The reception given him on his arrival at Munich assured him that his
friend was wrong. He had no cause to fear the Jesuits.
But the Jesuits in Munich were watching him. He was their sworn enemy,
and the report that he would direct the policy of a new journal roused
their ire. Munich was then the centre of Jesuitical activities. Ever
since their return to Germany, after the fall of Napoleon, they had been
hatching plots, creating dissension among the masses, shaping policies
for their own selfish ends. They were seeking to rehabilitate
themselves. They could not afford to pass in silence the caustic attacks
of the jesting Albert Zorn.
Before long, however, he grew tired of political strife. He was again
soul-weary. He craved the solitude of the mountains, he longed for the
golden mist of the southern heavens, he yearned for the warmth of the
sunny climes. A thousand mysterious voices called to him from the land
of orange blossoms and echoed in his heart melodiously. He longed for a
peep at Italy. Ah, Italy! Italy! When the great God kneaded the earth
into shape and set the human insects into motion—the whole swarm of
human insects—he allotted the Caucasian steppes to the Tartars, Prussia
to the Pedants, to the Hunters he gave the British Isle, France to the
gay in spirit, but Italy,—Italy!—the great God breathed upon that
colorful spot lovingly, kissed it, and was about to reserve it for his
favorites among the angels when he changed His mind and assigned it as a
haven for the soul-weary! Alas! with the confusion of the Tower of Babel
many a Tartar wandered from his homeland and many a poet strayed from
his designated abode.
He wandered through Italy—through Livorno, Bagni di Lucca, Florence,
Bologna, Venice—and he wandered among the ruins of antiquity, “a ruin
among ruins.” He jested and scoffed, worshipped and blasphemed, honey in
his heart. Poetic melodies, like birds of passage driven South, returned
to him; his heart once more glowed and beat tumultuously; the
nightingale again sang for him. The broken columns, the ruined towers,
the shattered classic images spoke to him in a language he understood.
He wanted to forget the past, to obliterate the insults heaped upon him
by his enemies. Italian skies inspire sweet dreams and make one forget
troubles. The promise of a chair at the University whispered hope. Yes,
he would give the rest of his life to champion the rights of the people.
While amusing himself at the Baths of Lucca he was laying plans for the
future. He had received a hopeful letter about the professorship. His
brain was brimming over with enthusiasm and joy. He would make all his
friends proud of him and he would not only repay them with gratitude but
also with service. And how gloriously his third book was coming along!
The volume was so spontaneous; it was writing itself. Humor and song
were flowing from his pen. Not a word of bitterness in this book, he
decided. No stings, nothing but the sweetest of honey. He intended to
have the third volume mirror the heavenly witchery of Italy and the
flowing love of his soul; no, not a word of bitterness. At the worst,
only a passage of fun-making at superstition but nothing—not a line—to
offend anyone’s sensibilities.
Ah, there was again spring in his heart! Sentiments of love and freedom,
like fresh roses, burst forth anew. Above him the rays of the brilliant
sun pierced the mist hanging over the mountains and “sucked at the
earth’s breast like a hungry suckling child.” He was again in the spring
of life, everything thawing, melting, sweet murmurs everywhere. He was
in love with life and every breathing creature.
And the arts of man were about him in abundance; the divine ecstasy of
generations long dead impressed on palace and ruin; ecstasy filled his
being to overflowing. No, not a tinge of bitterness in his heart, no
acrid irony in his brain, nothing but goodwill and happiness and the
effervescence of life.