Gertrude Read online

  A terrific blow, as though a sledge hammer had struck my head; somewhere a cutting hurt. The last feeling I had was that of cold. With this short, fleet, toboggan slide, I atoned for all my youthful spirits and foolishness.

  Afterwards, when I had regained consciousness, many other things had entirely fled, among them my love for Liddy.

  I was relieved of the tumult and terrible confusion that followed the accident. For the others it was a painful hour. From above they heard Liddy scream, and they laughed and railed at us down in the darkness. Finally, they realized that something terrible had happened. With difficulty they climbed down, and it needed a little time for them to come out of their high spirits and revelry to a realization. Liddy was white and half conscious, although quite unhurt. Only her gloves were torn and her fine, white hands scratched and bleeding. They bore me away, to all appearances, dead. Afterwards I looked in vain for the apple or pear tree on which the sled and my bones were broken. It was thought that my spine was injured, but it did not turn out to be so bad. My head and brain were badly hurt, and it was a long time before I became conscious in the hospital. The head healed and my brain rested. But the compound fracture of my left leg could never be set right. Since then I have been a cripple, one who can only limp, but no more walk or run or dance. And thus my youth was exiled into a quiet land. I entered it not without shame and resistance. But still I entered it, and many times it seems to me that in no way could I have dispensed in my life with that toboggan slide in the evening, and its consequences.

  Truly, I think little of that broken leg, but more of the other effects of that accident—effects far more kind and joyful. Was it the accident itself with its pain and its glimpse into the depth, or was it the long lying there, the months-long quiet and reflection that did me good? The beginning of that long time of illness—the first week—has vanished entirely from my memory. I was much weakened, and after the final awakening, frail and indifferent. My mother came and faithfully sat all day by my bedside. When I recognized her and said a few words to her, she seemed pleased and almost cheerful; but as I learned, later, she feared for me—not for my life but for my reason. Gradually we came to talk for long times together in the little, quiet, sick-room. We had never been very close to each other. I had felt nearer my father. Now she was touched with pity, and I, with gratitude, and disposed to a conciliation. But too long we had been accustomed to a mutual indifference for us to express in words this awakening happiness. We looked at each other contentedly, but left the things unsaid. She was again my mother, for I was ill and she could nurse me, and so forgave all else. Later we resumed our old attitude, and we avoided speaking of this sick time, as it made us both embarrassed.

  Gradually I began to perceive my situation, and after my fever had gone and I seemed quiet, the Doctor could no longer keep me in ignorance of what would always remain to me a reminder of this fall. I saw my youth, which I had hardly enjoyed consciously, grievously clipped and impoverished. For all time I must come to terms with this thing.

  I eagerly sought to fasten my condition in my thoughts, to picture to myself the future, but I could not do it. Many thoughts were not yet possible to me, for I soon grew weary and sank into a halfconscious dream, wherein nature protected me from sorrow and despair, and forced upon me the rest necessary to heal me. But in spite of everything, my misfortune troubled me many hours and half the nights, and I could not think of anything to comfort me.

  Then one night I awoke after a few hours of light slumber. It seemed to me I had dreamed something good, and I strove to remember what it was, but it was gone. I felt wonderfully well, even courageous, as though I had surmounted and put behind me everything unpleasant. And as I lay and thought, I felt the gentle current of recovery and of release upon me. A melody played upon my lips almost audibly, and I hummed it without really listening to it attentively. And unexpectedly music came back to me like a glowing star to which I had long been strange, and my heart beat its rhythm and my whole life bloomed, and breathed new, pure air. It came to me insensibly. Only it was there, and permeated me, as if gentle choirs were singing to me from far away.

  And in this fervent, refreshing feeling, I slept again. In the morning I was happy, and not oppressed anymore. My mother noticed it and asked me what had made me happy. I tried to think, and after a while I told her that for so long I had not given a thought to my violin, but now, again, I remembered it, and I was happy.

  “But you will not be able to play for a long time,” she said, somewhat anxiously.

  “That does not matter—even if I never play again! ”

  She could not understand this and I could not explain it to her. But she saw that I was better and that no danger lurked behind this causeless happiness. After a few days she spoke of it again.

  “Son, what is the real truth about your music? We had almost believed that you had taken a dislike to it, and your father has spoken to your teachers about it. We will not discuss it—at least, not now—but we think that, if you have deceived yourself, and would like to give it up, you should do so, and not keep it because of pride or shame. What do you think?”

  Then I thought of that whole time of doubts and misgivings. I tried to tell my mother about it and she seemed to understand. But now, I thought, I had become more sure of myself, and at all events I would not abandon it, but study to the end. There the matter rested. In the depths of my soul—into which my mother could not look—the music was everything. Whether or not I succeeded with my violin, I could once more hear the harmony of the universe, and I knew there was no salvation for me but in music. If my condition would not permit me to play the violin, then I must renounce it. Perhaps I would have to seek another profession or become a merchant. But all that did not matter. I would, as merchant, or even as something less than a merchant, perceive music, and in music live and breathe. I would compose. It was not the violin, as I had told my mother, which filled me with joy. But, instead, it was the creating of music that even then made my hand tremble. Already I felt the pure sweep and clear breezes, the bracing coolness of thoughts, and knew that by the side of it a lame leg and other troubles were of small significance.

  From that hour I was the victor. And whenever my wishes wandered into the land of health and youth, and whenever I hated and cursed my infirmity with bitterness and passionate shame, this sorrow never really conquered me. There was something that comforted me and dispelled the clouds.

  My father travelled back and forth to see me and my mother, and when it was evident that I was better, he took her home with him. The first days I felt rather lonely. Then too, I was grieved that I had spoken so little from my heart to my mother, had paid so little attention to her thoughts and cares. But I was so filled with other feelings that these thoughts and good intentions were forgotten.

  And then someone came to see me, who had not dared come while my mother was there. It was Liddy. I was rather surprised to see her. In the first minute I could not realize how near I had once been to her, and how dearly I had once cared for her. She came in great embarrassment which she could not conceal. She had been afraid of my mother and even of the court of justice. For she felt herself to blame for my accident. It dawned upon her slowly that things were not really so bad and that she could not be implicated. Then she breathed freely, though she was a little disappointed. In all this terrible affair, in the bottom of her heart, she had allowed herself much intense and emotional distress. Several times she used the word “tragic” at which I could hardly keep from laughing. Particularly, she had not been prepared to find me so gay and so disrespectful of my misfortune. She had intended to beg my forgiveness.

  Had I been her lover, the very granting of this would have been a mighty compensation. Following upon this touching scene she thought once more to besiege my heart. Now, it is true, it was no small relief to this foolish child to find me so content and herself relieved of all guilt
and blame. But she was not happy for this relief. Instead, the more I quieted her conscience and belittled her anxiety, the quieter and cooler I saw her become. It hurt her a good deal that I regarded her share in the affair as so trifling; that I seemed to have forgotten; that I nipped in the bud her emotions and plans; and spoiled the whole beautiful scene. In spite of my great courtesy she saw that I was no longer in love with her, and that was the hardest to bear. I might have lost arms and legs, still I would have been a lover whom, it is true, she had never loved and to whom she had granted nothing, but in whose adoration, always miserable as he was, she had found great satisfaction.

  Now it was no longer so, as she clearly perceived. I saw the warmth and sympathy on her pretty face, fade and grow cool. Finally she took leave of me in meaningless words. And she never came again, although she had solemnly promised to do so.

  Much as it pained me and hurt my pride to have been in love with one so insignificant and ridiculous, still her visit did me good. I was so filled with wonder to look upon this pretty and desirable girl, for the first time without emotion, and without seeing her through rose-colored glasses. If someone had presented me with a puppet, which at three years old I had embraced and loved, the change and the estrangement of my feeling could not have more astonished me than this: when I saw a maiden, whom for weeks I thought desirable, as a total stranger.

  Of the comrades who had been on that winter Sunday excursion, two came several times to see me. But we found little in common to talk about, and I clearly noticed their relief when they saw I was gaining. So I asked them to make no more sacrifice. I never saw them again. It was noteworthy and gave me a curious, painful feeling. Everything that had belonged to the youthful years of my life fell away from me, became strange and was lost. I suddenly realized how falsely and pitifully I had lived this whole time—that now, love, friends, customs and the joys of these years, fell from me like ill-fitting clothes, without causing me any grief. I only wondered how I had clung to them so long, or they to me.

  On the other hand I was surprised by another visitor of whom I had never thought. One day my piano teacher came, my severe, ironical master. He kept his stick in his hand and his gloves on, spoke in his accustomed harsh, almost biting manner, called my unfortunate toboggan slide a woman’s tom-foolery, and seemed by the tone of his words to think I had got my just deserts! In spite of that the fact remains that he came. And he showed also, although he could not change his tone, that he had come with no adverse purpose but to say to me that in spite of my clumsiness he considered me a fair pupil, and that his colleague, the violin teacher, thought the same. And they hoped I would soon return and so give them pleasure! Although this talk, which looked almost like an apology for previous rudeness, was delivered in the same bitter, sharp way as usual, it seemed to me almost a declaration of love. I held out my hand gratefully to the crusty teacher to show him my appreciation. I tried to make it clear to him how, for me, these years were over, and how now my old devotion to music had begun again to live.

  The Professor shook his head and whistled scornfully as he said:

  “Aha! You would like to be a composer?”

  “If possible,” I answered.

  “Well, I wish you luck! I had thought that now, perhaps, you would go on with some industry, and practice. But for a composer that is not necessary.”

  “Oh, that is not what I meant! ”

  “What then? You know when a music student is lazy and doesn’t like to work, he always announces that he is a composer! Anyone can do that, and every one is a genius! ”

  “But I truly did not mean that. Do you want me to become a pianist?”

  “No, my dear boy. You couldn’t be that. But you could learn to be a respectable violinist.”

  “Then I will do that.”

  “I hope you are serious about it. But I must stay no longer. Quick recovery and Auf Wiedersehen! ”

  With that he went away and left me perplexed. I had hardly thought of returning to my studies. I rather feared things might become difficult and uncertain again, and at last all be as it had been before. But such thoughts did not last long, and it appeared that the visit of the surly Professor was well meant—a sign of genuine good-will.

  After my convalescence I was to make a journey for my health. I decided to wait until the long vacation, and to resume my work as soon as possible. For the first time I understood how beneficent a time of rest, even if enforced, can be. I began my studies with misgiving, but everything went better than before. I saw everything now clearly—that never would I be a virtuoso, though this realization did not make me feel sorry in my present condition. As for the rest, everything went well, and in the long pauses of my uncomfortable suffering, theory, harmony, and composition seemed to lead to a beautiful garden. I felt that the conceits and endeavors of my good hours no longer lay half outside all rules and laws; that within the stern rule of the school, a narrow but plainly visible path led to freedom. Of course there were hours and days and nights when all lay before me like a thorny path, and with a tired head I tormented myself with contradictions. But the doubt came no more.

  At the end of the semester, to my great surprise, the teacher of theory said to me:

  “You are the only pupil of this year who seems to understand anything of music. When you have written something I should like to see it.”

  With these comforting words ringing in my ear, I left for my vacation. I had not been home for a long time, and while I journeyed there a flood of half-forgotten incidents of my childhood and of my youth came over me. At the station my father met me and we drove home.

  In the morning I had a desire to roam about the old streets. For the first time I felt the affliction of my lost, uncrippled youth. It was a torture to me, with my crooked and stiff leg, to hobble on a cane through the streets where each corner was reminiscent of boyish play and past pleasure. I went back home heavy of heart, and everything I saw and every voice I heard, and everything I thought reminded me bitterly of what had been, and of the cripple I now was. Besides I soon perceived that my mother did not sympathize with my choice of a profession, although she did not say so openly. A musician with two good legs might win success as a soloist or a dashing director, if he were worth anything, but she could not understand how one, half lame, with only moderate ability, could succeed very well as a violinist. She was encouraged in these thoughts by an old friend and distant relative to whom my father had once forbidden the house. She, filled with bitter hate for him, disregarded his wishes, for she didn’t remain away but came to see my mother during his business hours.

  She could not endure me, with whom, since my childhood, she had hardly exchanged a word, and she saw in my choice of a profession an ominous sign of insanity, and in my misfortune but a clear punishment and admonition of Providence.

  In order to give me a surprise, my father arranged that I should be asked as a soloist for a concert of the city’s musical club. But I could not do it! All day long I withdrew to my little room in which I had lived as a child. Besides, the eternal questions and necessary explanations tortured me so that I hardly ever went out. Rather, I sat by myself, and from my window watched with unhappy envy the life of the streets, the school children, and especially the young girls. How could I dare to hope ever again to win a girl’s love? To the end of my life I would stand outside, and to the women, would always be a little less than a man. And if ever one was kind to me it would be out of pity. Ah, I had already endured as much as I could of pity!

  Under such conditions I could not remain at home. My parents suffered, too, not a little from my increasing depression, and hardly raised an objection when I begged permission to take now the long planned trip which my father had promised me. My desires and hopes, now destroyed, had given me something to think about. So keenly and agonizingly did I feel this infirmity and deformity, that the mere sight of a sound
man and of an attractive woman depressed and humiliated me. Even after I had been used for a long time to my cane and to my limp—until they hardly disturbed me—yet it took me years to think of my injury without bitterness and to bear it with resignation, even with a certain humor.

  Fortunately, I could travel alone, and no longer required any particular help. It was easier for me as soon as I took my seat, and no one regarded me curiously or pityingly. I travelled day and night without stopping, with a real feeling of flight, and I took a deep breath when, on the second evening, I saw through the dusty windows the peaks of high mountains. Night had fallen when I reached my station, and happy but tired, went through the dark street of a simple, little village to the first inn. After a glass of dark red wine I slept ten hours in restfulness and lost a good share of my depression and of my troubles.

  In the morning I got on the little mountain railroad which led mountainwards, through narrow valleys to white, foaming streams. Then I went by carriage to a little, solitary station, and by noon I was in one of the highest of mountain hamlets.

  In the small inn of this quiet village I dwelt, well into the autumn—at times the only guest. I had thought to remain here a little while and then to travel through Switzerland, to see a little of the world and foreign lands. But there was at this height a breeze and an air full of such freshness and vastness that I could not leave. One side of the valley was overgrown with pines, almost to the top. The other slope was barren rock. Here I spent my days in the sun-burnt rocks, or near some dashing wild stream whose song sounded by night through all the village. In the first days I felt the solitude as a soothing draught. No one looked at me; no one showed any curiosity or any pity. I was free and alone, like a bird in the heights, and soon forgot my sorrow, and my sickening feeling of envy. Sometimes I was sorry that I could not go farther into the mountains to see unknown valleys and hilly tracts, to climb the dangerous ways. At heart, however, after the excitement and agitation of the past months, the peace and the solitude encompassed me like a walled town. I found a peace of soul and learned to think of my bodily weakness, if not with cheerfulness, at least with resignation.