At last the eventful morning arrived. Albert had not slept a wink the
night before. Too many tumultuous thoughts had kept him awake. He had
called on Hedwiga the day before and her tears filled him with anguish.
So he spent wakeful hours in composing a poem on the pain of parting and
felt relieved.
Today everything was forgotten. For in front of the house stood a
vehicle, bedded with hay, and two horses with fodder-bags over their
heads, and inside the house his mother was packing his father’s large
folding leather valise, and his sister and his little brothers, were
watching with inquisitive, curious eyes. Albert was too restive to watch
the packing. From time to time he stepped to the window and stole a peep
at the horses outside, a strange joy in his heart, and walked back with
his hands in the pockets of his new coat.
“Mama is crying,” piped up his little brother who stood close to his
mother and followed her every move and insisted upon helping her,
carrying a shirt from a chair nearby. Albert turned his head and glanced
at his mother; she was brushing something from her cheek. His father was
in the shop, making a few entries in his ledger and giving another look
at his balance.
Soon Uncle Salomon arrived, and Aunt Braunelle and Aunt Hanna and Father
Schumacher, with his long pipe in one hand and his silver-headed cane in
the other.
“I hope you’ll become another Rothschild,” Schumacher said as he clasped
the youth’s hand, an irrepressible smile on his fine face.
Mrs. Zorn overheard this and became more intent on forcing some
handkerchiefs into the corner of the traveling bag; there was a touch of
obstinacy around her mouth as she smoothed the bulging packet of linen.
The hour had come. Albert was seated in the hooded coach by the side of
his father, the coachman on the box, a long whip in his hand. Mrs. Zorn
rushed up to embrace her son once more. His sister reminded him to write
to her all about the Roemer and the Zeil, and his little brother called
to his father to remind him of the whistle “with three holes” he had
promised. David Zorn murmured something, the coachman snapped his whip,
and the coach started off with a rattle and clatter over the
cobblestones.
Then everything moved before Albert’s eyes. Schmallgasse, the
Marktplatz, the big bronze statue of Jan Wilhelm, the Great Elector, the
Franciscan cloister, the domes of the churches, the Hofgarten—like a
flowing river, everything seemed to move before him and away from him
. . .
The vehicle lurched and they turned into the main road. Albert stuck out
his head to catch a last glimpse of the disappearing town. The road ran
along elevated ground and he saw in the distance only a mass of crowded
red roofs and a few rising towers against the sunny sky. There was
nothing clear in his mind; nothing but confusion. For he was already
beginning to feel lonesome, his life-associations falling away like
crumbling walls. His father was silent, absent-mindedly stroking his
blond beard and clearing his throat from time to time.
The Rhine Road was finally struck. It followed the bank of the river and
was only a short distance from the shore. The horses snorted and
quickened their steps unbidden by the driver, the dull thump-thump of
their hoofs on the sandy ground was music to Albert’s ears. Wafts of
fresh air—the cool, moist air of spring—came from the winding river; a
bird was twittering in the branches of a nearby willow; a calf was
lowing afar off unseen; a tethered colt galloped in a circle; expanses
of green and brown flew before his eyes; and the sky was pale blue with
endless bars of gray scarcely discernible and blended with the more
colorful texture around them. Now and then glimpses of the Rhine came
into view through the clumps of vines, and Albert was dimly conscious of
links between himself and Gunsdorf. The farther away he traveled from
his native place the more endearing it became and the less alluring the
city of his destination.
Presently his erstwhile enthusiasm for Frankfort was gone. He did not
even think of it. He thought of nothing. He only felt a peculiar
sensation in his heart, a sensation akin to pain, a feeling of
loneliness possessed him. Unconsciously he moved closer to his father,
who was now dozing. He felt dreadfully alone, and soon well-defined
memories of Gunsdorf began to make inroads into his mind. His sister,
his mother, Christian, Hedwiga. His mind was now centered upon Hedwiga.
He let his head rest against the truss of hay back of him. His eyes
closed. There was a strange longing in his heart. He stretched his hand
and imagined he was touching the back of her neck, feeling her shudder
as his fingers played with the soft down close to her ears. His lips
moved as if he were tasting a savory dish. He sensed the sweet fragrance
of her lips. . .
He turned quickly to the right. A girl’s voice was calling “Goodbye.”
For a bare second he was deluded into believing it was Hedwiga’s voice.
But when he craned his neck and peeped outside he beheld a farmhouse, a
fence, an open wicker gate, a barefooted girl with a thin skirt
fluttering in the air, a few strands of flaxen hair flying; a hand
shading smiling eyes. By her side was a little boy waving his hand. . .
He leaned back and watched the stretches of field with a keener zest and
listened languorously to the steady trot-trot of the horses, to the
jingle of the harness. Everything was moving and there was a low hum in
his ears and he felt the warmth of the covers around him and a strange
vagueness before him . . .