Chapter VII: Part ONE: A Poet in the Making (6)

What studies? What profession would suit him? His first thought was of medicine, the career of his grandfather and of his Uncle Joseph, but he hated medicine. Besides, Albert was not blind to his shortcomings. An exact science was not for him. Anatomy, Materia Medica, Physiology, Chemistry—his head began to ache at the very thought of committing formulas and definitions to memory. What other profession was open to him? He smiled as he recalled Father Schumacher’s advice to his mother. Yes, student life in Rome appealed to him. The robe of the priest might even be becoming to him. He visualized himself in the black robe of the priesthood and a humorous smile spread over his countenance. He had read the “Decameron” and had also heard not a few delectable yarns about priests. And he recalled the pretty face of a nun with downcast demure eyes. And the blue skies of Italy and the dark skinned maidens of Tuscany—many fantasies leaped into his brain, alluring fantasies. The priesthood seemed to him an ideal career for a poet. He always loved mythology, and, after all, he continued in the same musing vein, Catholicism was the new mythology. The Immaculate Conception, the Virgin, the Man God, the Crucifixion, the Altar, the Incense—mythology of another age. What difference did it make whether God is one, Three or a Million? The Children of Men must have toys to play with, and one is as good as another. Toys never last long. The children play with them a while, destroy them, and cry for more toys, which, in turn, are broken and replaced by others. The Persians found amusement in one kind of toy, the Jews in another, the Greeks in still another, and then the Romans, and so on until the end of time. Conversion? Albert laughed as this term passed through his mind. It had always been so odious to the Jews, and was also odious to him, but now he laughed at the thought of it.

The day drew to a close. He rose, put on his hat and topcoat, locked the shop, and walked aimlessly along the streets, still musing and thinking. His thoughts were soon arrested by the procession of _Judenhetzers_ singing an obscene song. His idle musing stopped.

All thoughts fled from his mind. He felt as if some one had suddenly gripped at his heart and wrung every drop of blood from it. And he, too, moved along, the very poignant pain propelling him onward. People in the procession saw him but no one took him for one of the Chosen. His blond hair and proud bearing saved him from personal molestation.

The following morning found Albert in bed, suffering from a painful headache, needles pricking at the base of his brain. The good Frau Rodbertus applied compresses to his head and attended him with maternal tenderness.

“Too much reading and writing, Herr Zorn,” she spoke solicitously and passed her hand soothingly over his disheveled hair and feverish brow.

“_Nein, liebe Frau Rodbertus, zu viel Christliche Liebe_, (too much Christian love),” he murmured, a strange smile stealing over his wan features.

Frau Rodbertus smiled, too. She took him literally and, waving an admonishing finger at him with scolding playfulness said, “The girls will be your ruination if you don’t take better care of yourself.”

VII.

Later in the day he penned the following letter to Christian:

“My dear Christian:

“It seems I never write to you unless I am either in the seventh heaven or in the depths of hell. However, just now I may be only in purgatory. Who knows? But today I am angry, cross, furious; my wits are in mourning; the wings of my fancy are clipped. I am a blind Samson in the midst of jeering Philistines, with no pillars to pull down on my enemies. I have wound up my _immense_ business, or rather it has wound me up. Please don’t laugh. I have risen in the world. Very few have achieved the state of bankruptcy at my time of life. It’s quite a distinction, you must own. Well, you always did prophesy greatness for me. But my good uncle has paid all my obligations so my fame as a bankrupt won’t be of long duration.

“What a life I have led the past twelve months? God and Satan strove for my soul and in the conflict tore it to shreds. My inner life has been continuous brooding over the depths of the world of dreams, my outer life wild, cynical, dissolute, hateful. Yes, _amice_, at last I understand heaven and hell—with special emphasis on the latter. I am sure when I die I shall be appointed chief guide in hell, for I am familiar with every road and byway of the subterranean region, and could teach Dante a thing or two. Of course, my good Christian will have no occasion to meet me in Gehenna. I am sure Saint Peter will open the gates of heaven for you at the first glimpse of your benevolent countenance, but, then, I will interrupt the saintly doorkeeper and ask permission to show you _my_ dominion first. Who can tell, you may be just in time to see Lilith and her bevy of sporting witches go bathing in the Styx, and I give you my word you shall not be hurried.

“But I do have good news for you. I shall soon leave for Cuxhaven, where the doctors assure me the sea baths will restore my health, which has not been of the best. And the thought of leaving this hateful city already makes me feel refreshed. I detest this place and the people—everybody, everybody. I am sick at heart. You can readily understand my state of feelings that aside from my own grief—the grief of my many dismal failures—my blood is boiling within me at the memory of an ugly spectacle I witnessed the other night. It is too painful to speak of it; the iron has entered my soul; everything within me has turned to gall. The ‘Baptised traders’ here have launched a fierce attack against the _Un-Baptised_. The irony of it! The pot calls the kettle black. Those hideous cowards! You know me well enough that I am no more blind to the shortcomings of the Jews than any Christian, but when I see those selfish, cruel monsters revive the barbarism of the Middle Ages my heart cries in anguish. Those barbarians! In one breath they boast that they surpass the English in commerce, the French in art, the Greeks in philosophy, the Romans in warfare, and in the very next breath clamor that unless the progress of the Jews is checked the Teuton will be exterminated! Those miserable cowards! Twenty millions of these superior beings afraid of a handful of Jews! It would be laughable were it not so tragic! But I can’t speak of it, I can’t think of it—

“But wait, the day of reckoning will come. Before they have shaved my locks and put my eyes out I will tie firebrands to the tails of these foxes—you remember the story of Samson and the Philistines?—Yes, I will smite them hip and thigh, but not with the jawbone of an ass; a goose quill is my weapon.

“Did I say I was unhappy? I am to leave this cursed city, which holds for me nothing but the bitterest memories. So I will go to Bonn.

“O, what a comedy life is!—But enough! From the depths I call to Thee, Oh, Lord!

Albert”

VIII.

A mid-April day, rather warm for the season. The sunbeams were playing around the slender spire of the Petrithurm at Hamburg, with sparkling flashes at the bluish surfaces of the calm waters of the Alster.

At the curb before one of the houses on Grosse Bleichenstrasse stood a blinking horse, harnessed to a cart, a driver fidgeting with whip and reins. Soon the portal of the courtyard opened and from it emerged a strapped black leather valise, then a little squatty man, then a slender young man of medium height with small greenish eyes and light brown hair, carrying a cane and an umbrella in one hand and in the other a small bundle.

The older man placed the valise in the cart, the younger one threw in the bundle, umbrella and cane; the two clasped hands.

There was a mist in the prominent eyes of the older man. There was a faint smile on the large mouth of the younger, a smile pregnant with sadness.

“Goodbye, _mein lieber Herr Zorn_,” murmured the older man.

There was emotion in his voice, tenderness in his tone, sorrow on his face.

“Adieu,” muttered the young man; an involuntary sigh escaped his lips.

Their hands remained clasped.

“I hope success will meet you wherever you turn,” the older resumed affectionately. “I hope your enemies will have no occasion to rejoice——”

A smile again appeared on the young man’s pale face, a cynical smile that only touched the iris of his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t worry, _lieber Hirsch_. _Sie werden noch von mir hören!_” (You will hear from me yet!)

A sympathetic pressure of their hands and they both smiled.

The young man jumped into the vehicle, the driver slightly rose in his seat and clacked his tongue, the horses moved.

“Goodbye,” the man called from the curb.

“Goodbye,” called back the young man from the moving cart and waved his hand . . .