Gertrude

by Hermann Hesse

  At that time, Gertrude was hardly more that twenty years old, as slender and healthy as a strong young tree. She had passed untouched through the usual turbulence of adolescence, following the dictates of her own noble nature like a clearly developing melody. I felt happy to know a person like her in this imperfect world and I could not think of trying to capture her and keep her for myself. I was glad to be permitted to share her happy youth a little and to know from the beginning that I would be included among her close friends.

  During the night after that musical evening I did not fall asleep for a long time. I was not tormented by any fever or feeling of restlessness, but I lay awake and did not wish to sleep because I knew that my springtime had arrived and that after long, wistful, futile wanderings and wintry seasons, my heart was now at rest. My room was filled with the pale glimmer of night. I could see all the goals of life and art lying before me like windswept peaks. I could feel what I had often lost so completely--the harmony and inward rhythm of my life--could feel it in every fiber of my being and trace it back within me to the legendary years of my childhood. And when I wanted to express this dreamlike beauty and sublimity of feeling briefly and call it by a name, then I had to give it the name of Gertrude. That is how I fell asleep when it was already approaching morning, and the next day I awakened refreshed after a long, deep sleep.

  I then reflected on my recent feelings of despair and pride, and I realized what had been lacking. Today nothing tormented me or annoyed me. I again heard the ethereal harmony and experienced my youthful dream of the harmony of the spheres. I again walked and thought and breathed to an inward melody; life again had meaning and I looked forward to a better future. No one noticed the change in me; there was no one close enough.

  Only Teiser, with his childlike simplicity, gave me a friendly tap on the shoulder during rehearsal at the theater and said: "You slept well last night, didn't you?"

  I thought of something to please him and during the next interval I said: "Teiser, where are you going this summer?"

  Thereupon he laughed bashfully and flushed as red as an engaged girl who is asked about her wedding day and said: "Dear me, that's a long way off yet, but look, I have the tickets already." He took them out of his waistcoat pocket. "This time I start from Bodensee; then the Rhine Valley, Furstentum Liechtenstein, Chur, Albula, Upper Engadine, Maloja, Bergell and Lake Como. I don't know about the return journey yet."

  He picked up his violin and looked at me with pride and delight shining out of his blue-gray, childlike eyes, which seemed never to have seen any of the filth and sorrow in the world. I felt a sense of kinship with him and the way he looked forward to his long walking holiday, to freedom and carefree unity with sun, air and earth. In the same way I felt renewed pleasure at the thought of all the paths in my life which lay before me as if illumined by a brilliant new sun, and which I thought I could travel along steadily with bright eyes and a pure heart.

  Now, when I look back, it all seems very remote, but I am still conscious of some of the former light, even if it is not so dazzling. Even now, as in the past, it is a comfort to me in times of depression and disperses the dust from my soul when I pronounce the name Gertrude and think of how she came up to me in the music room of her father's house, as lightly as a bird and as naturally as a friend.

  That day I visited Muoth, whom I had been avoiding as much as possible since Lottie's painful confession. He had noticed it and was, I knew, too proud and too indifferent to do anything about it, so we had not been alone together for months. Now that I had renewed faith in life and was full of good intentions, it seemed very important to me to approach my neglected friend again. A new song that I had composed gave me an excuse for doing so. I decided to dedicate it to him. It was similar to the Avalanche Song, which he liked, and the words were as follows:

  The hour was late, I blew out my candle;

  By the open window I greeted the night.

  It embraced me gently, called me brother

  And promised me friendship in my sad plight.

  We were sick with the same yearning,

  Our dreams were gloomy and long,

  We whispered about the days of old

  When we were young and hope was strong.

  I made a copy of it and wrote above it: "Dedicated to my friend, Heinrich Muoth."

  Then I went to see him at a time when I knew he would be at home. I heard him singing as he walked up and down rehearsing in his stately rooms. He received me coolly.

  "Good heavens, it's Mr. Kuhn! I thought you would not come any more."

  "Well," I said, "here I am. How are you?"

  "The same as ever. Good of you to come and see me again."

  "Yes, I haven't been very loyal recently..."

  "It has been very evident and I know why."

  "I don't think so."

  "Yes, I do. Lottie once went to see you, didn't she?"

  "Yes, but I don't want to talk about it."

  "It isn't at all necessary. Anyway, here you are again."

  "I have brought something with me." I gave him the music.

  "Oh, a new song! That is good. I was afraid you might devote yourself solely to dreary string music. There's a dedication on it already. What, to me! Do you mean it?"

  I was surprised that it seemed to give him so much pleasure. I had somehow expected a joke about the dedication.

  "Of course I am pleased," he said sincerely. "I am always glad when worthwhile people think of me, and particularly you. I had really struck you off my list."

  "Have you a list?"

  "Oh yes, when one has or has had as many friends as I ... I could make quite a catalogue. I have always thought most of the highly moral ones and those are always the ones who discard me. One can find friends among rascals any day, but it is difficult to do so among idealists and ordinary people if one has a reputation. You are almost the only one at the moment. And the way things are going-- People like best what is hard for them to obtain, don't you agree? I have always wanted friends but it has always been women who have been attracted to me."

  "That is partly your own fault, Mr. Muoth."

  "Why?"

  "You like to treat all people as you do women. It does not work with friends and that is why they leave you. You are an egoist."

  "Thank goodness I am. What is more, you are too. When that dreadful Lottie poured out her tale of woe to you, you didn't help her in any way. You also didn't make the incident an excuse for converting me, for which I am grateful. The affair gave you a feeling of aversion and you kept away from me."

  "Well, here I am again. You are right, I should have tried to help Lottie, but I don't understand these things. She herself laughed at me and told me I didn't understand anything about love."

  "Well, you keep to friendship. It is also a good sphere. Now we'll study the song; sit down and play the accompaniment. Do you remember how it was with your first one? It looks as if you are gradually becoming famous."

  "Things are improving, but I will never catch up with you."

  "Nonsense, you are a composer, a creator, a little god! What is fame to you? People like me have to be pushy to get anywhere. Singers and tightrope walkers have to do the same as women, take their goods to the market while they are still in good condition. Fame up to the hilt, and money, wine and champagne! Photographs in the newspapers, and bouquets! I tell you, if I became unpopular today, or perhaps had a little inflammation of the lungs, I would be finished tomorrow, and fame and bouquets and all the rest would come to an abrupt end."

  "Oh, don't worry about that until it happens."

  "Do you know, I'm very curious about growing old. Youth is a real swindle--a swindle of the press and textbooks. 'The most wonderful time of one's life!' Old people always seem much more contented to me. Youth is the most difficult time of life. For example, suicide rarely occurs among old people."

  I began to play the piano and he turned his attention to the song. He quickly learned the melody and ga
ve me an appreciative nudge with his elbow at a place where it returned significantly from a minor to a major key.

  When I arrived home in the evening, I found, as I had feared, an envelope from Mr. Imthor containing a short, friendly note and a more than substantial fee. I sent the money back and enclosed a note saying I was quite comfortably off and preferred to be allowed to visit his house as a friend. When I saw him again, he invited me to come and visit him again soon and said: "I thought you would feel like that about it. Gertrude said I should not send you anything, but I thought I would just the same."

  From that time I was a frequent guest at Imthor's house. I played the first-violin part at many concerts there. I brought new music with me, my own and other people's, and most of my shorter works were first performed there.

  One afternoon in spring I found Gertrude at home alone. It was raining, and as I had slipped on the front step on leaving, she would not let me go immediately. We discussed music, and then it happened almost unintentionally that I began to talk to her confidentially, in particular about the grim period I had gone through, during which I had composed my first songs. Then I felt embarrassed and did not know whether I had been wise in making this confession to the girl. Gertrude said to me almost timorously: "I have something to confess which I hope you will not take amiss. I have made copies of two of your songs and learned them."

  "Do you sing?" I exclaimed with surprise. At the same time I remembered with amusement the incident of my first youthful love, and how it ended when I heard the girl sing so badly.

  Gertrude smiled and nodded: "Oh yes, I sing, although only for one or two friends and for my own pleasure. I will sing your songs if you will accompany me on the piano."

  We went to the piano and she handed me the music, which she had copied in her neat, feminine hand. I began the accompaniment softly, so that I could listen to her. She sang one song, then another, and I listened and heard my music changed and transformed. She sang in a high, pure voice, and it was the sweetest thing I had ever heard in my life. Her voice went through me like the south wind across a snow-covered valley, and every note made my heart feel lighter. Although I felt happy and almost as if floating on air, I had to control myself, for there were tears in my eyes which nearly obliterated the music.

  I thought I had known what love was, and had felt wise in my knowledge. I had looked at the world with new eyes and felt a closer kinship toward all people. Now it was different; now there was no longer light, solace and pleasure, but storm and flame. My heart now exulted, beat more quickly and did not want to know anything more about life; it just wanted to consume itself in its own flame. If anyone had now asked me what love was, I should have been able to describe it, and it would have sounded ardent and tumultuous.

  In the meantime, I could hear Gertrude's voice rising. It seemed to call me and wish to give me pleasure, and yet it soared to remote heights, inaccessible and almost alien to me. I now understood how things were with me. She could sing, be friendly, and think well of me, but all this was not what I wanted. If she could not be mine alone, completely and forever, then I lived in vain, and everything that was good and fine and genuine in me had no meaning.

  I then felt her hand on my shoulder. I was startled, turned round and looked at her. Her bright eyes were serious, and only after a short time, as I continued to gaze at her, did she smile sweetly and blush.

  I could only say thank you. She did not know what was the matter with me. She realized only that I was deeply affected and tactfully picked up the threads of our previous pleasant, easy-flowing conversation. I left shortly afterward.

  I went home and did not know whether it was still raining. I walked through the streets leaning on my stick, and yet I did not really walk and the streets seemed unreal. I traveled on stormy clouds across a changing, darkened sky. I talked to the storm and was myself the storm, and coming from above me in the remote distance I thought I heard something. It was a woman's high, sweet voice and it seemed quite immune from human thoughts and emotions, and yet at the same time it seemed to have all the wild sweetness of passion in its essence.

  That evening I sat in my room without a light. As I could not endure it any longer--it was already late--I went to Muoth's house. When I found his windows in darkness, I turned back. I walked about for a long time in the night, and finally found myself, wearily coming back to earth, outside the Imthors' garden. The old trees rustled solemnly around the concealed house from which no sound or light penetrated, and pale stars emerged here and there among the clouds.

  I waited several days before I ventured to go and see Gertrude again. During this time I received a letter from the poet whose poems I had set to music. We had communicated with each other for two years and I occasionally received interesting letters from him. I sent him my music and he sent me his poems. He now wrote:

  Dear Sir,

  I have not written to you for some time. I have been very busy. Ever since I have become familiar with your music, I have had a text in mind for you, but it would not form itself. Now I have it and it is almost ready. It is a libretto for an opera, and you must compose the music for it. I gather you are not a particularly happy person; that is revealed in your music. I will not speak about myself, but this text is just for you. As there is nothing else to make us rejoice, let us present something good to the public, something which will make it clear, even to those who are thick-skinned, that life is not lived on the surface alone. As we do not really know ourselves where to begin, it worries us to be aware of the wasted powers of others.

  HANS H.

  It fell like a spark in gunpowder. I wrote for the libretto and was so impatient that I tore up my letter and sent a telegram. The manuscript arrived a week later. It was a passionate love story written in verse. There were still gaps in it, but it was sufficient for me for the time being. I read it and went about with the verses going through my head. I sang them and tried music to them on the violin day and night. Shortly afterwards I went to see Gertrude.

  "You must help me," I cried. "I am composing an opera. Here are three arias suitable for your voice. Will you have a look at them and sing them for me sometime?"

  She seemed very pleased, asked me to tell her about it, glanced at the music and promised to learn the arias soon. Then followed a wonderful, fruitful period; intoxicated with love and music, I was incapable of thinking of anything else, and Gertrude was the only one who knew my secret about the opera. I took the music to her and she learned it and sang it. I consulted her about it, played everything to her, and she shared my enthusiasm, studied and sang, advised and helped me, and enjoyed the secret and the growing work that belonged to us both. There was no point or suggestion which she did not immediately understand and assimilate. Later she began to help me with copying and rewriting music in her neat hand. I had taken sick leave from the theater.

  No feeling of embarrassment arose between Gertrude and me. We were swept along by the same current and worked for the same end. It was for her, as it was for me, the blossoming of maturing powers, a period of happiness and magic in which my passions worked unseen. She did not distinguish between me and my work. She found pleasure in us both and belonged to us both. For me too love and work, music and life, were no longer separable. Sometimes I looked at the lovely girl with astonishment and admiration, and she would return my glance, and whenever I came or departed, she pressed my hand more warmly and firmly than I ventured to press hers. And whenever I walked through the garden and entered the old house during those mild spring days, I did not know whether it was my work or my love which impelled and exalted me.

  Times like those do not last long. This one was approaching the end, and the flame within me steadily flared up into many confused desires. I sat at her piano and she sang the last act of my opera, the soprano part of which was completed. She sang beautifully, and while her voice soared, I reflected upon the glorious days that I felt were already changing, and knew that inevitably different and more clouded days
were on the way. Then she smiled at me and leaned toward me in connection with the music. She noticed the sad expression on my face and looked at me questioningly. I did not say anything. I stood up, held her face gently in both hands, kissed her on the forehead and on the mouth and then sat down again. She permitted all this quietly and almost solemnly, without surprise or annoyance, and when she saw tears in my eyes, she gently stroked my hair, forehead and shoulder with her soft, smooth hand.

  Then I began to play the piano and she sang again, and the kiss and that wonderful hour remained unmentioned, though unforgotten, as our final secret.

  The other secret could not remain between us much longer; the opera now required other people and assistants. The first one must be Muoth, as I had thought of him for the principal character, whose impetuosity and violent emotions could well be interpreted with Muoth's voice and personality. I delayed doing anything for a short time. My work was still a bond between Gertrude and me. It belonged to us both and brought us both pleasures and cares. It was like a garden unknown to anyone else, or a ship on which we two alone crossed a great ocean.

  She asked me about it herself when she felt and saw that she could not help me further.

  "Who will sing the principal part?" she asked.

  "Heinrich Muoth."

  She seemed surprised. "Oh," she said, "are you serious? I don't like him."

  "He is a friend of mine, Miss Gertrude, and he would be suitable for the part."

  "Oh!"

  A stranger had already come between us.

  Chapter Five

  MEANWHILE, I HAD NOT thought about Muoth's holidays and love of traveling. He was very pleased about my plans for an opera and promised to help me as much as possible, but he was occupied with traveling plans and could only promise to go through his part for the autumn. I copied it out for him as far as it was ready. He took it with him and as usual I did not hear anything from him all those months.

  So we had a respite. A very pleasant relationship now existed between Gertrude and me. I believe that, since that time at the piano, she knew quite well what was going on inside me, but she never said a word and was not different with me in any way. She did not like only my music, she liked me too, and felt as I did, that there was a natural bond between us and a feeling of mutual understanding and affection. Her behavior toward me was therefore kind and friendly, but without passion. At times that was sufficient for me and I spent quiet, contented days in her company, but passion always soon arose as the additional factor between us, and her friendliness then seemed only like charity to me and it tormented me to see that the waves of love and desire that overpowered me were alien and disagreeable to her. Often I deceived myself and tried to persuade myself that she had a placid, unemotional temperament. Yet in my heart I felt it was not true, and I knew Gertrude well enough to know that love would also bring her hazards and a tumult of emotions. I often thought about it later and felt that if I had taken her by storm, fought for her, and drawn her to me with all my strength, she would have followed me and gone with me for good. But I mistrusted her pleasant manner toward me, and when she was gentle and showed affection for me, I attributed it to the usual undesired sympathy. I could not rid myself of the thought that if she had liked a healthy, attractive man as much as she liked me, she could not have maintained the relationship on this quiet, friendly basis for so long. It was then not rare for me to spend hours feeling that I would have exchanged my music and all that was of value to me for a straight leg and a gay disposition.