Gertrude Read online

  The weeks which I spent in the Alps, I count as almost the happiest of my life. I breathed the pure, clear air; I drank the icy water of the streams; I watched the flocks of goats grazing on the steep precipices, guarded by dark-haired, dreamy, silent shepherds. At times I listened to the storms raging through the valleys, and out of an unaccustomed nearness looked into the very faces of the clouds and mists. In the crevices of rocks, I observed the small, delicate, highly-colored world of flowers and the many beautiful mosses. On clear days I liked to climb for an hour, until beyond the heights, I could see the clear-cut outline of the high mountain peaks, with their blue shadows and luminous silver snowfields. In one place, where the trickling of a stream made it damp, I found on a clear day hundreds of small, blue butterflies. They were drinking of the water and hardly turned aside from my steps or from me. When I roused them they fluttered around me with a little, gentle, silky rustle. After I found them I followed that path every sunny day, and each time found the dense, blue cloud, and each time it was like a festival.

  I hardly think all of that time was so full of sun and of azure and of festivity, as it seems to me in my thoughts. There must have been cloudy days and rainy days, and snow and cold, just as there must have been in me storms and bad moods. But I was not used to solitude and after the first rest and delight was over, sometimes I saw the sorrow from which I had run away suddenly appear terrifying to me. On many a cold evening I sat in my tiny room, my travelling rug over my knees, tired and given over to sorrowful, foolish thoughts. Whatever had been desired by youthful blood—holidays, and the joy of dancing, the love of women, and adventure, the triumph of strength and of love—it all lay over there on another shore, forever separated from me, forever out of my reach. Even that defiant, unrestrained time of a half-forced gayety which had ended in my accident, seemed now in my remembrance beautiful and delightfully colored, like a lost land of joy whose echoes rang alluringly from a distance.

  And when on some nights the storm raged; when the cold, monotonous rush of the plunging water was drowned by the impassioned moaning and rustling of the wind-lashed pines; when in the roof-trees of the infirm house would sound the thousand inexplicable creakings of a sleepless summer night, then I lay in the hopeless, dominating dreams of life and of my sorrow, and cursed God. I seemed to myself like a poor poet and dreamer whose most beautiful dream is but a thin soap-bubble, while thousands of others in the world, full of the strength of their youth, had but to stretch out their happy, jubilant hands to grasp all the completeness of life.

  But as I felt the beauty of the mountains, and all that my senses daily enjoyed, looking at me through a veil and speaking to me from a strange distance, so there came a veil and a mild strangeness between me and that wildly attacking pain, and soon I grew to take both the brightness of the day and the sorrow of the night as voices from without, to which I might listen with unclouded heart. I seemed to be like a sky, with chasing, fleeing clouds; like a field full of fighting troops; and whether it was pleasure and enjoyment, or pain and melancholy, both were clear and undisguised, and both slipped from my soul and came on me from without, in harmonies and melodies, which I perceived as in my sleep, and which, without my wish, took possession of me.

  It was on a quiet evening, after my return from the rocks, that I understood this all clearly for the first time. As I brooded upon it, and was an enigma to myself, it suddenly occurred to me what it all meant—that it was the return of each strange hour in which in earlier years I had moved with misgivings. And with this remembrance returned the wonderful clearness, the almost crystal-like clearness, and transparency of the feelings, in which everything stood without masks, and in which there was no more pain or joy, but only strength and harmony. And of the change and struggle of my soaring perception, music was born.

  Now, in my bright days I looked on the sun and the woods, the brown rocks and the distant, silvery mountains with a double feeling of joy and beauty, and gradually in the dark hours my sick heart expanded and revolted with double fire. I no longer distinguished between pleasure and pain, for one was like the other. Both were sorrowful and both were precious. And whether it went well or ill with me, my power remained at peace, looking on and recognizing the light and the dark as belonging together, as brother and sister—that sorrow and joy, like tempo and theme, are parts of the same great music.

  I could not write this music. It was still strange and its boundary unknown. But I could hear it, and could feel the great unity of the world. And something of it I could hold—a little piece, an echo, almost dwindling to nothing when translated. I thought of them and sang them all day, and found that they might be expressed by two violins. So I began, as a young bird tries its wings, to write my first sonata.

  As I played my first movement on my violin, in my small room, I felt how weak and unfinished and uncertain it was, but every beat of it fell like a shower on my heart. I knew not whether the music was good. But I knew that it was my own music, that it lived in me, was born in me, and belonged to no one else.

  In the inn below, year in and year out, motionless and white as an icicle, sat the father of the innkeeper. He was a man of more than eighty years, who never spoke a word, but only looked carefully around out of his quiet eyes. It was a mystery, whether the solemnly silent man was in possession of superhuman wisdom and peace of soul, or whether his mental powers had left him. I walked in upon this hoary man each morning, my violin under my arm. I had noticed that he always listened with attention to my playing and to all music. When I found him alone, I went near to him, tuned my violin, and played my first movement. The ancient man kept his still eyes, whose whites were yellow and whose lids were red, upon me, and listened to me. Now when I think of that music I see again the old man and his motionless, stony face, out of which the quiet eyes considered me. When I had finished I nodded to him. He blinked slyly and seemed to comprehend everything. His jaundiced eyes answered my glance. Then he turned away, let his head drop, and seemed to be dulled into his old apathy.

  The autumn came early in the mountains, and when I departed one morning, the fog lay thick and a cold rain fell in spraying drops. But I took with me the sun of the happy days, and the grateful remembrance of a joyous courage for my next path in life.

  CHAPTER II

  DURING my last semester at the conservatory I became acquainted with the singer Muoth, who had considerable reputation in the city. He had finished his studies four years before, and had immediately been engaged by the Royal Opera, where, to be sure, he appeared only occasionally and in minor rôles. Because of the favorite, older colleagues, he could not come into just recognition. But many considered him a coming star, on the very threshold of success. I had seen him in several parts and he had always produced on me a strong impression, although not a very definite one.

  Our acquaintance began in this way. On my return to school I took my violin sonata and two songs to the teacher who had shown such an interest in me. He promised to look over my compositions, and tell me what he thought of them. It was a long while before he did it, and I noticed in time a certain embarrassment whenever I met him. Finally he called me in one day, and gave me back my manuscripts.

  “There are your compositions,” he said in a disconcerted manner. “I hope you haven’t any great hopes concerning them. There is something there, without doubt, and something can be made out of them. But to be perfectly frank, I had credited you with more repose and maturity, and with less passion. I had expected something quieter and more pleasing, surer in its technique, something that could be judged from that standpoint. But your work is technically faulty, so that I can say little about it. It is a daring experiment, which I cannot esteem, and which your teacher may not praise. You have done less and more than I had anticipated, and, therefore, I am perplexed. I am too much of a teacher to overlook your technical sins, and I cannot decide whether, or not, your originality will outweigh them. I will wait
until I see something more of yours, and then wish you luck. You will continue to compose. Of so much I am certain.”

  With that I was dismissed and did not know what to make of his decision, which was really no decision at all. It seemed to me that one could have seen at once whether a composition was written out of necessity and from the heart, or whether it was merely a play and a pastime. I put the manuscript away and decided to forget it for a while, and to make the most of my last months of study.

  Once I was invited to the home of a music-loving family, who were acquaintances of my parents. I called formally once or twice a year. This was an evening to which a few opera singers were invited. The singer, Muoth, who of all of them interested me the most, was there. For the first time I saw him close. He was tall and handsome, a dark, impressive man, with an assured, and perhaps somewhat spoiled manner. One could see that he was pleasing to the women. Still he seemed, in spite of his affected gestures, neither proud nor self-satisfied, but rather there was in his look and mien, a dissatisfaction, a seeking for something. When I was presented to him, he greeted me with a short, formal acknowledgment, without speaking to me further. But after a while he suddenly came over to me and said:

  “Is your name Kuhn? Then I already know you a little. Professor S. showed me your work. You must not be displeased. He is not indiscreet. But I came upon him when he was reading a song, and with his permission, I took a look at it.”

  I was surprised and embarrassed. “Why mention that? I am sure the Professor didn’t like the song.”

  “What do you care? I liked the song very much. I could sing it if only I had the accompaniment. I might beg that from you?”

  “You really like it? Can it truly be sung?”

  “It certainly can, although not at every concert. But I would like it in my repertoire.”

  “I will copy it for you. But why do you wish to have it?”

  “Because it interests me. It is real music—that song. You know that yourself.”

  He looked at me, and his way of considering people made me uncomfortable. He looked at me directly in the eyes, studying me, wholly unconsciously, and his eyes were full of curiosity.

  “You are younger than I had thought. But you must have had much sorrow.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I cannot talk about it.”

  “You needn’t—I won’t question you.”

  His look bewildered me. After all he was an artist of distinction—while I was but a student. I could only set up a weak and timid defense against him, although I didn’t like his way of questioning. He was not arrogant, but, nevertheless, a feeling of ignominy hurt me, and I wasn’t able to ward it off. Still it didn’t arouse any antipathy in me. I had the feeling that he was unhappy, and had a determined, forcible way of getting hold of men, as if he would snatch from them something that would comfort him. His dark, searching eyes were sad and audacious, and his face much older than he could possibly be.

  Shortly after, while my thoughts were busy with his conversation, I saw him talking courteously and merrily with the daughter of the house, who was charmed by him, and who looked at him as at a wonder! I had lived such a lonely life since my accident, that this encounter filled my mind and disturbed me for days after. I was not sure enough of myself not to fear the condescension of the man, although too lonely and too hungry not to be flattered by his advances. Finally, I thought he had forgotten me and his caprice of that evening.

  Then to my astonishment he appeared at my rooms. It was on a December evening after dusk. He knocked and came in as though there were nothing unnatural in his visit, and without any introduction or ceremony plunged immediately into the midst of his conversation. I must give him that song! Then, seeing my piano in the room, he would sing it at once! I must sit down and accompany him. And so for the first time I heard my song perfectly sung. It was sad, and moved me against my will, for he sang it, not in full voice, but softly, as if for himself alone. The words, which I had found the year before in a magazine, were:

  “That each storm wind’s breath

  Hurl the avalanche to the plain

  With thunder and tumult of death,

  Did God so ordain?

  “That a stranger, I

  Through this land

  Must wander by,

  Is it at God’s command?

  “Seeth He how in dread

  And pain I hover?

  Aye, God is dead!

  Shall I not give over?”

  As I heard him sing it I knew that he liked my song. We were silent for a little while. Then I asked him if he would not tell me the errors and suggest corrections.

  Muoth looked at me with his dark, keen glance, and shook his head.

  “There is nothing to change,” he said. “I don’t know whether the composition is good or not. I don’t understand anything about that. But there is life and feeling in the song, and as I can neither write verse nor compose a melody, it pleases me when I find something which seems to be my own and which I can sing for myself.”

  “But the words are not mine,” I interrupted.

  “No? But that’s immaterial. The words are secondary. But you—you must have lived or you would not have written that song! ”

  I gave him a copy of the song which had been ready for days. He took it, rolled it up and stuck it in his coat pocket.

  “Come to see me when you can,” he said, and gave me his hand. “You live alone, but I will not hurt you. Now and then one likes to look into the face of a sympathetic man.”

  After he had gone his last words and his smile lingered with me. They seemed to be in tune with my song which he had sung, and with all I knew of the man. And the longer I considered them and reflected on them, the clearer they became, and finally I understood this man. I understood why he had come to me; why he appeared to me almost arrogant, and still half shy. He suffered, he bore a deep sorrow, and he was hungry as a wolf from lonesomeness. For this suffering he had tried pride and solitude, and they had not helped. He was lying in wait for men, for a sympathetic glance, for a breath of understanding, and was ready to throw himself away for it. So I thought, at that time.

  My feeling towards Heinrich Muoth was not clear. I sensed his longing and his need, yet I was afraid of him as a haughty, awe-inspiring man who could break me and then discard me. I was too young and inexperienced to understand, and to grant that he had given his true self and had hardly seemed to know the humility of his sorrow. But I did realize that an ardent and sincere man was suffering and suffering alone. There came to me, involuntarily, the rumors that I had heard about Muoth—vague, timid gossip of students, the real import of which I had forgotten. But I remembered distinctly their tone and color. Mad stories about women and adventures were told of him. I couldn’t remember any separate instance. I thought, however, there was something cruel, as if he had been involved in the story of some murder or suicide. When I finally overcame my shyness, and asked a comrade about them, the whole affair turned out to be much more harmless than I had thought. Muoth had had what is called a love affair with a young woman of good family, who had committed suicide two years before I met him. The singer had not been involved in the tragedy, but tongues had to wag! Probably it was my own fancy which conjured up an aura of terror about his striking and disturbing personality. But how he must have suffered on account of this love!

  I didn’t have the courage to go to him. Still I could not conceal from myself that Heinrich Muoth was a suffering and perhaps a despairing man who turned towards me in his craving. Many times it seemed to me that I must return his call—that I was a knave for my silence. Still I did not go to him, for another feeling always kept me back. What Muoth wanted from me I could not give him. I was a very different man from him. And while in many respects I, too, was alone and was not truly understood by people, while I, too, as he, w
as separated from others either by destiny or disposition, still I would make no advances. The singer might be a demoniac man; I was not. Something within me kept me from anything shocking or strange. I had an aversion and an antipathy for the vehement conduct of Muoth. He was a man of the stage and of adventure, it seemed to me, and perhaps, therefore, destined for a tragic fate. On the other hand I wanted to live in peace. Boldness and sharp words did not belong to me. I was doomed to resignation. So I argued back and forth, trying to quiet myself. A man had knocked at my door. I was sorry for him, but I wanted to have peace, and did not let him in. Eagerly I threw myself into my work, but I could not shut out the pleading vision. Always it stood back of me, and would not release me.

  Since I did not go, Muoth took the matter into his own hands. I received a note from him. It was written in big bold strokes, and said:

  “Dear Sir:

  “On the eleventh, I am going to celebrate my birthday, with some friends. May I invite you also? It would be a great pleasure if on this occasion we could hear your violin sonata. Have you a friend who would play the second part? Or shall I send one to you? Stefan Kranzl would be glad to help. It would give much pleasure to