"You're a lucky fellow really, Kuhn. And Teiser will be able to help you with the orchestration. The opera will be a success, you'll see."
I did not say anything. I had as yet no thoughts about the future and the fate of my opera; first of all, it must be finished. But since I had heard him sing it, I also believed in the power of my work.
When I told Teiser about it, he said grimly: "I can believe you. Muoth has tremendous energy. If only he weren't such a faker. He never really cares about the music, only about himself. He is a complete egoist."
On the day that I went to see Gertrude, who had at last returned, my heart beat more quickly as I walked through the garden of the Imthors' house in its autumnal garb, with the leaves already beginning to fall. But she came toward me smiling, looking a little sunburned and more beautiful and graceful than ever. She held out her hand to me, and her dear voice, her bright eyes and her whole charming, natural manner immediately bewitched me anew. I gladly put my sorrows and desires aside and was happy to be in her soothing presence again. She did not press me, and as I could not bring myself to mention my letter and the nature of it, she also remained silent about it, and in no way indicated by her behavior that our friendship was in any way spoiled or in danger. She did not try to avoid me; she was often alone with me, as she was confident that I would respect her wishes and not repeat my declaration of love unless she encouraged me. Without wasting any time, we went through my work of the last few months and I told her that Muoth had learned his part and praised it. I asked her permission to bring him there, as it was essential for me to go through both principal parts with them together, and she gave her agreement.
"I am not doing so willingly," she said. "You know that I never sing for strangers, and before Heinrich Muoth it will be doubly painful, and not just because he is a famous singer. There is something about him that frightens me, at least on the stage. Anyway, we'll see how it goes."
I did not venture to defend and praise my friend. I did not want to make her feel more embarrassed and I was convinced that, after the first time, she would willingly sing with him again.
Several days later, Muoth and I went to the Imthors' and were received by our host with great politeness and reserve. He had never shown the slightest objection to my frequent visits and my friendship with Gertrude and would have laughed if anyone had said anything against it. He was less pleased about Muoth coming, but the latter's manner was very polished and correct and both Imthors were agreeably disappointed. The forceful, arrogant singer with a bad reputation could behave irreproachably. Also he was not vain and decided in his opinions, but modest.
"Shall we sing?" asked Gertrude after a while. We stood up and went across to the music room. I sat down at the piano, said a few words about the introduction and scene, gave some directions and then asked Gertrude to begin. She did so, singing softly in a restrained and careful manner. On the other hand, when it was Muoth's turn to sing, he did so aloud without hesitation or self-consciousness, captivated us both and made us enter the spirit of the music so that Gertrude now also sang without restraint. Muoth, who was used to treating ladies of good family very formally, now paid attention to her, listened to her singing with interest, and expressed his admiration in encouraging but not exaggerated words.
From then on all prejudices vanished; the music drew us together and we were of one mind. And my work that lay there half dead in imperfectly connected parts continued to assume the shape of a whole and living thing. I now knew that the chief part of the work was done, that there was nothing of importance that could spoil it, and it seemed good to me. I did not conceal my pleasure and gratefully thanked both my friends. Muoth and I left the house in a festive mood and he treated me to an unexpected celebration at the inn where he was staying. While we drank champagne, he did something that he was a little afraid to do; he addressed me as an intimate friend and continued to do so. This pleased me and had my approval.
"Here we are enjoying ourselves and celebrating," he said, laughing, "and I think it is a good idea to do it in advance. That is the best time. Afterward things seem different. You are going to be in the limelight, young fellow, and I hope it doesn't spoil you as it does most people."
Gertrude was still ill at ease with Muoth for a long time, and only while singing with him was she natural and unrestrained. He was very polite and considerate, and gradually Gertrude was glad to see him and invited him each time in a friendly fashion to come again, just as she did with me. The occasions on which the three of us were alone together became less frequent. The parts had been learned and discussed and, moreover, the Imthors, now that it was winter, had resumed their conviviality, with regular musical evenings. Muoth often appeared at these gatherings but without ever singing.
At times I thought that Gertrude was beginning to be more reserved with me and that she was to some extent drawing away from me. However, I always reproached myself for these thoughts and was ashamed of my suspicions. Gertrude was very much in demand as the mistress of a house where much entertaining was done, and it often gave me pleasure to see her move about and act as hostess among her guests, looking so young, charming and gracious.
The weeks passed by very quickly for me. I worked at my opera, which I hoped to finish during the winter. I had meetings with Teiser, and spent many evenings with him and his sister. Then there were all sorts of letters and arrangements, as my songs were sung at different places and all the string music I had composed was played in Berlin. There were inquiries and newspaper reviews, and suddenly everyone seemed to know that I was working on an opera, although, apart from Gertrude, the Teisers and Muoth, I had not said a word about it to anyone. It did not really matter and inwardly I was happy about these signs of success. It seemed as if at last, and yet soon enough, a path lay open before me.
I had not been to my parents' house for a whole year and I went there for Christmas. My mother was affectionate, but there was the old reserve between us, which on my side was a fear of being misunderstood, and on her side a lack of faith in my career as a musician and disbelief in the seriousness of my endeavors. She now talked animatedly about what she had heard and read about me, but more to give me pleasure than from conviction, for inwardly she mistrusted these apparent successes as much as she did my art as a whole. It was not that she did not like music--indeed at one time she used to sing a little--but in her opinion a musician was a poor sort of person. She had also heard some of my music and did not understand or care for it.
My father had more faith. As a merchant he thought above all of my material success, and although he had always given me a generous allowance without grumbling and had again continued to support me fully when I left the orchestra, he was glad to see that I was beginning to earn money and that there were prospects of my making a living by my own efforts. Having made money himself, he regarded this as an essential basis for a respectable existence. He was in bed when I arrived. He had had a fall the day before my arrival and had injured his foot.
I found him tending toward slightly philosophical conversations. I came closer to him than ever and took delight in his practical outlook on life. I was able to tell him many of my troubles, which I had never done before because of a sense of bashfulness. Something Muoth had once said occurred to me and I repeated it to my father. Muoth had said, not really in earnest, that he thought youth was the most difficult time of life and he found that most old people were much more serene and contented than young people. My father laughed at that and said thoughtfully: "Naturally we old people say just the opposite, but there is some truth in what your friend said. I think one can draw quite a distinct division between youth and maturity. Youth ends when egotism does; maturity begins when one lives for others. That is what I mean. Young people have many pleasures and many sorrows, because they have only themselves to think of, so every wish and every notion assumes importance; every pleasure is tasted to the full but also every sorrow, and many who find that their wishes cannot be fulfilled, put a
n end immediately to their lives. That is being young. To most people, however, there comes a time when the situation changes, when they live more for others, not for any virtuous reasons, but quite naturally. A family is the reason with most people. One thinks less about oneself and one's wishes when one has a family. Others lose their egotism in a responsible position, in politics, in art or in science. Young people want to play; mature people want to work. A man does not marry just to have children, but if he has them they change him, and finally he sees that everything has happened just for them. That links up with the fact that young people like to talk about death but do not really think about it. It is just the other way round with old people. Life seems long to young people and they can therefore concentrate all their wishes and thoughts on themselves. Old people are conscious of an approaching end, and that everything one has and does solely for oneself finally falls short and lacks value. Therefore a man requires a different kind of continuity and faith; he does not work just for the worms. That is why one has a wife and children, business and responsibility, so that one knows for whom one endures the daily toil. In that respect your friend is quite right, a man is happier when he lives for others than when he lives just for himself, but old people should not make it out to be such an act of heroism, because it isn't one really. In any case, the most lively young people become the best old people, not those who pretend to be as wise as grandfathers while they are still at school."
I remained at home for a week and sat a great deal at my father's bedside. He was not a patient invalid; besides, except for the small injury to his foot, he was in excellent health. I told him I was sorry that I had not confided in him more and drawn closer to him before, but he remarked that that could be said for both sides, and our relationship in the future would be better than if we had made premature attempts to understand each other, which rarely succeed. In a discreet and kind way, he asked me whether I'd had any luck with women. I did not want to say anything about Gertrude; what I did tell him was very brief.
"Don't worry," said my father, smiling. "You are the type to make a really good husband; intelligent women will soon notice that. Only be wary of women of small means who may be after your money. And if you do not find the one that you envisage and think you would like, it is still not disastrous. Love between young people and love after many years of marriage is not the same thing. When one is young, one has only oneself to think of and care for, but when there is a household, there are other things to attend to. That is how it was with me, as you well know. I was very much in love with your mother; it was a real love match. But it only lasted a year or two; then our passion died down and was almost spent and we hardly knew where we stood in relation to each other. Then the children came, your two elder sisters, who died when they were young, and we had them to look after. Our demands on each other were consequently less, the coolness between us came to an end, and suddenly love was there again; to be sure, it was not the old love, but something quite new. This has lasted without needing much reviving for more than thirty years. Not all love matches turn out as well. Indeed, very few do."
To me, all these observations served no purpose, but the new cordial relationship with my father encouraged me and made me again enjoy my home, toward which I had felt almost indifferent during the past few years. When I departed, I did not regret the visit and decided to keep in more frequent contact with the old people in the future.
Work and traveling for performances of my string music prevented me from visiting the Imthors for a while. When I went there again, I found that Muoth, who had previously gone there only in my company, was now among the most frequently invited guests. Mr. Imthor still treated him coolly and rather distantly, but Gertrude seemed to have become good friends with him. I was glad about that. I saw no grounds for jealousy and was convinced that two people who were as dissimilar as Muoth and Gertrude would interest and attract each other but could not love and make each other happy. So I was not at all suspicious when he sang with her and their beautiful voices mingled. They looked attractive together; they were both tall and well-formed, he morose and serious, she bright and serene. Eventually, however, it seemed to me that she found some difficulty in maintaining her old innate serenity, and she sometimes seemed tired and distracted. Quite often she looked at me seriously and searchingly, with curiosity and interest, in the way that worried and depressed people look at each other, and when I smiled at her and responded with a friendly look, her features relaxed into a smile so slowly and in such a forced manner that I was disturbed.
Yet it was quite rare that I noticed this; at other times Gertrude looked as cheerful and radiant as ever, so that I attributed these observations to imagination or a passing indisposition. Only once was I really shocked. While one of her guests was playing some Beethoven, she leaned back in the semi-darkness, probably thinking that she was quite unobserved. Earlier, while receiving her guests in the full light, she had appeared bright and cheerful, but now, withdrawn into herself and clearly unmoved by the music, her face relaxed and assumed an expression of weariness, anxiety and fear, like that of an exasperated child. It lasted several minutes and I was stunned when I saw it. Something was troubling her. That alone was bad, but it worried me that she should pretend to be cheerful and conceal everything from me. As soon as the music was finished, I went up to her, sat down beside her and began a casual conversation. I said that she had had a busy winter and that I had also had a trying time, but my remarks were made in light and half-jesting tones. Finally, I mentioned that period in the spring when we had discussed the beginnings of my opera and had played and sung them together.
She then said: "Yes, those were happy times." She said no more than that, but it was a confession, for she said it with great earnestness. I read in it hope for myself and in my heart I was thankful.
I longed to repeat the question I had asked her during the summer. I believed with all due modesty that I could venture to interpret the change in her manner, the embarrassment and uncertain fears which she revealed at times, as signs favorable to me. I found it touching to see how her girlish pride seemed wounded and hard to disguise. I did not dare say anything; her uncertainty hurt me and I felt I ought to keep my unspoken promise. I have never known how to behave with women. I made the same mistake as Heinrich Muoth, the other way round: I treated women as if they were friends.
As I eventually could not consider my observations to be illusions, and yet only half understood Gertrude's changed manner, I became rather reserved, visited her less frequently and avoided intimate conversations with her. I wanted to show her consideration and not make her more shy and fearful, as she seemed to be suffering and in a state of conflict. I think she noticed the change in my behavior and did not seem displeased that I should keep my distance. I hoped that we should again have a quiet, peaceful time after the winter and the repeated entertaining, and I wanted to wait until then. But I was often very sorry for her, and gradually I also felt disturbed and thought there must be something serious pending.
I was restless under the tension of the circumstances. February arrived and I began to long for spring. Muoth had not been to see me very much. He had, indeed, had a strenuous winter at the Opera House and had recently received two important offers from well-known theaters, about which he had to make a decision. He did not seem to have another lady friend; at least, since the break with Lottie I had not seen any other woman at his house. We had recently celebrated his birthday. Since then I had not seen him.
I now felt an urge to go and see him. I was beginning to feel the strain of my changed relationship with Gertrude, overwork and the long winter, and I dropped by to have a chat with him. He gave me a glass of sherry and talked to me about the theater. He seemed tired and distracted and unusually gentle. I listened to him, looked around the room and was just going to ask him whether he had been to the Imthors again, when I accidentally saw an envelope with Gertrude's handwriting on it lying on the table. Before I could really take it
in, a feeling of horror and bitterness welled up in me. It could have been an invitation, a simple formality, yet I could not believe this, however much I tried.
I was able to compose myself and left soon afterward. Almost unwillingly, I realized that I knew everything. It could have been an invitation, a triviality, something quite casual--yet I knew that it was not. Suddenly I clearly understood everything that had happened recently. I made up my mind to wait and make sure, but all my thoughts in this connection were nothing but pretexts and excuses. The arrow had pierced deeply and festered in my blood. When I reached home and sat in my room, my confusion was slowly replaced by a feeling of almost terrible calmness, which finally prevailed, and I knew that my life had been shattered and faith and hope had been destroyed.
For several days I could neither shed a tear nor feel any grief. Without thinking it over, I had decided not to go on living. In any case, the will to live had abandoned me and seemed to have disappeared. I thought about dying as a piece of work that had to be done unhesitatingly, without thinking whether it was pleasant or not.
Among the things I wanted to do beforehand was first of all to go and visit Gertrude--to a certain extent for the sake of order--to receive the necessary confirmation of my suspicions. I could have had this from Muoth, but although he appeared to be less to blame than Gertrude, I could not bring myself to go to him. I went to see Gertrude but did not find her in. I went again the following day and talked to her and her father for a few minutes, until the latter left us alone together, thinking we wished to practice some music.
She then stood alone before me and I looked at her curiously. She seemed a little changed but no less beautiful than ever.
"Forgive me, Gertrude," I said firmly, "if I trouble you once more. I wrote you a letter during the summer--could I now have an answer to it? I have to go on a journey, perhaps for a long time. Otherwise I should have waited until you yourself..."