Gertrude Page 11

  “Here we are,” he said; “let’s celebrate and be happy. Really we have the right to celebrate ahead of time, for then the thing’s at its best. Afterwards it looks different. You’re running straight into the bedazzlement of the theater, lad, and we’ll drink a toast to your not being blinded by it like most of them.”

  Gertrude did not at once lose her shyness with Muoth, and was at ease with him only when she sang. He was very reserved and considerate, and gradually Gertrude came to welcome him and invited him, as she did me, with unconscious friendliness. The hours in which we were all three together were rare ones. The rôles had been sung through, and talked over. The winter round of society and the regular music evenings had begun again at the Imthors. Muoth often appeared at these without taking any part. Often I thought that Gertrude began to be more distant to me—that she drew back from me a little. But I always punished myself for such thoughts and was ashamed of my distrust. I saw how many demands were made upon Gertrude as the mistress of a much-frequented house, and I often felt a proud joy in seeing her move among her guests, so proud, so stately, and yet so gracious.

  For me the weeks went quickly enough. I worked faithfully, for I planned to finish the opera during the winter. I had meetings with Teifer; evenings with him and his sister; besides all sorts of correspondence and affairs. For my songs were being sung here and there, and in Berlin everything that I had composed for strings had been played. There came questions and newspaper criticisms. And suddenly every one seemed to know that I was working on an opera, although I had never said a word to anyone about it outside of Gertrude, the Teifers, and Muoth. Well, now that was a matter of indifference, and in my heart I was glad of these signs of success. An open way seemed at last to lie before me. For a whole year I had not been at home with my parents. At Christmas time I went. I found my mother tender, but there was between us still the old self-consciousness which on my side was a fear of not being understood; and on hers a lack of belief in my career as an artist—a distrust of the earnestness of my endeavors. She spoke eagerly of what she had heard and read about me, but more with the thought of giving me a pleasure than from conviction. For in her heart she distrusted this apparent success just as she did my whole art. She was not without appreciation of music. She had sung a little in her early life. But, nevertheless, a musician, in her eyes, was something rather pitiful. Besides, she could not understand or approve of my music, of which she had heard a little.

  My father had more faith. As a merchant, he thought first of all of my success. And although he had always provided for me generously and without complaint (he had really provided my whole support since I had left the orchestra) nevertheless, he was glad to see that I was beginning to earn something, and had a prospect of being able to earn my own living—a thing which, whatever his own wealth might be, he looked upon as a necessary foundation for an honorable existence.

  I found him lying in bed. He had fallen the day before my arrival and had injured his foot. He was inclined to mild philosophizing about life. I came nearer to him than ever before and found real pleasure in his practical philosophy. I could ask for his sympathy in many of my misfortunes, which out of shame I had never done before. A speech of Muoth’s occurred to me which I repeated to my father. Muoth had once said, not altogether in earnest, that he believed youth to be the most difficult period of life, and that he found old people more cheerful and contented than young people. My father laughed and then said thoughtfully:

  “Of course we older people assert the opposite. But your friend has caught something of the truth. I believe that one can mark a perfectly clear boundary line between youth and age. Youth stops when egoism stops. Old age begins with a life lived for others. I mean it this way. Young people have much enjoyment and much suffering from their lives because they live them for themselves alone. Then, every wish and every impulse is important. Every joy is drained to its dregs, and every grief as well. And many a one who sees that his wishes cannot be fulfilled, impetuously flings his whole life away. That is a characteristic of youth. But there comes a time for most people when all that changes, when they live more for others, not at all out of virtue but quite naturally. A family causes it in most cases. A man thinks less of himself and of his own wishes when he has children. Others lose their egoism in a profession—in politics, in art, or science. Youth must play; age must work. No one marries for the purpose of having children, but when he has children they change him. And at last he sees that everything happened only for them. That goes along with the fact that youth talks easily of death, but never thinks of it. With the old it is reversed. The young believe that they will live forever and therefore can center all their wishes and thoughts upon themselves. The old have observed by this time that there’s an end somewhere, and that everything which one has and does for himself alone, falls at last into a hole and counts for nothing. So one needs another immortality and the belief that he works for more than the worms. So wife and children, and position and fatherland, are for the purpose of showing a man for whom the daily grind and drudgery is endured. And there your friend is right. A man is more contented when he lives for other people than when he lives for himself alone. Only the old should make a heroism out of it—which it isn’t. The most ardent of the young grow into the best old people, and not those who are like grandfathers while they are still in school.”

  I stayed at home a week and sat often by my father’s bed.

  He was not a patient invalid, and indeed, apart from the slight injury to his foot, was in the best of health and strength. I confessed to him my regret that I hadn’t come nearer to him before. He replied that it was mutual. But that it would be a healthier thing for our future friendship than if we had made premature attempts at understanding each other, which seldom succeeded. Carefully, and in a friendly fashion, he inquired as to my relations with women. It was impossible to speak of Gertrude. The rest of my confession was quite simple.

  “Comfort yourself,” said my father, smiling. “You have in you the making of a right good husband. Clever women observe that quickly. Only I would not think of a very poor girl. She might care most for your money. And if you do not find the one whom you picture to yourself and might have loved, even then, all is not lost. Love between young people and love in a long married life is not the same. In youth each one thinks of himself and cares for himself, but when there is a household there are things to be anxious about. It was so with me. You may as well know it. I was very much in love with your mother and it was a real love match. That lasted only a year or two. And then the being in love stopped and was used up. We stood and didn’t know what to do.

  “At that time the children came—your two older sisters who died early. We had to care for them. In doing this our demands on each other were less. The strangeness wore off and all at once love was there again. Truly, not the old love, but a quite different one. And that has lasted without needing many patches for more than thirty years. All love matches are not so successful; in truth, very few.”

  I wasn’t very much helped by this point of view, but the new and friendly relation with my father did me good, and made my home dear to me again. In the last few years I had grown almost indifferent to it. When I left I did not regret the visit, and I determined to keep in close touch with my parents.

  Work, and journeys to the concerts where my string music was played, kept me from visiting the Imthors. When I began going there again, I found Muoth who had formerly gone only with me, one of the most frequently invited guests. Mr. Imthor still treated him a little cooly and distantly, but Gertrude seemed to have become good friends with him. That pleased me. I knew no reason for jealousy and was convinced that two such opposite natures as Muoth and Gertrude might interest and attract each other, but could never satisfy and love each other. So I looked on without suspicion when he sang with her. They were good to look at—these two tall, stately people, he dark and radiant, she lig
ht and gay. Only it struck me sometimes that her old, natural gayety came with an effort and was often tired and clouded. She often looked at me earnestly and scrutinizingly, with curiosity and with interest, as tormented and anxious people look at each other, and when I nodded at her and answered her look with a friendly smile, she smiled back at me but with such difficulty that it hurt me.

  But I observed this very seldom. At other times she looked as happy and radiant as ever, and I thought I had only imagined it, or I laid it to a passing indisposition. Only once was I really frightened. She sat, while one of her friends played Beethoven, leaning back in her chair and probably thought herself quite unobserved. When she was receiving her guests in the brightly lighted room she had seemed gay and untroubled. Now, however, withdrawn in herself, and quite untouched by the music, she allowed her features to relax and they took on an expression of weariness, fear and timidity, like a tormented, helpless child. It lasted several minutes and as I saw it I thought my heart would stop. She suffered and had sorrow. That in itself was bad enough, but that she kept on her mask and concealed everything from me—that frightened me. As soon as the music was over I went to her side and started a meaningless sort of conversation. I said that it had been a trying winter for her and that I, too, thereby suffered, but I said it all lightly and in a jesting tone. Finally I reminded her of the spring when we had played and sung and discussed the beginning of my opera.

  Then she said, “Yes, that was a happy time”; nothing more, but it was a confession, for she said it with unintended earnestness. But I read out of that remark hope for myself and was thankful to her in my heart.

  How happy I would have been to repeat my question of the summer. The change in her whole being, the self-consciousness and the timidity which she showed in my presence at times, I believed in all modesty to be a favorable sign for myself. It touched me to see how her maiden pride seemed to struggle hard to protect itself, but I dared say nothing. Her uncertainty filled me with pity and I believed I was bound to keep my unspoken promise. I have never known how to treat women. I made exactly the opposite mistake from Heinrich Muoth—I treated women as I treated my friends.

  As I became convinced that my surmises were not delirious, and as I only half understood Gertrude’s changed manner, I restrained myself. I went to the house less often and I avoided intimate talk with her. I wanted to spare her and not to frighten her, as she seemed to suffer and to be at war with herself. She noticed this, I am sure, and was not sorry to see my restraint. I hoped that with the end of the winter’s round of gayety, a quieter and lovelier time would come for us again. Until then I decided to wait. But often the beautiful girl hurt my very heart, and against my will, I myself became more and more restless, and felt something evil in the air.

  February came, and I longed for the spring and suffered blindly from the tension of the situation. Muoth, too, came to me seldom. To be sure, he had had a strenuous winter at the opera, and was now choosing between two flattering positions in large theaters which had recently been offered to him. He seemed no longer to have any woman about. At least since his break with Lotte, I had seen no woman at his house. Recently we had celebrated his birthday and since that time I had not seen him.

  My need drove me to him. I began to suffer from the change of my relation to Gertrude, from overwork, and the strain of the winter. I went to him to talk things over, as formerly. He gave me a glass of sherry, and talked about the theater, and was on the whole tired and disturbed, but remarkably gentle. I listened, looked about the room, and was about to ask whether he had been at the Imthors’ again, lately, and then, at a casual glance over his table, I saw an envelope with Gertrude’s handwriting. Before I had even a chance to consider, a fever of bitterness rose within me. It could have been an invitation, a simple courtesy, but I did not believe it much as I would have wished to. I succeeded in remaining quiet, and soon went away. Against my will I knew everything. I saw everything, and all at once comprehended all that had been and had happened. I intended to wait and to prove, but I knew quite well that all these thoughts were but pretexts and subterfuges. In truth the arrow had found its mark, and was poisoning my blood. And when I went home and sat in my room, the stupor slowly gave way before a terrible light which flooded me and penetrated my veins like ice, and made me see that now my life was overthrown and my hopes destroyed.

  For some days I did not reach the point of tears or pain. Without thinking about it I had decided not to live longer; even more, my desire to live had vanished. I thought of dying as a business that must be accomplished unflinchingly and of which one must not think whether it is pleasant or not.

  Among the things which it was necessary for me to look after—and which I did look after—was a visit to Gertrude. In a way it was for the sake of completeness, in order to make certain the proof of my premonition. I could have had this from Muoth, but, although he seemed less at fault than Gertrude, I could not bring myself to go to him. I went to Gertrude’s, but did not find her in. I went after several days and chatted a few minutes with her and her father until he left us alone, as he thought we wished to start our music. Now, she stood alone opposite me and I looked at her curiously. She was changed a little, but was no less beautiful than before.

  “Forgive me, Gertrude,” I said firmly, “that I must torture you once more. In the summer I wrote you a letter. May I now have my answer? I must depart, perhaps for a long journey, else I would have waited until you yourself?”

  She turned white and looked at me as if she had been wounded. So I helped her and said: “It must be, No? I thought so. But I must have certainty.”

  She nodded sadly.

  “Is it Heinrich Muoth?”

  She nodded again. Then, suddenly, she was frightened and seized my hand.

  “Forgive me. But do him no harm! ”

  “I had not even thought of that. You may be at peace,” I said and smiled, for I remembered Marian and Lotte, who also were so fearful of him, and whom he had beaten! Perhaps he would also beat Gertrude and break her noble queenliness and her completely trusting self.

  “Gertrude,” I said once more to her, “think it over. Not for my sake. I know how things are between us. But Muoth will not make you happy. Good-bye, Gertrude.”

  My detachment and clearness of vision remained unmoved. Only now, when Gertrude had pleaded with me, with that love in her voice which I had heard in the voice of Lotte; and when I saw how ill she looked and heard her say, “Don’t go so! I do not deserve it from you,” did my heart break. I had difficulty to restrain myself. I gave her my hand and said:

  “I do not wish to grieve you. I do not wish to hurt Heinrich. But wait a little. Don’t let him have power over you yet. He destroys all that he loves.”

  She shook her head and let my hand fall. “Good-bye,” she said, softly. “I am not to blame. Think well of me—and of Heinrich, too.” It was ended. I returned home again and went on taking care of my affairs as if it were a matter of business. The agony strangled me; my heart bled with sorrow. But I watched it as from afar and had no thoughts free to give to it. It was all one whether the days and hours that remained to me went well or not.

  I arranged the heaps of manuscript on which was written my half-finished opera. Then I wrote a note about it to Teifer, so that the work, if possible, might be saved. I began to think intently how I should die. I would have liked to spare my parents, but I could not see how that was possible. In the long run it wouldn’t matter much. I decided to do it with the revolver.

  All these questions rose before me unreal and shadowlike. Only one thing was clear. I dared not live longer. Too, already, behind the veil of my resolve, I divined the frightfulness of life that had resulted. It glared at me hideously out of empty eyes, and was infinitely more dreadful and fearful than the dark, almost indifferent vision of dying.

  Two days later, about noon, I was ready wit
h my preparations. I desired, however, to take a walk through the city. I had to return a few books to the library. It was a comfort for me to know that at evening I would not be living. I had the sensation of one who has met with an accident, who, in half-coma, and conscious of no real pain, but feeling a presentiment of terrible torment, hoped he might altogether sink into unconsciousness before the dreaded pain really broke upon him. I suffered less from real pain than under the fear that I might perhaps return again to full consciousness, and would then have to drain the whole cup which my summoned death was to spare me. Therefore, I took my walk quickly, tended to my business, and came directly back. The only detour I made was to avoid going to Gertrude’s house. For I had a foreboding, without being able to think it out, that perhaps at the sight of the house, the hideous agony before which I fled might fall upon me and conquer me. So I returned to the house in which I lived with a sigh of relief. I opened the door and without stopping climbed the steps. If now agony was close on my heels, if its claws stretched out to clutch me, if now somewhere within me pain began to stir, I had only a few steps and seconds between me and release.

  A man in uniform came down the steps as I went up. I tried to avoid him, to hurry by him, full of fear that I might be detained. He touched his cap and spoke my name. I looked at him as one dazed. When he spoke to me he stopped and the realization of my fears seemed to come over me. I felt a deathlike weariness as if I would fall and could not hope to take the few steps to my room. Meanwhile, I stared at the strange man, and then, overcome by faintness, I sat down on one of the steps. He asked me if I was ill. I shook my head. He was holding something in his hand which he offered to me and which I would not take until he forced it into my hands. I waved it aside and said, “I don’t want it.”