Gertrude Read online

  I now returned to Muoth whom I had avoided as much as possible, since the painful confession of the beautiful Lotte. He had noticed it and was, as I knew, too proud and also too indifferent to trouble himself about me. So for months we had not been alone together. Now since I was full of a new trust in life and full of good intentions, it seemed necessary, above all, that I should draw near again to my neglected friend. The immediate excuse was a new song which I had set to music. I decided to dedicate it to him. It was similar to the Avalanche Song which he loved, and the words were:

  The storm cries every night,

  Its great, moist wing falters and sweeps,

  In dreamy flight the plover falls;

  Now nothing sleeps

  And through the land stirs new delight,

  For the spring calls.

  Oh in these nights I cannot sleep.

  Youth stirs my heart!

  From the blue wells of memory start

  The ardent glories of that dawn

  And look at me with eyes so deep,

  And tremble, and are gone.

  Be still, my heart, give o’er!

  Though in the heavy blood hold sway

  The passionate sweet pain

  And lead thee the old paths again—

  Unto youth’s land no more

  Forever goes thy way.

  I made a careful copy and wrote on it: “Dedicated to my friend, Heinrich Muoth.” I took it to him at an hour when I knew he would be at home. I was right for I heard him singing, as he walked up and down in the dignified room, practicing. He received me indifferently.

  “How do you do, Kuhn? I thought you would not come again.”

  “Well,” I answered, “here I am! How are you?”

  “Just the same. Pleased, however, that you ventured to come to me once more.”

  “Yes, in the past I have been unfaithful.”

  “That is evident. But I know why.”

  “I hardly think you do.”

  “I know—I know. Lotte has been to see you, has she not?”

  “Yes—but I did not want to talk about it.”

  “It isn’t necessary, especially as you are here again.”

  “And have brought something with me.”

  I gave him the score.

  “Oh! A new song! That is good. I was afraid you might be submerged in that tedious string music. And here is a dedication. To me? Truly?”

  I wondered that he seemed so pleased. I had expected a joke about the dedication.

  “Certainly, it pleases me,” he said simply. “It pleases me always when upright men let me count for something. And especially you. I had secretly placed you on my death list.”

  “Do you keep such a list?”

  “Oh, yes. When one has—or has had—as many friends as I. . . It makes a beautiful list. The moral ones I have always valued the most and they are exactly those who run away from me. Among scamps one may find a friend any day, but among idealists and sane people it is difficult—especially when one has no good reputation. You are at this time almost the only one. And so it goes. One always desires most what is most difficult to obtain. The greatest thing I have desired has been to have friends, but instead—it’s only the women who are true to me! ”

  “For part of that you are to blame.”

  “Why?”

  “You treat every one as you treat women. Men do not like that. That is why they leave you. You are an egoist.”

  “God be thanked, I am! However, neither more nor less than you. When that frightful Lotte complained to you, you didn’t help her at all. But then you did not take the opportunity to lecture me, for which I am grateful. You felt a righteous disgust for the whole affair and stayed away.”

  “But now I am here again. You are right. I ought to have looked after Lotte. But I don’t understand these things. She herself laughed at me and told me I understood nothing of love.”

  “Well, hold tight to friendship. That’s a beautiful field, too. And do sit down and play the accompaniment. We will try your song. Do you remember the first one? And now, little by little, you’re becoming a famous gentleman.”

  “My fame has started, but it will never reach yours.”

  “Nonsense! You are a composer, a creator—therefore, a small god. What is glory to you? We poor artists must push if we are to amount to anything. We, singers and rope-dancers are like women. We must take our skins to the market while they are pretty and smooth. Fame, as much as we can grasp, and money—women and champagne. Photographs in the papers! Laurel wreaths! For see, if today we are seized with nausea—or a mere congestion of the lungs—tomorrow, we’re done for. And fame and laurels and the whole business is worth but a whistle.”

  “But you’ll wait a long time for that! ”

  “You know, in reality, I’m terribly curious about old age. Youth is a swindle, verily a real newspaper, reading-book swindle! The most beautiful time of life! Whatever there is in it, old people seem to me far more contented. Youth is the hardest time in life. One seldom hears of an old person committing suicide.”

  I began to play and he turned to the song, quickly caught the melody, and in one place full of meaning, where it gently changed from the minor to the major, he gave me an appreciative nudge with his elbow.

  In the evening when I returned home I found—as I had feared—a letter from Mr. Imthor. It contained a few gracious words and a generous honorarium. I sent the money back and wrote that I had no need of it, and would be so much happier if I could be received in his home as a friend. When I met him he invited me to come soon again.

  “I expected it would be so,” he said. “Gertrude thought I ought not to send it but I was bound to try it.”

  After that I was a frequent visitor at his house. I played the first violin at many of his concerts. I took there all the new music, my own as well as that of others. Most of my small compositions had their first hearing at his home.

  One afternoon in spring I found Gertrude alone with a friend. It was raining and I had slipped on the doorstep, so she was afraid to have me leave. We talked about music, and before I knew it, I found myself telling her of my days at the conservatory, where I had composed my first song. Then I became conscious and did not know whether I ought so to unfold myself before this woman. Gertrude said almost timidly: “I must confess something to you. But you must not tell! I have transposed and have learned two of your songs.”

  “Oh, you sing then?” I cried, astonished. At the moment, oddly enough, the experience with my very first sweetheart came into my mind—how I felt when I heard her sing so badly!

  Gertrude smiled contentedly and nodded. “Oh, I sing, but only for myself and a few friends. I will sing the songs for you if you will accompany me.

  We went to the piano and she gave me her manuscript written neatly in her fine, feminine hand. I played very softly so as to hear her. And she sang the song, and then the second. And I sat and listened and heard my music transformed, filled with magic. She sang with a high, bird-like voice. It was the most beautiful that I had ever heard. Her voice was like the south wind in a snow-covered valley. Each tone drew a veil from my heart. Although I seemed to be lifted out of myself, even to soar, yet had I to harden, to steel myself, so that the tears which swam in my eyes might not fall upon the notes.

  I had thought to understand what was love, and seemed to myself quite wise about it. I had looked at the world confidently out of new eyes, and had felt a closer and deeper interest in all things living. Now it was different. Now there was no longer comfort and clearness but storm and flame. Now my heart wanted to destroy itself in rejoicing. It wanted to know more of life and of everything. It wanted to burn in its own flames. At this moment, had anyone asked me what was love I would have believed that I knew well. I wo
uld have tried to explain and it would have sounded like something deep and burning.

  In the meantime Gertrude’s light, rapturous voice seemed to vibrate over my thoughts. It seemed to call happiness to me and to wish me only joy; to float in distant heights above me, unattainable and always unknown. Ah, I knew then how it was! She might sing, she might be friendly, she might deem she was kind to me. It would count as nothing to that which I craved, if she were not wholly and eternally mine, mine alone. Without this was my life vain, and all goodness and tenderness, everything in me, had no meaning.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, started up, frightened, and looked into her face. Her clear eyes were intent, but by slow degrees as I looked into them she began to smile tenderly and to color.

  I could give her only my thanks. She did not know how it was with me. She only felt and understood that I was moved, and to protect me found a way back to cheerful and friendly conversation.

  Then I left. I did not return home, and I didn’t know whether it rained or not. I walked with my cane through the streets, though it was really no walking, and the streets were no streets. I was carried aloft upon storm clouds through a whirling heaven. I spoke with the storm—I became myself the storm. And out of infinite distance something enkindling rang. It was a birdlike, soaring, woman’s voice. It seemed free from the thoughts of men and of storms, and yet it seemed in its essence to have all the wild sweetness of passion.

  All through the evening I sat without a light in my room. When I could no longer endure it, although it was late, I went to see Muoth, but found his windows dark and had to turn back. I wandered long through the night, and suddenly weary, waking out of my dreams, found myself at the gate of Gertrude’s garden. The old trees bowed devoutly before the hidden house, from which came no sound nor ray of light. Between the clouds here and there appeared and disappeared faintly twinkling stars.

  I waited some days before I dared again to go to Gertrude. During this time there came a letter from the poet whose songs I had set to music. For two years we had grown apart. From time to time, however, there came interesting letters from him. I sent him my compositions and he sent me his poems. Now he wrote:

  “Honored Sir:

  “You have not heard from me in a long time. I have been busy. Since I have seen and understood your music I have been working on a libretto for you. I always felt it in my mind’s eye, but I could not see it clearly. Now I have it as good as done. It is the libretto for an opera, and you must compose the music. I know you are not happy. That shows in your music. I won’t speak of myself. But here is the libretto for you. As nothing else happy blossoms for us, we may play to others a few pretty things. Then, for a minute, it will be clear to these thick-skinned souls that life has more than sacrifice. For as neither of us can win anything good for ourselves, it torments us to have others perceive our useless strength.

  “Yours,

  “Hans H.”

  That was like a spark to my powder. I wrote for his libretto, and was so impatient that I tore up the letter and sent a telegram. After a week the manuscript came, a short, fervent love scene, written in verse. There were omissions here and there but enough for me for the moment. I read and went about with the verses singing in my head. I sang them and played them by day and by night and soon I ran with them to Gertrude.

  “You must help me,” I said. “I am composing an opera. There are three songs set for your voice. Will you look them over and then sing them for me?”

  She was pleased, let me explain them, tried over the music, and promised to learn them soon. Then succeeded ardent hours. I went about drunk with love and with music, fit for nothing else, and Gertrude was the only one who knew my secret. I brought the scores to her. She learned them and sang them, counselled about them and helped; and in the secret and in the work which was being born—which belonged to both of us—she had an evergrowing joy. No hint, no suggestion, that she did not immediately understand and accept. Then she began to help me by writing and copying for me in her fine hand. I had taken leave of the theater because of sickness.

  No embarrassment came between Gertrude and me. We were carried on the same stream; we worked at the same work. It was for her, as it was for me, an unfolding, a ripening of our youth, a joy and a magic in which my passion burned unseen. She did not distinguish between my work and me. She loved us both and was ours. And for me, also, love and music and life seemed no longer distinct. Many times I looked on the beautiful girl in astonishment and wonder, and she returned my glance. When I came or went she pressed my hand more warmly than I dared to clasp hers. And in those balmy, summer days, when I went through the garden and entered the old house, I knew not whether it was my work or my love that so held me and uplifted me.

  Such days do not last long. The end was already approaching, and my passion flamed again in the blind desire of love as I sat at her piano and she sang the last act of my work, for the soprano rôle was finished. She sang it so wonderfully! I thought of those beautiful days. Already I felt their color fading while Gertrude still soared in her heights. I felt the inevitable chill of days to come. She smiled and leaning over me to see the notes, saw the sorrow in my eyes, and looked at me questioningly. Then I stood up and took her face tenderly between my hands. I kissed her forehead and her mouth. Then again I sat down. She allowed it all to happen quietly and almost devoutly, without surprise and without displeasure. And when she saw the tears in my eyes, she gently stroked my hair, my forehead and my shoulder with her transparent hand, and so quieted me.

  So I played and she sang. And the kiss, and the hour of wonder, though never to be forgotten, remained our last secret. For the opera could not be a secret much longer. It needed other minds and other help. The first to know must be Muoth, for I had thought of him for the leading rôle. Its impetuosity and fire was akin to his singing and to his character. But I hesitated a little while. My work was, as yet, a bond between Gertrude and me. It belonged to her and to me; had borne us anxiety and joy. It was a garden no one knew, or a ship on which we two alone sailed on the great sea.

  She was the first to question when she felt and saw that she had helped me all she could.

  “Who will sing the principal rôle?”

  “Heinrich Muoth.”

  She was astonished. “Oh! ” she said. “Really? I do not like him.”

  “He is my friend, and the rôle suits him.”

  “I see.”

  And a stranger stood between us.

  CHAPTER IV

  MEANTIME I had not thought of Muoth’s vacation journey. He was pleased with the plan of my opera and promised all the help he could give, but was engrossed in preparations for his journey. He would only promise me to go through his rôle before autumn. I copied it for him as far as it was done. He took it with him and, according to his custom, gave no sign of life for months.

  So we won our reprieve. A good understanding existed now between Gertrude and me. I believe, after that hour at the piano, that she knew exactly what was taking place within me. But she said never a word, nor was in any way changed towards me. She loved not only my music; she loved me, myself. And she felt that each of us understood the other’s spirit—that between us there was a natural harmony.

  So she went by my side, in concord and friendship, but without passion. Sometimes that was enough for me and I lived quiet and thankful days in her presence. But soon passion came again and then every friendly act of hers was to me an alms, and I felt with agony that the storms of love and desire which possessed me were strange and unlovely to her. Often I cheated myself, and tried to persuade myself that her nature was a placid and gently merry one. But my instinct knew that this was false. And I understood Gertrude well enough to know that to her, too, love must bring storm and danger. I have thought it over many times and I believe if I had taken her by storm and conquered her and drawn her to me with
all my might she would have followed me, have gone with me forever.

  But, as it was, I distrusted her cheerfulness, and I credited the tenderness and fine understanding she showed me to that fatal sympathy. I could not rid myself of the thought that it would not have been possible for her to linger in this quiet friendship with a healthy and physically attractive man, if she liked him as well as she liked me. So there were many hours in which I would have given my music and all that lived within me for a straight leg and a dashing manner.

  During this time Teifer became more intimate with me. He was indispensable to my work, so he was the next to know my secret. I showed him the text and plan of my opera. He took it home to study it carefully. When he came back his blondbearded, child face was scarlet with joy and an artist’s appreciation.

  “That’s a piece of work—your opera! ” he cried excitedly. “I can feel the overture in my fingers now. Let’s go and drink a good glass, and if it weren’t asking too much I’d say let us drink to an eternal brotherhood—but it mustn’t be forced.”

  I agreed gladly, and it was a happy evening. Teifer took me home with him for the first time. A little while before, he had brought a sister back with him, a sister who had been left alone after the death of her mother. He could not say enough in praise of his new home after his long years of bachelordom. The sister was a contented, quiet girl, with her brother’s child-like, friendly eyes. Her name was Brigitte. She served us with cakes and bright green Austrian wine, and passed a little box with long Virginia cigars. We drank the first glass to her health, and the second to our good comradeship. And while we ate her cakes and drank the wine, and smoked, the good Teifer tramped back and forth through the little room, full of happiness. He sat now at the piano, and now with his guitar on the sofa; then with his violin on the corner of the table. He played whatever lovely thing floated through his brain, sang, and let his eyes shine upon us—all in honor of me and of my opera. It was evident that the sister had the same passion for music in her blood, and was no less loyal to Mozart than he. Arias from “The Magic Flute” and bits of “Don Giovanni” scintillated through the tiny room, interrupted by talk and by the clinking of glasses, but always faultlessly accompanied by the violin, the piano, guitar, or merely by Teifer whistling.