Gertrude (6 page)

“Hush,” said Marian, “or Muoth will become angry.”

He looked at me and said, “I won't be angry. You are quite right, really. But you can't feel so bad about your leg. Otherwise music-making would not be such a compensation to you. You are a contented sort of person. Anything can happen to you and you still remain contented—but I would never have believed it.” Muoth sprang angrily to his feet. “And it isn't true. You set the Avalanche Song to music; that was no indication of consolation and satisfaction—but of despair. Listen!”

Suddenly he went to the piano and it became quieter in the room. He began to play, made a mistake, then omitted the introduction and sang the song. He now sang it differently from the way he had sung it in my room, and I could tell that he had sung it often since then. He now sang it aloud in the deep baritone voice that I had heard from the stage, and the strength and intense feeling in his voice made one forget the unrelieved distress of the song.

“This man says he wrote that purely for pleasure. He doesn't know anything about despair and is perfectly contented with his lot,” he cried and pointed his finger at me. There were tears of shame and anger in my eyes. I saw everything through a mist, and in order to end it I stood up to go.

Then I felt a delicate yet strong hand press me back into the armchair and gently stroke my hair, so that tingling warm waves washed over me, I closed my eyes, and choked back my tears. Looking up, I saw Heinrich Muoth standing in front of me. The others did not appear to have observed the whole scene and my agitation. They were drinking wine and laughing.

“You are a child,” said Muoth softly. “When a man writes songs like that, he should be above this kind of thing. But I am sorry. I find a person whom I like and we have hardly been together at all when I begin to pick a quarrel with him.”

“Oh, all right,” I said with embarrassment, “but I should like to go home now. The best part of the evening is finished.”

“Very well, I will not press you to stay. The rest of us will have another drink yet, I think. Would you mind seeing Marian home? She lives on the inner side of the moat; it is not out of your way.”

The pretty woman looked at him curiously for a moment. Then she turned to me and said, “Will you?” I said, “With pleasure,” and stood up. We only said goodbye to Muoth. In the anteroom a hired servant helped us on with our coats; then the little old woman appeared sleepily and took us through the garden to the gate by the light of a large lantern. The wind was still warm and caressing; it drew along masses of black clouds and stirred the tops of the bare trees.

I did not venture to offer Marian my arm, but she took it unasked, breathed in the night air with her head thrown back and looked up at me inquiringly and trustfully. I still seemed to feel her soft hand on my hair. She walked slowly and seemed to want to lead me.

“There are cabs over there,” I said, for it was painful to me that she should adapt herself to my lame walk and it made me suffer to have to limp beside this warm, healthy, slender woman.

“Let us walk a little,” she said. She took care to walk very slowly, and if I had had my way I should have drawn her still closer to me. But I was filled with so much pain and anger that I released her arm, and when she looked at me with surprise, I said to her: “It is no good like this. Pardon me, I must walk alone.” She walked anxiously and sympathetically by my side, and all that was needed for me to say and do the opposite of what I said and did was an upright walk and the awareness of physical well-being. I became quiet, as well as abrupt in my answers. I could not do otherwise or I should have had tears in my eyes and longed to feel her hand on my head again. I would have preferred to escape from her at the next side street. I did not want her to walk slowly, to show me consideration and pity me.

“Are you vexed with him?” she said at last.

“No, it was stupid of me. I hardly know him yet.”

“He upsets me when he is like that. There are days when I am afraid of him.”

“You, too?”

“Yes, more than anyone. He hurts no one more than himself. He hates himself at times.”

“Oh, he puts on a pose.”

“What did you say?” she said startled.

“He is an actor. What does he want to mock himself and others for? Why does he have to draw out the experiences and secrets from a friend and ridicule them—the miserable wretch!”

My previous anger found a way into my speech again. I wanted to insult and disparage this man who had hurt me and whom I really envied. Also my respect for the lady had decreased since she defended him and openly admitted it to me. Wasn't it bad enough that she had been the only woman at this bachelors' drinking party? I was used to little license in these things, and I was ashamed to have a yearning for this pretty woman at the same time. I preferred in my vexation to start a quarrel with her rather than feel her pity any longer. If she thought me rude and left me, it would be better than staying and being kind to me.

But she put her hand on my arm. “Stop,” she cried warmly, so that her voice moved me despite myself. “Don't say any more! What is the matter with you? Muoth wounded you with two or three words because you were not skillful or courageous enough to defend yourself, and now that you have left, you attack him in hateful language in front of me. I ought to let you walk alone!”

“As you wish. I only said what I thought.”

“Don't lie! You accepted his invitation and you played your music to him. You saw how he liked it, how it pleased you and cheered you up. And now, because you are angry and took offense at a few words he said, you begin to insult him. You shouldn't do that, and I will put it down to the wine you have had.”

It appeared to me that she suddenly realized how things were with me and that it was not the wine that had excited me; she changed her tone, although I did not make the slightest attempt to vindicate myself. I was defenseless.

“You don't know Muoth yet,” she continued. “You have heard him sing, haven't you? That is what he is like, fierce and violent, but mostly against himself. He is an emotional man; he has great vigor but no goal. At every moment he would like to taste the whole world, and whatever he has and whatever he does only constitutes an infinitesimal part of it. He drinks and is never drunk; he has women and is never happy; he sings magnificently and yet does not want to be an artist. If he likes anyone, he hurts him. He pretends to despise all who are contented, but it is really hatred against himself because he does not know contentment. That is what he is like. And he has shown friendship toward you, as much as he is capable of doing.”

I maintained an obstinate silence.

“Perhaps you don't need him,” she began again. “You have other friends. But when we see someone suffer and be ill-mannered because of his suffering, we ought to be indulgent and forgive him.”

Yes, I thought, one should do that. Gradually the walk in the night cooled me down, and although my own wound was still open and needed healing, I was induced to think more and more about what Marian had said and about my stupid behavior that evening. I felt that I was a miserable creature who really owed an apology. Now that the courage the wine had given me had worn off, I was seized by an unpleasantly sentimental mood against which I fought. I did not say much more to the pretty woman, who now seemed agitated and moody herself as she walked beside me along the dark streets where, here and there, the light of a lamp was suddenly reflected on the dark surface of the wet ground. It occurred to me that I had left my violin in Muoth's house; in the meantime I was again filled with astonishment and alarm at everything. The evening had turned out to be so different from what I had anticipated. Heinrich Muoth and Kranzl the violinist, and also the radiant Marian, who played the role of queen, had all climbed down from their pedestals. They were not gods or saints who dwelt on Olympian heights, but mere mortals; one was small and droll, another was oppressed and conceited, Muoth was wretched and self-tormented, the charming woman was pathetic and miserable as the lady friend of a restless sensualist who knew no joy, and yet she was good and kind and acquainted with suffering. I, myself, felt changed. I was no longer a single person but a part of all people, seeing good and bad in all. I felt I could not love a person here and hate another person there. I was ashamed of my lack of understanding and saw clearly for the first time in my young life that one could not go through life and among people so simply, hating one person and loving another, respecting one person and despising another, but all these emotions were closely tied up, scarcely separable and at times scarcely distinguishable. I looked at the woman walking by my side who was now also silent as if she too realized that the nature of many things was different from what she had thought and said.

At last we reached her house. She held out her hand to me, which I gently pressed and kissed. “Sleep well!” she said kindly but without a smile.

I did, too. I went home and to bed, I know not how, fell asleep immediately and slept far into the next morning. Then I rose like the man in the jack-in-the-box, did my exercises, and washed and dressed myself. It was only when I saw my coat hanging on the chair and missed my violin case that I thought of the previous day. Meantime, I had slept well and felt better. I could not link up the thoughts I had had the previous night. There remained only small, strange, inward experiences in my memory and a feeling of surprise that I was still unchanged and the same as ever.

I wanted to work but my violin was not there. So I went out, at first irresolutely, then with determination, in the direction I had gone yesterday and arrived at Muoth's house. Even from the garden gate I heard him singing. The dog sprang at me and was led away with difficulty by the old woman who had quickly come out. She allowed me to go in. I told her I only wanted to fetch my violin and did not want to disturb the gentleman. My violin case was in the anteroom and my violin was in the case. My music had also been put there. Muoth must have done that; he had thought about me. He was singing aloud close by. I could hear him walking quietly up and down as if wearing slippers. At times he would strike keys on the piano. His voice sounded clear and bright, more controlled than I had ever heard it at the theater. He was practicing a role that was unknown to me. He repeated parts of it a number of times and walked quickly up and down the room.

I had taken my things and was going to leave. I felt quite calm and hardly affected by the memory of the previous day. But I was curious to see him and to know whether he had changed. I went nearer, and almost involuntarily I put my hand on the handle, turned it and stood in the open doorway.

Muoth turned round while singing. He was in a shirt, in a very long, fine, white shirt and looked fresh, as if he had just had a bath. Too late I took fright at having surprised him like that. However, he seemed neither surprised that I had come in without knocking nor embarrassed because he was not dressed. Just as if everything was perfectly normal, he held out his hand and asked: “Have you had breakfast yet?” Then, as I said yes, he sat down by the piano.

“Imagine, that's a part I'm supposed to
sing!
Just listen to this aria—what a mishmash! The opera is to be given at the Royal Opera House with Büttner and Duelli! But that doesn't interest you or me, really. How are you? Have you had a good rest? You didn't look so well when you left last night. And you were annoyed with me too. Anyway, we won't start that nonsense again now.”

And straight away, without giving me a chance to say anything, he said: “You know, Kranzl is a bore. He won't play your sonata.”

“But he played it yesterday.”

“I mean at a concert. I wanted him to take it on, but he won't. It would have been grand if it had been included in, say, a matinee concert next winter. Kranzl isn't a fool, you know, but he is lazy. He is always playing Russian music by an ‘insky' or ‘owsky.' He doesn't like learning anything new.”

“I don't think,” I began, “that the sonata is suitable for a concert and I never had that in mind. It is still not flawless technically.”

“That's nonsense! You and your artistic pride! We're not like your schoolteachers and worse things will doubtless be played, particularly by Kranzl. But I have another idea. You must give me the song and write some more soon! I am leaving here in the spring. I have handed in my resignation and am going on a long holiday, during which I want to give one or two concerts, but with something new, not Schubert, Wolf, Löwe and the others we hear every evening. I want at least one or two new and unknown pieces of music, such as the Avalanche Song. What do you think?”

The prospect of my songs being sung in public by Muoth was like a gateway to the future through the bars of which I could see splendid vistas. For that very reason I wanted to be cautious and neither abuse Muoth's kindness nor bind myself to him too much. It seemed to me that he wanted to draw me to him somewhat too forcibly, to dazzle me and in some way overpower me. Therefore I hardly committed myself.

“I will see,” I said. “You are very kind to me, I realize that, but I cannot promise anything. I am at the end of my studies and must now think about good testimonials. Whether I shall ever make my way as a composer is uncertain. Meantime, I am a violinist and must try to obtain a position soon.”

“Oh, yes, you can do all that. But you may think of another song like that one, which you can let me have. Will you?”

“Yes, of course, although I don't know why you take such an interest in me.”

“Are you afraid of me? I simply like your music. I should like to sing some more of your songs and look forward to doing so. It is pure egoism.”

“All right, but why did you talk to me as you did yesterday?”

“Oh, you are still offended! What did I really say? I no longer remember. Anyway, I didn't intend to treat you roughly, as I seem to have done. But you can defend yourself! One talks, and every person is as he is and as he must be, and people have to accept each other.”