Gertrude (21 page)

Finally, Muoth arrived without warning and alarmed us all with the scarcely restrained vehemence of his love and suspicions. Gertrude, who did not know about the short exchange of letters, was quite astonished and confused by his unexpected appearance and his almost violent emotions. There was a painful scene, the details of which I did not learn. I only know that Muoth urged Gertrude to return with him to Munich. She declared she was ready to do as he wished, if there was no alternative, but asked to be allowed to remain with her father a little longer, as she was weary and still needed rest. He then accused her of wanting to forsake him and insinuated that she had been instigated by her father to do so. He became even more suspicious when she gently tried to explain, and in a fit of anger and bitterness he was so foolish as to command her abruptly to return to him. Her pride then asserted itself. She remained calm but refused to listen to him further and declared that she would now remain with her father in any event. The morning following this scene, Muoth tried to conciliate her, and ashamed and repentant, he now granted all her wishes. He then traveled back to Munich without coming to see me.

I was alarmed when I heard about it and saw the trouble lying ahead which I had feared from the beginning. After that ugly and foolish scene, I thought, it might now be a long time before she would feel calm and strong enough to return to him, and meanwhile there was a danger of his becoming reckless, and despite all his longings, he might become even more estranged from her. He would not long be able to endure being alone in the house in which he had been happy for a time. He would give way to despair, drink and perhaps go with other women who still ran after him.

In the meantime, all was quiet. He wrote to Gertrude and again asked her forgiveness. She answered his letter and in a sympathetic and friendly manner urged him to be patient. I saw little of her at this time. Occasionally I tried to persuade her to sing, but she always shook her head. Yet several times I found her at the piano.

It seemed strange to me to see this beautiful, proud woman, who had always been so strong, cheerful and serene, now timid and shaken to her very being. She sometimes came to see my mother, inquired how we were keeping, sat beside the old lady on the gray settee for a short time, and made an attempt to chat with her. It grieved me to hear her and to see how difficult she found it to smile. Appearances were kept up as if neither I nor anyone else knew of her sorrow, or regarded it as a nervous state and physical weakness. So I could hardly look into her eyes, in which her unconfessed grief, about which I was not supposed to know, was so clearly written. We talked and lived and met as if everything was the same as it had always been, and yet we felt uncomfortable in each other's presence and avoided each other. In the midst of this sad confusion of feelings, I was now and then seized by the notion, causing me sudden excitement, that her heart no longer belonged to her husband and that she was free, and it was now up to me not to lose her again, but to win her for myself and shelter her by my side from all storms and sorrows. I then locked myself in my room, played the passionate and yearning music of my opera, which I suddenly loved and understood again, lay awake at nights full of longing, and again suffered all the former laughable torments of youth and unfulfilled desires, no less intensely than in the past when I had first desired her and given her that single, unforgettable kiss. I felt it burn on my lips again and in a few hours it destroyed the peace and resignation of years.

Only in Gertrude's presence did my passion subside. Even if I had been foolish and ignoble enough to pursue my desires and, without consideration for her husband, who was my friend, had tried to win her heart, I should have been ashamed to show anything but sympathy and consideration when faced by this sad, gentle woman, who was so completely wrapped up in her sorrow. The more she suffered and seemed to lose hope, the prouder and more unapproachable did she become. She held her fine dark head as erect and as proud as ever and did not allow any of us to make the slightest attempt to approach and help her.

These long weeks of ominous silence were perhaps the most difficult in my life. Here was Gertrude, close to me yet unapproachable, with no way for me to reach her, and wishing to remain alone; there was Brigitte, who I knew loved me and with whom, after I had avoided her for some time, a tolerable relationship was slowly being established. And among us all there was my old mother, who saw us suffering, who guessed everything but did not trust herself to say anything, as I myself maintained an obstinate silence and felt I could not tell her anything about my own state. But worst of all was the horror of being compelled to look on with the helpless conviction that my best friends were heading for disaster, without my being able to reveal that I knew the reason why.

Gertrude's father seemed to suffer most of all. I had known him for years as a clever, vigorous, self-possessed man, but he had now aged and changed; he spoke more quietly and less calmly; he no longer joked, and looked worried and miserable. I went to see him one day in November, chiefly to hear any news and be cheered up myself rather than to comfort him.

He received me in his study, gave me one of his expensive cigars and began to talk to me in a light, polite manner. He did this with an effort and soon abandoned it. He looked at me with a troubled smile and said: “You want to know how things are, don't you? Very bad, my dear friend. The child has suffered more than we knew, otherwise she would have dealt with the situation better. I am in favor of a divorce but she will not hear of it. She loves him, at least she says so, and yet she is afraid of him. That is bad. The child is ill; she closes her eyes, will not listen to reason any more, and thinks everything will be all right if people will only wait and leave her in peace. That is just nerves, of course, but her illness seems to be more deeply rooted. Just think, she sometimes even fears that her husband might ill-treat her if she returns to him, and yet she professes to love him.”

He did not seem to understand her and watched the course of events with a feeling of helplessness. To me, her sufferings were quite conceivably the result of conflict between love and pride. She was afraid not that he would beat her but that she would no longer respect him, and while anxiously temporizing, she hoped to regain her strength. She had been able to control and steady him but by doing this had so exhausted herself that she no longer had confidence in her powers; that was her illness. She longed for him and yet feared that she would lose him completely if a fresh attempt at a reconciliation did not prove successful. I now saw clearly how futile and illusory my bold speculations about winning her love had been.

Gertrude loved her husband and would never care for anyone else.

Mr. Imthor avoided talking to me about Muoth, as he knew I was a friend of his, but he hated him and could not understand how he had been able to attract Gertrude. He regarded him as a kind of wicked sorcerer who captured innocent people and never released them. Passion is always a mystery and unaccountable, and unfortunately there is no doubt that life does not spare its purest children and often it is just the most deserving people who cannot help loving those who destroy them.

During this troubled state of affairs, I received a short letter from Muoth, which relieved the tension. He wrote:

Dear Kuhn,

Your opera will now be performed everywhere, perhaps better than here. However, I should be very glad if you would come down again, say next week, when I sing the role in your opera twice. You know that my wife is ill and I am here alone. You could thus stay with me without standing on ceremony.

Kind regards,

MUOTH

He wrote so few letters, and never any unnecessary ones, that I immediately decided to go. He must need me. For a moment I thought of telling Gertrude. Perhaps this was an opportunity to break down the barrier. Perhaps she would give me a letter to take to him, or pass on a kind message, ask him to come over or even come with me. It was just an idea, but I did not carry it out. I only visited her father before departing.

It was late autumn; the weather was wretched, wet and stormy. From Munich one could at times see for an hour the nearby mountains, which were covered with fresh snow. The town was gloomy and wet with rain. I traveled immediately to Muoth's house. Everything there was the same as it had been the year before, the same servant, the same rooms and the same arrangement of furniture, but the place looked uninhabited and empty; it also lacked the flowers that Gertrude had always arranged. Muoth was not in. The servant took me to my room and helped me to unpack. I changed my clothes, and as my host had not yet arrived, I went down into the music room, where I could hear the trees rustling behind the window and had time to think about the past. The longer I sat there looking at the pictures and turning the leaves of books, the sadder I became, as if this household was beyond help. I sat down impatiently by the piano in order to rid myself of these unprofitable thoughts, and I played the wedding prelude that I had composed, as if by doing so I could bring back the happiness of the past.

At last I heard quick, heavy footsteps close by and Heinrich Muoth came in. He held out his hand and looked at me wearily.

“Excuse me for being late,” he said. “I was busy at the theater. You know that I am singing this evening. Shall we eat now?”

I followed him out of the room. I found him changed; he was absent-minded and apathetic. He only talked about the theater and seemed unwilling to discuss anything else. Only after the meal, when we sat facing each other in the yellow cane chairs, did he say unexpectedly: “It was very good of you to come. I will make a special effort this evening.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You don't look well.”

“Don't I? Well—we shall soon cheer up. I am a grass-widower. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes.”

He looked away. “Have you any news about Gertrude?”

“Nothing special. She is still in a nervous state and does not sleep well—”

“Oh well, let us not talk about it. She is in good hands.”

He stood up and walked about the room. I felt that he still wanted to say something. He looked at me keenly and, I thought, distrustfully.

Then he laughed and left it unsaid. “Lottie has turned up again,” he said, changing the subject.

“Lottie?”

“Yes, Lottie who once came to see you and told you a tale about me. She has married someone here, and it appears that she still takes an interest in me. She came to visit me here.”

He looked at me again slyly and laughed when he saw that I was shocked.

“Did you receive her?” I asked with some hesitation.

“Oh, you think I am capable of it! No, my dear fellow, I had her sent away. But forgive me, I am talking nonsense. I am so terribly tired, and I have to sing this evening. If you don't mind, I will go and lie down for an hour and try to sleep.”

“Certainly, Heinrich, have a good rest. I will go to town for a while. Will you order a cab for me?”

I could not sit in this house in silence again and listen to the wind in the trees. I traveled to town without any aim, and wandered into the old art museum. I looked at the pictures there for half an hour in the poor light. Then it was time to close and I could think of nothing better to do than read newspapers in a café and look through the large windowpanes on to the wet road. I resolved that I would break through this barrier of coolness at any cost and talk openly to Heinrich.

But when I returned, I found him smiling and in a good humor.

“I only needed a good sleep,” he said cheerfully. “I feel quite revived now. You must play something for me! The prelude, if you will be so good.”

Pleased and surprised to see such a sudden change in him, I did as he wished. When I had finished playing, he began to talk as he used to, ironically and somewhat skeptically. He let his imagination run riot and completely won my heart again. I thought of the early days of our friendship, and when we left the house in the evening I looked around involuntarily and said: “Don't you keep a dog now?”

“No—Gertrude did not like dogs.”

We traveled to the theater in silence. I greeted the conductor and was shown to a seat. I again heard the well-known music, but everything was different from the last time. I sat alone in my box, Gertrude was absent, and the man who acted and sang down there was also changed. He sang with fervor and passion. The public seemed to like him in this role and followed it with enthusiasm from the beginning. But to me his fervor seemed excessive and his voice too loud, almost forced. During the first interval I went down to see him. He was back in his dressing room drinking champagne, and on exchanging a few words with him I saw that his eyes were unsteady, like those of a drunken man.

Afterwards, while Muoth was changing, I went to see the conductor.

“Tell me,” I asked, “is Muoth ill? It seems to me that he is keeping himself going with champagne. You know that he is a friend of mine, don't you?”

He looked at me in despair. “I don't know if he is ill, but it is quite evident that he is ruining himself. He has sometimes come on stage almost drunk, and if he ever misses a drink, he acts and sings badly. He always used to have a glass of champagne before appearing, but now he never has less than a whole bottle. If you want to give him some advice—but there is little you can do. Muoth is deliberately ruining himself.”

Muoth came for me and we went to the nearest inn for supper. He was languid and taciturn again, as he had been at lunchtime, drank large quantities of a heavy red wine, for otherwise he could not sleep, and looked as if he wanted to forget at any price that there were other things in the world than his fatigue and desire for sleep.

On the way back in the cab he revived for a moment, laughed and said: “My friend, once I'm gone, you can pickle your opera. No one else but me could sing that part.”