As time went on he felt more lonesome, more isolated, more bored. He was
invited to places but he found the people uninteresting. He was only
enlarging his gallery of faces. They were all discussing the same
subjects, repeating the same gossip, rehashing the same anecdotes. He
was young, imaginative, and craved novelty; and he was too young to know
that in his day, no different from the day of the King Solomon, there
was nothing new under the sun. He had yet to learn that whatever new
there is in life is in one’s own mind and that there are but few people
in any generation who have mind enough to see it.
And what seemed to others complicated was so simple to him. People
blabbed about religion, fought over theology, hated each other because
of sect, as if these were vital principles of life while to him they
were mere playthings, playthings for children. He could not grasp what
the struggle was about. Though considered irreligious he loved the Bible
and loved God as Spinoza had loved Him, as all people of real intellect
loved Him. No other book was as precious to him as the Bible—he had
read it over and over and was still reading it with refreshing joy, and
its poetry, its allegories, its legends, its fables and parables, and
its inundating beauty captivated his soul—but he found nothing
mysterious in it except the mystery there was in all things beautiful.
To him who sees clearly all things are simple. What were the Jesuits and
the Lutherans and the Mendelsohnians and the Talmudists and the Kantians
and the Fichteans—what were they all fighting over? Did any one really
believe that God created the universe in six days? he asked himself time
and again. Did any sane person earnestly claim the serpent myth to have
been a real fact? Did any one earnestly believe the hundreds of
allegories scattered throughout the Great Book to be actual happenings?
Did any one believe in the historical parts in the Bible any more than
in Persian or Grecian myths? Did any one entertain faith in the
immaculate conception? Of course, he knew the ignorant and superstitious
believed in fetishes, but he could not fully comprehend that the
so-called enlightened sincerely believed in all these. He looked into
his own mind and believed he understood all minds. He judged all minds
by his own. At times, in his wanderings through the streets, brandishing
his cane and smiling cynically, he said to himself that either he was an
imbecile and did not possess the ordinary faculties of a human being or
the world was peopled with idiots. There could be no compromise between
the two; either he saw clearly or the millions of struggling bigots saw
the truth. With the sublime self-assurance of youth he knew he was right
and laughed pitifully at the erring souls around him. Yes, he understood
Voltaire. Who would not laugh at the sight of an army of children
dressed up in clothes of grown men and women? Who would not scoff at the
prattling babes imitating the language of their elders? The children
must have some things to play with or to fight over, he mused. Religion
or War? Since the sound of cannon had ceased, the children of men now
engaged with other playthings. When everything else fails religion
supplies the demand for a universal plaything. War and Religion—he
almost preferred the former. The ugly spectacle of Hamburg’s
factionalism disgusted him. And whenever strife is ripe—he beheld all
history at a glance—after every great war, after every economic
upheaval, after every revolution, people turned against his race. He now
understood why his people were called chosen.
His thoughts soon turned to Greece as one tired of a long winter in the
north turns to the sunny south. Greece of old was the sunshine in his
dreary existence. He could not understand the petty strife of the
theology of his day but he grasped the meaning of Old Greece. The one
was sordid prose, the other idyllic poetry. Prose must speak in exact
terms, poetry may be fantastic. He yearned for deities rising from ocean
waves, for a god on Olympus, for goddesses with harps and rainbows and
vessels of nectar. The gods of Hamburg savoured of incense and garlic.
Hilda was to him what the deities were to the Old Greeks, an object of
adoration. She was his Venus, a composite of all things beautiful, his
illusion. In his present state she was the only drop of sweetness in his
bitter cup. All his innate beauty-worship, and all his vision, was
centered upon her. What attributes were not hers his fancy supplied. And
the more hopeless his romantic fancy had become the more he craved her
love—he loved to run after the retreating horizon. At times he would
become vexed and swear that he would love her no more. Twice he had sent
her poems and she had not even acknowledged them, yet he would send her
another poem. It was a sweet lyric, the offspring of pure ecstasy. It
had leaped into being like a bud bursting into bloom. For days he had
hummed it to himself—stroked the petals—and finally dispatched it to
her. He wanted her to know his great sorrow. He was sure she would
understand him now. But like its predecessors, it remained
unacknowledged and unanswered.
A few days later on his return from the midday meal, Aaron Hirsch came
up to him, his perspiring face basking in a sunny smile. “I suppose you
have dined with the family today.”
His voice was ingratiating. Albert looked puzzled.
“Were you not invited? Your esteemed aunt was here and your lovely
cousin, Fräulein Hilda, and, I heard your esteemed uncle say they were
going to have a little family dinner.”
Aaron clasped his little beard as if he were shaking hands with a dear
friend as he proceeded, “Perhaps I should not have told you this, but
you know it hurts me—yes, it hurts me to see you unappreciated. Of
course, I did not dare say all there was on my mind but one day I said
to your esteemed uncle—‘Herr Banquier’, says I, ‘that nephew of yours
will yet do you great honor’, says I—these are the very words I said. I
hate to flatter you but I told him a thing or two about you that did you
no harm, for I know there are others—I’ll mention no names—there are
others who whisper other things in your esteemed uncle’s ear.” And with
a hushing movement of his hand he added, “You know the saying, ‘An ox
has a long tongue but cannot speak.’ One must guard his bread and
butter—I have a wife and seven children!” With a finger at his lips he
made a helpless grimace.
Albert’s face clouded. He did not discuss his personal affairs with
Aaron, though he often encouraged the little man’s monologues. Aaron
appealed to his sense of humor. His expressions, his gestures, his
comments, were mirth-provoking. Today he made no rejoinder. He wanted
Hirsch to leave him alone. His aunt and Hilda visited the bank and had
not taken the trouble to see him—Hilda, to whom he had sent his finest
lyrics only a few days ago!
He rose from his work and, without saying a word to anyone, left the
bank. He overheard Mr. Elfenbein mumble something about his idleness but
he did not care. A thousand needles were pricking at the base of his
brain. He could not stand still. With cane in hand he sauntered along
the Jungfernstieg, listlessly watched the swans in the Alster basin, and
finally landed in the Swiss Pavilion, Hamburg’s most festive café.