When Hilda had suddenly left him he remained at Klopstock’s grave until
the stars appeared. He found the grave symbolic. The grave was the only
place for a poet, he mused in despair—yes, a silent grave under a shady
tree, the roar of the sea in the distance, the silence of fields around.
Ah! the serenity and the beauty of lying still without surging blood,
without agitated nerves, wrapt in a white shroud in the bosom of the
cool earth, in peace, with no sound save the swaying of the branches and
the chance song of a bird! The burden of youth was oppressing him, the
presentiments of sorrows to come were in his heart. For the moment he
wished he were dead—dead at the feet of the silent poet who had sung so
gloriously of the Redeemer. He remained standing before the grave in sad
contemplation of his plight. In vain had he consoled himself that Hilda
loved him. She was just playing with him, he mused bitterly.
He presently fancied himself dead, stretched on the grass alongside the
hillock which held the dust of the great poet, Hilda standing over his
corpse and weeping. There was a touch of joy in his fantasy. Hilda
weeping over his dead body!
He had no recollection of returning to his room. He was dimly conscious
of trying to fall asleep when Klopstock opened the door softly and
tripped in. Klopstock was wrapt in a white shroud and his face was of a
deathly pallor. His face seemed so feminine, and the eyelashes drooped
like Hilda’s. Klopstock then waved an arm and exclaimed—
“Seven times the thund’rous strokes had rent the veil,
When now the voice of God in gentle tone
Was heard descending: ‘God is love,’ it spoke;
‘Love, ere the worlds or their inhabitants
To life were called’——”
Klopstock wept as he recited these immortal lines and his copious tears
dropped on Albert’s brow and curled into the corners of his mouth. A
poet’s tears were saltier than those of ordinary mortals, Albert was
saying to himself as he felt the taste of the drops. He wondered what
Rudolph was doing there. For it was not Klopstock but Rudolph standing
at the foot of his bed. Rudolph was pulling Hilda by the arm and she was
laughing—everybody was laughing, and the orchestra was playing at the
Swiss pavilion on the Jungfernstieg. Strange that instead of the
musicians it was the linden tree—the linden tree over Klopstock’s
grave—that stood in the middle of the musicians’ platform. To the right
of the tree was an open coffin, the lid lying alongside of it. Somebody
was reading a prayer—he could not tell whether it was in Latin or in
Hebrew—yes, it was Aaron Hirsch reading from a prayer book, tears
coursing down his bearded face.
“You are dead, Albert Zorn—you are dead—you are dead,” Hirsch was
saying. Then he felt himself lifted into the coffin, the coffin was
lowered, clods of earth falling upon the lid—thud! thud! thud!—he was
choking—he was trying to get his breath . . .
When he awoke he remembered that he was to leave for Hamburg early that
morning. Yes, somebody was knocking at his door. He dressed quickly, for
he knew his uncle was an impatient man, and rushed downstairs, where he
found him pacing up and down the drawingroom, a cigar between his teeth.
He seemed angry, and when Albert bade him good morning he grunted. Soon
Aunt Betty appeared, and told him to go to the dining-room and have his
breakfast as they had already had theirs. The rest of the family had not
yet risen.
Aunt Betty was kinder than visual. Before leaving she was very
solicitous and kissed him affectionately.
Soon the carriage rolled away along the road lined with poplars, the
rising sun shining cheerily, birds carolling merrily, the horses
whipping their tails in high spirits . . .