his ears dying echoes. Now and then a soft murmur came from somewhere as if the great organ, weary of prolonged silence, emitted a soft sigh. A thousand invisible phantoms seemed to people this empty, age-smelling church. The kneeling, praying woman, the stone images of saints, the indefinable forms flitting here and there back of the pillars, the murmuring from the side chapel, the emaciated priests outside, the Jesuits at Munich, all the religious controversies—Oh, God, what a travesty, what a jest! He wondered which was the greater jest, the festive gods of Olympus, who went about their business merrily and drank toasts from golden goblets and made love to the goddesses and slew their rivals, or the solemn, abstemious gods surrounded by shaven monks who fretfully cajoled and fawned upon their Jupiter, sadly rolling their eyes, praying for favors.
He suddenly rushed out of the church and proceeded through a narrow alley which afforded a short cut to the Uffizi. At present everything appeared farcical to him; nothing was serious. Politics, religion, love, spaghetti, literature, painting, the Seven Sins—or was it the Seven Wonders?—amusing jests all! As he entered thePalazzo degli Uffizi, walking past marble statues, Florentine tapestries, Satyrs, Wrestlers, Fauns, Madonnas, Venuses, Popes, Cupids, the Flight from Egypt and the Flight into Egypt, theWeltschmerz—the soul-weariness—of it all seized him and almost choked him with Satanic laughter. At a glance he beheld the Sublime Jesters of all ages!—Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, Correggio, Botticelli, Fra Angelico, da Vinci—the sublimest jester of all—each one busy with the jest of life in his own way.
He traversed vestibules and corridors, lofty vaulted chambers and frescoed palaces, and suddenly halted before a relief of the Sacrifice of Iphigeneia and close beyond it the Martyrdom of St. Justina by Paul Veronese. Were these jests, too?
He passed his hand over his eyes, then rubbed his forehead. Was he insane or had the rest of the world lost their wits? again passed through his mind. If he was sane the rest of the world could not be sane. The rest of the world took all this seriously, almost tragically—the Satyrs and the Fauns and the Madonnas and the Martyrs—and did not see the jest of it all.
His eyes dimmed by fugitive thoughts, he walked without seeing anything around him. He was feeling for the pillars, a prayer in his heart—O Lord God, I pray Thee, strengthen me, O God, that I may be avenged of the Philistines. The jeering laughter of the Philistines was in his ears. Dagon, their god, towered over him; he felt the fetters of brass against his flesh.
He returned to his lodging and plunged into work. He meant to jest but his jesting now was bitter. He was avenging himself on the Philistines. And no one ever avenged himself on the Philistines without falling with them.
There is always an element of discontent in the desire to travel. Contented people, like cattle in verdant pastures, remain on the hillside, munching their food in peace and tranquility.
He could not remain much longer in Florence. He wanted to travel, to move about. He went to Bologna, to Ferrara, to Padua, to Venice. But one cannot escape his own shadow. He carried his griefs with him. He was short of money but that mattered little to him. The memory of his gayety at the Baths of Lucca, at Livorno, at Florence, was forgotten.
Innately sensual he sought to drive away his gloom (as he had often done) by conjuring scenes of Florentine Nights and living over again those blissful moments; Signora Francesca, with those dark brown eyes, long, black lashes, rich black hair, and captivating body; Signora Letitia—that temptress, with a throbbing bosom, who carried on flirtations with half a dozen men at the same time; Matilda—that virtuous flirt, who tried to conceal her sensuousness by constantly talking about, and condemning, the sensuality of others; that pink-cheeked English girl, whose face looked as if it were bedewed with spray from the sea—No, these recollections brought no joy to his heart, not even a momentary consolation, as they had done on other occasions. He was seized with a morbid longing to wander, to wander everlastingly, to run away from himself.
While at Venice he received a letter from his brother that his father was very ill. He could read between the lines that it was a call to his father’s death-bed. Somehow, this very sad news brought him relief. It at once removed his restlessness. He was calm. He had suddenly become philosophical, stoical. It was as if one of his veins had been opened to relieve an intense pain. He left Italy and rushed back to his native land where his father was dying.
The following three months he frittered away between Hamburg and Berlin. His widowed mother had moved to Hamburg, and she begged him to stay there but he detested the city. It held for him too many bitter memories.
He finally decided to isolate himself. His action was that of the storm-tossed woman of passion who finds refuge in a nunnery.
He went to Potsdam, where he could see only “Himmel und Soldaten”. Potsdam in those days was not the suburb of Berlin that it is today. There was neither Subway nor Elevated nor speedy surface trains to carry one fromUnter den Lindento Sans Souci in half an hour. Then it was a considerable distance from the Prussian capital.
In Potsdam he found himself truly isolated, far from friends and diversions. And he had so many plans for work; the completion of another book; a humorous book, poems, essays, a political treatise. Then, again, here he was safe from his ever threatening peril—of falling in love. He had barely escaped a strong attachment for the wife of a friend, but her intellect had saved him.
He remained at Potsdam nearly six months, working feverishly on new poems.
After a time he found his self-imposed imprisonment irksome. The atmosphere in Potsdam was not to his liking either. The presence of soldiers—die Menschenfresser—everywhere, the artificiality of the gardens of San Souci, where the firs were “masked as orange trees” and “so unnatural that they were almost human”—everything was unbearable here.
He longed for rest. He wished to escape from the tumults of life, from the tumults of his passions. He was a poet and wished to withdraw to bucolic quietude, indulge in pleasant reveries, and pipe sweet melodies.
With the Bible and Homer as his only companions he left his family and friends and went to the seashore. He would forget that he had been the editor of a political journal; he would forget that he had fought the Knights of Darkness; he would forget all the skirmishes in which he had engaged since his early youth. He would lie on the shore, listen to the sporting waves, and watch the clouds overhead.
He wandered along the beach in the twilight, solemn stillness all around him, the vault of heaven “like a Gothic church”, the stars above burning and flickering like countless lamps, the sweep of the waves “like the reverberations of a great organ”. At last he thought he had found himself. Again he wanted to emulate Goethe. He wanted no political strife, no controversial essays, no more ironic flings. Action was not his sphere, politics not his handiwork. He was no Ludwig Börne. He was neither agitator nor reformer. He was a literary artist and must let politics and philosophy alone. He must devote the rest of his life to the observation of nature and to the interpretation of it—that was the thirst of his soul.
Yes, the quiet and peace of the seashore suited him. No one there to engage him in polemics, no one to argue with. He had made the acquaintance of a sea captain and at times listened to tales of the sea, the sea that he loved “as much as his soul”. There were also two young women, whose acquaintance he had made, but neither of them was young or pretty enough to arouse his interest. He was jestingly frivolous with them and they, in turn, lionized him and made him conscious of his fame. Indeed, he had found himself at last. He was supremely happy. After a few more weeks of rest and recuperation he would settle down to his life-work.
One day he was seated in his room reading and dreaming. The house where he lodged was situated on an elevation away from the shore, back of an old church, and commanded a beautiful view of the ocean in the distance; “Zur schönen Aussicht” the owner had named his cottage.
A knock on his door and his landlord, a fisherman, handed him a packet of newspapers and a letter from Berlin. The letter contained nothing of importance beyond literary gossip. He then tore the wrappers from the newspapers and began scanning the narrow columns in a careless, casual manner when he suddenly jumped from his seat, drew his breath, and stared at the sheet before him as if convulsed. At first pallor appeared in his cheeks, then they turned red, and his whole body quivered.
“A revolution!—a revolution!—a revolution, Herr Nikkels!”
Herr Nikkels, the fisherman, stared at the speaker with unconcealed bewilderment. He had thought his lodger a little queer—always walking up and down the seashore when not bathing, or pacing up and down the floor of his room—but he had never seen him so agitated.
Albert raced up and down the room, the newspaper clutched in his hand, a strange glow on his face.
“O, it’s wonderful! glorious!—at last it has come!” he cried.
“What has happened?” the fisherman, still staring, asked.
“Ah, my dear Nikkels, the greatest thing in the world has happened! They are marching in Paris, with the tri-colored flag, singing the Marseillaise. Oh, isn’t it wonderful!” Then stretching his arms upward, “Oh, for a glimpse of Paris today.”
The fisherman drew at his pipe, shrugged his shoulders, and walked out. “This fellow Zorn is quite crazy,” he confided to his wife a few moments later.
Zorn was quite crazy that day. He did not take his prescribed sea-bath, could not read, could not write, dodged every acquaintance on the beach, rushed up and down the shore as if possessed.
Lafayette, the tri-colored flag, the Marseillaise! He could think of nothing else. He was intoxicated, delirious. All his resolutions had gone to the winds—all his resolutions for rest and quiet and peace; his hunger for calm reveries and piping melodies was gone. He was aching for strife, for the very vortex of strife. Ah, if he could whip his countrymen into action and arouse them from their sluggish contentment, perhaps they, too, would hoist the tri-colored flag and sing the Marseillaise!
Aux armes, citoyens!
No piping melodies for him, no fantasies, no love ditties!
Aux armes, citoyens! Aux armes!
He would take the lyre into his hands and sing a battle song. He was no Wolfgang von Goethe, playing with metrical verses while the enemy’s cannons were roaring at the city gates! How differently the ocean waves were galloping to the shore today! They were chanting the Marseillaise, they were calling tumultuously:
“Aux armes, citoyens, aux armes!”
The whole ocean was aflame with the fire that was burning in his heart; the mermaids were dancing with joy, giving athé dansantin honor of the great event. No, no, no rest for him! He was a child of the revolution, rebellion against all tyranny in his blood. He was what he was and could be no other. He would wreathe his head with flowers for the death-struggle to come. Ah, he would smite the pious hypocrites who had crept into the holy of holies to defile it! He would hurl javelins at the tyrants, with their armies ofMenschenfresser, who were holding mankind in fetters of steel! With words like flaming stars he would set fire to the palaces of the oppressors and illumine the dingy huts of the enslaved.
Aux armes, citoyens, aux armes!
He was “all joy and song, all sword and flame.”
“And God said, let there be light!” The torch of the Revolution of July had spread light to all the dark places. To Poland, to Spain, to Britain, to Prussia. All eyes were turned to Paris. From there came the light!
He left the seashore. He could no longer bear the rest and quiet of the place. He went to Hamburg and restlessly watched developments. He could think of nothing but the revolution. He also watched, with a sinking heart, the renewed activities of the authorities. The censor had become even more ruthless. More than half he had written was suppressed. His publishers, the most daring in Germany, had dropped a hint of caution to him. They had learned that the Prussian government had issued a warrant for his arrest. The air of Hamburg was stifling. He wanted to breathe free air. Yes, he must fight, and, if necessary, perish in the war of human liberation. The dawn of a new religion—the religion of freedom—was rising and he must consecrate himself as one of its priests.
When he told Uncle Leopold of his intention to go to Paris the elderly gentleman heaved a sigh of relief. Indeed, he would be happy to defray all expenses for Albert’s stay in Paris as long as he pleased. To be a namesake of Albert Zorn was no great comfort in these stirring days. Leopold Zorn was no revolutionary. He was a law-abiding citizen, and as a great banker he knew that even a tyrannical government was better than a government convulsed.
Albert’s mother could not understand his desire to go to Paris. She had never been outside of Germany, and Paris seemed very distant. What would he do in Paris? Her fond hopes had been rudely shattered. Her poor husband had died with ambitions unattained and now her beloved son, the choice of her flock, was merely drifting, at an age when most men were comfortably established. Of course, she had heard of the abdication of Charles X and of the July Revolution in France, but what had these to do with her son? She was growing old, she was complaining, and craved for quiet and peace. Why go to Paris where there was so much excitement and turmoil?
“How soon will you be back?” she asked of him eagerly.
He was taking leave of her, his arms enfolding her, his sister, with a babe in her arms, standing close by.
“I can’t tell, mother dearest;” looking away wistfully.
“Do take good care of yourself and don’t get mixed up with bad company,” she spoke beseechingly. “Uncle Leopold said——”
“Yes, I know, what Uncle Leopold always says,” he struck in impatiently, with a cynical smile in the deep corners of his mouth. “Hold on to theThalersand the rest will take care of itself.”
There was a melancholy smile on the mother’s benign face. Everything Albert said sounded clever to her ears but she did not like to hear him jest about Uncle Leopold. Leopold was very good to her indeed, as he had always been in the past.
“What will you do in Paris?”
“March and sing the Marseillaise,” he said, laughing.
“Will you ever be serious?”
“It’s because I am too serious that I jest, my little mother.” He kissed her on both cheeks.
The mother sighed; a tear was slowly rolling down her face.
Albert flung his arms around his mother, embraced his sister, kissed her little son, and rushed out of the house. His tears and emotions were choking him.
Outside the sun was shining brightly, light clouds in the sky. It was the first of May, fresh, earth-scented odors in the air. A stolid sluggish fellow, with a large, heavy basket on his head, walked past Albert as he came out of his mother’s house. Albert looked after the fellow and sighed. WillMichelever quicken his step? Ah, the poorMichel! Albert’s heart was wrung with pain. Presently an officer loomed up in the distance. Albert jumped into the vehicle that was waiting for him at the curb.
“Aux armes, citoyens, aux armes!” he murmured to himself as the vehicle rattled away.
PART THREE
A CYNIC IN THE MAKING