Two days later his uncle returned from his summer home. Aaron Hirsch led
him to the banker’s private office. Bowing and curtseying the unctuous
Hirsch explained to his master how punctiliously he had carried out his
orders and what wonderful lodgings he had procured for his nephew.
Leopold Zorn smiled benignly and was very solicitous in his inquiries
about Albert’s father, his mother, and every one of the children.
The banker was of medium height but, seated, looked tall. He held his
head erect, his high collar (cut low in front for the freedom of his
longish smooth shaven chin) pressing against his closely cropped
side-whiskers, which were once brown but now somewhat faded, with
streaks of gray. There was a pleasant twinkle in his eyes, but it was
the twinkle of the quick-tempered which can change to flashing fury upon
the least provocation.
The uncle studied his nephew as he tried to draw him out in
conversation, and felt disappointed. David had given him to understand
that Albert was bright but he could detect no brightness in the young
man. The boy was more like his father, a ne’er-do-well, passed through
the banker’s mind; nothing of his mother. Furthermore, he was annoyed at
the young man’s constant twirling of his walking stick. He felt that
this conceited youth was not sufficiently impressed with his uncle’s
importance. Callers at his private office did not sit with their legs
crossed, twirling their canes. The banker’s annoyance was growing. He
thought best to make the young man understand his place at the outset.
“I shall be glad to find employment for you here,” he said with a show
of impressiveness and a knot appearing in his left eyebrow, “and if you
show the proper spirit and industry you will have a chance to rise. But
you must dismiss all nonsense from your mind (David had told him that
Albert was fooling his time away on verses). You must give your
undivided attention to business if you hope to make anything of
yourself; and”—he cleared his throat and turned his eyes aside—“you
must show the proper respect for your elders.”
Albert listened but was unable to concentrate on what his uncle was
saying. Instead, his mind dwelt upon his uncle’s physiognomy. He liked
the straight nose—rather broad at the bottom—and the well shaped
mouth. He also liked his grayish hair parted on the side. The tone of
his voice displeased him. There was a ring of haughtiness in it.
The next moment, however, his feeling warmed toward his uncle. Leopold
mistook his nephew’s preoccupied silence for submission and instantly
regretted his harshness. Leopold was quick-tempered but keenly conscious
of his failing. Kind hearted to a fault it hurt him to think he was
unduly severe with his brother’s son. He softened instantly and
endeavored to make amends.
“I know you’ll like Hamburg. It is a city of great opportunities,” he
said tenderly.
Albert’s face saddened. He realized the opportunities his uncle had in
mind had a different meaning from those in his own.
“Don’t be so downhearted, Albert.” Uncle Leopold’s voice was now jovial,
kindly, a pleasing smile in his eyes. He touched Albert’s knee as if to
buoy him up. “Your work here won’t be hard. Are you short of money?”
He opened his wallet and handed him several bills.
Leopold touched the silver bell on his secretary and Hirsch appeared.
“Tell Herr Elfenbein to come in,” he ordered.
A stout red-faced man, with fleshy eyelids, a long gold watch chain
resting on his spherical abdomen, like a sleeping snake on a sunny rock,
presently appeared at the door. It was the pompous man Albert saw on the
day of his arrival.
“Martin, this is my nephew—David’s son—this is Herr Elfenbein,
Albert—”
Martin extended a lax hand.
“Albert has had a good education and writes a fine hand,” Uncle Leopold
added, “and I’ll place him in your care. But don’t spare the rod.” The
banker’s face was writhing in smiles as he said this and then laughed
jovially. “I think Albert needs a little discipline—hey? What do you
say, Albert?”
“Don’t worry, we won’t spare him,” returned Elfenbein, smiling.
And indeed Martin Elfenbein did not spare him. Martin was a hard
taskmaster and gave orders in a surly voice, devoid of human warmth.
Albert began where he had left off at Rindskopf’s—copying letters,
filling in exchange blanks, and other uncongenial labors.
He grew morose and kept to himself. Even poetry had lost all interest
for him. He picked up a volume by Goethe, by Lessing, by Schiller, but
their song received no response from his soul. Was his imagination
becoming barren? He tried to express his despair but even in this he
failed. His mind was a blank. No new thoughts, no fresh sentiments,
nothing but stagnation.
One morning his uncle invited him to his country home and at once his
slumbering sentiments reawakened. The hope of meeting his cousin Hilda,
whose memory he had cherished since she visited Gunsdorf two years ago,
changed his depressing gloom to buoyant cheer. His muse had suddenly
returned. He was full of song and merriment.