But one day something happened. It was quite an insignificant incident, yet it is one which I cannot forget. Simply it was that Mitzi sang to me. It was the fourth or fifth day since I had been allowed to leave my bed. I had never heard her except for a few exercises.
Her voice is not a very strong one, but there was never one as warm nor as expressive. It went at once into my heart, as Mitzi herself that day went into my life. What she sang mattered little, short folksongs, I believe, quite simple, yet her voice has that incomparable faculty of changing all what she sings into purest gold, as Midas did to all he touched.
Yes, it was rather an insignificant, little incident. Nor was there any revolution in me. No, but an evolution began. Slowly, vaguely, feelings came to me. Feelings, not thoughts. They were all inside my breast and—my word—they did hurt. Mitzi had with her singing struck a chord of gold, which was vibrating in my heart.
"Fräulein Mitzi," said I, for I had not yet learned to call her by her name alone; "if you will help me a little, and encourage me, I will write an opera for you. There is something exceedingly tender and impressive in your voice, something childlike.... I am sure you will inspire me, you will be my Muse."
Possibly you imagine that she was flattered, or at least pleased. Nothing of the sort, my dear. She just looked doubtful. She ought to have begun at once with the encouragement business I had suggested. A little phrase as, for instance, "That would be nice!" would not have cost her much. Any English girl would have said it. True, it would not have meant much, either, and she wasn't an English girl. Yet—I owe you some frankness, don't I?—I was somewhat disappointed. If I am not greatly mistaken, she turned up her nose a little when she said:
"Are you sure you will be able to write an opera?"
"For you, Fräulein Mitzi, I will be able to do anything!"
Indeed, such was my feeling. Yes, her very indifference was encouraging me. Such is man when he is in love. Her apathy made me suffer, and my wretchedness only stimulated me. Sure, I would show her of what I was capable. Her insensibility only augmented my emotion.
"I don't like your calling my voice childish, and if you compose something for me it will have to be heroic."