Later in the day he penned the following letter to Christian:
“My dear Christian:
“It seems I never write to you unless I am either in the seventh heaven
or in the depths of hell. However, just now I may be only in purgatory.
Who knows? But today I am angry, cross, furious; my wits are in
mourning; the wings of my fancy are clipped. I am a blind Samson in the
midst of jeering Philistines, with no pillars to pull down on my
enemies. I have wound up my _immense_ business, or rather it has wound
me up. Please don’t laugh. I have risen in the world. Very few have
achieved the state of bankruptcy at my time of life. It’s quite a
distinction, you must own. Well, you always did prophesy greatness for
me. But my good uncle has paid all my obligations so my fame as a
bankrupt won’t be of long duration.
“What a life I have led the past twelve months? God and Satan strove for
my soul and in the conflict tore it to shreds. My inner life has been
continuous brooding over the depths of the world of dreams, my outer
life wild, cynical, dissolute, hateful. Yes, _amice_, at last I
understand heaven and hell—with special emphasis on the latter. I am
sure when I die I shall be appointed chief guide in hell, for I am
familiar with every road and byway of the subterranean region, and could
teach Dante a thing or two. Of course, my good Christian will have no
occasion to meet me in Gehenna. I am sure Saint Peter will open the
gates of heaven for you at the first glimpse of your benevolent
countenance, but, then, I will interrupt the saintly doorkeeper and ask
permission to show you _my_ dominion first. Who can tell, you may be
just in time to see Lilith and her bevy of sporting witches go bathing
in the Styx, and I give you my word you shall not be hurried.
“But I do have good news for you. I shall soon leave for Cuxhaven, where
the doctors assure me the sea baths will restore my health, which has
not been of the best. And the thought of leaving this hateful city
already makes me feel refreshed. I detest this place and the
people—everybody, everybody. I am sick at heart. You can readily
understand my state of feelings that aside from my own grief—the grief
of my many dismal failures—my blood is boiling within me at the memory
of an ugly spectacle I witnessed the other night. It is too painful to
speak of it; the iron has entered my soul; everything within me has
turned to gall. The ‘Baptised traders’ here have launched a fierce
attack against the _Un-Baptised_. The irony of it! The pot calls the
kettle black. Those hideous cowards! You know me well enough that I am
no more blind to the shortcomings of the Jews than any Christian, but
when I see those selfish, cruel monsters revive the barbarism of the
Middle Ages my heart cries in anguish. Those barbarians! In one breath
they boast that they surpass the English in commerce, the French in art,
the Greeks in philosophy, the Romans in warfare, and in the very next
breath clamor that unless the progress of the Jews is checked the Teuton
will be exterminated! Those miserable cowards! Twenty millions of these
superior beings afraid of a handful of Jews! It would be laughable were
it not so tragic! But I can’t speak of it, I can’t think of it—
“But wait, the day of reckoning will come. Before they have shaved my
locks and put my eyes out I will tie firebrands to the tails of these
foxes—you remember the story of Samson and the Philistines?—Yes, I
will smite them hip and thigh, but not with the jawbone of an ass; a
goose quill is my weapon.
“Did I say I was unhappy? I am to leave this cursed city, which holds
for me nothing but the bitterest memories. So I will go to Bonn.
“O, what a comedy life is!—But enough!
From the depths I call to Thee, Oh, Lord!
Albert”