Gertrude (15 page)

“Why is the front door locked?” I asked.

“There is no one there.”

“Where is my father?”

“In the hospital. Your mother is also there.”

“Is he still alive?”

“He was still alive this morning, but they think…”

“Tell me what has happened.”

“Oh, of course, you don't know! It is still his foot. We all say he had wrong treatment for it. Suddenly he had severe pains and screamed terribly. Then he was taken to the hospital. Now he is suffering from blood poisoning. Yesterday at half past two we sent you a telegram.”

“I see. Thank you. Could you please have a sandwich and a glass of wine brought to me quickly and order a cab for me.”

My wishes were whispered to someone and then there was silence again. Someone gave me a plate and a glass. I ate a sandwich, drank a glass of wine, went out and climbed into a cab; a horse snorted, and soon we stood at the hospital gate. Nurses with white caps on their heads, and attendants wearing blue-striped linen suits passed along the corridors. Someone took me by the hand and led me into a room. Looking around, I saw my mother nod to me with tears in her eyes, and in a low, iron bed lay my father, changed and shrunken, his short gray beard standing out oddly.

He was still alive. He opened his eyes and recognized me despite his fever.

“Still composing music?” he asked quietly, and his voice and glance were kind as well as mocking. He gave me a wink which expressed a tired, ironic wisdom that had nothing more to impart, and I felt that he looked into my heart and saw and knew everything.

“Father,” I said, but he only smiled, glanced at me again half mockingly, though already with a somewhat distracted look, and closed his eyes.

“You look terrible!” said my mother, putting her arm around me. “Was it such a shock?”

I could not say anything. Just then a young doctor came in, followed by an older one. The dying man was given morphine, and the clever eyes that had looked so understanding and omniscient a moment ago did not open again. We sat beside him and watched him lying there; we saw his face change and become peaceful, and we waited for the end. He lived for several hours and died late in the afternoon. I could feel nothing but a dull sorrow and extreme weariness. I sat with tear-stained eyes and toward evening fell asleep sitting by the deathbed.

Chapter Six

T
HAT LIFE IS DIFFICULT
, I have often bitterly realized. I now had further cause for serious reflection. Right up to the present I have never lost the feeling of contradiction that lies behind all knowledge. My life has been miserable and difficult, and yet to others, and sometimes to myself, it has seemed rich and wonderful. Man's life seems to me like a long, weary night that would be intolerable if there were not occasionally flashes of light, the sudden brightness of which is so comforting and wonderful that the moments of their appearance cancel out and justify the years of darkness.

The gloom, the comfortless darkness, lies in the inevitable course of our daily lives. Why does one repeatedly rise in the morning, eat, drink, and go to bed again? The child, the savage, the healthy young person does not suffer as a result of this cycle of senseless automatic activities. If a man does not think too much, he rejoices at rising in the morning, and at eating and drinking. He finds satisfaction in them and does not want them to be otherwise. But if he ceases to take things for granted, he seeks eagerly and hopefully during the course of the day for moments of real life, the radiance of which makes him rejoice and obliterates the awareness of time and all thoughts on the meaning and purpose of everything. One can call these moments creative, because they seem to give a feeling of union with the creator, and while they last, one is sensible of everything being necessary, even what is seemingly fortuitous. It is what the mystics call union with God. Perhaps it is the excessive radiance of these moments that makes everything else appear so dark, perhaps it is the feeling of liberation, the enchanting lightness and the suspended bliss that make the rest of life seem so difficult, cloying and oppressive. I do not know. I have not traveled very far in thought and philosophy.

However, I do know that if there is a state of bliss and a paradise, it must be an uninterrupted sequence of such moments, and if this state of bliss can be attained through suffering and dwelling in pain, then no sorrow or pain can be so great that one should seek escape from it.

A few days after my father's funeral—I was still in a state of bewilderment and mental exhaustion—I found myself walking aimlessly in a suburban street. The small, attractive houses awakened vague memories in me, until I recognized the house and garden of my old teacher, who had tried to convert me to the faith of the theosophists some years ago. I knocked at the door and he appeared, recognized me and led me in a friendly manner into his study, where the pleasant smell of tobacco smoke hovered around his books and plants.

“How are you?” asked Mr. Lohe. “Oh, of course, you have just lost your father. You look wretched. Has it affected you so deeply?”

“No,” I said. “My father's death would have affected me more deeply if I had still been on cool terms with him, but during my last visit I drew closer to him and rid myself of the painful feeling of guilt that one has toward good parents from whom one receives more love than one can give.”

“I am glad about that.”

“How are you going on with your theosophy? I should like you to talk to me, because I am unhappy.”

“What is wrong?”

“Everything. I can't live and I can't die. Everything seems meaningless and stupid.”

Mr. Lohe puckered up his kind, peaceful-looking face. I must confess that even his kind, rather plump face had put me in a bad humor, and I did not expect to obtain any kind of comfort from him and his wisdom. I only wanted to hear him talk, to prove his wisdom of no avail and to annoy him because of his happy state and optimistic beliefs. I was not feeling amicably disposed toward him or anyone else.

But the man was not as self-satisfied and absorbed in his doctrines as I had thought. He looked at me with real concern and sadly shook his fair head.

“You are ill, my dear fellow,” he said firmly. “Perhaps it is only physical, and if so, you can soon find a remedy. You must then go into the country, work hard and not eat any meat. But I don't think it is that. You are mentally sick.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. You are suffering from a sickness, one that is fashionable, unfortunately, and that one comes across every day among sensitive people. It is related to moral insanity and can also be called individualism or imaginary loneliness. Modern books are full of it. It has insinuated itself into your imagination; you are isolated; no one troubles about you and no one understands you. Am I right?”

“Almost,” I admitted with surprise.

“Listen. Those who suffer from this illness need only a couple of disappointments to make them believe that there is no link between them and other people, that all people go about in a state of complete loneliness, that they never really understand each other, share anything or have anything in common. It also happens that people who suffer from this sickness become arrogant and regard all other healthy people who can understand and love each other as flocks of sheep. If this sickness were general, the human race would die out, but it is only found among the upper classes in Central Europe. It can be cured in young people and it is, indeed, part of the inevitable period of development.”

His ironic professor's tone of voice annoyed me a little. As he did not see me smile or look as if I was going to defend myself, the kind, concerned expression returned to his face.

“Forgive me,” he said kindly. “You are suffering from the sickness itself, not the popular caricature of it. But there really is a cure for it. It is pure fiction that there is no bridge between one person and another, that everyone goes about lonely and misunderstood. On the contrary. What people have in common with each other is much more and of greater importance than what each person has in his own nature, what makes him different from others.”

“That is possible,” I said. “But what good does it do me to know all this? I am not a philosopher and I am not unhappy because I cannot find truth. I only want to live a little more easily and contentedly.”

“Well, just try! There is no need for you to study any books or theories. But as long as you are ill, you must believe in a doctor. Will you do that?”

“I will try.”

“Good! If you were physically ill and a doctor advised you to take baths or drink medicine or go to the seaside, you might not understand why this or that remedy should help, but you would try it and obey his instructions. Now do the same with what I advise you. Learn to think more about others than yourself for a time. It is the only way for you to get better.”

“How can I do that? Everyone thinks about himself first.”

“You must overcome that. You must cultivate a certain indifference toward your own well-being. Learn to think,
what can I do?
There is only one expedient. You must learn to love someone so much that his or her well-being is more important than your own. I don't mean that you should fall in love. That would give the opposite result!”

“I understand, but with whom shall I try it?”

“Begin with someone close to you, a friend or a relation. There is your mother. She has had a great loss; she is now alone and needs someone to comfort her. Look after her and try to be of some help to her.”

“My mother and I don't understand each other very well. It will be difficult.”

“If your good intentions stop short, it will indeed be difficult. It's the old story of not being understood! You don't always want to be thinking that this or that person does not fully understand you and is perhaps not quite fair to you. Try yourself to understand other people, try to please them and be just to them. You do that and begin with your mother. Look, you must say to yourself: Life does not give me much pleasure in any case, so why shouldn't I try it this way for once? You have lost interest in your own life, so don't give it much thought. Give yourself a task, inconvenience yourself a little.”

“I will try. You are right. It is all the same to me whatever I do. Why shouldn't I do what you advise me.”

What impressed me about his remarks was the similarity between them and the views on life that my father had expounded at our last meeting: “Live for others! Don't take yourself so seriously!” This outlook was quite at variance with my feelings. It also had a flavor of the catechism and confirmation instruction which, like every healthy young person, I thought of with aversion and dislike. Yet it was really not a question of opinions and a philosophy of life but a practical attempt to make my unhappy life tolerable. I would try it.

I looked with surprise at this man, whom I had never taken quite seriously and whom I was now permitting to act as my adviser and doctor. But he really seemed to show toward me some of that love which he recommended. He seemed to share my suffering and sincerely to wish me well. In any case, I felt that I had to take some drastic measure to continue living and breathing like other people. I had thought of a long period of solitude among the mountains or of losing myself in hard work, but instead I would obey my friendly adviser, as I had no more faith in my experience and wisdom.

When I told my mother that I did not intend to leave her by herself and hoped she would turn to me and share her life with me, she shook her head sadly.

“What are you thinking of?” she protested gently. “It would not be so easy. I have my own way of life and could not make a fresh start. In any case, you ought not to be burdened with me. You ought to be free.”

“We could try it,” I said. “It may be more successful than you think.”

At the beginning I had enough to do to prevent me from brooding and giving way to despair. There was the house and an extensive business, with assets in our favor and bills to be paid; there were books and accounts, money loaned and money received, and it was a problem to know what was to become of all these things. At the beginning I naturally wanted to sell everything, but that could not be done so quickly. My mother was attached to the old house, my father's will had to be executed and there were many difficulties. It was necessary for the bookkeeper and a notary to assist. The days and weeks passed by with arrangements, correspondence about money and debts, and plans and disappointments. Soon I could not cope with all the accounts and official forms. I engaged a solicitor to help the notary and left them to disentangle everything.

In this process my mother did not always receive what was her due. I tried to make things as easy as possible for her during this period. I relieved her of all business matters, I read to her and took her for drives. Sometimes I felt an urge to tear myself away and leave everything, but a sense of shame and a certain curiosity as to how it would turn out prevented me from doing so.

My mother thought of nothing but the deceased, and showed her grief in small feminine acts that seemed strange and often trivial to me. At the beginning I had to sit in my father's place at the table; then she considered it unfitting and the place had to remain empty. Sometimes I could not talk to her enough about my father; at other times she became quiet and looked at me sadly as soon as I mentioned his name. Most of all, I missed my music. At times I would have given much to be able to play my violin for an hour, but only after many weeks had passed did I venture to do so and even then she sighed and seemed offended. She appeared to be little interested in my joyless efforts to draw closer to her and win her friendship.

This often made me suffer and made me want to give up my attempts, but I continued to persevere and grew accustomed to the succession of cheerless days. My own life lay broken and dead. Only occasionally did I hear a dim echo of the past when I heard Gertrude's voice in a dream, or when melodies from my opera suddenly came back to me during a quiet hour. When I made a journey to R. to give up my rooms there and to collect my possessions, everything connected with the place seemed extremely remote. I only visited Teiser, who had been so loyal to me. I did not venture to inquire about Gertrude.