All his thoughts again turned to Hedwiga. He had despatched two letters of glowing passion and tenderness but had received no answer. So he stayed up late at night, writing heart-rending verses about a maiden with golden hair, who chanted as she sewed a shroud for her lover . . .
The banker had put Albert to copying letters and filling in draft blanks and the youth found the task irksome. At the end of the second week his work was done so mechanically and with such eloquent distaste that his employer, seated at his writing desk a short distance away shook his head and murmured, “Der Junge hat kein Talent zum Geschaeft.”
No, the young man had no talent for business. Adolf Rindskopf would have sent him away but David Zorn was his friend and he must endure his friend’s son a little longer. Besides, Albert wrote a very neat hand, with a flourish which Adolf secretly envied. When he wrote to Berlin—die Kaiserstadt—he was anxious to make an impression on his correspondent. Yes, Albert’s penmanship was beautiful.
But one day while Albert was seated at the long table copying a letter and thinking of other things, the postman came in. Albert looked up eagerly. Although he had already given up hope of hearing from Hedwiga, the postman revived his anxiety. But no letter for him. So he watched Rindskopf from the corner of his eye. He loved to watch Rindskopf open his mail. Rindskopf approached this task as a gourmand attacks a palatable dish. His eyes dilated, his bulky stolid body stirred restlessly in his chair, his lips twitched, avidity in every gesture. Then he took the large ivory paper-cutter in one hand, and with the other tapped the edge of the envelope against his desk and, raising it on a level with his eyes, screwed one eye almost tight as he fixed the other at the upper end, which he held against the light, and ripped it open with the utmost care for fear of touching the contents.
“Tausend Donner Sakrament!” Adolf suddenly exclaimed and jumped up from the chair, with the enclosure of the envelope in his hand.
Albert poised his pen, an amused smile on his boyish countenance.
Rindskopf’s face was flushed, his mustache twitched, his paw-like hands trembled.
“Ach, du lieber Gott!” he called upon the Almighty to witness his distress, and rushed up to Albert.
“You’ll bring ruination on me—what? Where is your head—what do you—”
He was so enraged that coherent speech would not come.