In youth experiences produce impressions, at a maturer age they generate
thought. Albert’s mind had the peculiarity of both, youth and maturity.
Impressions and thoughts came to him almost simultaneously.
The humiliation of his present surroundings made him shrink with a
sensitiveness he could not define. He had thought the Ghetto belonged to
the dark ages. He did not yet realize that there was but a step between
the Dark Ages and any Age. The bitterness of his soul crowded out every
other thought, every other feeling. The jubilee he had witnessed was to
him the rejoicing of the sporting Philistines around the chained Samson.
On his return to the tavern he threw himself upon his bed, his hands
clasped under his head, his face toward the ceiling, tortured by a
thousand conflicting thoughts. The back of his head was burning, and
there was a pain in his eyes, the harbinger of one of his nervous
headaches.
He tossed and turned. He felt as if the ceiling were coming down on him,
as if the walls were pressing together, the very air seemed suffocating.
Incoherently the morning scenes flitted through his mind—white robed
priests—white—the symbol of truth and purity—the crucifix moulded of
silver against a black background—another symbol—the images of saints,
their eyes turned heavenward—Ah, that was too much for the impulsive,
poetic youth, who never had to search for the truth, to whom truth came
flying. He was writhing with pain, the mortifying pain of helplessness.
No, he was not helpless, he was saying to himself. Socrates was not
helpless; Spinoza was not helpless; Lessing was not helpless. Every one
must carry his torch as well as his cross. Yes, he would make his torch
flare so that it would dispel the darkness around him. A strange
ambition seized him. He did not want to be a poet. He did not want to be
a money changer. He wanted to be a warrior to help mankind free itself
from its own enslavement. Nor did he crave earthly pleasures. For the
moment he was an old man satiated with the pleasures and pains of life.
Then came over him the sweeping melancholy of blossoming youth. The
heavens opened before him and he caught a glimpse of eternity. Yes, he
might fight—live and fight for the truth.
How strong the sun was shining in his eyes! Its rays were coming through
a window opposite his bed. He turned his face to the wall, away from the
light. Patches of pink and yellow and purple floated before his eyes in
the shape of lotus flowers, and around them large golden wheels
revolved, emitting diamond sparks, with the sound of a waterfall in his
ears . . . No, it was not the sound of rushing water. It was a musical
sound . . .
He soon recognized the tune. It was Allegri’s Miserere . . . and the
light of an oblique column of sun dust was in his eyes . . He turned and
noticed the strong sunlight falling upon the wooden image of the
Christ—the wooden image that stood under those arches in the Franciscan
cloister. It was the same figure, the same bleeding Christ with a broad
gash between the ribs, the same smear of blood. The figure was nodding
its head—it was beckoning to him—but he could not budge. The figure
then began to move toward him, and the palms, instead of nailed to the
cross, were unfastened and turned heavenward, and the head, instead of
drooping, was thrown back, with derisive laughter on the sorrowful
face—Yes, the figure was laughing, a strange, mocking laugh that made
him shudder, and the laughter blended weirdly with the dying notes of
the Miserere—
“Are you asleep, Albert?”
His father’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.
“No, I haven’t slept—I am just resting—” Albert mumbled and rose to a
sitting posture.
“Herr Rindskopf assured me there is a great opportunity for you in his
bank,” Zorn was saying cheerfully. “And he is a fine man to work for,
Rindskopf is.”
Albert listened to his father as if in a dream, as if only remotely
interested in the subject.