Gertrude (16 page)

I gradually began to fight a secret battle against my mother's reserved and resigned behavior, which for a long time distressed me extremely. I often asked her to tell me what she would like and whether I displeased her in any way. She would then stroke my hand and with a sad smile would say: “Don't worry, my child. I am just an old woman.” I then began to make investigations elsewhere and did not disdain to make inquiries of the bookkeeper and the servants.

I discovered many things. The chief one was this: my mother had one close relation and friend in the town; she was an unmarried cousin. She did not go about a great deal but she was very friendly with my mother. This Miss Schniebel had not liked my father much and she had a real dislike for me, so she had not been to our house recently. My mother had once promised Miss Schniebel she could come and live with her if she outlived my father, and this hope appeared to have been shattered by my presence. When I gradually learned all this, I visited the old lady and tried to make myself as agreeable as possible to her. Being involved in eccentricities and little intrigues was new to me and I almost enjoyed it. I managed to persuade the lady to come to our house again, and I perceived that my mother was grateful to me for this. To be sure, they now both tried to dissuade me from selling the house, as I had wished, and they were successful in doing so. Then the lady tried to usurp my place in the house and obtain the long-desired place of my father, from which I barred her with my presence. There was room for both of us, but she did not want a master in the house and refused to come and live with us. On the other hand, she visited us frequently, made herself indispensable as a friend in many small things, treated me diplomatically, as though I were a dangerous power, and acquired the position of an adviser in the household, which I could not contest with her.

My poor mother did not take either her part or mine. She was weary and suffered a great deal as a result of the change in her life. Only gradually did I realize how much she missed my father. On one occasion, on going into a room in which I did not expect to see her, I found her occupied at a wardrobe. It startled her when I came in, and I went out quickly. I had noticed, however, that she had been handling my father's clothes, and when I saw her later, her eyes were red.

In the summer a new battle commenced. I wanted to go away with my mother. We both needed a holiday, and I also hoped it would cheer her up and draw her closer to me. She showed little interest at the thought of traveling, but raised no objection. On the other hand, Miss Schniebel was very much in favor of my mother remaining and my going alone, but I had no intention of giving way in this matter. I expected to gain a great deal from this holiday. I was beginning to feel ill at ease in the old house with my restless, sorrowful mother. I hoped to be of more help to her away from the place, and also hoped to control my own thoughts and moods better.

So I arranged that we should set off on our journey at the end of June. We moved on day by day; we visited Constance and Zürich and traveled over the Brünig Pass to the Bernese Oberland. My mother remained quiet and listless, bore patiently with the journey and looked unhappy. At Interlaken she complained that she could not sleep, but I persuaded her to come on to Grindelwald, where I hoped we should both feel at peace. During this long, senseless, joyless journey, I realized the impossibility of running away and escaping from my own misery. We saw beautiful green lakes reflecting magnificent old towns, we saw mountains which appeared blue and white, and bluish-green glaciers glistening in the sunlight, but we viewed everything unmoved and without pleasure. We felt ashamed, but we were only depressed and weary of everything. We went for walks, looked up at the mountains, breathed the pure, sweet air, heard the cowbells ringing in the meadows, and said, “Isn't it lovely?” but dared not look each other in the face.

We endured it for a week at Grindelwald. Then one morning my mother said: “It is no use; let us go back. I should like to be able to sleep again at night. If I become ill and die, I want to be at home.”

So I quietly packed our trunks, silently agreeing with her, and we traveled back quicker than we had come. But I felt as if I were not going back home, but to a prison, and my mother also displayed little satisfaction.

On the evening of our return home, I said to her: “How would you feel if I now went off alone? I should like to go to R. I would willingly remain with you if it served any purpose, but we both feel ill and miserable and only have a bad effect on each other. Ask your friend to come and live with you. She can comfort you better than I.”

She took my hand and stroked it gently as was her wont. She nodded and smiled at me, and her smile distinctly said: “Yes, go by all means!”

Despite all my efforts and good intentions, the only results were that we had harassed each other for a couple of months and she was more estranged from me than ever. Although we had lived together, each of us had borne his own burden, not sharing it with the other, and had sunk deeper into his own grief and sickness. My attempts had been in vain and the best thing for me to do was to go and leave the way open for Miss Schniebel.

I did this without delay, and not knowing where else to go, I went back to R. On my departure it occurred to me that I no longer had a home. The town in which I was born, in which I had spent my youth and had buried my father, did not matter to me any more. It had no more ties for me and had nothing to give me but memories. I did not tell Mr. Lohe on taking my leave from him, but his advice had not helped.

By chance, my old rooms in R. were still vacant. It seemed like a sign to me that it is useless to try to break off associations with the past and escape from one's destiny. I again lived in the same house and rooms in the same town. I unpacked my violin and my work, and found everything as it had been, except that Muoth had gone to Munich and he and Gertrude were engaged to be married.

I picked up the parts of my opera as if they were the ruins of my previous life from which I still wished to try to build something, but the music returned very slowly to my benumbed soul and only really burst forth when the writer of all my texts sent me the words for a new song. It arrived at a time when the old restlessness frequently returned to me, and with feelings of shame and a thousand misgivings I would walk around outside the Imthors' garden. The words of the song were:

The south wind roars at night,

Curlews hasten in their flight,

The air is damp and warm.

Desire to sleep has vanished now,

Spring has arrived in the night

In the wake of the storm.

I, too, at night no longer sleep,

My heart feels young and strong.

Memory takes me by the hand to peep

Again at days of joy and song,

But frightened at so bold a deed

It does not linger long.

Be still, my heart, away with pain!

Though passion stirs again

In blood that now flows slowly

And leads to paths once known,

These paths you tread in vain

For youth has flown.

These verses affected me deeply and reawakened life and music in me. Reopened and smarting severely, the long-concealed wound was converted into rhythms and sounds. I composed the music to this song and then picked up the lost threads of my opera, and after my long spell of inaction I again plunged deeply into the swift creative current with feverish intoxication, until I finally emerged to the free heights of feeling, where pain and bliss are no longer separate from each other and all passion and strength in the soul press upward in one steady flame.

On the day that I wrote my new song and showed it to Teiser, I walked home in the evening past an avenue of chestnut trees, with a feeling of renewed strength for work. The past months still gazed at me as if through masked eyes, and appeared empty and without comfort, but my heart now beat more quickly and I no longer conceived why I should want to escape from my sorrow. Gertrude's image arose clearly and splendidly from the dust. I looked into her bright eyes without fear and left my heart unprotected to receive fresh pain. It was better to suffer because of her and to thrust the thorn deeper into the wound than to live far away from her and to waste away far from her and my real life. Between the dark, heavily laden treetops of the spreading chestnut trees could be seen the dark blue of the sky, full of stars, all solemn and golden, which extended their radiance unconcernedly into the distance. That was the nature of the stars. And the trees bore their buds and blossoms and scars for everyone to see, and whether it signified pleasure or pain, they accepted the strong will to live. Flies that lived only for a day swarmed toward their death. Every life had its radiance and beauty. I had insight into it all for a moment, understood it and found it good, and also found my life and sorrows good.

I finished my opera in the autumn. During this time I met Mr. Imthor at a concert. He greeted me warmly and was rather surprised that I had not let him know that I was in town. He had heard that my father had died and that since then I had been living at home.

“How is Miss Gertrude?” I asked as calmly as possible.

“Oh, you must come and see for yourself. She is going to be married in November, and we are counting on you to be there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Imthor. And how is Muoth?”

“He is well. You know, I am not too happy about the marriage. I have long wanted to ask you about Mr. Muoth. As far as I know him, I have no complaints to make, but I have heard so many things about him. His name is mentioned in connection with different women. Can you tell me anything about it?”

“No, Mr. Imthor. It would serve no purpose. Your daughter would hardly change her mind because of rumors. Mr. Muoth is my friend and I wish him well if he finds happiness.”

“Very well. Will you be coming to see us soon?”

“I think so. Goodbye, Mr. Imthor.”

It was not long before that I would have done everything to place obstacles between the two of them, not because of envy or in the hope that Gertrude would still be drawn toward me, but because I was convinced and felt in advance that things would not go well with them, because I was aware of Muoth's self-tormenting melancholy and excitability and of Gertrude's sensitiveness, and because Marian and Lottie were so vivid in my memory.

Now I thought differently. The shattering of my whole life, half a year of loneliness, and the realization that I was leaving my youth behind me had changed me. I was now of the opinion that it was foolish and dangerous to stretch out one's hand to alter other people's destinies. I also had no reason to think that my hand was skillful or that I could regard myself as one who could help and understand other people, after my attempts in this direction had failed and discouraged me. Even now I strongly doubt the ability of people to alter and shape their own lives and those of other people to any appreciable extent. One can acquire money, fame and distinction, but one cannot create happiness or unhappiness, not for oneself or for others. One can only accept what comes, although one can, to be sure, accept it in entirely different ways. As far as I was concerned, I would make no more strenuous endeavors to try and find a place in the sun but would accept what was allotted to me, try to make the best of it and, if possible, turn it into some good.

Although life continues independent of such reflections, sincere thoughts and resolutions leave the soul more at peace and help one to bear the unalterable. At least, it subsequently appeared to me that since I had become resigned and indifferent toward my personal fate, life had treated me more gently.

That one sometimes unexpectedly achieves without effort what one has previously been unable to attain, despite all endeavors and good will, I soon learned through my mother. I wrote to her every month, but had not heard from her for some time. If there had been anything wrong, I should have learned about it, so I did not give her much thought and continued to write my letters, brief notes as to how things were going for me, in which I always included kind regards to Miss Schniebel.

These greetings were recently no longer delivered. The two women had done as they desired but their friendship had not survived the fulfillment of their wishes. Improved conditions had inflated Miss Schniebel's ego. Immediately after my departure she triumphantly occupied the seat of conquest and settled down in our house. She now shared the house with her old friend and cousin and, after long years of want, regarded it as a well-deserved turn of luck to be able to reign and give herself airs as one of the mistresses of a dignified household. She did not acquire expensive habits or prove wasteful—she had been in straitened circumstances and semi-poverty too long to do that. She neither wore more expensive clothes nor slept between finer linen sheets. On the contrary, she really began to scrimp and collect only now that it was worthwhile and there was something to save—but she would not renounce authority and power. The two maids had to obey her no less than my mother, and she also dealt with servants, workmen and postmen in an imperious manner. And very gradually, since passions are not extinguished by their fulfillment, she also extended her domineering sway over things that my mother would not so readily concede. She wanted my mother's visitors to be her visitors too and would not suffer my mother to receive anyone except in her presence. She did not want only to hear extracts from letters that were received, particularly those from me, but wanted to read the letters herself. Finally, she formed the opinion that many things in my mother's house were not looked after and conducted as she thought they ought to be. Above all, she considered that the discipline of the domestic servants was not strict enough. If a maid went out in the evening, or talked too long to the postman, or if the cook asked for a free Sunday, she strongly reproved my mother for her leniency and delivered long lectures to her on the correct way to conduct a household. Furthermore, it hurt her very much to see how often her rules of economy were grossly ignored. Too much coal was ordered, and too many eggs were unaccounted for by the cook! She bitterly opposed things of that nature, and that was how discord arose between the friends.