It is 7 a.m., and here we are in the good Hanse town of Hamburg; the
city is not yet awake, or at most is rubbing its eyes and yawning. While
they are preparing my breakfast, I sally forth at random, as my custom
is, without guide or cicerone, in pursuit of the unknown.
The hotel, at which I have been set down, is situated on the quay of the
Alster, a basin as large as the Lac d'Enghien, which it still further
resembles in being peopled with tame swans. On three sides, the Alster
basin is bordered with hotels and handsome modern houses. An embankment
planted with trees and commanded by a wind-mill in profile forms the
fourth; beyond extends a great lagoon. From the most frequented of these
quays, a cafe painted green and built on piles, makes out into the
water, like that cafe of the Golden Horn where I have smoked so many
chibouques; watching the sea-birds fly. At the sight of this quay, this
basin, these houses, I experienced an inexplicable sensation: I seemed
to know them already. Confused recollections of them arose in my memory;
could I have been in Hamburg without being aware of it? Assuredly all
these objects are not new to me, and yet I am seeing them for the first
time. Have I preserved the impression made by some picture, some
photograph?
While I was seeking philosophic explanations for this memory of the
unknown, the idea of Heinrich Heine suddenly presented itself, and all
became clear.
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