He longed for rest. He wished to escape from the tumults of life, from
the tumults of his passions. He was a poet and wished to withdraw to
bucolic quietude, indulge in pleasant reveries, and pipe sweet melodies.
With the Bible and Homer as his only companions he left his family and
friends and went to the seashore. He would forget that he had been the
editor of a political journal; he would forget that he had fought the
Knights of Darkness; he would forget all the skirmishes in which he had
engaged since his early youth. He would lie on the shore, listen to the
sporting waves, and watch the clouds overhead.
He wandered along the beach in the twilight, solemn stillness all around
him, the vault of heaven “like a Gothic church”, the stars above burning
and flickering like countless lamps, the sweep of the waves “like the
reverberations of a great organ”. At last he thought he had found
himself. Again he wanted to emulate Goethe. He wanted no political
strife, no controversial essays, no more ironic flings. Action was not
his sphere, politics not his handiwork. He was no Ludwig Börne. He was
neither agitator nor reformer. He was a literary artist and must let
politics and philosophy alone. He must devote the rest of his life to
the observation of nature and to the interpretation of it—that was the
thirst of his soul.
Yes, the quiet and peace of the seashore suited him. No one there to
engage him in polemics, no one to argue with. He had made the
acquaintance of a sea captain and at times listened to tales of the sea,
the sea that he loved “as much as his soul”. There were also two young
women, whose acquaintance he had made, but neither of them was young or
pretty enough to arouse his interest. He was jestingly frivolous with
them and they, in turn, lionized him and made him conscious of his fame.
Indeed, he had found himself at last. He was supremely happy. After a
few more weeks of rest and recuperation he would settle down to his
life-work.
One day he was seated in his room reading and dreaming. The house where
he lodged was situated on an elevation away from the shore, back of an
old church, and commanded a beautiful view of the ocean in the distance;
“_Zur schönen Aussicht_” the owner had named his cottage.
A knock on his door and his landlord, a fisherman, handed him a packet
of newspapers and a letter from Berlin. The letter contained nothing of
importance beyond literary gossip. He then tore the wrappers from the
newspapers and began scanning the narrow columns in a careless, casual
manner when he suddenly jumped from his seat, drew his breath, and
stared at the sheet before him as if convulsed. At first pallor appeared
in his cheeks, then they turned red, and his whole body quivered.
“A revolution!—a revolution!—a revolution, Herr Nikkels!”
Herr Nikkels, the fisherman, stared at the speaker with unconcealed
bewilderment. He had thought his lodger a little queer—always walking
up and down the seashore when not bathing, or pacing up and down the
floor of his room—but he had never seen him so agitated.
Albert raced up and down the room, the newspaper clutched in his hand, a
strange glow on his face.
“O, it’s wonderful! glorious!—at last it has come!” he cried.
“What has happened?” the fisherman, still staring, asked.
“Ah, my dear Nikkels, the greatest thing in the world has happened! They
are marching in Paris, with the tri-colored flag, singing the
Marseillaise. Oh, isn’t it wonderful!” Then stretching his arms upward,
“Oh, for a glimpse of Paris today.”
The fisherman drew at his pipe, shrugged his shoulders, and walked out.
“This fellow Zorn is quite crazy,” he confided to his wife a few moments
later.
Zorn was quite crazy that day. He did not take his prescribed sea-bath,
could not read, could not write, dodged every acquaintance on the beach,
rushed up and down the shore as if possessed.
Lafayette, the tri-colored flag, the Marseillaise! He could think of
nothing else. He was intoxicated, delirious. All his resolutions had
gone to the winds—all his resolutions for rest and quiet and peace; his
hunger for calm reveries and piping melodies was gone. He was aching for
strife, for the very vortex of strife. Ah, if he could whip his
countrymen into action and arouse them from their sluggish contentment,
perhaps they, too, would hoist the tri-colored flag and sing the
Marseillaise!
_Aux armes, citoyens!_
No piping melodies for him, no fantasies, no love ditties!
_Aux armes, citoyens! Aux armes!_
He would take the lyre into his hands and sing a battle song. He was no
Wolfgang von Goethe, playing with metrical verses while the enemy’s
cannons were roaring at the city gates! How differently the ocean waves
were galloping to the shore today! They were chanting the Marseillaise,
they were calling tumultuously:
“_Aux armes, citoyens, aux armes!_”
The whole ocean was aflame with the fire that was burning in his heart;
the mermaids were dancing with joy, giving a _thé dansant_ in honor of
the great event. No, no, no rest for him! He was a child of the
revolution, rebellion against all tyranny in his blood. He was what he
was and could be no other. He would wreathe his head with flowers for
the death-struggle to come. Ah, he would smite the pious hypocrites who
had crept into the holy of holies to defile it! He would hurl javelins
at the tyrants, with their armies of _Menschenfresser_, who were holding
mankind in fetters of steel! With words like flaming stars he would set
fire to the palaces of the oppressors and illumine the dingy huts of the
enslaved.
_Aux armes, citoyens, aux armes!_
He was “all joy and song, all sword and flame.”
“And God said, let there be light!” The torch of the Revolution of July
had spread light to all the dark places. To Poland, to Spain, to
Britain, to Prussia. All eyes were turned to Paris. From there came the
light!
He left the seashore. He could no longer bear the rest and quiet of the
place. He went to Hamburg and restlessly watched developments. He could
think of nothing but the revolution. He also watched, with a sinking
heart, the renewed activities of the authorities. The censor had become
even more ruthless. More than half he had written was suppressed. His
publishers, the most daring in Germany, had dropped a hint of caution to
him. They had learned that the Prussian government had issued a warrant
for his arrest. The air of Hamburg was stifling. He wanted to breathe
free air. Yes, he must fight, and, if necessary, perish in the war of
human liberation. The dawn of a new religion—the religion of
freedom—was rising and he must consecrate himself as one of its
priests.
When he told Uncle Leopold of his intention to go to Paris the elderly
gentleman heaved a sigh of relief. Indeed, he would be happy to defray
all expenses for Albert’s stay in Paris as long as he pleased. To be a
namesake of Albert Zorn was no great comfort in these stirring days.
Leopold Zorn was no revolutionary. He was a law-abiding citizen, and as
a great banker he knew that even a tyrannical government was better than
a government convulsed.
Albert’s mother could not understand his desire to go to Paris. She had
never been outside of Germany, and Paris seemed very distant. What would
he do in Paris? Her fond hopes had been rudely shattered. Her poor
husband had died with ambitions unattained and now her beloved son, the
choice of her flock, was merely drifting, at an age when most men were
comfortably established. Of course, she had heard of the abdication of
Charles X and of the July Revolution in France, but what had these to do
with her son? She was growing old, she was complaining, and craved for
quiet and peace. Why go to Paris where there was so much excitement and
turmoil?
“How soon will you be back?” she asked of him eagerly.
He was taking leave of her, his arms enfolding her, his sister, with a
babe in her arms, standing close by.
“I can’t tell, mother dearest;” looking away wistfully.
“Do take good care of yourself and don’t get mixed up with bad company,”
she spoke beseechingly. “Uncle Leopold said——”
“Yes, I know, what Uncle Leopold always says,” he struck in impatiently,
with a cynical smile in the deep corners of his mouth. “Hold on to the
_Thalers_ and the rest will take care of itself.”
There was a melancholy smile on the mother’s benign face. Everything
Albert said sounded clever to her ears but she did not like to hear him
jest about Uncle Leopold. Leopold was very good to her indeed, as he had
always been in the past.
“What will you do in Paris?”
“March and sing the Marseillaise,” he said, laughing.
“Will you ever be serious?”
“It’s because I am too serious that I jest, my little mother.” He kissed
her on both cheeks.
The mother sighed; a tear was slowly rolling down her face.
Albert flung his arms around his mother, embraced his sister, kissed her
little son, and rushed out of the house. His tears and emotions were
choking him.
Outside the sun was shining brightly, light clouds in the sky. It was
the first of May, fresh, earth-scented odors in the air. A stolid
sluggish fellow, with a large, heavy basket on his head, walked past
Albert as he came out of his mother’s house. Albert looked after the
fellow and sighed. Will _Michel_ ever quicken his step? Ah, the poor
_Michel_! Albert’s heart was wrung with pain. Presently an officer
loomed up in the distance. Albert jumped into the vehicle that was
waiting for him at the curb.
“_Aux armes, citoyens, aux armes_!” he murmured to himself as the
vehicle rattled away.
PART THREE
A CYNIC IN THE MAKING