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Read Ebook: The Sublime Jester by Brudno Ezra S
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Ebook has 1554 lines and 96697 words, and 32 pages
Other works by the same author:
"The Fugitive" "The Little Conscript" "One of Us" "The Tether" "The Jugglers"
T H E S U B L I M E J E S T E R
New York NICHOLAS L. BROWN 1924
PART ONE: A Poet in the Making
PART TWO: A Fighter in the Making
PART THREE: A Cynic in the Making
PART ONE A POET IN THE MAKING
THE HERITAGE.
Trivial as the incident was, Albert Zorn often recalled it in later years and mused upon it even at an age when man no longer cherishes memories of early boyhood. How could he forget it? At the time it was momentous, overshadowing all else.
On his way to school that memorable morning he rambled dreamily through the narrow streets of Gunsdorf, a thousand fantasies in his boyish brain. It seemed as if Alladin's lamp had been rubbed. He was to live in a castle, instead of in the modest quarters back of his father's humble shop on Schmallgasse and wear a velvet coat and lacquered top-boots with silver spurs! What else would his father do with all that money? From what he had gleaned of his parents' conversation they had received word from Amsterdam that a kinsman had died there and left them a fortune running into millions.
He was soon approaching the river near which was located the Franciscan cloister that housed his school. The swiftly flowing stream came tumbling down over rock and boulder and unseen rivulets gurgled mysteriously beneath glacial crusts in shadowy places. For it was at the beginning of April when there were still clinging remnants of the long hoary winter. Albert sauntered slowly, wistfully, his daydreams, stimulated by the sudden expectancy, commingling with the awakened sentiments of spring.
"Good morning, Al--ber'," that imp, Shorty Fritz, welcomed him as he entered the classroom.
Albert's air-castles were rudely shaken and his face grew livid. Fritz had drawled his name in the screechy voice of Hans the ragman, who wandered from door to door every morning, preceded by his donkey, which he coaxed to greater celerity by the mystic cry that sounded like "Al--ber'--Al--ber'", the real meaning of which was only known to Hans and the drudging beast.
Ignoring the tantalizing donkey-call, he walked up to his seat, dropped his books and remained standing moodily, his small bluish eyes narrowed, his long fair hair falling unevenly over his neck and forehead.
"O, Fritz, what's the difference between Balaam's ass and a zebra?" Long Kunz, another classmate, called across the room.
"Balaam's ass spoke Hebrew and the zebra speaks Zebrew," returned Fritz with mock gravity.
Albert was still busying himself with his books, swallowing lumps and feigning indifference, but the allusions to his racial extraction pierced him like a dagger. He had heard this witticism before and it had never failed to lacerate his sensitive heart.
"Then what's the difference between Hanse's donkey and his namesake, Al--ber'?"
"None that I can see," was the retort.
Still the victim of these sallies refrained from combat. Though usually not given to curbing his tongue--and his tongue was as sharp as that of any one in the class--he would not bandy words with his arch-enemies this morning. There was hope in the boy's heart that the forthcoming inheritance would soon liberate him from these surroundings altogether.
Presently Christian Lutz's tender arm was around his shoulders. Christian was his favorite classmate and always took his part in his encounters with those vexatious youngsters. While Albert was the quicker with his tongue, Christian was more ready with his fist.
"I have heard your father has become a millionaire," Christian said. "Who's left him this fortune--your father's father?"
"Not my father's father," laughed Albert, the remembrance of the inheritance at once banishing the momentary bitterness from his heart. "My father's father had no fortune to leave--he was a poor little Jew, with long whiskers as his only belongings."
Though uttered in a soft, jocular voice, and only intended for Christian's ears, it reached those of Fritz.
"Ha--ha!" he tittered. "Did you hear that, boys? Al--ber's grandfather was a poor little Jew with long whiskers."
"A poor little Jew with long whiskers!"
"A poor little Jew with long whiskers!"
"A poor little Jew with long whiskers!"
This refrain caught up by Long Kunz was accompanied by intermittent beating of the desks with drum-like regularity.
In a moment the classroom was in a wild uproar. Whistling, catcalls, imitations of braying asses, of squealing pigs, of crowing cocks, of bleating sheep, of neighing horses filled the air. The boys scampered and jumped and flung inkstands at the blackboard and kicked at the chairs to Fritz's rhythmic tune of "A poor little Jew with long whiskers!"
"Silence!"
It was the intimidating voice of Father Scher.
The youngsters, frightened by the sudden entrance of the schoolmaster, made a dash for their seats and in their mad rush capsized the benches that came down with resounding crashes.
"Order!" shouted the schoolmaster.
Father Scher stood at his desk, his right arm raised menacingly, his smooth face crimson with rage, his eyes fairly popping out of their sockets, his saucer-like skull-cap shoved to the back of his shaven head.
Ominous silence, terror in every countenance.
The priest's eyes shifted from side to side, taking in the overturned benches, the scattered text-books, the ink-bespattered blackboard.
"Who started this?"
No answer. The black-robed instructor took a step forward.
"Who started this?"
Restive shuffling of feet was the only response.
"I'll flay the hide off everyone of you if you don't tell me at once who started this disorder," the angered teacher cried.
"Al--ber! Al--ber!" Hanse's voice came from outside. It sounded like a voice in a deep forest. An irrepressible snicker ran through the room.
"Who did this--who did this?"
Scher was moving along the aisle, searching guilt in every countenance. Reaching Albert he halted and glowered at him. There was still mist in the boy's eyes and his lips were twitching.
"So it's you, is it? You know what to expect and are whimpering ahead of time, hey? You are always the source of all mischief in the class." His steady eyes were peering at the boy's agitated face. Then he added, "Now if you didn't start this, who did?"
The insinuation increased the bitterness in the boy's heart. He was biting the lining of his lip to hold his tears in check, but not a sound escaped him.
"Won't you answer me?" The master's voice was threatening.
Much as he hated Long Kunz and Shorty Fritz his pride forbade him to betray them.
Silently, grimly, the infuriated priest turned around and walked back toward the blackboard, the swishing of his cassock striking against his heels registering his measured, determined step. To the right of the blackboard stood a large, heavy, gnarled yellowish stick, an ever present warning to the class. Gripping the rattan firmly in his hand the priest faced about and retraced his steps, presently standing in front of Albert.
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