He alights from the ship, carrying his baggage as he breathes in deeply the sea breeze as it wafts the musky, salty scent of the ocean towards him. He is here, he thinks; there can only be a new beginning.
//
“Father, I would like to go to Amsterdam,” he said, feeling the warm, supportive feel of his mother’s hand closing in tightly upon his.
The memories that remained in Germany were too much to bear; his retreat from empiricism, logic and coherent thought had unnerved his parents. The remainder of his old school acquaintances who he had once shared thoughts and schoolyard discussions with had retreated; his thoughts dwelt unyieldingly upon those of Moritz – and Wendla. Sweet Wendla! Each weekend, he laid a bouquet of divine white wildflowers upon her grave; he whispered his embittered thoughts into the darkness. And he loathed himself for it – fancy speaking to a grave-stone, to a phantom! His previously adamant discourses on the institutional nature of marriage – of life – had collapsed around him tenfold, and he sought solace in a passive inner self-destruction that compounded day by day.
First, the books. He had no idea how it had happened. When the door banged open, his parents found him standing over a pile of torn pages and ripped book covers, clutching the remnants of Faust in his cold, trembling hands as he gazed on in startled incomprehension.
Then, the silent retreat. He had run into the woods, desperately seeking his wood-nymph. The memory of the gentle touch of her hair upon his face, the heady essence that was all at once pure woodland sprite and fairy queen embodied in human form – and now, caged and eternally bound beneath a cold slab of stone, tied to the unyielding clutches of Death’s fingers, gripping in a deadlock – she could have had the world at her feet; instead, all she got was his prone body, bowed before her grave –
“Hermann, the boy wants to go,” Fraulein Gabor pleaded. “If he wants to, he must. He cannot go on like this – dreaming and lying between the living and dead – he’ll go mad!” she cried, her red-rimmed eyed damp with tears.
Herr Gabor bowed his head in the dimming light of the flickering candle.
“If he must go,” he said, his voice thick with finality, “he must.”
//
On the next ship bound for Amsterdam, Melchior found himself bidding farewell to the Rhine and the land he had known so well. Watching the waves tumble and splash in their impetuous waltz, it was all coming back to him now. The games of pirates played in the day-time before disillusionment had dawned and stripped away their blindfolds. The games in the park, the schoolwork, the innocence, and the soirees at their family homes as Georg played jigs in the background…
As he alights, he is greeted by the bustle of the port. The bohemian free-wheeling atmosphere suffuses him to the core of his being. The chatter and excitement infuses him with a sense of hope, washing away the cold mask of ennui that had clung to him for so long. He could feel his blood pulsing beneath his skin, the renewed sense of excitement that had bubbled so strongly as he lay in a hayloft, fingers entwined- and he cringed. No, he had left all that behind in Germany. He would forget. He would let Amsterdam take him; consume him wholly, like the sweetest mistress of all: adventure.
0 Responses to “Amsterdam”