Gertrude Page 8

  “No, I cannot. If he loves you still he will come to you again of himself, and if not, then. . . .”

  “What then?”

  “Then you must let him go. He does not deserve that you should humiliate yourself so deeply.”

  At that she suddenly smiled. “Oh—you! What do you know of love?”

  She was right, I thought, but it hurt me nevertheless. If love would not come to me; if I did stand outside, why should I play the confidant and the helper for others. I had sympathy for Lotte, but I despised her still more. If that was love—cruelty on this side, and humiliation on that, then one lived better without love.

  “I will not quarrel,” I said, cooly. “I don’t understand that kind of love.”

  Lotte put on her veil. “Very well, I will go.”

  Now I was sorry for her but I did not wish the unpleasant scene to begin again and so I was silent. I opened the door for her, went with her partway to the curious landlady. At the stairway I bowed and she went, without saying a word or looking at me.

  I watched her sadly and for a long time could not forget her. Was I truly quite a different person from all these—from Marian, and Lotte, and Muoth? Was this truly love? I saw them all, these creatures of passion, as if storm driven, fall and be blown into the unknown. The man tortured today by desire, but tomorrow by satiety, loving ardently and freeing himself brutally, certain of no appeal and happy in no love. And the woman dragged along, bearing insult and blows, finally cast off, and still clinging, dishonored by jealousy and scorned love, true like a dog.

  On that day it happened for the first time in years that I wept. I wept unwilling and angry tears for these souls; for my friend Muoth; for that life and love; and quieter, secret tears for myself. Aye, I who lived in the midst of all this as if on another star, I who did not grasp life, who longed for love, and yet could but fear it.

  I did not go to Heinrich Muoth again for a long time. He celebrated his triumphs in those days as a Wagner singer, and began to be reckoned a star. At the same time I, too, came modestly before the public. My songs appeared in print and found a friendly reception. And two of my compositions for chamber music were given in concert. It was still only a quiet, encouraging recognition among friends. The critics waited in silence or indulged me as an amateur.

  I was much with the violinist Teifer. He liked me and praised my work in comradely joy, prophesied great results and was always ready to play with me. Nevertheless, something was lacking. I was drawn to Muoth but I still avoided him. I heard nothing more from Lotte. Why was I not content? I scolded myself that I did not find satisfaction with the true and fine Teifer. But even with him I missed something. He was too joyous, too sunny, too content. He seemed to recognize no abysses. One could not talk to him about Muoth. Often in the theater when Muoth sang, he looked at me and whispered:

  “There—flat again! He’s so musical! He never sings Mozart and he knows why! ”

  I had to grant he was right but I did not do it from my heart. I clung to Muoth but did not wish to defend him. Muoth had something that Teifer did not have and did not understand, and that bound me to him. That was an eternal longing, yearning, and discontent. These drove me to study and to work; these made me reach out after men who escaped me, just as Muoth, whom the same discontent stirred and agonized in another way. I would always make music. That I knew. But I longed to create once out of happiness and abundance and unbroken joy, instead of always out of longing and of poverty of the heart. Ah, why was I not happy in what I possessed, in my music? And why was Muoth not happy in that which he possessed—in his tremendous vitality and his women?

  Teifer was happy. No longing after the unattainable tormented him. He had his delicate, unselfish joy in his art from which he demanded no more than it gave him. And art aside, he was even more easily satisfied. He needed only a few friendly people; now and then a good glass of wine; and on free days an excursion into the country, for he was a wanderer and a friend of the open. If there was anything in the teaching of the theosophists, then this man must be near perfection. So simply good was his personality, and so little did he allow passion and discontent to enter his heart, and yet I did not wish—even though I denied it to myself—to be like him. I did not wish to be another. I wished to stay in my own skin, though at times I wanted to stretch it a little.

  I detected power in myself, since my compositions began to have their little effect. I was already on the point of becoming proud. I had to find some sort of bridge to men; I had to find it possible in some way to live with them without always being worsted. If there were no other way, perhaps my music would lead me thither. If they were not willing to love me, they would be compelled to love my work. I could not free myself from such foolish thoughts, and yet I was willing to give myself as a sacrifice if only someone would want me, if only someone would understand me. Was not music the secret law of the world? Did not the earths and stars swing harmoniously in rhythm? And I must remain alone and not find the men whose personalities harmonized clearly and purely with mine.

  A year had passed in the strange city. At the beginning I had very little intercourse except with Muoth, with Teifer, and our Director Roszler. But lately I had been brought into a larger circle which was neither pleasant nor unpleasant to me. Thanks to the production of my compositions for chamber music I had become acquainted with the musicians of the city outside of the theater circle. I bore now the light and pleasant burden of a slowly gathering fame in the little group. I noticed that people recognized me and observed me. Of all fame, that is the very sweetest which does not yet look for great results, can rouse as yet no envy, and does not cut one off from the world. One goes about with the feeling of being noticed here and there, named and praised. One meets friendly faces, sees acquaintances nod with cordiality, and younger men greet one with respect. And one has always the secret feeling that the best is still to come, as it always is in youth until youth sees that the best has already passed. My sense of satisfaction was kept within bounds by the feeling of always detecting some pity in the recognition. It seemed to me always as if they protected me, as if they spared me, and were so friendly because I was a poor crippled fellow to whom one did not begrudge a grain of comfort.

  After a concert at which a violin duet of mine had been played, I made the acquaintance of the rich manufacturer, Imthor, who was considered a zealous friend of music and a patron of young artists. He was a rather small and quiet man with irongray hair, in whom one saw neither his riches nor his intimate knowledge of art. But from what he said to me I could see what an understanding for music he had. He did not flatter but gave a quiet and understanding approval which was worth more. He told me what I had known a long time from another source—that in his home, many an evening, he had both old and modern compositions. He invited me to come, and said at the parting:

  “We have your songs and like them. My daughter will be glad to see you.”

  But before I got around to make my call I received an invitation: Mr. Imthor begs permission to play my trio in E. Major at his house. A violinist and a cellist, capable dilettantes, were at my disposal, and the first violin was reserved for me to play if I wished. I knew that Mr. Imthor always paid the professional musicians who played at his home a good honorarium. I should have received that unwillingly, and yet I did not know how the invitation was intended. Finally I accepted. The two musicians came to me, got their parts, and we had several rehearsals. Meanwhile I paid my call at his home but found no one in. So came the appointed evening.

  Imthor was a widower. He lived in an old, simple, dignified house, one of the few which, in the middle of the growing city, had still its old gardens. As I went in the evening I saw little of the garden, only a short avenue of tall, plain trees whose trunks showed bright spots in the lights from the streets, and among them a few old, gray statues. Behind the great trees lay modestly the old, wide, low-roofed h
ouse. From the entrance door, straight through the corridors, stairways and all the rooms, the walls were covered with old pictures, numbers of family portraits, and landscapes black with age, and old-fashioned views and paintings of animals. I arrived at the same time with other guests. We were received by a housekeeper and shown in.

  The company was not a large one but it filled the rather small rooms somewhat uncomfortably until the doors to the music room were opened. Here there was room, and everything looked new, the piano, the music racks, the lamps, the chairs. Only the pictures on the wall were old. My fellow musicians were already there. We arranged our racks, looked at the lights, and began to tune our instruments. At that moment, at the back of the room, a door opened. There came through the half-lighted room a lady in an evening gown. Both men greeted her with deference. I saw that it was the daughter of Imthor. She looked at me a moment questioningly. Then before I had been presented, she gave me her hand and said:

  “I know you already. You are Mr. Kuhn. Welcome! ”

  The beautiful woman had made an impression on me at her entrance. And now her voice sounded so charming and so sincere that I pressed the offered hand heartily, and looked into her eyes which greeted me understandingly.

  “I am looking forward to the trio,” she said, smiling, as if she had expected to find me as I was, and was content.

  “I, too,” I said, without knowing what I said, and looked at her again and she nodded.

  Then she went on out of the room and I followed her with my eyes. Soon she returned, escorted by her father, and behind them the company. We three had taken our places at our music racks and were ready. The people took their seats; a few acquaintances nodded to me; the host gave me his hand; and when all were seated the electric lights were turned out, and only the high candles above our music racks burned. I had almost forgotten my music. I sought, farther back in the room, Gertrude Imthor who sat leaning against a book-case, in the dim light. Her brown hair seemed almost black; her eyes I could not see. I softly marked the time, and nodded, and we began the andante with broad tones.

  During the playing I felt content. I beat the time of the measure! I soared free in the harmony of the flood of tone, which appeared to me absolutely new, and as if discovered at this moment. My thoughts of the music and my thoughts of Gertrude Imthor flowed together, pure and calm. I drew my bow and directed with my eyes. Steadily the music flowed on and carried me with it—a golden path to Gertrude whom I could see no more and now no longer desired to see. I gave her my music and my breath, my thoughts, and the beating of my heart, as a morning wanderer yields himself to the shining blue and the clear radiance of the meadows in the dawn, without questioning and without losing the consciousness of himself. With the feeling of content and the crescendo surge of the tones, a feeling of happiness exalted me, that I should so suddenly know what love is. It was no new feeling, only an unveiling of ancient premonitions, a return to an old fatherland.

  The first movement was ended. I allowed myself only a moment’s pause. Softly sounded the tones of the strings in quiet harmony. Over expectant and appreciative faces, I could see for a moment the brown head, the delicate clear brow, and the red, forceful mouth. Then I tapped lightly on my music stand and we began the second movement which was worth hearing! The players became inspired; the growing yearning of the song raised restless wings, circled about in unsatisfied flights, sought and lost itself in wailing fear, deep and warm. The cello took up the melody, accentuated it, and merged it, diminuendo, into a newer and subtler key, then resolved it desperately into the half angry contra-bass.

  The second movement was my confession—an acknowledgment of my longing and of my discontent. The third movement was to be the release, the fulfillment. But I understood, from this evening, that it was worth nothing, and I played it indifferently, like a thing which lay behind me. For I realized how the release ought to sound; how out of the stormy clash of tones, glory and peace should break; light out of a dark sky. All this was not expressed in my third movement,

  This movement was only an appealing resolution of the dissonances, and an attempt to explain and to accentuate a little the original theme. Of that which now shone and sang in me myself, there was in it no tone and no gleam, and I marvelled that no one noticed it.

  My trio was finished. I nodded to the players and laid my violin aside. The lights flared up again and the company rose. Many came to me with the usual pretty speeches, praises and criticism, to show themselves connoisseurs. Of the chief defect of my work, no one accused me. People scattered into different rooms; there were tea, wine and cakes. The men smoked in the library. An hour went by and another. Then it came at last—the thing I had hardly expected now. Gertrude stood by me and gave me her hand.

  “Did it please you?” I asked.

  “Yes, it was beautiful,” she said, nodding, and I knew that she understood, so I said:

  “You mean the second movement. The rest is nothing.”

  She looked curiously into my eyes with a benign wisdom like that of a mature woman, and said, delicately:

  “So you know it yourself. The first movement is good music, isn’t it? The second is built upon broad lines and grows great and vast and demands too much from the third. One could tell when you played it which part was dear to you.”

  It was sweet to me to know that her clear, friendly eyes had observed me without my knowing it. And I thought on this first evening of our acquaintance that it must be a good and holy thing to spend a whole life under the glance of those beautiful and honest eyes. It would then have been impossible ever to do or think an evil thing. From that evening I knew that somewhere there was peace to be found for my longing—concord and the most delicate harmony; and that someone lived on earth to whose glance and whose voice every pulse and every breath in me gave a fervent answer. She, too, discovered immediately in me the pure and friendly echo of her personality, and had from the first hour that peaceful trust in being able to reveal herself to me simply, and to fear neither misunderstanding nor breach of trust. She was a close friend to me at once, a thing that is possible so quickly only to young and unspoiled people.

  Up to that hour I had of course been in love from time to time but always, and especially since my accident, with a shy longing and uncertain feeling. Now instead of the being in love, love itself had come. And it seemed to me as though a thin, gray veil had fallen from my eyes. Another world lay before me in its early, God-like light, as it lies before children and before the vision of our dreams of Paradise.

  Gertrude was then hardly more than twenty years old, slender and strong, like a delicate young tree, and had come untouched out of the sordidness and sham of the usual young girlhood, following her own personality like a logically developing melody.

  My heart was full of joy to think that I knew that such a creature lived in such an incomplete world, and I could even think of capturing her and taking her for myself alone. I was glad to be allowed to have a little share in her beautiful youth, and to know myself counted from the beginning among her good friends.

  In the night that followed this evening I did not go to sleep for a long time. No fever, and no restlessness tormented me, but I lay awake and did not try to sleep because I knew that my spring had come, and that my heart, after long and weary wandering, and seasons of winter, was upon the right way. My room was flooded with pale moonlight. All the goals of life and art lay plain and clear like mountain peaks before a storm. I felt the elusive harmony and secret rhythm of my life, even back to the unconscious years of my childhood. And when I wanted to hold fast this dream-like clarity and throbbing richness of feeling, and turn it into poetry, and name it with a name, I called it—Gertrude. With this I fell asleep toward morning and rose fresh and invigorated again as after a long, long sleep.

  Then came back to me the discontented thoughts of the last weeks, and the proud thoughts, too, and I
saw wherein I had erred. Today nothing tormented and discouraged and angered me anymore. I had the great harmony in my ears again, and I dreamed again the dream of my youth—of the harmony of the spheres. Again my steps, my thoughts, and my breathing followed a secret melody. Life had again a meaning and was bright with morning gold. No one noticed the change. No one was close enough to me. Only Teifer, that child, nudged me gaily at the rehearsal in the theater and said: “You slept well?”

  I knew how I could please him and asked in the next intermission, “Where are you going this summer?”

  He laughed shamefacedly, blushed as red as a girl whom one had asked about her wedding day.

  “Bless my soul, it’s a long while till then. But look! I have the tickets already in here,” tapping his breast pocket. “This time it starts from Lake Constance. I don’t know yet what the return trip will be.”

  He raised his violin, flashed at me a glance of roguishness out of his gray-blue, child eyes which seemed never to have known aught of the sordidness and sorrow of the world. And I felt myself drawn to him as to a brother. For as he rejoiced in the thought of the free, weeks-long, walking tour, in the thought of his liberty and his carefree association with sun and air and earth, so I rejoiced anew at the thought of the path of my life which stretched out before me as in the soft light of a newly created, a rising sun, and upon which path my purpose was to go my way uprightly, with clear eyes and a pure heart.

  Today as I look back on it, it lies already in the distance, in the morning of my life. But something of its light still shines upon my way, and while the sparkle of youth and gayety is gone, still today, as then, it is my inspiration. In dark hours it heals me and wipes the dust from my soul, if I but repeat the name of Gertrude, and think of her as she came to me in the music room of her father’s house, light as a bird and trustful as a friend.