Eager to have some of his poems published, and finding no publisher to
risk his imprint, he sent a few verses to _Hamburg’s Waechter_, a newly
founded periodical, whose secret aim was Jew-baiting.
The editor of this journal, one Karl Trummer, was one of those
pen-patriots who abound in every land in times of great strife and who
sell their pens to the highest bidder. After every war there is a
feeling present that the bloodshed was useless, and every faction blames
the other. In spite of Hegel’s saying that the only thing man learns
from history is that he learns nothing from history, certain
pen-patriots have learned that laying the blame at the door of one class
satisfies all other classes—the same class that bore the brunt when
wells were poisoned, when the Black Plague raged, when famine swept the
land, when reason dethroned the idols of antiquity. The Jew has always
been an atoning scapegoat.
Little thinking of the policy of this journal—thinking only of having
some of his verses appear in print—and though concealing his identity
under an ingenious pseudonym, the authorship of these ballads was soon
learned, and Albert found himself more disliked than ever. He was
regarded with contempt by the Jews and with indifference by his
non-Jewish friends. And in order to make him feel the sting of their
hatred the Jews belittled his talents. That _Gassenjunge_ a _poet_! they
sneered. His language was so simple that a child—“even a maid
servant”—could understand it! How, really, could one be a poet who
could be understood by everybody?
Embittered he isolated himself altogether. He was in his room night
after night, reading, writing, thinking. He paid no attention to Dame
Gossip and her wagging tongue. Too many thoughts crowded his brain, too
many conflicting opinions. For he read books on all sorts of
subjects—poetry, philosophy, theology, tales, legends—and he never
read passively. He either praised or condemned. And the books he read
not only imparted to him the knowledge of the authors but, like
narcotics, stimulated the intuitive knowledge within him.
When he casually did meet people he voiced his convictions too freely.
He was still of an age when impressions were easily made and for the
time they seemed indelible. He was impetuous, ardent, argumentative. He
was witty and people liked to listen to him even though they hated him
for his utterances. And when his convictions changed—as the convictions
of liberal minds and those of sincere purpose must change—he gave frank
expression to these changes. People called him fickle and thought him
flippant, failing to realize the struggles of a soul in its efforts to
adjust itself. He was likewise vacillating in his literary attempts.
Before he fully developed one poetic theme another rushed upon him and
he halted the latter for still another.
His presence in the bank had finally become a source of annoyance.
Martin Elfenbein could hardly contain himself. In spite of frequent
warnings Albert came and went whenever he pleased. Yet, no one dared
discharge him.
At last the inevitable happened. He was advised that his services were
no longer needed in the bank. No one was happier than Albert. He was
glad to be rid of this place, no matter what the outcome might be.
But before long Uncle Leopold had established his nephew in a new
business. Albert was conscious of his importance when he beheld the
sign:
ALBERT ZORN
KOMMISSIONGESCHAEFT
He was now a full fledged merchant, and he could come and go as he
pleased without being eyed by that hateful Martin Elfenbein. And he did
not owe a _Pfennig_ for his stock of goods. His quick-tempered but
generous uncle, after reprimanding him for his past transgressions, had
filled up the shop with cloth wares and told him everything was his
providing he attended to business and managed to replenish the shelves
with the money taken in.
The novelty of the thing stimulated his energies for a while. Besides,
the odor of the bolts of new cloth, the color of the chintzes, the
haggling of the customers amused him. At first everything amused him and
appealed to his sense of humor. The manners and faces of the agents who
came to sell goods, the people who came to purchase, were an
inexhaustible source of fun to him. Human faces and figures always
suggested to him various species of animals or grotesque subjects. In
one he saw the face of an airedale, in another that of a rabbit, a
bulldog, a calf, or some ludicrous physiognomy. The forms of other
customers seemed to him to resemble numerical figures. As a result there
was a never-dying smile on his face and something akin to mockery in his
perpetually narrowed eyes. At times, however, he would forget his
merchandise and indulge in conversation foreign to his business. All
sorts of news was afloat in the air in those days—strange rumors from
France, from Austria, from England and scores of new movements in
Germany—and Albert gave free reign to his tongue. He made comments,
coined epigrams, gave expression to cynical remarks, which were repeated
in the Pavilions and, expatiated upon, were carried to his uncle.
Leopold Zorn had ordered Aaron Hirsch to keep his eye on his
incorrigible nephew and make reports of the young man’s conduct, and
while endeavoring to shield Albert, Aaron had “a wife and seven
children” and had to do his duty.
Aaron’s reports were not encouraging. Not infrequently when Aaron called
he found no one at the shop, the door unlocked, the proprietor away at
the Swiss Pavilion. Aaron played pranks upon Albert and carried off
numerous articles, which were undetected by the owner, until their
return by the sly Hirsch.
What Albert could not understand was the unsolvable riddle at the end of
six months; he had neither money nor merchandise and no one owed him
anything! He put the problem up to Aaron but instead of explaining the
situation Aaron laughed until tears rolled down his bearded cheeks.
“It’s a great mystery,” Albert said with mock gravity. “Perhaps a
Kabbalist might be able to bring Elisha back to life, and the prophet,
who could fill barrels of oil from an empty jug, might stretch a yard of
velveteen into a thousand bolts.”
When laughter subsided Albert produced a few sheets from his breast
pocket and read a few of his latest verses.
“Ah! if I could put these on the shelves!” he sighed.