Gertrude

by Hesse, Hermann

  That was like a slap in the face to my mother, and she never forgave her cousin. Earlier, it was to her a necessity and a pleasure to complain a little now and then to this confidante, and to find some fault with the master of the house. But now she could not endure the slightest shadow upon his transfigured image, and she began to find the revolution in her house not only a disturbance, but—more—a sacrilege on the memory of her husband.

  So it went on without my knowledge. Now, for the first time, a letter from my mother intimated the unrest in the birdcage, although, of course, considerately and cautiously. The whole affair made me laugh. In my next letter I left out the greetings to the spinster, but did not touch on the intimations, thinking they might straighten it out better without me. Also, I was hindered by other things which occupied me far more.

  October had come, and the thoughts of Gertrude’s approaching marriage possessed me. I had not visited her home again. Nor had I seen her. After the wedding, when she had gone, I hoped to renew my friendship with her father. Also I hoped that, in time, there would be restored between her and me a good, confident relation. We had been too near to each other to blot out that which had been. Only now I had not the courage for a meeting, which she, I knew, would not have avoided.

  One day someone knocked on my door in a manner I knew well. Troubled with foreboding, I sprang up and opened it, and there stood Heinrich Muoth. He stretched his hand out toward me.

  “Muoth! ” I cried and grasped his hand, but I could not look into his eyes without all the memories stirring in me and hurting me. I saw again the letter lying upon the table—the letter with Gertrude’s handwriting. I saw myself say good-bye to her and choose my death. And now there he stood and looked at me searchingly. He looked thinner but as handsome and proud as ever.

  “I had not expected you,” I said, softly.

  “So? I know that you do not go anymore to see Gertrude. As far as I am concerned, we will not speak of that. I have come here to see how you live and what work you are doing. How does the opera go?”

  “That is finished. But first, how is Gertrude?”

  “Well. We are to be married soon.”

  “I know.”

  “Yes. Will you not soon go to see her?”

  “Later, perhaps. I will see whether you have been good to her.”

  “Hm . . .”

  “Heinrich, forgive me. I cannot help but think of Lotte, whom you treated badly—even struck.”

  “Let Lotte be. It was all right. No woman is struck who does not wish it.”

  “Well, then—My opera. I hardly know to whom to send it first. There must be a good stage. But I don’t know who will take it.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about it. Take it to Munich. In all probability they will take it, for every one is interested in you. And, if necessary, I will use my influence. I don’t want anyone else to sing my rôle for me.”

  That was a great favor to me. I said so gratefully, and promised to attend to sending him a copy.

  We kept on discussing the opera as though it were a matter of life and death, although we desired only to pass the time and to close our eyes on the chasm which had arisen between us.

  Muoth broke the spell first.

  “Do you remember how you took me that time to the Imthors’? It is a year now.”

  “I remember well, and you need not remind me of it. Rather, go! ”

  “No, my friend. Besides, you remind yourself. If you were in love at that time with Gertrude, why did you not say a word to me about it? Why did you not say, ‘Leave her alone. Leave her to me!’ It would have been enough. I would have understood a hint.”

  “I did not dare.”

  “Why did you not dare? Why not? Who told you to look on and hold your tongue until it was too late?”

  “I could not be sure that she loved me—and after, when you loved her, of course I could not do it.”

  “You are a child! Perhaps she would have been happier with you. Every man has the right to conquer the woman he loves. And if you had said a word to me in the beginning, had given me the slightest sign, I would have remained away. Afterwards, naturally, it was too late.”

  To me this conversation was painful.

  “I don’t feel that way about it,” I said. “And you can be quite content, can you not? Then leave me in peace. Give my greetings to her, and I will call on you in Munich.”

  “Will you not come to the wedding?”

  “No, Muoth, that would not be in good taste. But—are you to be married in a church?”

  “Naturally, in the cathedral.”

  “I am glad of that. I have written something for the occasion, an organ composition. Don’t worry. It is very short.”

  “You are a dear fellow! I don’t know why I have such bad luck with you.”

  “I think you should call it good luck.”

  “Well, we will not quarrel about that. I must go now. I have to move some things, and God knows what else. You will send the opera soon, won’t you? Send it to me, and I will myself take it to the director. Yes, and before I am married we two shall have one more evening to ourselves. Perhaps tomorrow? Good! Then, good-bye.”

  There I was back in the same circle, and spent the night with thoughts a hundred times thought, and sorrows a hundred times endured.

  The next day I went to a well-known organist and asked him to play my prelude for Muoth’s wedding. In the afternoon I went through my overture, for the last time with Teifer. In the evening I went to Heinrich’s hotel. There I found a room ready for us, with candlelight, a fire on the hearth, a table set with flowers, and Muoth waiting for me.

  “So, my boy,” he said. “Now we will solemnize our farewell, more for me than for you. Gertrude sends her greetings to you. Let us drink her health.”

  We filled our glasses and drank silently.

  “And now we will think about ourselves. Youth is drawing to an end. Do you not feel that, too? It should be the most beautiful time in life, they say. I hope that is a swindle, like all these trite old maxims. The best must still be before us, else the whole thing is not worth the pains. When your opera is played, we will talk about it again.”

  We ate comfortably, and drank a heavy Rhine wine. Then we lay back in our deep armchairs, with our cigars, and liqueurs, and for an hour, the past came back to him and to me. We looked at each other out of carefree, meditating eyes, and were pleased with each other. In hours like this, Heinrich was more friendly and tender than before. He well knew how transitory is such pleasure, and as long as the mood lasted, he watched over it and clung to it. Softly and smilingly he spoke of Munich, related little stories of the stage, and practised his old and fine art of sketching men and situations in short, illuminating words. Without malice, he so characterized his director, his father-in-law and others, keenly and brilliantly. I drank to him and said:

  “Now, what do you say about me? Have you a type for people like me?”

  “Oh, yes.” He nodded calmly and bent his dark eyes upon me. “You are entirely the type of the artist. An artist is not, as the Philistines think, a jolly fellow, who out of pure wild spirits flings down here and there a work of art. But instead he is a poor wretch, who suffers much, who is dying from too great an abundance, and, in order to live, must give of himself. The talk about happy artists amounts to nothing. That is pure Philistine babble!

  That jolly Mozart kept himself up by means of champagne and suffered from lack of bread. And why Beethoven did not take his life in his youth, but instead wrote those master compositions, no man knows. A real artist must be unhappy in life. When he is hungry, and opens his sack, he finds nothing there but pearls.

  Yes, if one seeks in life a little joy and warmth and sympathy, a dozen operas and trios and such things don’t help very much. That is true. So an
hour with a friend, if one has one, some wine, and good-natured gossip about this noteworthy life, that is about the best that one can have. How long a poor devil works but to make a beautiful rocket, the joy of which lasts but a minute! So we must lay by joy and peace of mind and good conscience that it may stretch to a happier hour.”

  I did not at all agree with his philosophy, but what did that matter? To me it was good to spend such an evening with a friend whom I had thought to have lost, and who, also, had not been certain of me. And I was reconciled in thinking back on the past time which lay so near and yet which inclosed my youth, and whose brightness and happiness could come to me no more.

  We made an end to our evening in good season, and Muoth asked to accompany me to my home. I knew that he did not like to walk with me. My slow limp disturbed and annoyed him. He could make no sacrifices. And little things are so often the most difficult.

  My little organ composition pleased me. It was a sort of prelude, but for me a farewell to the past, an appreciation and a blessing upon their marriage, and an echo of the friendly times with him and with her.

  On the day of the wedding I went early to the church and, hidden by the organ, saw the ceremony. When the organist played my prelude, Gertrude looked up and nodded to her bridegroom. In all this time I had not seen her. In her white dress she looked taller and slimmer. With a serious grace she went to the altar, down the narrow aisle, bedecked with flowers, by the side of her proud, haughty husband. It would have looked less fine and splendid, had I—a cripple!—walked at her side.

  CHAPTER VI

  IT was seen to that I should not have long to think of the wedding of my friends, that my thoughts and desires and self-torture could not follow that course.

  I had thought little of my mother in these days. To be sure, I knew from her last letter that, in her home, comfort and peace was not overpowering! But I had neither reason nor desire to mix in the quarrel of the two women. Rather I took a kind of malicious joy in letting it remain something in which my opinion was superfluous. Since then I had written without receiving an answer and had enough to do with the performance and revision of my opera to take any thought of Miss Schniebel. Then a letter came from my mother which astonished me by its unusual length. It was a painful accusation against her house companion, from which I learned in detail all the transgressions against the home, and against my mother’s peace of mind.

  It was difficult for her to write this to me and she did it with dignity and discretion. Only it was an open admission of her mistake in regard to her old friend and cousin. My mother not only confessed that the aversion of me and of my father to Miss Schniebel, was right; she was even ready to sell the house, if I still wished it, and to change her residence—anything to break away from this Schniebel woman.

  “Perhaps it would be best if you came home yourself. Of course Lucy knows now what I think and what I plan, as she is spying, but our relations are too strained for me to be able to say to her what is necessary, in the right way. She will not understand my intimations that I would rather be alone again in my home, and that her presence is not necessary. I will not have an open quarrel. I know she would scold and get ugly if I should ask her directly to go. Therefore, it would be better for you to come and arrange it. I will have no scandal, and she shall never want, but it must be said to her plainly and decidedly.”

  I would have been ready to kill the dragon if my mother desired it. With great satisfaction I got ready to start, and left for my home. At my entrance into the old house I could see plainly that a new spirit reigned therein. The large, comfortable livingroom had a grim, unfriendly, oppressed and miserable appearance. Everything seemed carefully protected and preserved. A strip of carpet had been carefully placed on the old solid floor, a long funereal rag of cheap and odious stuff, to save the floor and to prevent noise. The old, square piano that for years had stood unused in the room was likewise clothed with a gloomy covering. Although my mother had prepared tea and pastry for my arrival and had tried to make everything pretty, still the place smelled of old-maid misery and benzine, so ineffaceably, that at my entrance I wrinkled up my nose at my mother. She laughed and understood at once.

  Hardly was I seated in my chair, when the Dragon came in, and stumbled over the rug to do the honors herself to me. I inquired exhaustively about her health and apologized for the old house, which perhaps had not every convenience to which she was accustomed. Talking lightly over my mother’s head, she took upon herself the rôle of hostess, looked after the tea, and replied to my courtesy eagerly. She seemed flattered by it, yet made more anxious and mistrustful by my excessive friendliness. She scented betrayal, but was obliged herself to acquiesce in the agreeable key, and to display her whole assortment of somewhat antiquated courtesies. In the midst of this exchange of civilities, night came on, and we wished each other the best sleep and separated like diplomatists of the old school. Still I think that the witch, in spite of the good wishes, had little sleep that night. I rested contentedly, and my mother, after many nights spent in chagrin and depression, for the first time, went to sleep in her own house with her housewifely pride intact. At breakfast the next morning the very same polite game began. My mother, who the evening before had only listened quietly and intently, now took her part with animation. And we handled Miss Schniebel with such an art and delicacy that it drove her into a corner, and indeed saddened her. She well surmised that the tone of my mother did not come from her heart. I almost felt sorry for her when she got uneasy and strove to make herself humble, and praised, and agreed with everything. But I thought of the dismissed housemaid, and of the piano, and of the dissatisfied cook who only stayed to please my mother. And when I thought of the embalmed piano, and of the whole sombre, petty atmosphere in my formerly happy home, I remained hard.

  After we left the table I begged my mother to rest and I remained alone with the cousin.

  “Do you sleep after lunch?” I asked politely. “If you do I must not disturb you. I had something to talk over with you, though there is no hurry.”

  “Oh, please! I never sleep in the daytime. I am not yet old enough for that, the Lord be praised. I am entirely at your service.”

  “Thank you. I merely wish to thank you for the friendship which you have shown my mother. She would have been very lonesome in this empty house. Now it will be changed, of course.”

  “What?” she cried, springing up. “What will be changed?”

  “Oh, did you not know? Mother has finally decided to yield to my wishes and to come with me. Naturally we cannot let the house stand empty, so we will very soon put it up for sale.”

  She stared at me as if she did not grasp my meaning.

  “Yes, I am sorry,” I went on, regretfully. “For you, this time was one of great strain. You have taken care of the house so carefully and kindly that I cannot thank you enough.”

  “But I—what shall—where shall I—?”

  “Oh, we must consider that. You must find some place to live. Of course there is no great hurry. You will be glad to have quiet again! ”

  She stood up. Her tone was polite but distinctly caustic.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she began, bitterly. “Your mother, sir, promised me that I should live here. It was an agreement. And now when I have undertaken the house, and have helped your mother in everything—now I am to be put into the streets.”

  She began to cry and seemed to want to run away, but I caught her lean hand and put her back in her chair.

  “It is not so bad,” I said, smiling. “That my mother wishes to move changes the situation a little. Besides, the sale of the house was not decided by my mother, but by me, for it belongs to me. My mother expects that you shall not restrict yourself in the situation of a new dwelling place and shall have no worry. You will be accommodated as before, and you will still, so to speak, be her guest.”

 
Now came the expected objections, the pride, the weeping, the haughty tone varying with a pleasant one, and at the end a complaisance, a yielding to wisdom. Then she went back to her room and was not seen at tea. My mother thought we should send it to her room, but I decided, after having all the politeness of my vengeance, to let Miss Schniebel remain in her comfort until evening, when punctually, at meal time, she appeared, very quiet and sullen.