“_Es küsst sich so süsse der Busen der Zweiten_
_Als kaum sich der Busen der Ersten geküsst._”
Goethe.
What youth, what poetic youth, could not say this with equal truth if he
would, had he the candor of the great bard of Weimar? Albert Zorn had
more than candor; the public was his priest to whom he confessed more
than he sinned. He never concealed the fact that to him woman was an
antidote to woman. And love was such a wonderful inspiration for
melodious verses! At times he could not tell which he loved most, the
melodious verses or the woman who inspired them.
Had he already forgotten Hedwiga with that waxen face and white shroud?
Indeed not; he sang of her in the most tragic refrains and dedicated to
her memory a dream picture—_ein Traumbild_—and when he read it over
and over, again and again, his heart almost broke and burning tears
bedewed his flushed cheeks. But even as he wept for Hedwiga he yearned
for some other pretty maiden to take her place in his heart.
He had changed considerably during this listless year. He had grown
taller, his hair was longer and fell unevenly over his coat collar, and
his sparkling eyes were even more narrowed, as if to hide from the
people around him how much he could see; there was also something
indefinable about the deep corners of his large mouth that seemed
provoking. He carried a cane and brandished it dreamily as he strolled
through the lime-tree lane in the Hofgarten, where there were always
pretty girls in gay colors “like bright tulips planted along the flowery
paths.”
The year seemed interminably long. Without school attendance, without
any definite hours allotted to study or work, without any occupation, he
was fancy free. He read whatever books suited his taste and gave
expression to whatever ideas flitted through his brains. And after the
ecstasy of composition would come despair, the despair that must come to
the artist striving after perfection of expression, when he would regard
his songs and dream-pictures as mere drivel. What would become of him!
True, Christian was ever ready with his solace—the greatness of many
had remained unrecognized for a time, he reminded Albert—but that did
not console the young poet. Ah, he was a worthless fellow—what would
become of him!
Then he would shut himself up in his room, without wishing to see any
one. He would be weighed down by his grief, the grief of his conflicting
emotions and thoughts. He would reveal himself to himself and hate
himself. He had already passed his eighteenth year and nothing had
happened. What would become of him?
But what was there for him to do? His father’s business was worthless;
he did not care for his grandfather’s profession, though he had
entertained it for a while since Schiller, too, had been a physician;
and jurisprudence—well, he had no taste for that. Besides, a university
career meant a great expenditure of money and he knew it was beyond his
parents’ means.
At last the father wrote to his brother, Leopold, and asked for his
advice. Leopold told him to send the young man to Hamburg. He would find
a place for him.