At breakfast the following morning, we began the same polite game. My mother, who had only listened quietly and intently the previous evening, now participated with enjoyment, and we overwhelmed Schniebel with polite phrases that drove her into a corner and even made her sad, for she realized quite well that these fine phrases did not come from my mother's heart. I almost felt sorry for the old maid as she became anxious, tried to humble herself and praised everything, but I thought of the dismissed housemaid, of the discontented-looking cook who had only remained for my mother's sake. I thought of the covered piano and the whole wretched atmosphere in my father's hitherto pleasant house, and I remained adamant.
After the meal I told my mother to go and lie down a little, and I remained alone with her cousin.
"Are you accustomed to having a nap after a meal?" I inquired politely. "If so, don't let me disturb you. I wanted to talk to you about something, but it is not so urgent."
"Oh, please go on. I never sleep during the day. Thank goodness I am not so old yet. I am quite at your service."
"Thank you very much, Miss Schniebel. I wanted to express my gratitude to you for the kindness you have shown toward my mother. She would have been very lonely without you in this large house. However, things are going to be changed now."
"What!" she cried, rising to her feet. "How are things going to be changed?"
"Don't you know yet? My mother has at last decided to fulfill my wish for her to come and live with me. Naturally we cannot leave the old house empty, so it will soon be put up for sale."
The lady gazed at me disconcertedly.
"Yes, I am sorry too," I continued regretfully. "This has been a very tiring time for you. You have taken such a kind and practical interest in the house that I cannot thank you enough."
"But what shall I--where shall I--?"
"Oh, we shall find a solution to that. You will of course have to look for somewhere else to live, but there is no great hurry. You will be glad yourself to take things easier."
She had remained standing. She was still polite but her tone of voice had become considerably sharper.
"I don't know what to say," she cried bitterly. "Your mother, sir, promised to let me live here; it was a permanent arrangement. Now, after I have taken an interest in the house and helped your mother with everything, I am turned out into the street."
She began to sob and wanted to run away, but I took hold of her thin hand and pressed her back into the easy chair.
"It is not as bad as all that," I said, smiling. "It does alter circumstances a little that my mother wants to move from here. However, the sale of the house was not decided by her, but by me, as I am the owner. My mother will see to it that you are not pressed in your search for a new home and she will make the necessary arrangements for it herself. You will thus be more comfortable than you were previously and you will still, so to speak, be a guest of hers."
Then came the expected reproaches, arrogance, weeping, alternate pleading and boasting, but in the end the sullen woman realized that the wisest thing to do was to accept the situation. She then withdrew to her room and did not even appear for coffee.
My mother thought we ought to send it up to her room, but I wanted to have my revenge after all this polite play and let Miss Schniebel stay there in her mood of independence until the evening, when, although quiet and sulky, she punctually appeared for dinner.
"Unfortunately, I have to go back to R. tomorrow," I said during the meal, "but if you should need me for anything, Mother, I could always come again quickly."
As I said this, I did not look at her but at her cousin, and she realized what I meant. My parting from her was brief but almost cordial.
"My dear," said my mother later, "you settled that very well. Thank you very much. Won't you play me something from your opera?"
That was something I left undone for the time being, but a barrier had been broken down and a new relationship began to be established between the old lady and me. That was the best that had come out of this business. She now had confidence in me and I was pleased at the thought of setting up a small household with her after my long spell of being homeless. I left my kind regards to Miss Schniebel and departed with a feeling of contentment. Shortly after my return, I began to look around here and there, wherever there were small, attractive houses to let. Teiser helped me in this respect, and his sister usually came along, too. They both rejoiced with me and hoped that the two small families would live happily near each other.
In the meantime, I had sent the score of my opera to Munich. Two months later, shortly after my mother's arrival, Muoth wrote to me that it had been accepted but that it could not be rehearsed that season. It would, however, be performed at the beginning of the next winter. So I had good news to tell my mother. When Teiser heard about it, he danced for joy and arranged a celebration.
My mother wept when we moved into our attractive little house, and said it was not good to be transplanted in one's old age, but I thought it was a very good move, as did the Teisers, and it pleased me to see how much Brigitte helped my mother. The girl had few acquaintances in the town and while her brother was at the theater she often felt lonely at home, although she did not admit it. Now she often came to see us and not only helped us to get organized and settle in but also helped my mother and me along the difficult path of living together harmoniously. She knew how to make it apparent to the old lady when I had the need to be quiet and alone; she was often at hand to help me out. She also pointed out to me many of my mother's needs and wishes which I had never guessed at and of which my mother had never told me. So we soon settled down in our peaceful little home, which was different and more modest than my previous conception of a home, but which was good and pleasant enough for one who had not progressed any further than I had.
My mother now became familiar with some of my music. She did not like every piece and withheld comment about most of them, but she saw and believed that it was not just a sport and a pastime but demanding work that was to be taken seriously. Above all, she was surprised to find that the musician's life, which she had considered to be very capricious, was hardly less strenuous than the business life that my late father had led. We now found it easier to talk about him and gradually I heard numerous tales about them both, about my grandparents and about my own childhood. I enjoyed hearing about the past and the family, and I no longer felt as if I did not belong. On the other hand, my mother learned to let me go my own way and to have confidence in me, even when I locked myself in my room during working hours, or when I was irritable. She had been very happy with my father and this had made her trials and tribulations with the Schniebel woman all the harder to bear. She now gained confidence again and gradually stopped talking about becoming old and lonely.
In the midst of all this comfort and modest happiness, the feeling of grief and dissatisfaction with which I had lived so long became submerged. It did not sink to unfathomable depths but lingered deep down in my soul. It confronted me on many a night and maintained its rights. The more remote the past seemed, the more was I aware that my love and my sorrow were ever with me as a quiet reminder. Occasionally, in the past, I had thought I was in love. When I was still a youth, infatuated with pretty, carefree Liddy, I thought I knew about love; then again, when I first saw Gertrude and felt that she was the answer to my questions and obscure wishes, when the pain began and passion and unknown depths succeeded friendship and understanding, and finally when she was lost to me, I thought I knew what love was. My love for her had persisted and was always with me and I knew that I would never desire another woman or wish to kiss another woman's lips, for Gertrude had won my heart.
Her father, whom I visited from time to time, now seemed to know about my feelings toward her. He asked me for the music of the prelude I had written for her wedding, and displayed a quiet good will toward me. He must have sensed how glad I was to have news of her and how reluctant I was to ask, and he passed on to me much of the conten
ts of her letters. They often had something in them about me, particularly in regard to the opera. She wrote that a good singer had been found for the soprano part, and how pleased she would be to hear this much beloved work in its entirety at last. She was also glad that I now had my mother with me. I did not know what she wrote about Muoth.
My life proceeded peacefully; the undercurrents no longer forced their way to the surface. I was working on a Mass and had ideas for an oratorio, for which I still needed the text. When I was obliged to think about the opera, it was like an alien world to me. My music was developing along other lines; it was becoming more simple and more peaceful; its aim was to soothe, not to excite.
During this time the Teisers were a great comfort to me. We saw each other almost every day. We read, made music, went for walks together and joined each other on free days and outings. Only in the summer, when I did not wish to hinder these strenuous walkers, did we part for a few weeks. The Teisers again wandered around the Tirol and Voralberg, and sent me small boxes of edelweiss. I, however, took my mother to relatives in North Germany, whom she visited every year. I settled down by the shore of the North Sea. There, day and night, I heard the old song of the sea and in the sharp, fresh air it accompanied my thoughts and melodies. From here I had the courage to write to Gertrude in Munich for the first time, not to Mrs. Muoth, but to my friend Gertrude whom I told about my music and my dreams. Perhaps it will give her pleasure, I thought, and a few kind words and a friendly greeting can do no harm. Against my own will I could not help but mistrust my friend Muoth, and I was always a little worried on Gertrude's account. I knew him too well, this self-willed melancholy man who was accustomed to giving way to his moods and never made sacrifices for anyone, who was carried away by powerful urges and who, in more thoughtful hours, saw his whole life as a tragedy. If it really was an illness to be lonely and misunderstood, as my good friend Mr. Lohe had declared, then Muoth suffered more from this illness than anyone else.
I had no news from him. He did not write. Even Gertrude sent me only a short note of thanks, asking me to come to Munich early in the autumn, as rehearsals for my opera would commence at the beginning of the season.
At the beginning of September, when we were all in town again and back to our everyday life, the Teisers came to my house one evening to have a look at the work I had done during the summer. The most important work was a short lyrical piece for two violins and the piano. We played it. Brigitte sat down at the piano; above my music I could see her head and her thick braided fair hair, the top of which gleamed like gold in the candlelight. Her brother stood beside me and played the first-violin part. It was simple, lyrical music which softly pined and faded away like a summer evening, neither happy nor sad, but hovering in the mood of a twilight that is ending, like a cloud aglow at sunset. The Teisers liked this short piece, particularly Brigitte. She rarely said anything about my music; she quietly maintained a kind of girlish awe toward me, regarding me with admiration, for she considered me to be a great maestro. This day she took courage and expressed her particular pleasure. She looked at me frankly with her light blue eyes and nodded so that the light glimmered on her blond braids. She was very pretty, almost beautiful.
In order to please her, I took her piano part and wrote a dedication in pencil above the music: "To my friend Brigitte Teiser," and handed it back to her.
"That will always be over this little piece now," I said gallantly and bowed. She read the dedication slowly and blushed. She held out her small strong hand to me and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
"Are you serious?" she asked quietly.
"Oh, yes," I said, and laughed. "And I think this piece of music suits you very well, Miss Brigitte."
Her gaze, which was still veiled with tears, astonished me, it was so serious and ungirlish--but I did not pay further attention to the matter. Teiser now put his violin away, and my mother, who already knew what he liked, filled the glasses with wine. The conversation became lively. We argued about a new operetta which had been produced a few weeks earlier, and I only remembered the little incident with Brigitte later in the evening, when they both departed and she again looked at me strangely.
In the meantime, rehearsals of my opera had commenced in Munich. As one of the principal parts was in Muoth's good hands and Gertrude had praised the soprano, the orchestra and the chorus became my chief concern. I left my mother in the care of my friends and traveled to Munich.
The morning after my arrival I walked along the attractive broad streets to Schwabing and to the quietly situated house where Muoth lived. I had almost completely forgotten about the opera. I only thought about him and Gertrude and how I would find them. The cab stopped at an almost rural byroad in front of a small house that stood among autumnal-looking trees. Yellow maple leaves lay on both sides of the road, swept into heaps.
With some trepidation I went in. The house gave me the impression of being comfortable and prosperous. A servant took my coat.
In the large room into which I was led I recognized two large old paintings that had been brought from the Imthors' house. On one wall there was a new portrait of Muoth that had been painted in Munich, and while I was looking at it Gertrude came in.
My heart beat quickly at seeing her again after such a long time. She had changed into a more serious, mature woman, but she smiled at me in the old friendly way and held out her hand to me.
"How are you?" she asked in a friendly manner. "You have grown older but you look well. We have expected you for a long time."
She inquired about all her friends, about her father and my mother, and as she became interested and overcame her first shyness, I regarded her in the same light as I had in the past. Suddenly my embarrassment disappeared and I talked to her as to a good friend, told her how I had spent the summer by the sea, about my work, the Teisers, and finally even about poor Miss Schniebel.
"And now," she exclaimed, "your opera is going to be performed! You will be very pleased about it."
"Yes," I said, "but I am even more pleased at the thought of hearing you sing again."
She smiled. "I shall be pleased, too. I sing quite often, but almost always for myself alone. I shall sing all your songs. I have them here and I do not let the dust settle on them. Stay for a meal with us. My husband will be coming soon and he can go along with you to see the conductor in the afternoon."
We went into the music room and she sang my songs. I became quiet and found it difficult to remain calm. Her voice had become more mature and sounded more confident, but it soared as easily as ever and transported me in my memory to the best days of my life, so that I looked at the piano keys as if bewitched, quietly played the well-known notes and, listening with closed eyes, could not for moments distinguish between the present and the past. Did she not belong to me and my life? Were we not as near to each other as brother and sister, and very close friends? To be sure, she would have sung differently with Muoth!
We sat chatting for a while, feeling happy and not having much to say to each other, for we knew that no explanations were necessary between us. How things were with her and what relations were like between her and her husband, I did not think about then. I would be able to observe that later. In any event, she had not swerved from her path and become untrue to her nature, and if she had a load to bear, she certainly bore it with dignity and without bitterness.
An hour later Heinrich, who had heard that I had arrived, came in. He immediately began to talk about the opera, which seemed more important to everyone else than it did to me. I asked him how he was and how he liked being in Munich.
"Like everywhere else," he said seriously. "The public does not like me because it feels that I do not care about it. I am hardly ever favorably received at my first entrance. I always have to hold people first and then carry them away with me. I thus succeed without being popular. Sometimes I also sing badly, I must admit that myself. Well, your opera will be a success--you can count on that--for you and for me. T
oday we shall go and see the conductor; tomorrow we shall invite the soprano to come and see us and whoever else you wish to meet. Tomorrow morning there is an orchestral rehearsal. I think you will be satisfied."
During lunch I observed that he was exceptionally polite toward Gertrude, which made me suspicious. It was like that the whole time I was in Munich, and I saw them both every day. They were an extremely handsome couple and made an impression wherever they went. Yet they were cool toward each other, and I thought that only Gertrude's strength of character and superior nature made it possible for her to mask this coolness with a polite and dignified veneer. It appeared as if she had not long before awakened from her passion for this handsome man and still hoped to recover her inward stillness. In any event, she acted in accordance with good form. She was too well bred and fine a person to play the part of the disillusioned and misunderstood woman before friends or to show her secret sorrow to anyone, even if she could not hide it from me. But she could also not have endured any look or gesture of understanding or sympathy from me. We spoke and acted all the time as if there were no cloud over her marriage.
How long this state of affairs would be maintained was uncertain and depended on Muoth, whose incalculable nature I saw kept under restraint by a woman for the first time. I was sorry for both of them but I was not very surprised to find this situation. They had both enjoyed their passion; now they had to learn resignation and preserve this happy time in their memory or they must learn to find their way to a new kind of happiness and love. Perhaps a child would bring them together again, not back to the abandoned Paradise garden of love's ardor, but to a new will to live together and to draw closer to each other. Gertrude had the strength and serenity of character for it, I knew. I did not dare to think whether Heinrich had the same capacity. However sorry I was that the fierce storm of their first passion and pleasure in each other had already passed, I was pleased at the way both of them behaved, preserving their dignity and respect not only in front of people but also in each other's company.
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