Still waiting for the promises to be fulfilled he returned to his
parents for a while, made a short stop at Berlin, and went again to
Hamburg in the early winter. Every time he returned to Hamburg it was
with mingled feelings of regret and expectancy. This time he hoped that
the Hamburgers would appreciate him. He was no longer Leopold Zorn’s
nephew but Doctor Zorn and a poet of repute. Even his enemies admitted
that he had genius for lyric verse. And he had just made arrangements to
have his first book of travel published, and the publisher had said he
might consider the publication of a collection of his scattered songs
that had appeared in various periodicals. True, the publisher had
promised no pay for the poems but Albert felt confident that it would
bring him renown; and the Hamburgers would no longer regard him as a
mere idler. This time he meant to be dignified. He would enter in no
controversies with his critics.
Before long, however, he realized that it was useless for him to settle
down there. Uncle Leopold had made this clear to him at a stormy meeting
between the two. But he had no other place to go to.
He found himself a veritable Ishmael—his hand against every man and
every man’s against him. His political views were now well defined and
he dipped his pen in gall and continued writing. He would write a second
volume of his travels and avenge himself on his enemies, little
understanding that the fruit of vengeance is never love. What corroded
his heart most was the dawning knowledge that he had made a blunder that
could never be rectified; that all the waters of the Jordan and of the
North Sea could not wash away the few drops sprinkled upon him by the
Lutheran Clergyman. Yet he would not acknowledge that it was a blunder.
Peevishly he said to himself that he was glad he was separated from the
people who had never befriended him, who had never given him the least
encouragement.
More strife, more bitterness, more vexation of soul! Could he ever live
in peace! The world had let Goethe sing in peace, and Goethe was as
creedless as he. The world knew that Goethe was a pagan and he made no
secret of it. Why was he, Albert Zorn, persecuted on every side? His
book was well received—and was favorably compared with that of the
great Goethe; his songs were being hummed from Leipzig to Hamburg; his
wit was on every tongue, his enemies squirmed under his ironic fire; his
heart was beating with love for every creature that lived; and yet why
were the snakes hissing from every ambush? The Jesuits had at last found
in him a target for all their poisonous arrows—as if he had been the
first man in Germany to utter liberal views! Ah, the injustice of it
all! They had chosen him for their target though he had always cherished
a romantic love for the Church of Rome; they hunted him only because he
was more vulnerable, because he was born a Jew!
His blood was on fire. And he had crawled on his knees to the Cross! Was
he to cower and let them heap hot cinders upon his head because he was
related to the Prophets? No, not he; the Jews had bowed their heads to
their tormentors long enough. He was no long-bearded Isaac swaying over
the Talmud, with an “oi” under his breath; no Rothschild in his counting
house, with Kings as pawns! He was a poet, sweet melody in his heart; a
critic of life and manners, a mighty instrument in his hand—they shall
have thrust for thrust, stab for stab. He would seek for no mercy, he
would not whine for justice, he would fight for his rights.
But his boasting was only to conceal the rankling in his breast. His
poetry or his prose had not been attacked, but his person. No, he was
not ashamed of his lineage—had he been devoid of a sense of humor he
would have even bragged of it—but after he had knelt at the font, after
he had gone more than half way to eradicate all differences between
himself and the Teutons, to be called a Jew! The iron entered his soul!
He swept all admonition aside, he would not listen to the counsel of his
friends. He was sharpening his arrows and dipping them in poison. His
enemies had miscalculated. They thought he could only write love songs.
He would make the dogs yelp before the expiring convulsion came! If
Teutonia resorted to calling names his ancestors had once pitched their
tents by the river Jordan, where calling names was an art.
Yet he hated the conflict. Why must they poison the honey in his heart?
Why must they force the sting? He wanted to flee from Germany—flee from
Germany and sing instead of “caw-caw” with the rest of the crows at
home.