"Quite simple. We can go away to-morrow afternoon. You can choose the
place. Reichenau, Semmering, Brühl, anywhere you like.... And I'll
bring you back in the morning the day after to-morrow." Something or
other kept him back from mentioning the telegram which gave him three
whole days to do what he liked with.
Anna looked in front of her. "It would be very nice," she said
tonelessly, "but it really won't be possible, George."
"On account of your father?"
She nodded.
"But he is surely better, isn't he?"
"No, he is not at all well. He is so weak. They wouldn't of course
reproach me directly in any way. But I ... I can't leave mother alone
now, for that kind of excursion."
He shrugged his shoulders, feeling slightly wounded at the designation
which she had chosen.
"Come, be frank," she added in a jesting manner. "Are you really so
keen on it?"
He shook his head, almost as if in pain, but he felt that this gesture
also was lacking in sincerity. "I don't understand you, Anna," he said,
more weakly than he really meant. "To think that a few weeks of being
away from each other, to think of ... well, I don't know what to call
it.... It is as though we had got absolutely out of touch. It's really
me, Anna, it's really me...." he repeated in a vehement but tired
voice. He got up from the chair in front of the piano. He took her
hands and put them to his lips, feeling nervous and somewhat moved.
"What was _Tristan_ like?" she inquired.
He gave her a conscientious account of the performance and did not
leave out his visit to the Ehrenbergs' box. He spoke of all the people
whom he had seen and conveyed to her Heinrich Bermann's wishes. He
then drew her on to his knee and kissed her. When he removed his face
from hers he saw tears running over her cheeks. He pretended to be
surprised, "What's the matter, child?... But why, why...?"
She got up and went to the window with her face turned away from him.
He stood up too, feeling somewhat impatient, walked up and down the
room once or twice, then went up to her, pressed her close to him, and
then immediately began again in great haste: "Anna, just think it over
and see if you really can't come with me! It would all be so different
from what it is here. We could really talk things over thoroughly. We
have got such important matters to discuss. I need your advice as well,
about the plans I am to make for next year. I've written to you about
it, haven't I? It is very probable, you see, that I shall be asked to
sign a three years' contract in the next few days."
"What am I to advise you?" she said. "After all, you know best whether
it suits you there or not."
He began to tell her about the kind and talented manager who clearly
wished to have him for a collaborator; about the old and sympathetic
conductor who had once been so famous; about a very diminutive
stage-hand who was called Alexander the Great; about a young lady
with whom he had studied the Micaela, and who was engaged to a Berlin
doctor; and about a tenor, who had already been working at the theatre
for twenty-seven years and hated Wagner violently. He then began to
talk about his own personal prospects, artistic and financial. There
was no doubt that he could soon attain an excellent and assured
position at the little Court Theatre. On the other hand one had to bear
in mind that it was dangerous to bind oneself for too long; a career
like that of the old conductor would not be to his taste. Of course ...
temperaments varied. He for his part believed himself safe from a fate
like that.
Anna looked at him all the time, and finally said in a half jesting,
half meditative tone, as though she were speaking to a child: "Yes,
isn't he trying hard?"