Weeks of tantalizing suspense followed. The letters that arrived from
his father stirred Albert’s imagination. They seemed to come from
distant lands, far, far away. And the letters were full of adventurous
episodes: of nights spent in forests because of a broken axle, of weary
tramps because of the horse’s bleeding leg, of halts at the frontier,
and of numerous other perilous mishaps. “But,” as the optimistic David
Zorn put it, “the road to success is always paved with rough stones.”
His letter from Amsterdam was encouraging. No, he could not tell the
extent of the estate, but it was huge. The tone of his succeeding
letters, however, soon grew less and less reassuring, hinting at
intervening difficulties, and he finally announced that he would return
home without the millions as the matter was necessarily complicated and
he could carry on the rest of the negotiations through correspondence.
His father’s return without riches was a stunning blow to the youth. It
meant renewed drudgery and further contact with Father Scher and Kunz
and Fritz. True, his father had not yet abandoned hope—he never did
abandon hope—but Albert realized there were no prospects for a
castle—at least not for the present and no immediate relief from the
Franciscan school! Everything was the same as of old; no change, no
excitement, nothing but the same monotonous business of irregular verbs,
meaningless characters that stood for figures, the same blackboard and
alongside of it another yellow stick in place of the broken one with
whose every projecting knot and gnarl Albert was so familiar. It was a
disheartening scene to see his father alight from the post chaise
without a single bag of gold!
A few moments later came the great disappointment, the final blow. Like
the glad tidings, it came in the form of a letter from Holland one rainy
day in August. The humble shop in Schmallgasse was deserted save for
David who, as usual, was thoughtfully turning the leaves of his ledger
and jotting down some figures on the margin of a page. Zorn was
everlastingly balancing the book, and the more he balanced them the less
they balanced in his favor.
One of the saddest scenes of Albert’s early life took place on the
afternoon following his father’s departure for Hamburg, to get financial
assistance from his brother, Leopold Zorn, a banker.
The mother was alone in the little shop, alone with her thoughts. She
was not thinking of her husband’s reverses nor was she brooding over her
own deprivations. She was wondering what would become of Albert, what
would become of his promising gifts. For while she frequently complained
of his idleness and of his perverseness she was confident that talent
lay slumbering in the boy’s being. True, she had other children but her
heart and hopes were centered upon her first-born. No matter what might
become of the others, nothing must stand in Albert’s way.
A new idea struck her and the thought of it sent a gleam of sunshine to
her dark eyes. She had a pearl necklace of great value and diamond
earrings that might fetch a handsome price; at least sufficient to see
her son through _Gymnasium_ and the University. If she could not make a
banker of him, which was her cherished ambition, let him be a scholar.
But the next moment she remembered her husband. Adornment was his life.
He had often remonstrated against her aversion for wearing jewels.
After a space she saw a way out. Ludwig Grimm, the money-lender at the
Marktplatz, would advance her a considerable amount on her necklace. In
order to spare her husband’s feelings she would not tell him of this
until business had improved when she could redeem her valuables. No one
need know of this—not a soul—and she was sure Grimm would tell no one.
Albert came into the shop as his mother was about to leave on her secret
errand. The boy’s eyes were downcast, there was pallor in his cheeks.
For he, too, had done his share of brooding since the last ray of hope
of the heritage was gone.
“Mother,” he said abruptly, “I’ll take no more private lessons. I—”
“Albert!”
She had hired a music teacher to teach him the violin, and her present
ejaculation was the sudden outlet of her accumulated grief.
For a brief moment Albert weakened, his mother’s evident unhappiness
checked his flow of words, but he soon gained courage.
“Mother, dear, I’ll be no burden to you,” he burst out. “I know—I
understand—I won’t let you spend your last _groschen_ on me—”
“Albert!” she cried, reproach and grief mingled in her tone. “You won’t
break your mother’s heart. Since when have my children become a burden
to me?”
“But, mother dearest,” the boy begged, tears in his eyes, “I am old
enough to be apprenticed—”
“And give up all hope?—Albert!”
The mere intimation of surrender—giving up the chance of becoming a
great man, a scholar if not a banker—cut her to the very heart.
The boy trembled perceptibly. His mother had touched a vibrating chord
in his being. For every thought of his, every dream and fancy, was of
the future. And he was confident of the future; even more confident than
his mother; for every prophetic little Samuel hears the voice of God
before it reaches the ears of the blind Eli, though he may not at first
recognize the voice that calls him.
“Don’t worry, Albert dearest,” the mother sobbed, sunshine through her
tears, “the war will soon be over, business will improve, and you will
not be handicapped for want of money.”
* * * * *
Late that afternoon, in the dimmest twilight, she locked the shop on
Schmallgasse, walked down the narrow street, and turned into the
Marktplatz, an air of stealth in her movements. Frequently she glanced
this way and that, like a hunted criminal, and hugged a little packet to
her breast. When she reached Ludwig Grimm’s pawnshop she halted,
hesitated a moment, took a step backwards, halted again, and then, with
a sudden lurch forward, darted up the three stone steps that led to
Grimm’s and opened the door with a resolute jerk. . . . .