Gertrude by Hesse Hermann

Author:Hesse, Hermann [Hesse, Hermann]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Coyote Canyon Press
Published: 2013-01-21T00:00:00+00:00

But, as it was, I distrusted her cheerfulness, and I credited the tenderness and fine understanding she showed me to that fatal sympathy. I could not rid myself of the thought that it would not have been possible for her to linger in this quiet friendship with a healthy and physically attractive man, if she liked him as well as she liked me. So there were many hours in which I would have given my music and all that lived within me for a straight leg and a dashing manner.

During this time Teifer became more intimate with me. He was indispensable to my work, so he was the next to know my secret. I showed him the text and plan of my opera. He took it home to study it carefully. When he came back his blondbearded, child face was scarlet with joy and an artist’s appreciation.

“That’s a piece of work—your opera! ” he cried excitedly. “I can feel the overture in my fingers now. Let’s go and drink a good glass, and if it weren’t asking too much I’d say let us drink to an eternal brotherhood—but it mustn’t be forced.”

I agreed gladly, and it was a happy evening. Teifer took me home with him for the first time. A little while before, he had brought a sister back with him, a sister who had been left alone after the death of her mother. He could not say enough in praise of his new home after his long years of bachelordom. The sister was a contented, quiet girl, with her brother’s child-like, friendly eyes. Her name was Brigitte. She served us with cakes and bright green Austrian wine, and passed a little box with long Virginia cigars. We drank the first glass to her health, and the second to our good comradeship. And while we ate her cakes and drank the wine, and smoked, the good Teifer tramped back and forth through the little room, full of happiness. He sat now at the piano, and now with his guitar on the sofa; then with his violin on the corner of the table. He played whatever lovely thing floated through his brain, sang, and let his eyes shine upon us—all in honor of me and of my opera. It was evident that the sister had the same passion for music in her blood, and was no less loyal to Mozart than he. Arias from “The Magic Flute” and bits of “Don Giovanni” scintillated through the tiny room, interrupted by talk and by the clinking of glasses, but always faultlessly accompanied by the violin, the piano, guitar, or merely by Teifer whistling.

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