“But I practice every day.”
“I know. And you are accomplished. You might eventually perform as part of an orchestra if you continue practicing. But as a soloist . . . I fear that’s out of the question.”
His eyes were fixed on me. I had to bite back a rush of tears. Of all the things I’d imagined might happen, this was not one of them. I had come to Weimar uncertain as to whether I could succeed, but then my desire to prove myself overcame my doubt. I wanted a life I chose, as Mutti said, and when I envisioned returning to Berlin without it, I couldn’t bear it. She would never forgive me or let me forget I’d failed, after everything she had done to get me here.
“Can’t you teach me to be better?” I said. “My mother wants me to be a musician, and—”
He interrupted me. “I know your Mutti has placed much hope in you. You don’t want to disappoint, but it would be dishonest to give false assurance. Indeed, I shouldn’t even be taking her money. No amount of instruction can create talent where there is none. You are a good violinist but not a superb one. You never will be.”
To my horror, a single tear leaked out. Setting aside the violin and averting my face, I rummaged in my skirt pocket for a handkerchief. “Here,” he said.
As I dabbed my eyes with his handkerchief, I detected a strong scent of tobacco, mingled with tweed and something indefinable, like musk. Was this what a man smelled like?
“But you—you gave me high marks,” I said, my voice wavering. “You reported that I was improving. Why would you say that?”
“I . . . I thought—” He cut himself short. And then I saw it: that look, which Bertha had told me to watch for. His eyes lingered on me for a moment too long before he tore his gaze away, as if he’d been scalded. “You know why,” he said, and he moved across the room from me, staking his meager distance.
Frau Arnoldi thinks you’re sleeping with Professor Reitz. She thinks you’re loose.
Anger flared in me. “I don’t know why you would lie. If I cannot play the violin for a living, I cannot stay here. It’s too expensive, a waste. I’ll have to go back home to Berlin.”
He did not turn to me, but his shoulders hunched about his neck, prepared for the blow. Just as I started to step toward him, he whispered, “I don’t want to lose you. That is why I lied.”
I went still. He gave an arid chuckle. “I am a fool. I think . . . I am in love with you.”
Hearing these words slammed something shut inside me, and the blow of it knocked something else open. I didn’t believe it, not entirely. He had falsified my grade report to keep me here; he was married, with children. Germany was poor. Even influential professors had to pay their bills. If he thought he was in love, he was a coward. I was his student, a girl half his age, who could cause his ruin. He must have heard the rumors about us. He’d tried to refute them by hiding his desire under fake praise, while pocketing my mother’s money. It was a terrible, craven deceit, and suddenly I wanted to test his sincerity.
“You love me, so you lied,” I said, extending his handkerchief. “How cruel.”
He stepped backward again. “I know. You must hate me.”
I should. I should hate him enough to go straight to the dean and report him. He was not honorable. But I didn’t move, for now I saw the secret power I had over him—a power that had lurked all this time inside me. He had crushed my ability to fulfill my dream but I had invaded his. And in that instant, I decided to throw caution aside, toss it upon the wreckage of my aspirations. I did it out of frustration and out of spite; and to avenge myself, to ensure that everything was so thoroughly ravaged, hewould never forget me. If I could never become a master violinist, if he stole that hope from me, I would take this from him.
I reached for his hand, shoving the handkerchief into it. “I don’t hate you,” I said, and I did not let go
“I know. And you are accomplished. You might eventually perform as part of an orchestra if you continue practicing. But as a soloist . . . I fear that’s out of the question.”
His eyes were fixed on me. I had to bite back a rush of tears. Of all the things I’d imagined might happen, this was not one of them. I had come to Weimar uncertain as to whether I could succeed, but then my desire to prove myself overcame my doubt. I wanted a life I chose, as Mutti said, and when I envisioned returning to Berlin without it, I couldn’t bear it. She would never forgive me or let me forget I’d failed, after everything she had done to get me here.
“Can’t you teach me to be better?” I said. “My mother wants me to be a musician, and—”
He interrupted me. “I know your Mutti has placed much hope in you. You don’t want to disappoint, but it would be dishonest to give false assurance. Indeed, I shouldn’t even be taking her money. No amount of instruction can create talent where there is none. You are a good violinist but not a superb one. You never will be.”
To my horror, a single tear leaked out. Setting aside the violin and averting my face, I rummaged in my skirt pocket for a handkerchief. “Here,” he said.
As I dabbed my eyes with his handkerchief, I detected a strong scent of tobacco, mingled with tweed and something indefinable, like musk. Was this what a man smelled like?
“But you—you gave me high marks,” I said, my voice wavering. “You reported that I was improving. Why would you say that?”
“I . . . I thought—” He cut himself short. And then I saw it: that look, which Bertha had told me to watch for. His eyes lingered on me for a moment too long before he tore his gaze away, as if he’d been scalded. “You know why,” he said, and he moved across the room from me, staking his meager distance.
Frau Arnoldi thinks you’re sleeping with Professor Reitz. She thinks you’re loose.
Anger flared in me. “I don’t know why you would lie. If I cannot play the violin for a living, I cannot stay here. It’s too expensive, a waste. I’ll have to go back home to Berlin.”
He did not turn to me, but his shoulders hunched about his neck, prepared for the blow. Just as I started to step toward him, he whispered, “I don’t want to lose you. That is why I lied.”
I went still. He gave an arid chuckle. “I am a fool. I think . . . I am in love with you.”
Hearing these words slammed something shut inside me, and the blow of it knocked something else open. I didn’t believe it, not entirely. He had falsified my grade report to keep me here; he was married, with children. Germany was poor. Even influential professors had to pay their bills. If he thought he was in love, he was a coward. I was his student, a girl half his age, who could cause his ruin. He must have heard the rumors about us. He’d tried to refute them by hiding his desire under fake praise, while pocketing my mother’s money. It was a terrible, craven deceit, and suddenly I wanted to test his sincerity.
“You love me, so you lied,” I said, extending his handkerchief. “How cruel.”
He stepped backward again. “I know. You must hate me.”
I should. I should hate him enough to go straight to the dean and report him. He was not honorable. But I didn’t move, for now I saw the secret power I had over him—a power that had lurked all this time inside me. He had crushed my ability to fulfill my dream but I had invaded his. And in that instant, I decided to throw caution aside, toss it upon the wreckage of my aspirations. I did it out of frustration and out of spite; and to avenge myself, to ensure that everything was so thoroughly ravaged, hewould never forget me. If I could never become a master violinist, if he stole that hope from me, I would take this from him.
I reached for his hand, shoving the handkerchief into it. “I don’t hate you,” I said, and I did not let go
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