V.

At present Hamburg seemed to Albert even more prosaic than ever. He felt

more lonesome, everybody bored him. As the master hums so do the

hirelings sing. Everyone in the bank treated him as if he did not belong

there, and the little courtesy he received was perfunctory, and out of

respect for his uncle. They had no regard for a young man who wrote

poetry and talked philosophy. Aaron Hirsch was the only one who showed

him proper respect, but even he looked around as if afraid to be caught

talking familiarly with the young idler.

On the day of his return from his uncle’s villa, Aaron clasped his hand

and held it rather affectionately for a moment or so.

“I’ll bet you had a wonderful time. Isn’t the villa wonderful! Salomon

in all his glory never had a finer palace. And the grounds!” He shrugged

his shoulders with an expression of the inexpressible. “It made me think

of the Garden of Eden. And that stream running through the woods back of

the mansion—It’s just like the river Hiddekel in the Bible! Yes, sir, a

veritable Garden of Eden, with no beguiling serpent to cause trouble in

the family—”

Aaron laughed a loud “Hi-hi” and “Ho-ho!” but he presently checked

himself, with a serious grimace on his face.

“You don’t seem very happy—” He eyed him scrutinizingly. “Perhaps there

was a beguiling serpent after all.” He emitted a forced little laugh.

“There is a beguiling serpent in every Garden of Eden,” replied Albert

in a jesting tone.

Hirsch then began to talk of other things.

“I should like to take you to the Reform Temple,” he was saying, “where

all the aristocrats go. I? No, I don’t belong there. I am an

old-fashioned Jew, and orthodoxy is good enough for the likes of me. And

to tell the truth—” he moved closer to Albert and lowered his voice as

if he were about to confide a secret—“I don’t care much for this

hocus-pocus reform. If I want to pray to the God of Abraham, Isaac and

Jacob, I need no groaning organ or chanting choir to carry my prayers to

heaven. No, not me. Whenever I visit the Reform synagogue I am reminded

of the time the Prussian King was here last winter. There was so much

parading and drumming and shooting of cannon in his honor that when he

addressed the people no one could hear a word he said. Yes, my child, I

am an old-fashioned Jew. I love my Hebrew prayers with all their

trimmings as I love my _Chalet_ cooked in the old way—I prefer it to

the best _Rost-Braten_ prepared by your uncle’s chef. When I want to

pray I wrap myself in my _talis_ and pray. I don’t care for the

Protestant hymns Judaised. I prefer a heart-to-heart talk with my God in

the language we both understand—God and I—and no elocutionary

nonsense. I mean no offense, God forbid—no, no, I know my place and

mean no criticism of my betters. Your esteemed uncle belongs to the

Reformers, and I get my bread and butter from him. Indeed, I do not mean

to criticize my superiors, but when I get to the Temple I get the

shivers, so help me God! There is no warmth in it. Doctor Kley, the

preacher, is afraid to make a gesture with his arms for fear he might be

mistaken for a Jew—” Hirsch bleated long and juicily—“and the

congregation sit as if they are afraid to stir and awaken God from His

slumber. A hearty prayer for me! The God of Israel never cared for

Hamburg manners.”

“Why don’t you try and convert my uncle?” Albert goaded him on.

“I convert your uncle? There are too many conversions already; and far

be it from me—a common, everyday man—to proselyte. Aaron Hirsch knows

when to talk and when to hold his tongue.”

“Why not turn Christian and be done with it?” asked Albert, hiding an

inner chuckle.

Aaron placed the index finger at his elongated nose and, glancing at the

young man sideways, his head slightly inclined to one side, said,

“Christianity, my child, is no better than Judaism. There is Catholicism

for instance—I went into a Catholic church the other day and the

sadness of it all and the flickering of candles and the smell of incense

made me feel that God had just died and had not been embalmed soon

enough. No, no, my child, a living, cheerful God for Aaron Hirsch!”

“How about the Protestant religion?”

“That’s a little better, I own. I visited the Old Protestant Church only

last year. No crosses, no effigies, no incense, no smell of the

dead—honestly, if they left Jesus out of their ritual I might be

tempted to let the Protestants join our synagogue.”

Albert found Hirsch stimulating. As in the case of books Albert did not

find Hirsch valuable for his own sake but for his jabber that aroused

new thoughts in his brain.

After business hours he could not remain in his room and yet would

accept no invitations to call upon those who desired to show him

hospitality. He often left his room in self-defense against Frau

Rodbertus’ monologues. She was tall and flat, her hair parted in the

middle, a gown sweeping to the floor and only betraying the tips of her

slippers. Her face was always in repose, her lips pouting, as if she

were ready to be painted at any moment. She habitually had her hands

clasped in front of her, even when standing, and when in action (she

never stopped talking) she slightly moved her head from side to side

with the coquetry of a young girl on her first introduction to a

presentable young man. Albert had no difficulties in finding out that

the pretty girl he saw at her house on the day of his arrival was the

daughter of a French emigré, a relation of hers.

Although, as directed by his uncle, Aaron volunteered to show him the

city, Albert preferred to make his own discoveries. He tramped the

streets, dropped into cafés, studied the people about him and when

bed-time came was exhausted and irritated. There was no variety of types

here to arouse his lively imagination. Big, rotund men with red faces,

and insipid flaxen haired youths with expressionless eyes and duel

scars; stout, dull women, and flighty girls who flaunted their sex in

the face of every passerby on the Jungfernstieg.

He would return to his room overwhelmed by a feeling of sordidness. No

new thoughts, no fresh sentiments, nothing but stagnation. He was in

despair. He feared the poet in him had suddenly died. An alarming

thought raced through his brain one evening. Was the ambition of his

youth a vain dream? He picked up a volume of Goethe, of Lessing, of

Klopstock, but they received no response from his soul; they did not

thrill him; their beauty was meaningless to him; their imageries evoked

no visions in his mind. A terrible fear possessed him. Was he becoming

sterile? Was his imagination barren? He tried to express his present

despair but even that failed him. His mind was a blank. He felt like a

singer who suddenly finds his voice failing. He had not yet learned that

beauty often springs from sorrow, that despair often begets ecstasy.