Then her pride was aroused. She was very quiet but she refused to listen to him any longer, and declared she would remain until autumn. The morning after this scene there was a kind of reconciliation, and Muoth, ashamed and repentant, granted her wishes. But he left without speaking to me.
When I heard this I was frightened, and saw the trouble ahead, that I had feared from the beginning. After the ugly and foolish scene, I thought to myself, he would not, for a long time, find the composure and courage for a return. And in the meantime he was in danger of becoming wild, and, in spite of all his desires, of growing more distant. Alone in the house, in which for a time he had been happy, he would not be able to endure it, and he would curse and drink, even, perhaps, turn again to other women, who had always run after him.
For a while he was silent. Then he wrote to Gertrude and begged once again her forgiveness. She answered him, and with pity and tenderness and friendliness, urged him to have patience.
I saw her little during this time. Sometimes I called on her to try to induce her to sing, but she resolutely shook her head, although I often found her at the piano. To me it was significant and unnatural to find this beautiful, proud woman, whom I had always seen full of strength, cheerfulness and inner peace, now so timid and so shaken in the very elements of her feeling.
Many times she came to see my mother, asked cordially after our health, and for a little while sat near the old lady on the big sofa and tried to talk. And with breaking heart, I listened and saw with what difficulty she even smiled. The appearances were strictly observed, as if I did not know anything of her sorrow, but thought it was all only nervousness and physical weakness.
I could hardly look into her eyes, in which the unbearable grief, of which I must pretend to know nothing, was so clearly written. And we talked and lived and passed by each other as though all were as it had been, but were ashamed, and wavered before each other. And in the midst of this sad confusion of sorrow, I was sometimes seized with a sudden fever of remonstrance. I felt that her heart no longer belonged to her husband, but was free, and that it was my right once more not to let her get lost, but to win her for myself and to protect her in my heart from all storm and sorrow.
Then I locked myself in my room, played the ardent, wooing music of my opera, which I suddenly again lived and understood; and through the fiery night I lay demanding and thirsting, and suffered once more all the absurd, sensitive torture of my youth, and of unfulfilled desires. And it was no less terrible than before, when I had first longed for her, and had given her that unforgettable kiss. That flamed once more on my lips and burned to ashes the quiet and resignation of years.
Only in the presence of Gertrude did the flames die down. Even if I had been stupid and unworthy enough to follow my longings, and without consideration for her husband, who was my friend, to woo her heart, still under the look of this suffering, tender, restrained woman, obstinately bearing her pain, I would have been ashamed to approach her except with pity and cautious consideration. Then, too, the more she suffered, and, perhaps, lost in hope, the prouder and more unapproachable she became. She carried herself so erect, and her fine head, with its hair of golden brown, so proudly and nobly! And never by the slightest manner would she permit us to come near to her and try to help her.
These long, silent weeks were, perhaps, the most difficult in my life. Gertrude here, near to me, and yet so far from me, and no way to her who wished to remain alone. And Brigitte, whose love for me I knew, and with whom, after a long avoidance, I continued in passable friendship. And between us all, my old mother, who saw us suffer, who had a presentiment of everything, and who did not dare to say anything, because I myself was stubbornly silent, and could not make myself say a word about my feelings. But the hardest of all was the mad standing by—the hopeless conviction that my dearest friend was going towards destruction while I did not dare to notice it or to seem to know about it.
Gertrude’s father suffered the most of all. Since I had met him years before—a wise, vigorous, happy, old gentleman, he had become older, and changed, spoke low and unsteadily, made no more jokes, and appeared full of care and misery.
One day in November I went to see him, more to hear the news and obtain some hope than to afford him any comforting companionship. He received me in his library, gave me one of his expensive cigars, and began the conversation in an optimistic, light tone, which was difficult for him and which he soon dropped. With a troubled smile, he looked at me, and said:
“You ask how things are? Bad, dear man, bad! The child has borne more than we know, else it would not be so hard for her. I am absolutely in favor of a separation, but she will not hear of it. She loves him, at least she says so, and is afraid, on his account. That is not right. She is ill—the child. She closes her eyes; she will look at nothing and only thinks it must grow better if she can but wait and be left in peace. That is nervousness, naturally, but she seems to be really ill. Only think—many times she fears, indeed, that her husband might be brutal to her if she goes back to him. And still she thinks she loves him! ”
He did not seem to understand her and looked at things so helplessly. To me her trouble was quite comprehensible. It was a battle between love and pride. She did not fear to be struck by him—she feared she could no longer respect him. And in this anguished waiting she hoped to gain strength. She had mastered him and exiled him, but in so doing had so exhausted herself that she no more trusted her own strength. That was her illness. She longed for him and feared to lose him entirely, if this new attempt for a reconciliation did not succeed. I saw only too clearly how useless and deluded my bold dream of love had been. Gertrude loved her husband and would never belong to another.
Mr. Imthor refrained from talking about Muoth, for he knew I was his friend. But he hated him, and could not understand how he could so have bewitched Gertrude. He thought of him as of a bad sorcerer, who imprisons the innocents, and never releases them. Well, passion is ever an inexplicable riddle, and it is certain that life does not spare its most beautiful children—that frequently the most noble men must honestly love that which will send them to destruction.
In this troubled time, a short note from Muoth seemed to me like a release. He wrote:
“Dear Kuhn:
“Your opera is now being played everywhere—perhaps better than here. It would be fine if you could come over to a rehearsal next week, for I sing twice. You know my life is ill and I am here alone. So you could live with me, with no fear of inconvenience. But don’t bring anyone with you,
“Faithfully,
“Your Muoth.”
He so seldom wrote letters and never an unnecessary one, that I immediately resolved to go. He must have need of me. For an instant I had the impulse to share it with Gertrude. Perhaps this was just the right opportunity to break the ban; perhaps she would send a letter with me or a good word for him; perhaps summon him; or, perhaps, even come with me, herself. It was only a sudden impulse, and I did not carry it out. I called upon her father before my departure.
It was a dismal, damp, and stormy late autumn. From Munich, now and then, one could see the mountains nearby, covered with fresh snow. The city was overcast and it rained. I went immediately to Muoth’s house. There everything was unchanged—the same servants, the same rooms, the same place for the furniture. Only everything looked strange and empty. The flowers for which Gertrude had so much cared were missing. Muoth was not there. The servant showed me into my room and helped me to unpack. I changed my clothes and went into the music room to wait for the master of the house. Outside the double windows I heard the trees rustle, and I had time to think of the past. The longer I sat there and looked at the pictures and fingered the books, the sadder grew my heart, as there seemed no more help for this house. Unwillingly I sat at the piano in order to rid myself of these useless thoughts. And I played my wedding prelude, as if, perhaps, by
it, I might call back the good that had been. At last I heard rapid, heavy footsteps approaching, and Heinrich Muoth came in. He took my hand and looked at me, wearily.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I was detained at the theater. You know I sing tonight. Shall we eat now?”
He walked ahead and I observed that he had changed. He was detached and indifferent; he talked only about the theater, and seemed to desire no other conversation. Only after lunch, when silent and almost embarrassed, we sat opposite each other on the yellow cane chairs, he unexpectedly said:
“It is good of you to have come. I will make extra efforts for tonight.”
“Thank you,” I answered. “You do not seem well.”
“Don’t you think so? Ah, but we will be amused! I am a grass widower, you know.”
“Yes.”
He looked aside.
“Did you hear any news of Gertrude?”
“Nothing special. She is still very nervous and does not sleep well.”
“Yes—but let’s not talk about that. She is in good hands.”
He rose and walked through the room. He appeared to have something else to say. He looked at me distrustfully, as if he would try me and test me. Then he laughed and left it unsaid.
“Lotte has appeared again,” he started anew.
“Lotte?”
“Yes, the very Lotte who went to you and complained of me. She is here and married, but it seems she is still interested in me. She was here to make me a real visit.”
He looked at me craftily and laughed when he saw me start.
“Did you receive her?” I asked hesitatingly.
“Ah, how you trust me! No, honored sir, I sent her away. But forgive me. I talk foolishness. I am so damned tired! And tonight I have to sing. If you don’t mind I think I’ll lie down and take a nap.”
“Good, Heinrich. Do rest, and I’ll take a drive about the city. Will you have them call a carriage?”
I could not sit quietly in this house and listen to the wind in the trees. I drove about the city, without any destination, and went into the old picture gallery. There, for about half an hour I looked at the old paintings in the dim, gray light. Then it was time for closing, and I didn’t know anything better to do than to read the newspapers in a café and to look through the high windows on to the rainy streets. I decided at any price to break through this reserve and to talk openly with Heinrich. When I returned I found him smiling and in good humor.
“I only needed sleep,” he said, gayly. “Now I feel quite fresh again. You must play me something, won’t you? The Prelude, if you will be so good.”
Surprised and delighted to see him so quickly changed, I did as he desired, and after the playing, as usual, he praised it with irony and a gentle scepticism. But he allowed his many moods to have play and completely won my heart again. I recalled the first days of our friendship, and as we left the house together in the evening, I said:
“You have no dog now?”
“No—Gertrude did not like him.”
We went in silence to the theater. I greeted the Kapellmeister, and let him assign me to a seat. Again I listened to the well-known music. It was quite different than the last time. I sat alone in my box. Gertrude was away. And he who played and sang was a changed person. He sang with passion and power. The public seemed to like him in this rôle, and from the beginning applauded him heartily. But to me his ardor seemed forced, and his voice ragged, almost hoarse. In the first intermission, I went down to see him. He sat as usual in his dressing room and drank champagne. And in the few words which we exchanged his eyes were unsteady like those of a drunkard. Afterwards, while Muoth was dressing, I sought the Director.
“Tell me,” I begged him, “is Muoth ill? He seems to me only to keep up with champagne. You know, he is my friend.”
The man looked at me questioningly.
“I do not know whether he is ill or not. But it is evident that he is going to pieces. Many times he comes on the stage almost drunk. He always drank a glass of wine before each act, but now he drinks a whole bottle. If you would talk to him—but it will do little good! Muoth is doing it purposely.”
Muoth called me and we went to the nearest restaurant for supper. As at noon he was spent and unapproachable. He drank of the dark red wine without any moderation, or he could not sleep, he said. And he looked as though at any price he must forget that anything existed in the world other than the fact that he was tired and needed sleep.
On our way home in the carriage he roused himself for an instant, laughed at me, and said:
“Boy, when I am no longer here, you can salt your opera, for no one else can sing my rôle.”
The following day he arose late and seemed tired and relaxed. His eyes were unsteady and his face was gray. After his breakfast I got hold of him and talked to him.
“You are killing yourself,” I said, sadly, and depressed. “You stimulate yourself with champagne, and naturally have to pay afterwards. I can imagine why you do it, and I would not say anything if you had not a wife. You are at fault if you do not keep yourself clean and courageous outwardly and inwardly.”
“So?” he smiled bitterly, seemingly pleased by my intensity. “And is not she at fault? Is she then courageous? She stays with her father and leaves me alone. Why should I pull myself together when she does not? People already know there is nothing more between us, and you know it, too. Besides, how am I to continue singing and making a clown of myself for the people? One can’t do that out of nothing, or from loathing, which is all I feel for everything—art, above all.”
“In spite of all that, you must pull yourself together, Muoth. If only you could be happy in it! But you are so miserable. If you are singing too much, take a vacation. And take it immediately! You have money. It isn’t necessary for you to sing. Go to the mountains or to the sea—it doesn’t matter where—and get strong again. Leave all this foolish drinking! It is not only stupid, it is cowardly, as you well know.”
He only smiled. “Very well,” he said, cooly, “why don’t you go and dance a waltz? It will do you good, believe me. Don’t be always thinking of your stupid leg. That’s only imagination.”
“Stop that! ” I cried, indignantly. “You know perfectly well that that is something quite different. I would very gladly dance if I could, but I cannot. But you can very well pull yourself together and be sensible. The drinking, you must absolutely stop! ”
“Absolutely! Dear Kuhn, I could almost laugh. I can no more be different and stop drinking than you can dance. I must stick by that which is necessary to my life and to my humor, do you understand? Drunkards may be cured if they become converted; if they find in the Salvation Army, or in any place whatever, something that satisfies them and endures. Something like that was given to me once. It was women. But I cannot associate with other women since I have had my own and she has left me.”
“She has not left you! She will return. She is only ill.”
“You think that! And she thinks that herself, I know. But she will not come back. When a ship is sinking the rats leave it. They don’t know that the ship is doomed to destruction. They only feel its unpleasant shivering, and run away, certainly with the good intention of soon returning.”
“Ah, do not talk so! You have often been in despair, and things have come all right again.”
“Quite true. It was so because I found a comfort or a diversion. Once it was a woman; once a dear friend—yes, you also did me that service; at another time, music or the gossip at the theater. Well, and now these things no longer interest me, and so I drink. And now shortly? You must stop preaching, as well as you do it. It was so once before. About twelve years ago another preached to me and would not leave me alone. It was about a girl. And as it happened it was my best friend.”
“And then?”
&nbs
p; “Then he was obliged to throw me over. And then I had no friend until you came.”
“That is evident.”
“Is it not?” he said, mildly. “Now you have the choice. But I will say to you that it would not be kind if you were to desert me now. I have loved you truly, and I have thought of a happiness for you.”
“So? What is it?”
“See! You are fond of my wife—at least you were fond of her. And I have loved her, too—very dearly. Now, tonight we will have a feast, not for you and me, but in her honor. Truly, there is a reason for it. I had her portrait painted in the spring. She sat for an artist, and I was often with her. Then she went away before the portrait was quite finished. The artist wanted her to sit once again. But I became tired of waiting and ordered the portrait sent as it was. That was a week ago, and now it is in a frame and was brought to the house yesterday. I would have shown it to you, anyway, but it is better that it would be done with festivity. Really, without some champagne it would not be a success, for I should not be amusing. What do you say?”
I felt that concealed behind this jesting was deep feeling—yes, tears—and so I agreed. Our feast in honor of the woman who seemed so entirely lost to him, as she so truly was to me, was prepared.
“Can you remember her flowers?” he asked me. “I understand nothing of flowers, and don’t know what they are called. She always had white and gold ones—and red, too. But you remember?”
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