Since the Revolution in Paris the whole tenor in Albert’s life had
changed. He had hung up his lyre and gripped the sword. The Revolution
had made him forget his resolution to devote the rest of his life to his
art. He had thrown himself into the maelstrom of political activities
and fought mercilessly. He had decided upon a mission in life. To write
sweet songs was not enough, he had determined. He must do his share in
the struggle for the liberation of man, mental as well as physical
liberation. He was fighting the _Junkers_ and the priests—the _Adel und
Pfaffenherrschaft_—with telling effect. The articles he had written
since he fled from Germany stirred the people at home even more than
while he was amongst them. Yes, he must fight for the liberation of man!
Instead of the Bible and Homer he was hugging to his breast Jean Jacques
Rousseau’s work. He realized that France was at present the cradle of
Liberty as Judea of old was the cradle of Faith.
How could he really sing with the rattling of prisoners’ chains in his
ears? The course of one’s life is fixed at one’s very birth, and strive
as one might the given course must be followed. Albert felt as if an
invisible hand was directing his course, a forceful, dominating hand.
Free will? There was no free will. He often thought of the allegory of
Jonah fleeing to Tarsish. Poor Jonah believed in free will but the whale
taught him a different lesson. “Arise, go unto Ninevah, that great city,
and preach unto it the preaching that I bid thee.” Everyone must preach
the preaching that is bidden him.
However, at times he turned to the Prophets and drank from the ever
fresh waters of their deep wells. And the Jesuits in Munich and the
_Junkers_ in Berlin were pointing to his blasphemy! So did the ancient
priests and the nobles of old Judea call their prophets scoffers and
blasphemers. It is ever thus, Albert Zorn mused with sublime contempt in
his heart, one must be crucified in order to save the world.
Would he ever be understood? He did not preach any definite doctrine to
attract adherents. He was no Börne, with set rules and formulas for the
emancipation of mankind; no self-centered Goethe to inspire romantic
cults. He was carrying on guerilla warfare, shooting at whosoever was
hostile to human progress. He understood the course of human progress
better than that fanatical Börne who dreamt of bringing about a
millennium with one leap. Human progress is gained by taking a leap
forward, then half a step backward, then forward again, until the goal
is reached. Reaction is as much a part of human progress as revolution.
Revolution is only a link in the chain of evolution. He dreaded
Communism, he despised Absolutism, he detested the mediocrity of
Republicanism, even more than Philistinism. He was concerned with the
freedom of the spirit even more than with the freedom of the body. Must
he go on being misunderstood? He did not care for the opinion of his
enemies—it did not matter to him that they charged him with want of
character—but it grieved him to learn that even his friends and
admirers failed to understand him. Only a few days before he had bared
his heart in a letter to a friend. Would any one ever understand his
inner struggles and strife? “We do not expect our friends to agree with
us but we expect them to understand the motives of our actions,” he
pleaded.
He could not deny that he had sipped from the sweetness of life since
his arrival in Paris. A new world was opened to him. At last he had
found himself free, breathing freely, moving about without restraint,
without the conscious restraint that Prussian tyranny had imposed upon
him. Not only the tangible shackles but even the invisible
fetters—those that make one’s inner consciousness cower—had fallen
away.
From the first day he stepped upon French soil no one reminded him, by
look or gesture or remotest insinuations, of the virtues, or vices, of
his forefathers. Having brought with him only a few letters of
introduction, and as yet wholly unknown to the reading public in France,
his poems and ready wit had quickly won him a large circle of friends
and admirers. He had already met Victor Hugo, George Sand, Adolph
Thiers, General LaFayette, and formed friendships with Balzac and
Gautier and Alexandre Dumas; and, as in Berlin, he had found here an
admirer who wished to be his patroness. She was a princess, who, while
she did not possess the brilliancy and depth of Frau Varnhagen, was a
woman of culture and had an innate appreciation of poetry. At her
_soirées_ one met not only the literary and artistic celebrities of the
day but also renowned statesmen and diplomats.
He was as famous here as in his native land. The _Revue des Deux Mondes_
was running a translation of his works, laudatory articles were written
about him, his correspondence from Paris had made a stir in Germany and
Austria, and his publishers were issuing new editions of his books.
Though he was spending freely, sufficient money was coming in to meet
his obligations. Indeed, fortune smiled upon him.
“_Vive le général LaFayette_!” the throngs around him roared again.
He had reached the Madaleine, which was then still under construction,
and crossing the street he walked back along the Grands Boulevards. Only
the day before he had talked with Balzac about the charm of wandering
through the crowded streets of Paris, watching the people and listening
to their talk. Albert found that he could think best as he wandered
along the crowded sidewalks.
He soon found himself again thinking of his Fatherland. He was always
thinking of his Fatherland. The soil of Germany was sacred to him, her
language was music to his ears. He loved Paris, loved the French, but
his heart beat for the land of the Rhine. He recalled a recent attack on
him in a German newspaper. He was attacked on all sides. The radicals
called him a traitor, the _Junkers_ called him a revolutionist. But he
did not mind. He was a little David with more than one smooth stone in
his pouch. He would yet slay the blustering Goliath. He would fight for
Young Germany in his own way!
However, the knowledge that he was being attacked by the radicals and
the _Junkers_ stirred his blood. At last the poor _Michel_ had stopped
snoring. He was stretching his clumsy arms. No more sweet lullabies for
the drowsy _Michel_, no more love songs, no dream ballads, no subtle
epigrams. He must speak to him more directly, in language he could not
misunderstand. He had scarcely more than unsheathed his sword. They
shall see!