Gertrude (9 page)

She looked me in the face the way a sick person looks at a doctor, was silent and slowly took off her gloves. Suddenly she stood up, placed both hands on my shoulders and gazed at me with her big eyes.

“What shall I do? He is never at home, he never writes to me, he never even opens my letters! I have not been able to speak to him for three weeks. I went there yesterday. I know he was in but he did not open the door. He did not even whistle at his dog, who had torn my dress. He doesn't want to recognize me any more.”

“Have you had a quarrel with him?” I asked only so that I should not remain silent.

She laughed. “Quarrel? Oh, we have had enough quarrels right from the beginning! I was used to that. No, he has even been polite to me lately, which I immediately mistrusted. On one occasion he wasn't there when he asked me to come; another time he said he was coming to see me and did not turn up. Finally, he began to address me formally. I would have preferred him to beat me again.”

I was stunned. “Beat you!”

She laughed again. “Didn't you know? Oh, he has often beaten me, but not for a long time now. He has become polite; he addresses me formally and does not want to know me any more. I expect he has someone else. That is why I have come here. Tell me, please! Has he another woman? You know, you must know!”

Before I could prevent it, she took hold of both my hands. I was astounded at what she had told me, but because I did not wish to discuss it and desired to end the scene I was almost glad that she did not give me a chance to speak, for I would not have known what to say.

Alternately hopeful and sorrowful, she was contented that I should listen to her. She asked me questions, told me things and burst into fits of weeping. All the time I looked at her pretty, tearful face and could think of nothing else except, “He has beaten her!” I seemed to see his clenched hand, and I shuddered at the thought of him, and of her too, who, having been beaten, scorned and repulsed, seemed to have no other thought and wish but to return to him and the same humiliations.

At last the flood subsided. Lottie began to speak more slowly. She seemed embarrassed and conscious of the situation, became silent, and at the same time released my hands.

“There is no one else,” I said gently, “at least not as far as I am aware.”

She looked at me gratefully.

“But I can't help you,” I continued. “I never talk to him about such things.”

We were both silent awhile. I could not help but think of Marian, of pretty Marian, and that evening when we had walked arm-in-arm the same night the south wind had come, and how she had so loyally defended her lover. Had he beaten her also? And did she still pursue him?

“Why did you come to me?” I asked.

“I don't know. I had to do something. Do you know if he still thinks about me? You are a good man. You will help me, won't you? You could ask him sometime, speak about me…”

“No, I can't do that. If he still loves you, he will come to you himself. If not, then…”

“Then what?”

“Then let him go. He is not worthy that you should humble yourself so much.”

Thereupon she smiled. “Oh, what do you know about love!”

She was right, I thought, but it hurt me just the same. If love did not come to me, if I stood outside, how could I be taken into anyone's confidence and be of help? I felt sorry for this woman but I despised her even more. If that was love, with cruelty here and humiliation there, then it was better to live without love.

“I don't want to argue,” I said coolly. “I don't understand this kind of love.”

Lottie fastened on her veil. “Very well, I'm going.”

Then I felt sorry for her, but I did not want this ridiculous scene to be repeated, so I did not say anything. She walked toward the door and I opened it for her. I accompanied her past the inquisitive landlady to the stairs; then I bowed and she went away without saying anything more and without looking at me.

I looked after her sadly and could not rid myself of the memory of her for a long time. Was I really quite different from all these other people, from Marian, Lottie and Muoth? Was that really love? I saw all these passionate people reel about and drift haphazardly as if driven by a storm, the man filled with desire today, satiated on the morrow, loving fiercely and discarding brutally, sure of no affection and happy in no love; then there were the women who were infatuated with him, suffering insults and beatings, finally rejected and yet still clinging to him, degraded by jealousy and despised love, but still remaining faithful, like dogs. That day, for the first time in a very long while, I wept. I shed involuntary tears of vexation for these people, for my friend Muoth, and life and love, and also secret tears for myself who lived among everything as if on another planet, who did not understand life, who longed for love, yet was afraid of it.

I did not go to see Heinrich any more for a long time. He was enjoying triumphs as a Wagnerian singer and was beginning to be regarded as a star. I also had a moderate amount of publicity. My songs had been published and well received and two pieces of my chamber music had been performed. It was just a little encouraging recognition among friends; the critics still said little or were for the most part indulgent toward me as a beginner.

I spent a great deal of time with Teiser, the violinist. He liked me, praised my work, and took friendly pleasure in it. He prophesied great things for me and was always ready to play music with me. Just the same I felt that something was lacking. I was drawn to Muoth, although I still avoided him. I did not hear any more from Lottie. Why then was I not content? I reproached myself for not being satisfied with the company of Teiser, who was so good and loyal. But I found something lacking in him too. He was too happy, too cheerful, too contented; he seemed to have no depth. He did not speak well of Muoth. Sometimes when Muoth sang at the theater he looked at me and whispered: “He has faked it again! That man is quite spoiled. He doesn't sing Mozart and he knows why.” I had to agree with him and yet I did so unwillingly. I was drawn to Muoth, but did not like to defend him. Muoth had something that Teiser did not have or understand and which bound me to him, and that was a continual desire, yearning and dissatisfaction. These same qualities drove me to study and work, to seize people to myself who always slipped away from me again, just as they eluded Muoth, who was goaded and tormented by the same dissatisfaction, though differently than I. I would always write music. I knew that. But I also wanted to create something out of happiness and abundance and uninterrupted joy, instead of continual longing and a sense of lack. Why was I not happy with what I had—my music? And why was Muoth not happy with what he possessed—his tremendous vitality and his women?

Teiser was lucky; he was not tormented by any desires for the unattainable. He derived a keen, unfailing pleasure from his art. He did not ask for more than it gave him, and outside his art he was even more easy to satisfy; he only needed a few friendly people, an occasional good glass of wine, and on free days an excursion into the country, for he liked walking and open-air life. If there was anything in the teachings of the theosophists, then this man was almost perfect; his disposition was so kind and he harbored so little passion and discontent. Yet even if I perhaps deceived myself, I did not wish to be like him. I did not want to be like anyone else. I wanted to remain in my own skin, although it was often so constrictive. I began to feel power within me as my work began to have some effect, and I was on the point of becoming proud. I had to find some kind of bridge to reach people, had to learn to live with them without always being the weaker. If there was no other way, perhaps my music would create a bridge. If people did not like me, they would have to like my music.

I could not rid myself of such foolish thoughts and yet I was ready to devote and sacrifice myself to someone who wanted me, to someone who really understood me. Was not music the secret law of the world? Did not the earth and stars move in a harmonious circle? And should I have to remain alone and not find people whose natures harmonized well with my own?

A year had gone by since I had been in this town. Apart from Muoth, Teiser and our conductor, Rössler, I had had few acquaintances at the beginning. Lately, however, I moved about in a larger circle, which did not particularly please or displease me. Since the performance of my chamber music, I had become acquainted with musicians in the town, outside the theater, and now enjoyed the easy and pleasant burden of a gently burgeoning reputation. I noticed that people knew and observed me. Of all fame, the sweetest is that which is not yet for any great success, which cannot cause envy and which does not isolate you. You go about with the feeling that here and there you are noticed, your name is known and you are praised; you meet people who welcome you with a smile, and acquaintances who give you a friendly nod. Younger people greet you with respect, and you secretly feel that the best is still to come, as all young people do, until they see that the best already lies behind them. My pleasure was diminished primarily by the feeling that there was always a touch of pity behind this recognition. Quite often I even felt that people were so kind and friendly toward me because I was a poor fellow and a cripple whom they wanted to console.

After a concert at which a violin duet of mine had been played, I made the acquaintance of a rich merchant called Imthor, who was reputed to be a lover of music and a patron of young talent. He was a rather small, quiet man with graying hair in whom one could detect neither his riches nor his love of art. But from what he said to me, I could see that he understood a great deal about music; he did not give extravagant praise but quiet competent judgment, which was worth more. He told me what I had already known for a long time from other sources, namely, that many musical evenings were held at his house, and new as well as classical music was performed. He invited me to come and, before parting, said: “We have your songs at home and we like them. My daughter will also be glad if you will come.”

Even before I had the chance to visit him he sent me a written invitation. Mr. Imthor asked permission for my trio in E flat major to be performed at his house. A violinist and a cellist, competent amateurs, were available, and the first violin part would be kept for me if I wished to play it. I knew that Imthor always paid a very good fee to professional musicians who played at his house. I would not like to accept this, yet did not know how to refuse the invitation. Finally, I accepted. The two other musicians came to see me, received their parts and we had a number of rehearsals. In the meantime, I called round to see Imthor, but found no one at home. Then the appointed evening arrived.

Imthor was a widower. He lived in an old, stately, middle-class house, one of the few still surrounded by its old garden, which had remained intact in the midst of the growing town. I saw little of the garden when I arrived in the evening, only a short drive with tall plane trees; in the lamplight one could see the light marks on their trunks. In between them were several old statues that had become darkened with age. Behind the tall trees the old, broad, low house stood unassumingly. From the front door, along the passages, stairs, and in all the rooms we passed through, the walls were closely covered with old pictures of family groups, faded landscapes, old-fashioned scenes and animals. I arrived at the same time as other guests. We were received by a housekeeper and taken inside.

There were not very many guests, but they seemed to fill the smallish rooms until the doors of the music room were opened. This was a large room and everything here looked new, the grand piano, the music cabinets, the lamps and the chairs; only the pictures on the walls were old here, too.

The other two musicians were already there. We put up the music stands, attended to the lighting, and began to tune up. Then a door was opened from the far end of the room, and a lady in a light dress came across the half-illumined room. The other two gentlemen greeted her respectfully. She was Imthor's daughter. She looked at me questioningly, then before we were introduced, she held out her hand to me and said: “I know you already. You are Mr. Kuhn, aren't you? I am Gertrude Imthor. You are very welcome.”

The pretty girl had made an impression on me as soon as she had come in. Now her voice sounded so bright and kind that I pressed the outstretched hand warmly and looked with pleasure at the girl who had greeted me in such a charming, friendly manner.

“I'm looking forward to your trio,” she said smiling, as though she had anticipated that I would be the way I was, and was now satisfied.

“I am, too,” I said, not knowing what I was saying. I looked at her again and she nodded. Then she moved away, went out of the room, and my eyes followed her. She soon returned on her father's arm, and behind them came the guests. We three musicians were in our places ready to begin. Everyone sat down. A number of acquaintances nodded to me, the host shook hands with me, and when everyone had settled down, the electric lights were switched off, and only the large candles remained to light our music.

I had almost forgotten about my music. I looked for Gertrude at the back of the room. She sat leaning against a bookcase in the dim light. Her dark brown hair looked almost black. I could not see her eyes. Then I softly beat time, nodded, and we commenced the
andante
with a broad sweep of the bow.

Now that I was playing, I felt happy and at peace. I swayed gently to the rhythm and felt completely at ease with the music, which all seemed quite new to me, as if it had just been composed. My thoughts about the music and Gertrude Imthor flowed together clearly without a break. I drew my bow and gave directions with my glance. The music proceeded smoothly and steadily; it carried me with it along a golden path to Gertrude, whom I could no longer see and now no longer even desired to see. I dedicated my music and my life's breath, my thoughts and my heart to her, as an early-morning wanderer surrenders himself to the blue sky and the bright dew on the meadows, involuntarily and without losing himself. Simultaneous with this feeling of well-being and the increasing volume of sound, I was overwhelmed by an astonishing feeling of happiness, for I suddenly knew what love was. It was not a new feeling, but a clarification and confirmation of old premonitions, a return to a native country.