Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse

Papa.”
    â€œGood evening, Albert. Did you have a good trip?”
    â€œYes, thank you. Good evening, Herr Burkhardt.”
    The young man was very cool and correct. He escorted his mother to the table. Dinner was served. The conversation was almost entirely between Burkhardt and the lady of the house. They spoke of music.
    â€œMay I ask,” said Burkhardt, turning to Albert, “what kind of music you especially like? Though I must admit that I’ve lost touch, the modern composers are little more than names to me.”
    The boy looked up politely and replied. “I only know the most modern composers from hearsay myself. I don’t belong to any school, I like any kind of music if it’s good. Especially Bach, Gluck, and Beethoven.”
    â€œOh, the classics. In our day the only one of those that we knew really well was Beethoven. We had scarcely heard of Gluck. You see, we were all fervent Wagnerians. Johann, do you remember when we heard Tristan for the first time? We were carried away!”
    Veraguth smiled glumly.
    â€œOld hat!” he cried somewhat harshly. “Wagner is finished. Isn’t he, Albert?”
    â€œOh, not at all. His operas are performed everywhere. But I have no opinion on the subject.”
    â€œYou don’t care for Wagner?”
    â€œI don’t know him well enough, Herr Burkhardt. I seldom go to the opera. I’m interested only in pure music, not in opera.”
    â€œWell, what about the overture to Meistersinger! You must know that. You don’t care for that either?”
    Albert bit his lips and reflected a moment before answering. “I really have no opinion. It’s—how shall I put it—romantic music, it just doesn’t interest me.”
    Veraguth scowled. “Will you have some wine?” he asked by way of a diversion.
    â€œYes, please.”
    â€œAnd you, Albert? A glass of red wine?”
    â€œThank you, Papa, I’d rather not.”
    â€œHave you become a teetotaler?”
    â€œNo, not at all. But wine doesn’t agree with me; I’d rather not.”
    â€œVery well. But you will drink with me, Otto. Prosit!”
    He drained half his glass in one quick gulp.
    Albert continued to act the part of a well-behaved young man who has very definite opinions but keeps them modestly to himself, leaving the talking to his elders, not out of eagerness to learn but because he wants to be left alone. The role did not become him, and soon he himself felt quite ill at ease. As usual, he ignored his father as much as possible, wishing to give him no occasion for argument.
    Engaged in observing, Burkhardt was silent, so that when the conversation languished in frost, there was no one to revive it. They hurried through the meal, served one another with elaborate politeness, toyed awkwardly with the dessert spoons, and waited in pathetic desolation for the moment when they might leave the table. It was only then that Otto Burkhardt became fully aware of the loneliness and hopeless coldness that had descended on his friend’s marriage and life. He glanced toward him, saw him staring in listless gloom at his food, which he scarcely touched, and meeting his eyes for an instant, surprised a look of supplication and of shame at the disclosure of his state.
    It was a look of affliction; the loveless silence, the embarrassed coldness and humorless stiffness of this dinner table seemed to proclaim Veraguth’s shame aloud. At that moment Otto felt that every additional day he spent at Rosshalde would merely prolong his humiliating role as spectator and the torment of his friend, who by fighting down his loathing was barely able to keep up appearances, but could no longer summon up the strength and spirit to conceal his misery from the onlooker. It was time for him to leave.
    No sooner had Frau Veraguth arisen than her husband pushed back his chair. “I’m so tired I must ask you to excuse me. No, no, stay