Ah! he would not acknowledge that he had made a mistake. He sought to
justify his act. Not to others but to himself. Since his conversion,
life had run smoother for him, he said to himself when he had obtained
his degree. The Dean had spoken eloquently of his poetry as he presented
the degree to him, and the other members of the faculty overlooked much
of his ignorance of legal lore. No one knew better than he that the
least of his knowledge was the knowledge of the law, and he felt a deep
sense of gratitude for the faculty’s leniency. He felt confident that
the worst was over. He would settle down as a government official, or a
professor at some university, or at least as a lawyer, and live a
well-regulated life, without the aid of his uncle. Yes, he would marry,
too. He was about twenty-eight years old and ought not to fritter his
life away.
But he would not permit himself to think of his conversion. The
exertions which preceded his private and public discourses anent the
taking of his degree, his assiduous study of an uncongenial subject, his
inner conflicts, fatigued him almost beyond endurance. He looked at his
reflection in a mirror and felt even more exhausted. He could see
fatigue in every line in his face. There were rings under his eyes; his
cheeks had thinned; there was a roving restlessness in his eyes. In his
present state he was not fit for literary work though he was bent on
completing his book which he had commenced.
There was no question of hard work at present. His nerves were shattered
and his headaches were becoming more and more painful. So he wrote to
Uncle Leopold, and the generous man, hopeful that his scapegrace nephew
would at last settle down, dispatched him a liberal allowance by return
mail for a vacation, not without a veiled admonition, however, not to
squander the money “on other things.”
He went at once to Nordernay for sea baths and followed the orders of
his physician to think of nothing. He also indulged in some pastimes.
Among the sea bathers there were a number of attractive young women who
had read a few of his songs, and their flattery was not displeasing to
him. Though he knew his weakness, he easily yielded to flattery.
Soon his headaches disappeared, healthier color came to his cheeks,
frivolous thoughts were again sporting in his brain. Nor was he averse
to the furtive glances of strangers as he walked restlessly up and down
the beach, dreaming of strange legends that the tossing waves conjured
up in his fancy. He felt the thrill of fame, the tumultuous waves making
divine music in his ears. And sauntering along the shore in the
twilight—the level dunes behind him, before him the seeming endless
raging ocean—with all its mystery and tragic beauty, the huge dome of
the heavens above him, his imagination took flight and soared to
ethereal heights. Noble thoughts filled his brain, compassionate
sentiments crowded his breast, and he made resolutions! He would give
his life for humanity and, in giving it, would melt the hearts of men
with song.
On the shore were sharpshooters aiming at sea-gulls in their flight. He
did not enjoy this pastime. His ancestors were no hunters; rather they
were of the hunted. His blood revolted at firing at the harmless,
innocent creatures.
He recalled his boyhood days when he chanced upon a group of urchins who
had brought down a nest from the top branches of a tree by well-aimed
missiles. He emptied all his pocket money into the fists of the urchins
to bribe them to liberate the featherless baby birds. He knew that the
enemies of his ancestors had called them cowards because they could not
bear the shedding of blood. His mind wandered. A shot was fired, a
sea-gull dropped, a shout of admiration from the onlookers on the shore.
Perhaps the fallen bird was a mother of poor little gulls still
unfledged, lying in their sandy nests and waiting for their mother to
bring them food. No, he would not give his life to this sort of
achievement—killing was not in his blood! Rather would he devote his
life to helping people live, live in greater freedom, physical and
spiritual.
His mind drifted, and his thoughts soon brought him to dwell on
Christian Lutz’s life and his own. He had just run into Christian, who
was here on his honeymoon. To a certain point their lives had run
parallel. First at the Franciscan school, at the Lyceum, at Goettingen,
at Berlin and—there it stopped. Christian was now married, with a
government position affording him a livelihood, while he—Albert—was
nowhere. Always promises—one friend had promised him to intercede with
one of the influential men in Berlin to get him a position with the
government—but there were nothing but promises in sight. He really did
not know himself what would best suit him. He liked the idea of a
professorship. He had many ideas about literature and philosophy and
felt that he could teach something to the young at the university. But
then a government position—a magistrate or judge—would likewise please
him. He loved the Germans even though he detested the Prussian
government—he always felt that individually the Germans possessed noble
virtues, but collectively they were Prussian—and he felt that as a
magistrate, or in any capacity as a public official, he could deal out
justice tempered with kindness. But so far only promises . . .