Gertrude Read online

  Perhaps a man of intellect and honor could be a theosophist, but such doctrines could benefit only little minds willing to accept them without discussion. It was indeed not for me.

  But I went many times to the instructor who for twelve years had tormented me and himself with Greek and Latin, and now was striving, though with no success, to be my instructor upon another road. We were not friends, but I grew to like him. For a time he was the only man with whom I could talk about the important question of my life. I felt, however, that this talk was of no value, and at the best only led to brilliant sophistry. Still, this believing man, whom religion and men of science had left indifferent, and who now in the latter half of his life lived in a naïve belief in a remarkable, subtle teacher of freedom and of power in that religion, was impressive—almost venerable.

  This way, however, in spite of my efforts, has remained unattainable. But pious and satisfied men, established in any belief, have a wonderful attraction for me—an attraction which is not returned.

  CHAPTER III

  DURING the short time of my visits at the home of the pious Theosophist and fruit-raiser, I one day received a check for a small amount whose source I did not know. It had been sent from the office of a well known concert agent in the north of Germany with whom I had never had any business. Upon inquiry the answer came that the order was sent at the request of Mr. Heinrich Muoth and that it was my royalty for a song which Muoth had used at three of his concerts.

  I wrote to Muoth, thanked him, and asked him for information about it. I also enclosed a new song of mine. Above all I wanted to know how my song had been received in the concerts. I had indeed heard of Muoth’s success in his concert engagements, but there had been no word spoken of my song. I told him of my life and of my work, with the exactness of a lonely man. Then I waited two, three, four weeks, and hearing nothing more I forgot the matter. I worked each day at my music that flowed from me as in a dream. In the pauses I was restless and discontented, and the giving of lessons was terribly difficult. I felt I could not do it much longer.

  It seemed to me like a release from some curse when finally Muoth’s letter arrived. He wrote:

  “Dear Mr. Kuhn:

  “I am no correspondent and for that reason your letter lay unanswered. All the more as there was really nothing I could say in response. Now, however, I can come to you with a definite proposal. I am engaged for the winter at the opera here at Cologne. You could have a position as a first or second violinist. The Director is a sensible and independent man though he has the manners of a ruffian. Very likely an opportunity will offer itself for one of your works, as we have some very fine chamber music. In regard to your songs there are various things I want to tell you. Among others, there is a firm willing to publish them. But writing is so tiresome that I can’t write long letters. Come yourself, and quickly, and telegraph about the position. There is no time to waste.

  “Yours

  “Muoth.”

  There I was, suddenly torn out of my hermit life and out of my retirement and carried again into the stream of life. I had hopes and cares; I was anxious and I rejoiced. There was nothing that held me back and my parents were glad to see me go out into the highway, to take the first unaided step into life. I telegraphed to say I would come, and three days later left for Cologne and Muoth.

  I went to the hotel to call on Muoth but did not find him. Now he came into the hotel and stood unexpectedly before me. He shook my hand, asked nothing, told nothing, and did not in the least share my excitement. He was accustomed to let himself be carried along by the stream; to take only the present moment in earnest; and to live it out. He hardly gave me time to change my clothes and then took me to Director Roszler.

  “This is Mr. Kuhn,” he said.

  Roszler nodded curtly.

  “Glad to meet you. What can I do for you?”

  “Why,” said Muoth, “this is the violinist.”

  The Director looked at me in astonishment, turned to the singer and said gruffly: “You didn’t say a word to me about the gentleman’s being lame. I must have people with straight legs.”

  The blood flooded my face but Muoth remained quiet. He only laughed.

  “Is he to dance, Roszler? I thought he was to play the violin. If he can’t do that we must send him away, but we’ll try him first.”

  “Oh, well, I’m willing. Mr. Kuhn, come to me tomorrow morning a little after nine, here in my house. Are you angry about the leg? Never mind. Muoth ought to have said something to me about that beforehand. Well, we’ll see. Adieu.”

  When we were going away I reproached Muoth. He shrugged his shoulders and said that if he had told in the beginning about my infirmity the Director would hardly have agreed to see me. But now that I was there, if he were half way satisfied with me, I would learn to know him from a pleasanter side.

  “But how could you recommend me in any case?” I said. “You don’t know at all what I can do.”

  “Well, that’s your affair! I felt it would be all right, and it will. You’re such a quiet little beast that you’d never accomplish anything if someone didn’t give you a push now and again. I gave you one. Now go on by yourself. You needn’t be anxious. Your predecessor wasn’t much good.”

  We spent the evening in his rooms. Here, too, he had rented some rooms in the outskirts, in gardens and quietness. And, as before, his huge dog sprang to meet him, and hardly were we seated, and had warmed ourselves, when the bell rang and a very beautiful and stately lady came and kept us company. He lived in the same atmosphere and his mistress was again a person of dignity and good breeding. With great self-assurance he seemed to consider beautiful women as his rightful possession. And I looked at the new one with sympathy and with the shrinking timidity that I always felt in the presence of women fit for love, a timidity that was altogether free from envy. For I, with my infirmity, went my way hopeless and unloved.

  This time, as formerly at Muoth’s, we drank well. He tyrannized over us with the overpowering, almost stifling gayety which nevertheless carried us with him. He sang wonderfully, and he sang two songs of mine. And we grew to be friends, grew warm, and came near to each other, looked into each other’s unmasked eyes, and stayed together as long as the warmth burned within us.

  This stately woman whose name was Lotte drew me to her with gentle friendliness. It was even then not the first time that a beautiful and loving woman came to meet me with sympathy and unexpected trust. And this time, too, it soothed as well as hurt. Yet even then I understood a little and did not take it too seriously. It has happened to me many times that a loved and loving woman has honored me with especial friendship. They all thought of me as little fit for love as for jealousy, and there came in its place that fatal sympathy. So they treated me in half maternal friendship. Unfortunately I had, then, had no practice in such situations, and I could not look on the joy of love too closely without thinking of myself—that I, too, should have liked to experience something of it. That nipped my joy a little, but it was a good evening, that evening with the woman so beautiful in her surrender, and with the man darkly glowing, powerful and rugged, who loved me and took thought for me and yet could not show me his love in any other way than as he showed it to women, a love expressed in violence and waywardness.

  As we touched our glasses before parting he nodded to me and said:

  “By good rights I should drink to you now in the rite of brotherhood. I would do it gladly but on the whole I think it best to forego it. In my younger days, you know, I made a brother of each one who pleased me. But it isn’t wise, least of all with colleagues. I quarreled with them all, anyway.”

  This time I did not have that bitter-sweet happiness of taking my friend’s beloved to her house. She stayed with him, and I was glad. The journey, the call at the Director’s, the suspense of the next morning, the new comradeship with Muoth—a
ll these had done me good. I saw now for the first time how forgotten and shy and alone I had been during that long and solitary year. And I felt with comfort and with healthy excitement that I was again active among men, again a part of the world.

  Punctually next morning I was at the house of Director Roszler. I found him in a dressing gown, his hair on end. But he made me welcome, and in a more friendly fashion than yesterday urged me to play. He put manuscript notes before me and took his place at the piano. I played as boldly as possible but the reading of the badly-written notes gave me some trouble. When we had finished, in silence he put before me another manuscript which I was to play without accompaniment, and then a third.

  “That’s good,” he said. “You must grow more accustomed to reading notes. They are not always as if they were engraved. Come to the theater this evening. I’ll make a place for you. Then you can play your part next to the man who sometimes, in case of need, takes your part. It will be a little crowded. Look over your music carefully beforehand, for there is no rehearsal today. I’ll give you a ticket. Take it with you about eleven o’clock to the theater and get your music.”

  I didn’t know exactly where I stood but saw that this man did not like questions, and so went. At the theater no one knew anything about the music and no one would listen to me. I was not yet used to the routine there and lost my self-control. Then I sent a messenger to Muoth. He came, and immediately all went well. In the evening I played for the first time at the theater, and I felt myself sharply watched by the Director. On the next day I received my appointment.

  So strange is man, that in the midst of this new life and of fulfilled wishes, I was oddly overcome many times by a fleeting and barely sensed longing for solitude, even for the boredom of empty days. Then, the time passed in my home town, from whose sad monotony I had escaped so thankfully, appeared to me as something worth desiring. But of the weeks spent in the mountains two years before, I thought with real homesickness. I thought I realized that I was not destined for prosperity and happiness in life, but for weakness and for subjection, and that without these shadows and this sacrifice the spring of my creative gift might flow less clearly and richly. In truth there was no question now of quiet hours and of creative work. And while things went well with me and I enjoyed a rich life, I fancied I heard continually in the depths, my buried spring softly stir and complain.

  My playing in the orchestra gave me joy. I spent much time over my scores and I groped my way forward into this world. Slowly I learned what I had known only theoretically and from afar—the character and the color and the meaning of the several instruments. Along with this I saw and studied dramatic music and looked forward more and more earnestly to the time when I might dare to risk my talents on an opera of my own.

  My confidential friendship with Muoth, who had one of the first and most honorable places at the opera, brought everything closer to me and was most useful to me. But with my colleagues in the orchestra this friendship did me no good. I never came into the open and friendly relations with them that I desired. Only the first violin, a man from S——named Teifer, met me half way and became my friend. He was about ten years older than I, an unpretentious and open-hearted man, with a fine and delicate face that colored easily. He was remarkably musical and had an unbelievably delicate and keen sense of hearing. He was one of those who finds satisfaction in his art without wishing to play a rôle in it. He was no virtuoso and had never composed. He played his violin contentedly and had his joy in the thorough understanding of the technique. He knew every overture through and through, better than most directors, and where there came a delicate passage or a passage of brilliance, where the attack of one instrument shone forth beautifully and originally, he fairly glowed and enjoyed it better than anyone in that whole house. He played almost all instruments so that I learned from him daily and could go to him with questions.

  For months we spoke no word to each other on any subject but that of our craft. But I liked him and he saw that I was in earnest in wishing to learn, and so there arose an unspoken understanding which lacked little of being friendship. Finally I told him about my violin sonata and asked him to play it with me some time. He agreed cordially and came to my rooms on an appointed day. To give him pleasure, I had remembered to have ready one of his native wines. We drank a glass and then I put the manuscript on the rack and we began. He played remarkably well at sight but suddenly he stopped and let his bow drop.

  “Look here, Kuhn,” he said. “That’s a fine thing! I won’t play that at sight. That must be studied first. I’ll take it home with me; may I?”

  When he came again we played the sonata through twice, and when we had finished he slapped me on the shoulder and cried:

  “You sly-boots, you! You always act like a small boy, and in secret you do things like that! I won’t say much. I’m no Professor. But this—this is very fine! ”

  That was the first time that anyone whom I really trusted praised my work. I showed him everything, the songs, too, which were being printed and appeared soon after. But I did not venture to tell him that I was so daring as to think of an opera.

  In this good time I was frightened by a little incident which I never could forget. At Muoth’s, where I went frequently, I had not met the beautiful Lotte for some time. I thought nothing of it for I did not wish to become involved in his love affairs—in fact preferred to know nothing about them. For that reason I had never asked for her, and in any case he never spoke to me of these matters. One afternoon I was sitting in my work-room studying a score. On the window ledge my black cat lay asleep in the sunshine, and the whole house was quiet. The outer door opened. Someone came in; was greeted and detained by the landlady but escaped; came to my door and knocked. I opened the door and there entered a tall and stately woman, heavily veiled. She shut the door behind her, took a few steps into the room, drew a deep breath, and at last took off her veil. I recognized Lotte. She seemed excited and I suspected at once why she had come. At my request she seated herself. She had given me her hand but had not spoken. When she noticed my embarrassment she seemed relieved, as though she had feared I might send her away at once.

  “Is it because of Heinrich Muoth?” I asked, finally.

  She nodded. “Did you know anything about it?”

  “I know nothing. I only suspected it.”

  She looked into my face as a sick man looks at his physician, was silent and slowly drew off her gloves. Suddenly she rose, laid both hands on my shoulders, and looked at me with wide-open eyes.

  “What shall I do? He is never to be found. He never writes me. He never even opens my letters. For three weeks I have not been able to speak to him. I was there yesterday. I know that he was at home, but he did not open the door. He did not even call off his dog who tore my dress. He refuses to recognize me too.”

  “Did you have a quarrel with him?” I asked, just to say something.

  She laughed. “Quarrel? Ah, we had enough quarrels from the beginning. I was used to that. No, lately he has even been polite. That was the worst of it. Once he was not there when he had ordered me to come. Once he was coming to me and did not come. Finally he called me quite formally, ‘Madame.’ Oh, if he had only struck me again, instead! ”

  I started violently. “Struck—”

  Again she laughed. “Don’t you know that? Oh, he struck me often. But it’s been a long time now. He was formal to me, and now he knows me no more. He has someone else, I am sure. So I came to you. Tell me, I beg of you, has he someone else? You know—you must know.”

  Before I could help myself she had seized both my hands. I was as if turned to stone, and however much I wished to refuse to answer and to shorten the whole scene, I was almost glad that she did not give me a chance to speak, for I would not have known what to say. She, in hope and grief, was content that I listen to her, and begged and related and complained with flaming
passion. But I kept looking at that tearful, ardent, beautiful face and could think of nothing but “He struck her! ” I fancied I saw his fist and I shuddered before him and before her, who, after blows and scorn and dismissal, seemed to have no other thought and wish than to find again the way to him and to the old humiliation. Finally the flood was spent. Lotte spoke more slowly, seemed to be embarrassed, to become conscious of the situation, and grew silent. Then she dropped my hands.

  “He has no one else,” I said softly. “At least I know nothing of it, and I don’t believe it.”

  She looked at me gratefully.

  “But I can’t help you,” I went on. “I never talk with him about such things.”

  We were both silent for a while. I could but think of Marian, the beautiful Marian—and of that evening when I went with her through the stormladen air, arm in arm; and how she had so bravely acknowledged her love. Had he beaten her, too? And had she pursued him afterwards?

  “Why did you come to me?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I had to do something. Don’t you believe that he still thinks of me? You are a good man. Help me! You could try it. Ask him. Speak of me some time. . . .”