The greatest jest in life is that but few see the jest, and these few
find it at their own expense.
Albert left the Lutheran clergyman stunned. The ceremony of the baptism,
the seriousness of the God-fearing clergyman—these were all a dream but
vaguely remembered. Sincerity always found an echo in his heart, no
matter how much he differed from the other’s convictions, and the
evident conscientiousness of the pious pastor who had performed the
ceremony impressed him. It impressed him as if he had witnessed the
conversion of a person other than himself. He viewed things from so many
different angles that the same object often assumed different shapes,
depending upon his mood at the time he viewed it. His mind, like concave
and convex mirrors, at times, reflected odd shapes. One moment he was
calm and accepted the baptism as a definite change in his views of life,
the next he cowered before his perfidy; and then, again, he laughed at
the whole thing as if it were a _Kinderspiel_. He wished he could always
regard it so. He felt more at peace with himself when the baptism
appeared as a mere boyish prank. After all, the sublime and the
ridiculous are but viewpoints.
However, he walked through the Wender Gate with a sneaking feeling in
his heart. He returned to his lodgings shamefaced. The deed was done;
the faltering of years had culminated into action. There was no going
back. No matter what he might do or think nothing could undo this act.
Was it really such an important step? He shuddered. He tried to persuade
himself that it was but a triviality, a matter of no moment, a mere
empty ceremony, but there was a flutter in his heart, a fine
perspiration on his pensive countenance. Why should he not have done it?
He asked himself almost angrily, as if refuting an accusation. Was he
not a German like other Germans? And he always did admire Luther. It was
really most fitting that a liberal minded man like himself should follow
in the footsteps of the great Luther. He dwelt upon the noble virtues of
the great reformer with a keen sense of satisfaction. He visualized the
mental struggles of the champions of religious freedom. He felt that he
was helping the Man of Worms nail the edict upon the church doors. And
he certainly had no reason to regret the affiliation with the great Son
of Galilee. He drew a breath of defiance. The lives of all great men
were the stories of revolt.
He was mentally fatigued and wished he could stop thinking. One of his
nervous headaches was coming on. He must not torture his brain any
longer. He must give himself to his studies. In about three weeks he
must deliver a discourse on jurisprudence in order to obtain his coveted
degree. Jurisprudence!—that accursed study, that pseudo-scientific
jugglery, that system of Roman casuistry!—why had he spent three of his
fairest, most blooming years on subjects so repugnant to him? One link
of thought brought another, an endless chain. If he had not studied law
he would not have bent his knee to the cross. He was a martyr yesterday,
today a villainous coward! _Gestern noch ein Held gewesen—Ist man heute
schon ein Schurke!_
O, the misery of involuntary thoughts forcing an entrance into one’s
brain! He was tired of the whole business. He wanted to laugh, to jest,
to invoke his sense of humor. His sense of humor had always been such an
outlet for his feelings. He could always laugh away the most serious
things in life. And this was not even serious—how the clergyman had
rolled his eyes as he offered a prayer for the newborn soul of the
convert—some day he would give a humorous description of it in a
poem—no, he would describe it in a novel. What was he thinking of? O,
yes, the clergyman’s solemnity. For a moment this struck him ludicrously
and he burst into laughter. But enough—enough! His head was splitting,
a thousand needles were pricking back of his eyeballs, and he was weary,
weary unto death. He must stop thinking. He must . . . The whole thing
was not worth thinking about . . .
In order to banish these torturing thoughts he began to think of his
friend Gustav Moses in Berlin. The thought of Moses always had a
soothing effect on him—that great soul! Moses was a sanctuary, a holy
shrine, in whose presence all things and beings were pure. Though he was
no expounder of new theories, no source of new philosophies, Moses
always brought Spinoza to Albert’s mind. There was something of that
great philosopher’s simplicity and goodness and purity in Moses. He must
write to him and unbosom himself to his precious friend. Moses would
understand. Moses understood so many things most people did not
comprehend. Yet when he sat down with a quill in his hand sudden shame
overwhelmed him. Why was he ashamed? Why should he not discuss this
fully with Moses? He had committed many follies and had never hesitated
to speak of them to Moses. Besides, Moses, too, had just gone through
this ceremony. But to his friend it was an ideal—the conversion of all
the Jews as a means of helping humanity—but to himself—no, Albert
could not deceive himself. He had not knelt to the cross because of an
ideal. He had done it for the same reason that thousands of others had
done it, for the same reason that Edward Gans had done it. Oh!—a groan
escaped his breast. Only the day before he had written a scathing
denunciation of those cowards who were deserting the sinking ship. And
now he himself had done it!
He began to write. He forced all other thoughts away.
“Dear Gustav:
“Will I ever grow up? I am still half a child, with all the reflections
of maturity mirroring in my being—manhood, old age, godliness, caprice,
profligacy, and what not. And just like a child I can’t make up my mind
whether to laugh or cry; I can cry and laugh at the same time. O,
Gustav, I can’t make up my mind whether I am a lion or a monkey in this
great menagerie: I roar one moment and chatter foolishly and wag my tail
the next.
“I sat down to write you a long letter, covering many, many sheets full
of profound thoughts and instructive wisdom, with many notations on the
Book of Life, but I have just returned from a comic play which was so
funny that I can not yet check my laughter and can not put myself into a
serious frame of mind. There was a clown in the play—dressed like a
clown, acting like a clown, and while he was going through his
manoeuvres burning tears were coursing down his painted cheeks. I was
the clown in the play. So look for no logic in the acts of a clown.
“I love you—Forget everything else.
Albert.”