Gertrude (10 page)

The first movement was finished; there was pause for a few moments.

Then there were the slightly discordant sounds of instruments being tuned up. Beyond intent and approving faces, I saw the dark brown hair for a moment, the delicate light-skinned forehead and the firm, red lips. Then I tapped lightly on my stand and we commenced the second movement, which requires no excuses on my part. The players warmed up, the growing yearning in the melody swelled restlessly, spiraled insatiably upward, searched and then became lost in mournful fearfulness. The cello took up the melody with a warm and deep sound, developed it strongly and insistently and introduced it softly into the new lower key, where it faded away despairingly on half-angry-sounding bass notes.

This second movement was my confession, an admission of my longing and dissatisfaction. The third movement was intended to represent satisfaction and fulfillment. But that evening I knew that that was not the case, and I played it carelessly, like something that I knew I was over with. For I thought I now understood exactly how fulfillment should have sounded, how radiance and peace should have emerged through the raging storm of sound, like the light from behind the heavy clouds. All this was not included in my third movement; it was only gentle relief from growing dissonance and an attempt to clarify and strengthen the main theme a little. There was none of the harmony or radiance in it that was now revealed and experienced within me, and I was surprised that no one seemed to notice it.

My trio was finished. I bowed to the other two players and put my violin away. The lights were switched on again and the guests began to stir. Many of them came up to me with the usual polite remarks, praise and criticisms to demonstrate that they were expert judges. No one mentioned the chief fault in the work.

The guests spread out into different rooms. Tea, cakes and wine were served, and the men smoked. One hour passed and then another. At last, what I hardly dared any longer to hope for took place. Gertrude stood before me and held out her hand.

“Did you like it?” I asked.

“Yes, it was beautiful,” she said. But I saw that she meant more than that, so I said: “You mean the second movement. The others aren't much.”

She looked at me again curiously, with as much sagacity as though she were already a mature woman, and said very delicately: “You know it yourself. The first movement is good music; the second movement is broad and sweeping and demands too much from the third. One could also see as you were playing when your heart was in it and when it was not.”

It pleased me to hear that her lovely, bright eyes had observed me without my knowing it. I already thought on that first evening of our meeting how glorious it would be to spend one's whole life regarded by those beautiful, candid eyes, and how it would then be impossible ever to think or do ill. And from that evening I knew that my desire for unity and sweet harmony could be satisfied, and that there was someone on earth whose glance and voice made an instant response to every throb of my pulse and every breath in my body.

She also felt an immediate sympathetic response toward me and right from the beginning was able to be frank and natural with me, without fear of misunderstanding or a breach of confidence. She immediately made friends with me with the speed and ease that is only possible with people who are young and almost unspoiled. Up to that time I had occasionally been attracted to girls, but always—and particularly since my accident—with a shy, wistful and unsure feeling. Now, instead of being just infatuated, I was really in love, and it seemed that a thin, gray veil had fallen from my eyes and that the world lay before me in its original divine light as it does to children, and as it appears to us in our dreams of Paradise.

At that time, Gertrude was hardly more that twenty years old, as slender and healthy as a strong young tree. She had passed untouched through the usual turbulence of adolescence, following the dictates of her own noble nature like a clearly developing melody. I felt happy to know a person like her in this imperfect world and I could not think of trying to capture her and keep her for myself. I was glad to be permitted to share her happy youth a little and to know from the beginning that I would be included among her close friends.

During the night after that musical evening I did not fall asleep for a long time. I was not tormented by any fever or feeling of restlessness, but I lay awake and did not wish to sleep because I knew that my springtime had arrived and that after long, wistful, futile wanderings and wintry seasons, my heart was now at rest. My room was filled with the pale glimmer of night. I could see all the goals of life and art lying before me like windswept peaks. I could feel what I had often lost so completely—the harmony and inward rhythm of my life—could feel it in every fiber of my being and trace it back within me to the legendary years of my childhood. And when I wanted to express this dreamlike beauty and sublimity of feeling briefly and call it by a name, then I had to give it the name of Gertrude. That is how I fell asleep when it was already approaching morning, and the next day I awakened refreshed after a long, deep sleep.

I then reflected on my recent feelings of despair and pride, and I realized what had been lacking. Today nothing tormented me or annoyed me. I again heard the ethereal harmony and experienced my youthful dream of the harmony of the spheres. I again walked and thought and breathed to an inward melody; life again had meaning and I looked forward to a better future. No one noticed the change in me; there was no one close enough.

Only Teiser, with his childlike simplicity, gave me a friendly tap on the shoulder during rehearsal at the theater and said: “You slept well last night, didn't you?”

I thought of something to please him and during the next interval I said: “Teiser, where are you going this summer?”

Thereupon he laughed bashfully and flushed as red as an engaged girl who is asked about her wedding day and said: “Dear me, that's a long way off yet, but look, I have the tickets already.” He took them out of his waistcoat pocket. “This time I start from Bodensee; then the Rhine Valley, Fürstentum Liechtenstein, Chur, Albula, Upper Engadine, Maloja, Bergell and Lake Como. I don't know about the return journey yet.”

He picked up his violin and looked at me with pride and delight shining out of his blue-gray, childlike eyes, which seemed never to have seen any of the filth and sorrow in the world. I felt a sense of kinship with him and the way he looked forward to his long walking holiday, to freedom and carefree unity with sun, air and earth. In the same way I felt renewed pleasure at the thought of all the paths in my life which lay before me as if illumined by a brilliant new sun, and which I thought I could travel along steadily with bright eyes and a pure heart.

Now, when I look back, it all seems very remote, but I am still conscious of some of the former light, even if it is not so dazzling. Even now, as in the past, it is a comfort to me in times of depression and disperses the dust from my soul when I pronounce the name Gertrude and think of how she came up to me in the music room of her father's house, as lightly as a bird and as naturally as a friend.

That day I visited Muoth, whom I had been avoiding as much as possible since Lottie's painful confession. He had noticed it and was, I knew, too proud and too indifferent to do anything about it, so we had not been alone together for months. Now that I had renewed faith in life and was full of good intentions, it seemed very important to me to approach my neglected friend again. A new song that I had composed gave me an excuse for doing so. I decided to dedicate it to him. It was similar to the Avalanche Song, which he liked, and the words were as follows:

The hour was late, I blew out my candle;

By the open window I greeted the night.

It embraced me gently, called me brother

And promised me friendship in my sad plight.

We were sick with the same yearning,

Our dreams were gloomy and long,

We whispered about the days of old

When we were young and hope was strong.

I made a copy of it and wrote above it: “Dedicated to my friend, Heinrich Muoth.”

Then I went to see him at a time when I knew he would be at home. I heard him singing as he walked up and down rehearsing in his stately rooms. He received me coolly.

“Good heavens, it's Mr. Kuhn! I thought you would not come any more.”

“Well,” I said, “here I am. How are you?”

“The same as ever. Good of you to come and see me again.”

“Yes, I haven't been very loyal recently…”

“It has been very evident and I know why.”

“I don't think so.”

“Yes, I do. Lottie once went to see you, didn't she?”

“Yes, but I don't want to talk about it.”

“It isn't at all necessary. Anyway, here you are again.”

“I have brought something with me.” I gave him the music.

“Oh, a new song! That is good. I was afraid you might devote yourself solely to dreary string music. There's a dedication on it already. What, to me! Do you mean it?”

I was surprised that it seemed to give him so much pleasure. I had somehow expected a joke about the dedication.

“Of course I am pleased,” he said sincerely. “I am always glad when worthwhile people think of me, and particularly you. I had really struck you off my list.”

“Have you a list?”

“Oh yes, when one has or has had as many friends as I … I could make quite a catalogue. I have always thought most of the highly moral ones and those are always the ones who discard me. One can find friends among rascals any day, but it is difficult to do so among idealists and ordinary people if one has a reputation. You are almost the only one at the moment. And the way things are going— People like best what is hard for them to obtain, don't you agree? I have always wanted friends but it has always been women who have been attracted to me.”

“That is partly your own fault, Mr. Muoth.”

“Why?”

“You like to treat all people as you do women. It does not work with friends and that is why they leave you. You are an egoist.”

“Thank goodness I am. What is more, you are too. When that dreadful Lottie poured out her tale of woe to you, you didn't help her in any way. You also didn't make the incident an excuse for converting me, for which I am grateful. The affair gave you a feeling of aversion and you kept away from me.”

“Well, here I am again. You are right, I should have tried to help Lottie, but I don't understand these things. She herself laughed at me and told me I didn't understand anything about love.”

“Well, you keep to friendship. It is also a good sphere. Now we'll study the song; sit down and play the accompaniment. Do you remember how it was with your first one? It looks as if you are gradually becoming famous.”

“Things are improving, but I will never catch up with you.”

“Nonsense, you are a composer, a creator, a little god! What is fame to you? People like me have to be pushy to get anywhere. Singers and tightrope walkers have to do the same as women, take their goods to the market while they are still in good condition. Fame up to the hilt, and money, wine and champagne! Photographs in the newspapers, and bouquets! I tell you, if I became unpopular today, or perhaps had a little inflammation of the lungs, I would be finished tomorrow, and fame and bouquets and all the rest would come to an abrupt end.”

“Oh, don't worry about that until it happens.”

“Do you know, I'm very curious about growing old. Youth is a real swindle—a swindle of the press and textbooks. ‘The most wonderful time of one's life!' Old people always seem much more contented to me. Youth is the most difficult time of life. For example, suicide rarely occurs among old people.”

I began to play the piano and he turned his attention to the song. He quickly learned the melody and gave me an appreciative nudge with his elbow at a place where it returned significantly from a minor to a major key.

When I arrived home in the evening, I found, as I had feared, an envelope from Mr. Imthor containing a short, friendly note and a more than substantial fee. I sent the money back and enclosed a note saying I was quite comfortably off and preferred to be allowed to visit his house as a friend. When I saw him again, he invited me to come and visit him again soon and said: “I thought you would feel like that about it. Gertrude said I should not send you anything, but I thought I would just the same.”

From that time I was a frequent guest at Imthor's house. I played the first-violin part at many concerts there. I brought new music with me, my own and other people's, and most of my shorter works were first performed there.

One afternoon in spring I found Gertrude at home alone. It was raining, and as I had slipped on the front step on leaving, she would not let me go immediately. We discussed music, and then it happened almost unintentionally that I began to talk to her confidentially, in particular about the grim period I had gone through, during which I had composed my first songs. Then I felt embarrassed and did not know whether I had been wise in making this confession to the girl. Gertrude said to me almost timorously: “I have something to confess which I hope you will not take amiss. I have made copies of two of your songs and learned them.”

“Do you sing?” I exclaimed with surprise. At the same time I remembered with amusement the incident of my first youthful love, and how it ended when I heard the girl sing so badly.

Gertrude smiled and nodded: “Oh yes, I sing, although only for one or two friends and for my own pleasure. I will sing your songs if you will accompany me on the piano.”

We went to the piano and she handed me the music, which she had copied in her neat, feminine hand. I began the accompaniment softly, so that I could listen to her. She sang one song, then another, and I listened and heard my music changed and transformed. She sang in a high, pure voice, and it was the sweetest thing I had ever heard in my life. Her voice went through me like the south wind across a snow-covered valley, and every note made my heart feel lighter. Although I felt happy and almost as if floating on air, I had to control myself, for there were tears in my eyes which nearly obliterated the music.