Hirsch soon left and Albert was again alone. He dreaded the meeting with
his uncle. If he could only check himself and let his uncle’s storm blow
over, but he insisted upon arguing, trying to convince his uncle that
he, Albert, and not the banker, was right. A gleam of hope appeared on
the horizon. Uncle Leopold had hinted at paying him a stipend if he
would go to the university of Bonn or Goettingen and continue his
studies.
What studies? What profession would suit him? His first thought was of
medicine, the career of his grandfather and of his Uncle Joseph, but he
hated medicine. Besides, Albert was not blind to his shortcomings. An
exact science was not for him. Anatomy, Materia Medica, Physiology,
Chemistry—his head began to ache at the very thought of committing
formulas and definitions to memory. What other profession was open to
him? He smiled as he recalled Father Schumacher’s advice to his mother.
Yes, student life in Rome appealed to him. The robe of the priest might
even be becoming to him. He visualized himself in the black robe of the
priesthood and a humorous smile spread over his countenance. He had read
the “Decameron” and had also heard not a few delectable yarns about
priests. And he recalled the pretty face of a nun with downcast demure
eyes. And the blue skies of Italy and the dark skinned maidens of
Tuscany—many fantasies leaped into his brain, alluring fantasies. The
priesthood seemed to him an ideal career for a poet. He always loved
mythology, and, after all, he continued in the same musing vein,
Catholicism was the new mythology. The Immaculate Conception, the
Virgin, the Man God, the Crucifixion, the Altar, the Incense—mythology
of another age. What difference did it make whether God is one, Three or
a Million? The Children of Men must have toys to play with, and one is
as good as another. Toys never last long. The children play with them a
while, destroy them, and cry for more toys, which, in turn, are broken
and replaced by others. The Persians found amusement in one kind of toy,
the Jews in another, the Greeks in still another, and then the Romans,
and so on until the end of time. Conversion? Albert laughed as this term
passed through his mind. It had always been so odious to the Jews, and
was also odious to him, but now he laughed at the thought of it.
The day drew to a close. He rose, put on his hat and topcoat, locked the
shop, and walked aimlessly along the streets, still musing and thinking.
His thoughts were soon arrested by the procession of _Judenhetzers_
singing an obscene song. His idle musing stopped.
All thoughts fled from his mind. He felt as if some one had suddenly
gripped at his heart and wrung every drop of blood from it. And he, too,
moved along, the very poignant pain propelling him onward. People in the
procession saw him but no one took him for one of the Chosen. His blond
hair and proud bearing saved him from personal molestation.
The following morning found Albert in bed, suffering from a painful
headache, needles pricking at the base of his brain. The good Frau
Rodbertus applied compresses to his head and attended him with maternal
tenderness.
“Too much reading and writing, Herr Zorn,” she spoke solicitously and
passed her hand soothingly over his disheveled hair and feverish brow.
“_Nein, liebe Frau Rodbertus, zu viel Christliche Liebe_, (too much
Christian love),” he murmured, a strange smile stealing over his wan
features.
Frau Rodbertus smiled, too. She took him literally and, waving an
admonishing finger at him with scolding playfulness said, “The girls
will be your ruination if you don’t take better care of yourself.”