Gertrude (20 page)

The banquet was ready and would have been held even if the opera had been a failure. We traveled to the banquet in cabs, Gertrude with her husband, and the Teisers and I together. During the short journey Brigitte, who had not yet said a word, suddenly began to weep. At first she tried to restrain herself, but she soon covered her face with her hands and let the tears flow. I did not like to say anything and was surprised that Teiser was likewise silent and asked no questions. He just put his arm around her and murmured a few kind, comforting words as one would to a child.

Later, during the shaking of hands, the good wishes and toasts, Muoth winked at me sarcastically. People inquired with interest about my next work and were disappointed when I said that it would be an oratorio. Then they drank to my next opera, which has never been written to this day.

Only much later in the evening, when we had departed and were on our way to bed, was I able to ask Teiser what was the matter with his sister, why she had wept. She herself had long since gone to bed. My friend looked at me searchingly and with some surprise, shook his head and whistled, until I repeated my question.

“You are as blind as a bat,” he then said reproachfully. “Have you not noticed anything then?”

“No,” I said with a growing suspicion of the truth.

“Well, I will tell you. The girl has been fond of you for a long time. Naturally she has never told me so, any more than she has you, but I have noticed it, and to tell the truth, I should be very happy if something came of it.”

“Oh dear!” I said with real sadness. “But what was the matter this evening?”

“You mean, why did she weep? You are a child! Do you think we did not see?”

“See what?”

“Good heavens! You don't need to tell me anything, and you were right to be silent about it in the past; but then you should not have looked at Mrs. Muoth like that. Now we understand quite clearly.”

I did not ask him to keep my secret. I knew I could trust him. He gently placed his hand on my shoulder.

“I can now well imagine, my dear friend, all that you have gone through during these years without telling us anything. I once had a similar experience myself. Let us stay together now and make good music, shall we? And also see that the girl is consoled. Give me your hand! It has been wonderful! Well, goodbye until I see you again at home. I am traveling back with Brigitte tomorrow morning.”

We then parted, but he came running back a few moments later and said with great seriousness: “The flute must be included again in the next performance. Don't forget!”

That was how the day of rejoicing ended, and we all lay awake for a long time thinking about it. I thought about Brigitte, too. I had seen a great deal of her all this time and I was a good friend of hers, which was all I desired, just as Gertrude had been a good friend of mine, and when Brigitte had guessed my love for another, it was the same for her as it was for me when I had discovered the letter at Muoth's house and had later loaded my revolver. Although this made me feel sad, I could not help but smile.

I spent most of the remainder of my days in Munich with the Muoths. It was no longer like those afternoons in the past when the three of us first used to sing and play together, but in the afterglow of the performance of the opera there was an unspoken mutual remembrance of that time, and also an occasional rekindling of former feelings between Muoth and Gertrude. When I finally said goodbye to them, I gazed back for a while at the peaceful-looking house among the bare trees. I hoped to return there some day and would gladly have given my little success and happiness away in order to help those two inside to draw close to each other again and for always.

Chapter Eight

O
N MY RETURN HOME
I was greeted, as Heinrich had predicted, with the notoriety of my success and many of its unpleasant but, in part, slightly ridiculous consequences. It was easy to dispose of the burden of commercial matters; I simply put the opera in the hands of an agent. But there were visitors, newspaper people, publishers and foolish letters, and it took time to grow accustomed to the smaller burdens of sudden fame and to recover from initial disillusionment. People have a peculiar way of claiming a hold on a well-known name, with no distinction made among infant prodigies, composers, poets, thieves and murderers. One person wants a photograph, another an autograph, a third begs for money; every young colleague submits his work, asks for an opinion and is extremely flattering, but if one does not reply, or really tells him what one thinks, the admirer suddenly turns bitter, uncivil and vengeful. Magazines want the famous man's picture, newspapers describe his life, origins and appearance; school friends remind him of their existence, and distant relatives declare they said years ago their cousin would become famous one day.

Among the harassing letters of this kind, there was one from Miss Schniebel that amused me. There was also one from someone I had not thought about for a long time: the fair Liddy, who wrote without mentioning our toboggan ride, and in the tone of an old faithful friend. She had married a music teacher in her home town and gave me her address so that I could soon send all my compositions with a flattering dedication to her. She enclosed a photograph, however, that showed the well-known features grown older and coarsened. I replied to her in very cordial terms.

But these little things concerned minor issues that left no important trace behind. Even the good and refreshing fruits of my success, such as making the acquaintance of cultured and distinguished people who had music in their souls and did not just talk about it, did not belong to my real life, which later, as in the past, remained detached and has changed very little since then. All that remains is for me to tell you of the turn of events in the lives of my closest friends.

Old Mr. Imthor did not entertain as much as when Gertrude had been there, but every three weeks, among the numerous pictures at his house, he held a musical evening with selected chamber music, which I regularly attended. I sometimes brought Teiser along with me, but Imthor pressed me to come and see him apart from these visits. So I sometimes went there in the evening, which was his favorite time, and kept him company in his simply furnished study, where there was a portrait of Gertrude on one of the walls. The old gentleman and I, although outwardly reserved with each other, gradually came to a good understanding and felt the need to talk to each other, and it was therefore not rare for us to talk about what occupied our minds most. I had to tell him about Munich and I did not conceal the impression I had received of the relationship between the couple. He nodded understandingly.

“Everything may yet turn out all right,” he said, sighing, “but we can't do anything. I am looking forward to the summer, when I shall have my child with me for two months. I rarely visit her in Munich and do not care to go there. Besides, she behaves so bravely that I do not want to disturb her and make her weaken.”

Gertrude's letters did not bring anything new. But when she visited her father round Easter, and also came to our little house, she looked thin and tense, and although she tried to be natural with us and to cover things up, we often saw an expression of unaccustomed hopelessness on her face, which had become serious. I played my latest music to her, but when I asked her to sing something for us, she gently shook her head and refused.

“Another time,” she said uncertainly.

We could all see that she was unhappy, and her father confessed to me later that he had suggested she remain with him for good, but she had refused.

“She loves him,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me with distress. “I don't know. Who can analyze this misery? But she said she was staying with him for his sake. He is so bewildered and unhappy and needs her more than he thinks. He does not say anything to her, but it is written on his face.”

Then the old man lowered his voice and said quite softly and with shame: “She means he drinks.”

“He has always done that a little,” I said, trying to comfort him, “but I have never seen him drunk. He keeps himself under control in that way. He is a nervous type of person who is not used to self-discipline, but perhaps causes himself more suffering than he does other people.”

None of us knew how terribly these two fine people suffered in secret. I do not think that they ever stopped loving each other, but deep down in their natures they did not belong to one another; they only drew closer through passion and in the intoxication of exalted hours. A calm acceptance of life and a tacit understanding of his own nature were things that Muoth had never known and Gertrude could only be patient with and regret his outbursts and depressions, his swift change of moods, his continual desire for self-forgetfulness and intoxication; but she could not change or live with them. So they loved each other and yet were never quite close to each other, and while he saw himself cheated of all his hopes of finding peace and happiness through her, Gertrude realized, and suffered in this knowledge, that all her good intentions and efforts were in vain, and that she could not comfort him and save him from himself. Thus they both had their secret dream and dearest wish shattered. They could only remain together by making sacrifices and showing forbearance, and it was brave of them to do this.

I saw Heinrich again in the summer when he brought Gertrude to her father. He was more gentle and attentive to her and to me than I had ever seen him before. I perceived how much he feared to lose her, and I also felt that he would never to able to bear such a loss. But she was weary and desired nothing but rest and quiet in order to compose herself and recover her strength and tranquillity. We spent one mild evening together in our garden. Gertrude sat between Brigitte and my mother, whose hand she held. Heinrich walked quietly to and fro among the roses, and I played a violin sonata with Teiser on the terrace. The way Gertrude rested there and enjoyed the peace of those hours, how Brigitte affectionately pressed close to the sad, beautiful woman, and how Muoth walked about quietly in the shadows with his head bowed and listened for us, are things that are indelibly stamped on my mind. Afterwards Heinrich said somewhat jokingly but with sad eyes: “Just look at the three women sitting there together; the only one among them who looks happy is your mother. We should also try to grow old like her.”

After this, we all parted ways. Muoth traveled alone to Bayreuth, Gertrude went with her father into the mountains, the Teisers to Steiermark, and my mother and I went to the coast of the North Sea again. There I often walked along the shore, listened to the sea, and thought as I had done in my youth, with amazement and horror, about the sad and senseless confusion of life, that one could love in vain, that people who meant well toward each other should work out their destinies separately, each one going his own inexplicable way, and how each would like to help and draw close to the other and yet was unable to do so, as in troubled meaningless dreams. I often thought of Muoth's remarks about youth and old age, and I was curious whether life would ever seem simple and clear to me. My mother smiled when I mentioned this during conversation and looked really peaceful. She made me feel ashamed by reminding me of my friend Teiser, who was not yet old but was old enough to have had his share of experiences, and yet went on living in a carefree way like a child, with a Mozart melody on his lips. It had nothing to do with age, I saw that clearly, and perhaps our suffering and ignorance was only the sickness about which Mr. Lohe had talked to me. Or was that wise man another child like Teiser?

However it may be, thinking and brooding did not change anything. When music stirred my being, I understood everything without the aid of words. I was then aware of pure harmony in the essence of life and felt that there must be a meaning and a just law behind everything that happened. Even if this was an illusion, it helped me to live and was a comfort to me.

Perhaps it would have been better if Gertrude had not parted from her husband for the summer. She had begun to recover, and when I saw her again in the autumn, after my journey, she looked much better and capable of managing again. But the hopes we had built on this improvement were destined for disappointment.

Gertrude had felt better while staying with her father for a few months. She had been able to indulge in her need for rest, and with a feeling of relief could remain in this quiet state without a daily battle, just as a tired person yields to sleep when left alone. It appeared, however, that she was more exhausted than we had thought and than she herself knew, for now that Muoth was to come for her soon, she became dispirited again, did not sleep, and entreated her father to let her stay with him a little longer.

Imthor was naturally rather alarmed at this, as he thought she would be glad to return to Muoth with renewed strength and determination, but he did not argue with her and even cautiously suggested a longer separation for the time being, with a view to a divorce later. She protested against this with great agitation.

“But I love him,” she cried vehemently, “and I will never be disloyal to him. Only it is so difficult to live with him! I just want to rest a little longer, perhaps another couple of months, until I feel stronger.”

Mr. Imthor tried to comfort her. He himself had no objection to having his child with him a little longer. He wrote to Muoth telling him that Gertrude was still not well and wished to remain with him for some time yet. Unfortunately, Muoth did not receive this news well. During the time they had been separated, his longing for his wife had become very great. He had looked forward to seeing her again and was full of good resolutions for completely regaining her love.

Imthor's letter came as a great disappointment to him. He immediately wrote an angry letter full of suspicions about his father-in-law. He felt that the latter had influenced her against him as he desired a dissolution of the marriage. He demanded an immediate meeting with Gertrude, whom he hoped to win over again. Mr. Imthor came to me with the letter and for a long time we considered what should be done. We both thought it would be best for a meeting between the couple to be avoided at the moment, as Gertrude obviously could not stand any outbursts of emotion. Imthor was very concerned and asked me if I would go to see Muoth and persuade him to leave Gertrude in peace for a while. I know now that I should have done that. At the time I had some misgivings and thought it would be unwise to let my friend know that I was his father-in-law's confidant and acquainted with things in his life that he himself did not wish to disclose to me. So I declined, and all that transpired was that Mr. Imthor wrote another letter, which of course did not help matters.