Gertrude Read online

  CHAPTER I

  MY life, as I look back on it now, does not seem to have been a particularly happy one. Yet I cannot call it unhappy, in spite of my many mistakes. When all is said and done, it is very foolish to question so much about happiness and unhappiness. It seems to me that it would be harder for me to give up the unhappiest days of my life, than all the happy ones. For, if to live, means consciously to accept the inevitable, to probe fully good and bad, and to conquer, besides our outer destiny, an inner, a truer, and a less casual fate—then my life has not been poor and worthless.

  If my outer fate has hung over me, as over all—unavoidable and decreed by the gods—my inner destiny is of my own making.

  For the sweetness and bitterness which it brought, I believe I, alone, am answerable.

  Several times in my early years I wished to be a poet. If I were a poet, I could not now resist the allurement of going back in my life to the delicate shadows of my childhood, and to the hidden wellsprings of my earliest remembrance. But these are to me so beloved and sacred that I must not desecrate them, even to myself. I was given full freedom to discover my gifts and tendencies, to make my inner joy and pain, and to consider the future, not as an outside power from above, but as the hope and the reward of my own power.

  So I went untouched through school, as an unbeloved, little-gifted, but quiet student, whom one leaves alone because he does not seem to be amenable to any strong influence. Somewhere in my sixth or seventh year I began to feel that, of all unseen forces, music was to seize me most strongly and to master me most completely. After this I had my own world, my refuge and my heaven, which no one could take from me, and which I desired to share with no one. I was a musician, although before my twelfth year I had learned to play no instrument, and never thought to earn my bread, later, through music.

  Moreover, this feeling has remained without any essential change. And so it seems to me, as I look back, that my life was very gay and varied, although set from the very first in one key, and guided by one single star. Whether it was well or ill with me, my inner life remained unchanged. I might for long periods put forth upon strange waters, with no notes and no instrument to touch, but in every hour, a melody sang in my blood and on my lips. If eagerly I sought for the solution of many things—for forgetfullness and deliverance, for God and knowledge and freedom—I always found them in music. For that I did not need Beethoven or Bach. That from time to time, one can be moved and pervaded by rhythm and harmony, has always been for me a deep consolation, and has betokened a justification of all life.

  O Music! A melody breaks upon you. You sing it, not with your voice, but with your soul. It saturates your very being. It takes possession of all your strength. For a few minutes it extinguishes all that lives in you—all the non-essentials, the evil, the gross, the sad. It puts you in tune with the world. It makes the heavy light, and it lends wings to the motionless. All of that can the melody of one folk-song do!

  And then the harmony! Every euphonious consonance of pure tone, like a peal of bells, fills the soul with charm and gratification, and every tone, vibrating in sympathy, can kindle the heart and make it tremble for very joy—as can no other bliss.

  Of all the forms of pure happiness of which people and poets have dreamed, to listen to the music of the spheres seemed to me the highest and the most spiritual. My deepest and most precious dreams have been this—for the length of a heart-beat to hear the building of the universe, and the entirety of all life, sound in mysterious, inborn harmony. Ah, how can life then be so confused, and out of tune, and untruthful—as can only lies, malice, envy and hatred between men—when the simplest music proclaims so clearly that purity, harmony, and brotherly concord of clear tones can open Heaven to us! And although I may chide myself, and be angry that I, with all good purpose, could bring out of my life no song, and no pure music, in my innermost heart I well feel the imperative incitement, the thirsting demand for a pure harmony, sacred in itself. But my days are full of incidents and discords. And wherever I turn, and where I knock, I listen in vain for the echo of clear and full tones.

  But nothing more of this. I will tell my tale. If I only think for whom I have written these pages, who had the real power over me to force this confession from me, to break through my loneliness—then I must repeat the beloved name of a woman, who was bound to me not only by a long period of my life and destiny, but who has been fixed above me like a star and a lofty symbol.

  It was during my last school year, when all my comrades began to talk about their future professions, that I also began to think about it. To make music my calling and vocation, truly never occurred to me. But I could think of no other occupation which would give me happiness. Towards trade, or any other business which my father suggested to me, I had no objections. They were merely indifferent to me. But my comrades seemed so proud to undertake their chosen callings that they—and perhaps a voice within me—made it seem good and right to choose that profession which filled my thoughts, and which alone gave me true joy.

  It came to me that since my twelfth year I had studied the violin, and under a good instructor had learned accurately. Only my father very much opposed it, and was uneasy to see his only son enter upon the uncertain career of an artist. My determination grew in opposition to his will, and my teacher, who liked me, strongly interceded in my favor. At the end, my father gave in. Only he was insistent, as a proof of my determination, and in the hope that I might change my mind, that I remain another year in school. I stayed with tolerable patience, and during this year I became more convinced of my desire.

  It was in this last year in school that I fell in love, for the first time, with a pretty young girl of our acquaintance. Without seeing her very much, or even without wishing very strongly to see her, I tasted the sweet intoxication of a first love, as in a dream. And in this time, when during the whole day I thought of my music and of my love, and in those nights in which I could not sleep for the glorious excitement, I was filled with conscious melodies which suddenly came to me—two little songs. I tried to write them. This filled me with a half-shamed, though penetrating joy, in which I almost wholly forgot my sentimental love sorrows.

  In the meantime I heard that my beloved was taking singing lessons. I was very eager to hear her sing. After some months my wish was fulfilled one evening in the home of my parents. The pretty child was asked to sing; at first she strongly resisted, and then finally consented. And I waited for it with a nervous tension. A man accompanied her at our poor, little, piano; he played a few notes and she began. Oh, it was so bad—so pitifully bad! Yet while she sang my dismay and distress turned to pity and then to humor, and finally I was freed of my love for her.

  I was a patient, not exactly lazy, but not a good student, and in my last year I made very little effort. For that, neither indolence nor my love affair was to blame. Rather an indifference, an absorption in the dreams of youth, a dullness of mind and of sense, which only now and then was suddenly and sharply interrupted, when one of the wonderful, premature hours of creative desire enveloped me as with ether. Then I felt myself enclosed by a clear, crystal air, in which no dreams were possible; in which all my senses were sharpened, and on the lookout. What resulted of those hours was little—perhaps ten melodies and a few beginnings of harmonic sketches. But their atmosphere I can never forget—that clear, almost cold air, and that intense concentration of my thoughts to give to a melody the perfect rhythm and not an accidental movement and resolution. I was not pleased with these little accomplishments. I never considered them logical and good, but it was clear to me that in my life there would be nothing so much desired, nothing so important, as the return of such hours of vision and of creation.

  I also knew days of musing, when I indulged in whims on my violin, in the tumult of escaping invasions, and in the color of tones. Only, I soon discovered that this was no creation, but a playing and rioting, from which
I must defend myself. I noticed that it is one thing to yield to one’s dreams and to taste fragrant hours, and another, inexorably and firmly to grapple with the mystery of form as with an enemy. And even at that time I comprehended a little of the truth, that a real creative work demanded something of loneliness in one, a renunciation of some of the pleasures of life.

  Finally, I was free. School was behind me! My parents bade me farewell, and my new life as a student in the Conservatory of Cologne began. I entered with great anticipations and was convinced that I would be a good student in the school of music. To my painful astonishment it was quite otherwise. I had great difficulty, especially in following the instruction. I found the piano lessons which I had to take a great annoyance, and soon saw my whole study rise before me like an impassable mountain. While I had no intention of giving it up, still I was disillusioned and disconcerted. I realized that for all my modesty, I had considered myself as a kind of genius, and had underestimated the serious toil and difficulty of the path to Art. Therefore, composition was thoroughly painful to me. For now in the smallest problem I saw only the mountain of difficulties and rules, and learned to distrust absolutely my feeling. I no more knew whether, after all, there was a spark of power in me. I felt small and sad. I did my work as I would have done it behind a counter, or in another school, industriously, but joylessly. I dared not complain, at least in my letters home. So I plodded along the way I had started, in silent disappointment, intending to become at least an average violinist. I practiced and practiced. I endured the rudeness and ridicule of my teacher. I saw many others, of whom I had not believed it possible, easily come forward and earn praise. And I stuck to my object with increasing humbleness. I could never dare to think of myself as a virtuoso. It looked as though, by dint of hard work I might become a serviceable fiddler, who might play without shame and without honor, his assigned part, and so earn his bread.

  So this time for which I had watched and from which I had expected so much, was the only time in my life when I went my joyless way, forsaken by the spirit of music. And therein, I lived days without tone and without rhythm. Where I had sought enjoyment and inspiration, glory and beauty, I found only rules and obligations, difficulties and dangers.

  When any music did come, either it was something banal—done a hundred times before—or it contradicted all the rules of harmony, and so was worth nothing. I packed away all my great thoughts and hopes. I was one of the thousands who approach art with youthful audacity, and whose strength fails when it becomes serious. This state of affairs lasted about three years. I was then over twenty years old. Obviously my profession had failed me, and I continued in it only out of shame and a sense of duty. I knew nothing more of music. I knew only finger exercises, contradictory harmonies, theories, difficult piano studies, under a mocking teacher who in all my efforts saw only a waste of time.

  Had not the old ideals remained secretly living in me, I could have had a good time in those years. I was free and had friends. I was a good-looking and healthy young man, a son of wealthy parents. At times I liked all that. It offered me merry days, flirtations, carousings, and outings. But it was not possible for these things to satisfy me, to kill my sense of duty, and before all else allow me to be happy in my youthful days. In all those unguarded hours, as one homesick, I looked at the declining star of my art. It was impossible to forget and to deaden my disappointment. Only once did it leave me completely.

  That was the most foolish day of my foolish youth. At that time I was running after a student of the famous voice teacher H——. It seemed to be with her, as it had been with me. She had come with great hopes, had found severe teachers, was not accustomed to the work, and finally even believed she was losing her voice. She easily accepted us; flirted with all of us; and knew how to make us all foolish over her, which indeed was not difficult. She had the fiery, high-colored beauty which soon fades.

  This beautiful Liddy captured me with her naïve coquetry, every time I saw her. I was never in love with her for very long at a time. Often I forgot her completely. But when I was near her, each time the infatuation seemed again to come over me. She played with me as with the others; allured us, tasted her power, merely with the curiosity of her youth. She was so beautiful—but only when she spoke, when she laughed with her warm, deep voice, or when she danced, or was pleased with the jealousy for her. Often when I returned from a party at which I had seen her, I laughed at myself and assured myself that it was impossible for a man of my kind to love a pleasing butterfly. But many times she succeeded in so exciting me by a gesture or a warm, whispered word, that, hot and wild, I wandered about her house half the night.

  At that time I had a short period of wildness, of a half-forced wantonness. After days of depression and of gloomy silence, my youth demanded stormy stimulation and intoxication. Then I went with my fellow students after diversions and pranks. We passed for boisterous, unrestrained, dangerous rioters, which as far as I was concerned, was undeserved. And with Liddy and her small circle, we won an agreeable but half-suspicious reputation as heroes.

  How much of this was genuine exuberance of youth, and how much was a deliberate stupefaction, to this day I cannot decide. For a long time, now, I have outgrown these achievements and all that extrinsic youthfulness.

  If it went too far, I have atoned for it.

  One day in the winter there were no lessons, so eight or nine young people went together out of town, among them Liddy with three friends. We had bob-sleds with us, and looked for good coasting places in the neighboring hills and slopes. I remember the day so well! It was moderately cold; at times the sun would come out for about a quarter of an hour. The invigorating air fairly smelled of the snow. The girls with their vari-colored clothes looked brilliant against the white ground. It was intoxicating, and the violent activity in all this crispness was a joy. Our little band was in the happiest spirits. Fun and foolishness flew hither and yon and we pelted one another with snowballs, and carried on a small war, until we were in a great perspiration and covered with snow. Then we stopped to breathe, and began again. We built a great fortress of snow, besieged it and stormed it, and between times went down some little slopes on our sleds.

  At noon, as we had become terribly hungry by this siege, we found a village and a good inn. We nearly roasted ourselves, then took possession of the piano, sang, screamed, and ordered wine and grog. The meal was served and heartily begun. The good wine flowed copiously, after which the girls asked for coffee, while we ordered liqueur. There was such shrieking and noise in the small inn that our ears were deafened.

  I was always near Liddy, who in a gracious mood, treated me today with unusual kindness. She was radiant and gorgeous in this air of merriment and tumult. Her beautiful eyes danced and she endured many half-daring, half-timid, rather venturesome tendernesses. A forfeit game was started, in which the losers must pay, some by giving imitations at the piano of our teachers, others by kisses, the number and nature of which were closely observed.

  It was still early in the afternoon, although it was beginning to grow dark, when, glowing and bustling, we left the inn. Like children we romped in the snow without hurrying back to the city through the softly falling evening. I remained by the side of Liddy—constituted myself her knight, but not without the opposition of the others. I drew her a good part of the way on my sled and did all I could to protect her from the constant attack of snowballs. Finally we were left alone. Each of the girls had found her partner, and only two of the boys had to be contented with each other’s warlike company.

  I had never been so excitedly and foolishly in love as in that hour. Liddy had taken my arm, and let me press her gently to me as we walked. She talked almost continuously until night. Then she grew happily silent, and the silence seemed to me full of promise. I was intoxicated and resolved to improve the occasion to prolong this intimate, tender footing as long as possible.

 
No one minded when, shortly before we reached the city, I proposed a roundabout way, over a beautiful winding highway that hung over the valley in a half circle, showing a view of the city that now flashed with its street lamps, and a thousand red lights glimmering out of the deep.

  Liddy still hung to my arm. She let me talk, accepting my fiery words smilingly, and seeming herself to be deeply stirred. But when I tried gently to draw her to me and to kiss her, she drew herself away.

  “Look,” she said, breathlessly. “Let’s coast all the way down. Or are you afraid, my hero! ”

  I looked down and was astonished, for the incline was so steep, that for an instant I was afraid of this audacious journey.

  “It won’t do,” I said weakly. “It is much too dark.”

  Immediately she fell upon me with ridicule and indignation, called me a coward, and swore to go down alone if I were too faint-hearted to go with her.

  “No doubt we will fall,” she added, laughing. “That’s the fun of the whole trip.”

  This so stung me that an inspiration came to me.

  “Liddy,” I said, softly. “We will do it. If we fall you may pelt me with snow, but if we get down safely, then I also will have my reward.”

  She merely laughed and seated herself on the sled. I looked into her eyes which glowed with warmth and desire. Then I took the front place, told her to hang on tight, and started. I felt her embrace as she crossed her hands over my chest. I wanted to say something to her but I could not. The bluff was so steep that I had the feeling of crashing through the empty air. At once I tried to find the ground with both my feet in order to hold us on or to upset us, for a feeling of terror for Liddy had struck into my heart. But it was too late. The sled rushed irresistibly down the precipice. I felt only a cold, biting deluge of driving snow-dust in my face—I heard Liddy’s terrified scream, and then—nothing more.