Gertrude (7 page)

“That's what I think, but you do just the opposite. You provoke me and do not accept what I say. You draw out of me things that I don't want to think about myself and that are my affair, and throw them back in my face like a reproach. You even mock me about my leg.”

Heinrich Muoth said slowly: “Well, well, people are different. One man is wild if you tell him the truth, and another can't bear it if you spout platitudes. You were annoyed because I didn't treat you with false respect and I was annoyed because you were on the defensive and tried to delude me with fine phrases about the solace of art.”

“I meant what I said, only I am not used to talking about these things. And I won't talk about the other matter either. How things seem to me, whether I am sad or in despair and how my leg came to be injured, I want to keep to myself, and I don't want to let anyone drag them out of me and mock me about them.”

He stood up. “I haven't anything on yet. I'll go and get dressed. You're a good fellow. I'm not, I know. We won't talk about it so much again. Hasn't it occurred to you that I like you? Just wait a little. Sit down by the piano until I'm dressed. Do you sing?—No?—Well, I'll only be a few minutes.”

He soon returned dressed from the adjoining room.

“We'll go into town now and have a meal,” he said lightly. He did not ask whether it suited me. He said, “We'll go,” and we went. For however much his manner annoyed me, it impressed me; he was the stronger character of the two. At the same time, he displayed a whimsical, childlike disposition in his conversation and behavior which was often charming and which quite won me over.

From that time I saw Muoth often. He frequently sent me tickets for the opera, sometimes invited me down to play the violin, and if I did not like everything about him, there were many things I could say to him without his taking offense. A friendship was established between us, at that time my only one, and I almost began to fear the time when he would no longer be there. He had in fact handed in his resignation and could not be pressed to stay, despite a number of requests and inducements. At times he hinted that there might be a part for him at a large theater in the autumn, but it was not yet arranged. In the meantime spring arrived.

One day I went to Muoth's house for the last gentlemen's gathering. We drank to our next meeting and the future, and this time there was no woman present. Muoth accompanied us to the garden gate early in the morning. He waved us farewell and returned shivering in the morning mist to his already half-emptied rooms, accompanied by the leaping and barking dog. It seemed to me that a section of my life and experience had now ended. I felt I knew Muoth well enough to be sure that he would soon forget us all. Only now did I see clearly and unmistakably how much I had liked this moody, imperious man.

The time for my departure had also arrived. I made my last visits to places and to people whom I would remember kindly. I also went once more up to the high road and looked down at the slope, which I would not indeed forget.

I set off home to an unknown and apparently uninteresting future. I had no situation and I could not give independent concerts. At home there only awaited me, to my dismay, some students who wanted violin lessons. To be sure, my parents also awaited me and they were rich enough to see that I did not want for anything, and were tactful and kind enough not to press me and ask what was to become of me. But right from the beginning I knew that I should not be able to endure it long.

There is not much for me to say about the ten months that I spent at home. During this time I gave lessons to three students and despite everything was not really unhappy. People lived here also; things also happened here every day, but I only had a feeling of polite indifference toward everything. Nothing touched my heart, nothing swept me along. On the other hand, I secretly experienced strange, entrancing hours with music, when my whole way of life appeared petrified and estranged and only a hunger for music remained that often tormented me unbearably during the violin lessons and certainly made me a bad teacher. But afterwards, when I had fulfilled my obligations, or had evaded my lessons with cunning and excuses, I relapsed into a wonderful dreamlike state in which I built bold sound edifices, erected magnificent castles in the air, raised arches casting long shadows, and created musical patterns as light and delicate as soap bubbles.

While I went about in a state of stupefaction and absorption which drove away my previous companions and worried my parents, the dammed-up spring within me burst open even more forcibly and profusely than it had done the previous year in the mountains. The fruits of seemingly lost years, during which I had worked and dreamed, suddenly ripened and fell softly and gently, one after the other. They were sweet and fragrant; they surrounded me in almost overwhelming abundance and I picked them up with hesitation and mistrust. It began with a song, then a violin fantasia followed, then a string quartet, and when after a few months I had composed some more songs and several symphonic themes, I felt that it was all only the beginning and an attempt. Inwardly, I had visions of a great symphony; in my wildest moments I even thought of an opera. Meanwhile, from time to time I wrote polite letters to conductors and theaters, enclosed copies of testimonials from my teachers and humbly asked to be remembered for the next vacancy for a violinist. There came short, polite replies beginning “Dear Sir” and sometimes there were no replies, and there was no promise of an appointment. Then for a day or two I felt insignificant and retreated into myself, gave conscientious lessons and wrote more polite letters. Yet immediately afterwards I felt that my head was still full of music that I wanted to write down. Hardly had I begun composing again when the letters, theaters, orchestras, conductors and “Dear Sirs” faded out of my thoughts and I found myself fully occupied and contented.

But these are memories that one cannot properly describe, like most recollections. What a person really is and experiences, how he develops and matures, grows feeble and dies, is all indescribable. The lives of ordinary working people can be boring, but the activities and destinies of idlers are interesting. However rich that period remains in my memory, I cannot say anything about it, for I remained apart from ordinary social life. Only once, for moments, did I again come closer to a person whom I will not forget. He was a teacher called Lohe.

One day, late in the autumn, I went for a walk. A modest villa suburb had arisen on the south side of the town. No rich people dwelt in the small, inexpensive houses with their neat gardens, but respectable middle-class families and people who lived on small incomes. A clever young architect had erected a number of attractive houses here which I was interested to see.

It was a warm afternoon. Here and there, nuts had fallen belatedly from the trees; the small new houses and gardens were clearly outlined in the sunshine. They were of a simple design that appealed to me. I looked at them with the superficial interest that young people have in these things, when thoughts of house, home and family, rest days and holidays are still remote. The peaceful streets with their gardens made a very pleasing impression on me. I strolled along slowly, and as I was walking, I happened to read the names of the occupants on small bright plates on the garden gates.

The name “Konrad Lohe” was on one of these brass plates and, as I read it, it seemed familiar to me. I stood still and reflected. Then I remembered that that was the name of one of the teachers at the Grammar School. For a few moments the past rose before me, confronted me with surprise, and a mass of faces, teachers and friends, memories of nicknames and stories danced before me in fleeting waves. As I stood there looking at the brass plate, a man rose from behind a nearby currant bush where he had been bending down at work. He came forward and looked at me.

“Did you want me?” he asked, and it was Lohe, the teacher whom we used to call Lohengrin.

“Not really,” I said and raised my hat. “I did not know that you lived here. I used to be one of your students.”

He looked at me more keenly, observed my stick, reflected a moment and then pronounced my name. He had remembered not my face but my stiff leg, for he naturally knew about my accident. Then he asked me to come in.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he was wearing a green gardening apron. He did not seem to have grown older and looked wonderfully well. We walked through the small, neat garden, then he led me to an open veranda, where we sat down.

“Well, I would never have recognized you,” he said candidly. “I hope your memory of me has been a kind one.”

“Not entirely,” I said laughing. “You once punished me for something I did not do and declared my protestations of innocence to be lies. It was in the fourth grade.”

He looked up with a troubled expression on his face. “You must not hold it against me. I am very sorry. With all the good intentions in the world, it continually happens with teachers that something goes wrong and an act of injustice is committed. I know of worse cases. That is one of the reasons why I left.”

“Oh, aren't you still teaching?”

“Not for a long time now. I became ill, and when I recovered, my views had changed so much that I resigned. I tried to be a good teacher, but I wasn't one; you have to be born to it. So I gave it up and since then I have felt better.”

I could see that. I inquired further, but he wanted to hear my story, which was soon told. He was not altogether pleased that I had become a musician. On the other hand, he showed great tact by his sympathy for my ill-fortune so that for once I was not offended. He discreetly tried to discover how I had succeeded in finding consolation, and was not satisfied with my half-evasive answers. With mysterious gesticulations, he intimated hesitatingly and yet impatiently, with much bashful circumlocution, that he knew of a solace, of complete wisdom which was there for every earnest seeker.

“I know,” I said. “You mean the Bible.”

Mr. Lohe smiled mysteriously. “The Bible is good. It is the way to knowledge, but it is not knowledge itself.”

“Well, where is knowledge itself?”

“You will find it easily if you wish to. I will give you something to read that gives the principles of it. Have you heard of the study of Karma?”

“Karma? No, what is it?”

“You will find out. Just wait a minute!” He went away and was absent for a short time while I sat there surprised, not knowing what to expect, and looked down the garden where diminutive fruit trees stood in faultless rows. After a short time, Lohe returned. He looked at me, with his face beaming, and handed me a small book, which bore, in the middle of a mysterious symbolic pattern, the title
Theosophical Catechism for Beginners.

“Take that with you,” he said. “You may keep it, and if you want to study further, I can lend you some more books. This one is only an introduction. I owe everything to these teachings. I have become well in body and soul through them and hope they will do the same for you.”

I took the small book and put it in my pocket. The man accompanied me through the garden down to the road, took friendly leave of me and asked me to come again soon. I looked at his face, which was good and happy, and it seemed to me that there could be no harm in trying the path to such happiness. So I went home with the little book in my pocket, curious about the first steps along this path to bliss.

Yet I only embarked upon it after a few days. On my return home, the call of music was again powerful. I threw myself into it and lived in a world of music. I wrote and played until the storm within me was again silenced and I could return calmly to everyday life. Then I immediately felt the need to study the new teachings, and sat holding in front of me the little book which I thought I could soon absorb.

But I did not find it so easy. The little book became massive in my hands and finally seemed unfathomable. It began with an interesting introduction on the many paths to wisdom to which everyone has access, and the theosophical brotherhood that stands independently for knowledge and inner perfection, in which every faith is respected and every path to the light is welcome. Then followed a cosmology that I did not understand, a division of the world into different “planes,” and history into remarkable ages unknown to me, in which the lost continent of Atlantis was also included. I left this for a time and turned to the other chapters, where the doctrine of reincarnation was presented, which I understood better. Yet it was not quite clear to me whether it was all mythology and poetic fables, or whether it was to be taken literally. It seemed to me to be the latter, which I could not accept.

Then came the teachings about Karma. It appeared to me to be a religious interpretation of the law of causality, which was not unattractive to me. And so on. I soon realized that these teachings could only be of solace and value to those who could accept them literally, and sincerely believe them to be true. If, as it seemed to me, they were partly beautiful literature, partly intricate symbols, an attempt at a mythological explanation of the world, one could be instructed by them and hold them in esteem, but one could not learn how to live and gain strength from them. One could perhaps be a worthy and religious theosophist, but the final solace beckoned only to those who accepted simple beliefs without too much questioning. In the meantime, it was not for me.

All the same, I went to see the teacher several more times. Twelve years ago we had plagued each other with Greek and now, in quite a different way and equally unsuccessfully, he tried to be my teacher and guide. We did not become close friends, but I liked going to see him and for a time he was the only person with whom I discussed important aspects of my life. I did indeed realize that all this talk was of no value and at its best only led to clever phrases. Yet I found him soothing and worthy of reverence, this devout man who had coolly renounced church and knowledge and who in the latter half of his life experienced the peace and glory of religion through his naïve belief in remarkable, subtly reasoned teachings.