About that time Teiser drew closer to me again. He was indispensable for my work, and so he was the next one to learn my secret and become familiar with the libretto and my plans for an opera. He was very discreet about it all and took the work home to study. When he came again, his childlike face with its fair beard beamed with pleasure and excitement about the music.
"That opera of yours is going to be something!" he exclaimed with excitement. "I can already feel the overture in my fingertips. Now, let's go and have a drink, you rascal. If it were not too presumptuous, I would suggest that we drink a pledge of brotherhood--but I don't want to force it on you."
I willingly accepted the invitation and we had a pleasant evening together. For the first time Teiser took me home with him. His sister, who had been left alone at her mother's death, had recently come to live with him. Teiser could not speak highly enough of the comfort of his changed household after his long bachelor years. His sister was a quiet, pleasant girl, with the same bright, childlike eyes as her brother. She was called Brigitte. She brought us cakes and clear Austrian wine, also a box of long Virginia cigars. We drank the first glass of wine to her health and the second to our good friendship, and while we ate cakes, drank wine and smoked, Teiser moved delightedly about the room. First he sat down by the piano, then on the settee with a guitar, then at the end of the table with his violin, and played anything pleasant that was going through his head. He sang too and his bright eyes sparkled and it was all a tribute to me and to the opera. It seemed that his sister had the same blood in her veins and swore no less by Mozart than he did. Arias from The Magic Flute and excerpts from Don Giovanni, interrupted now and then by conversation and the clinking of glasses, echoed through the little house, beautifully accompanied by her brother on the violin, piano or guitar, or even just by whistling.
I was still engaged as a violinist in the orchestra for the short summer season, but had asked for my release in the autumn, as I wished to devote all my time and energy to my work. The conductor, who was annoyed because I was leaving, was very rude to me toward the end, but Teiser helped me greatly to defend myself and to rise above it.
With the help of this loyal friend, I worked at the orchestration of my opera. While respecting my ideas, he rigorously put his finger on all the technical errors. Often he became quite annoyed and rebuked me like an outspoken conductor, until the doubtful part which I had liked and wished to retain was crossed out and altered. He was always ready with examples whenever I was in doubt. When I presented something unsatisfactorily or was not venturesome enough, he came running to me with scores and showed me how Mozart or Lortzing would have handled it, and proved to me that my hesitation was cowardice, or my obstinacy audacious stupidity. We bellowed at each other, disputed and grew excited, and if it occurred in Teiser's house, Brigitte listened to us attentively, came to and fro with wine and cigars, and smoothed out many crumpled sheets of music carefully and sympathetically. Her admiration for me was equal to her affection for her brother; to her I was a maestro. Every Sunday I was invited to lunch at the Teisers'. After the meal, even if there was only a tiny blue patch in the sky, we took the tram to the outskirts of town. Then we walked over the hills and through the woods, talked and sang, and the Teisers frequently yodeled in their native fashion.
We once stopped for a light meal in the garden of a village inn, where the merry music of a country dance drifted across to us through the wide-open windows. When we had eaten and sat resting over our cider, Brigitte slipped across to the house and went inside. We watched her do this and soon after we saw her dance past the window, as fresh and sparkling as a summer morning. When she returned, Teiser shook his finger at her and said she should have asked him to go along too. She then blushed and became embarrassed, shook her head protestingly and looked at me.
"What's the matter?" asked her brother.
"Nothing," she said, but by chance I saw how she made him realize the significance of her glance, and Teiser said: "Oh, of course!"
I did not say anything, but it seemed strange to me to see her embarrassed because she had danced while I was there. For the first time it occurred to me that their walks also would have been quicker and longer if I had not been there to restrict them, and after that I only joined them occasionally on their Sunday excursions.
When he had gone through the soprano part as far as possible, Gertrude noticed that I was reluctant to give up my frequent visits to her and our pleasant times together at the piano, and that yet I was too shy to make excuses for their continuation. Then she surprised me with the suggestion that I should visit her regularly to accompany her singing, and I now went to her house two or three times a week in the afternoons. Her father was pleased at her friendship with me. Gertrude had lost her mother when she was still young; she was mistress of the house and her father let her have her own way in everything.
The garden was in its full splendor. It abounded with flowers, and birds sang around the quiet house. When I entered the garden from the road and went past the old, darkened statues in the drive toward the house, which was surrounded by greenery, it was for me each time like entering a sanctuary, where the voices and things of the world could only penetrate to a slight degree. The bees hummed among the flowering bushes in front of the windows, sunshine and the soft shadows of the foliage dappled the room, and I sat at the piano and heard Gertrude sing. I listened to her voice, which rose easily and without effort, and when after a song we looked at each other and smiled, it was in a united and confiding way as if between brother and sister. I often felt at these times that I had only to stretch out my hands to grasp my happiness and have it for good, and yet I did not do so, because I wanted to wait until she also showed some sign of desire and longing. But Gertrude seemed to be contented and not to wish for anything else. Indeed, it often seemed to me that she did not wish to shatter this peaceful relationship and disturb the springtime of our friendship.
If I was disappointed about this, it was a consolation to me to know how deeply she cared for my music, how well she understood and was proud of it.
This state of affairs lasted until June. Then Gertrude and her father went off into the mountains. I remained behind, and whenever I went past her house, I saw it standing empty behind the plane trees, with the gate locked. The pain returned, grew and followed me into the night.
In the evenings I went to the Teisers, almost always with music in my case, and shared their quiet, contented way of life. I drank their Austrian wine and played Mozart with them. Afterwards I walked back in the mild night, saw couples walking about in the parks, went home wearily to bed but could not sleep. It was now inconceivable to me that I could have behaved in such a brotherly fashion toward Gertrude and that I had never broken down the barrier, drawn her to me, taken her by storm and won her. I could imagine her in her light-blue or gray dress, merry or serious; I could hear her voice, and could not conceive ever having heard it without being filled with passion and a desire to make love to her. Restless and agitated, I rose, switched on the light and threw myself into my work. I made human voices and instruments woo, plead and threaten. I repeated the song of yearning in new, feverish melodies. Often this comfort also was lacking to me, and afterwards, when I lay in bed, ardent and restless, in a state of wretched sleeplessness, I uttered her name, "Gertrude, Gertrude," wildly and senselessly, thrust comfort and hope aside and surrendered myself despairingly to the dreadful prostration of desire. I cried out to God and asked him why he had made me this way, why he had made me a cripple, and why instead of the happiness that was the lot of the poorest of mortals, he had given me nothing but the terrible solace of living in a whirl of sounds where, in the face of my desires, I continually depicted the unattainable in strange fantasies.
During the day I was more successful in controlling my emotions. I clenched my teeth, sat at my work from the early hours of the morning, calmed myself by taking long walks and refreshed myself with cold shower baths. In the evenings I fled from th
e shadows of the approaching night to the cheerful company of the Teisers, with whom I obtained a few hours of rest and sometimes pleasure. Teiser noticed that I was ill and suffering and put it down to all the work. He advised me to rest awhile, although he himself was full of enthusiasm and inwardly was as excited and impatient as I was to see the opera growing. Sometimes I also called for him and spent an evening with him alone in the cool garden of some inn, but even then I was disturbed by the sight of young lovers, Chinese lanterns and fireworks, and the fragrance of desire in the air which always hovers over towns on summer evenings.
It was worst of all when Teiser also went away to spend his holidays with Brigitte walking among the mountains. He invited me to come along too, and he meant it seriously, although my inability to move about easily would have spoiled his pleasure; but I could not accept his invitation.
For two weeks I remained in town alone, miserable and unable to sleep, and I did not make any further progress with my work.
Then Gertrude sent me a small box full of Alpine roses from a village in Wallis. When I saw her handwriting and unpacked the brownish, fading flowers, it was like a glance from her dear eyes and I felt ashamed of my agitation and lack of confidence. I decided it was better for her to know how I felt, and the next morning I wrote her a short letter. I told her half jokingly that I could not sleep and that it was through longing for her, and that I could no longer just be friendly with her, as I was in love with her. While writing, I was again overcome by my emotions, and the letter, which had started mildly and almost jestingly, ended impetuously and ardently.
Almost every day the post brought me greetings and picture postcards from the Teisers, who naturally could not know that their cards and letters brought me disappointment each time, for I was waiting to hear from someone else.
It came at last, a gray envelope with Gertrude's clear, flowing handwriting on it, and inside was a letter.
My dear friend,
Your letter has embarrassed me. I realize that you are suffering, otherwise I would scold you for attacking me in this way. You know I am very fond of you, but I am quite contented with my present state and have as yet no desire to change it. If I thought there was any danger of losing you, I would do everything possible to prevent it. But I can give no reply to your ardent letter. Be patient, let things remain between us as they were until we can see each other again and talk things over. Everything will then be easier.
Yours affectionately,
GERTRUDE
It had altered the position very little and yet the letter made me happier. After all, it was a greeting from her; she had permitted me to make a declaration of love and had not snubbed me. The letter also seemed to bring some of her personality with it, some of her almost cool sweetness, and instead of the image of her which my longing had created, she was again in my thoughts as her real self. Her words seemed to ask for confidence from me. I felt as if she were near me and immediately I was aware of both shame and pride. It helped me to conquer my tormenting longings and to suppress my burning desires. Uncomforted, but strengthened and more in command of myself, I held my head high. I obtained accommodation in a village inn, two hours' traveling distance from the town, and took my work with me. I sat meditating a great deal in a cool, already faded lilac bower, and thought quite often about my life. How strange and lonely was my path and how uncertain my destination! Nowhere did I have any roots and a place I could really call home. I kept up only a superficial relationship with my parents by means of polite letters. I had even given up my occupation in order to indulge in creating hazardous fantasies, which did not completely satisfy me. My friends did not really understand me. Gertrude was the only person with whom I could have had complete understanding and a perfect relationship. And was I not just chasing shadows and building castles in the air with the work for which I lived and which should have given meaning to my life? Could it really have a meaning and justify and fill a person's life, this building up of sound patterns and the exciting play with images, which at the best would help other people to pass a pleasant hour?
Nevertheless, I worked fairly hard again during that summer. I completed the opera inwardly, even though there was still much detail lacking and only a small part of the work had been written out. Sometimes it gave me great pleasure and I thought with pride how my work would have power over people, how singers and musicians, conductors and choruses would have to act in accordance with my wishes, and how the opera would have an effect on thousands of people. At other times it seemed even ominous and nightmarish to me that all this power and emotion should arise from the restless dreams and imagination of a poor lonely man whom everyone pitied. At other times I lost courage and felt that my opera would never be performed, that it was all unreal and exaggerated. But this feeling was rare; in my heart I was convinced of the quality and strength of my work. It was sincere and ardent; it had been experienced and had blood in its veins. If I do not want to hear it any more nowadays and write quite a different kind of music, nevertheless all my youth is in that opera. Whenever I hear melodies from it, it is as if a mild spring storm drifts across to me from the abandoned valleys of youth and passion. And when I think that all its strength and power over people was born of weakness, privation and longing, I no longer know whether my whole life at that time, and also at present, can be called happy or sad.
Summer was approaching its end. One dark night, during a heavy, tempestuous downpour of rain, I finished writing the overture. The following morning, the rain was slight and cool, the sky an even gray, and the garden had become autumnal. I packed my possessions and went back to town.
Among my acquaintances, Teiser and his sister were the only ones who had already returned. They both looked very well and tanned by the mountain sun. They had had a surprising number of experiences on their tour and yet they were very interested and excited to know how my opera was progressing. We went through the overture and it was quite a moment for me when Teiser put his hand on my shoulder and said. "Look, Brigitte, here is a great musician!"
Despite all my yearning and ardor, I awaited Gertrude's return with great eagerness, as I had a large amount of work to show her. I knew that she would take a keen interest in it, and understand and enjoy it all as if it were her own. Above all, I was anxious to see Heinrich Muoth, whose help was essential to me and from whom I had not heard for months.
Finally Muoth arrived before Gertrude did and walked into my room one morning. He looked at me searchingly.
"You look terrible," he said, shaking his head. "Well, when one composes music like that!"
"Have you looked at your part?"
"Looked at it? I know it by heart and will sing it as soon as you wish. It's extraordinary music!"
"Do you really think so?"
"I do. You have been doing your finest work. Just wait! Your moderate fame will be a thing of the past when your opera is performed. Well, that's your affair. When do you want me to sing? There are one or two points that I want to mention. How far are you with the whole opera?"
I showed him my work and he then took me to his rooms. There, for the first time, I heard him sing the part for which I had always had him in mind during the play of my own emotions, and I felt the power of my music and his singing. Only now could I visualize the whole opera on the stage, only now could my own flame reach me and let me feel its warmth. It was as if the opera did not belong to me, as if it had never been my work but had its own life and the effect of an external power over me. For the first time I felt this sense of detachment of a work from its creator, in which I had not previously really believed. My work began to stand up, move and show signs of life. A moment ago I had still held it in my hand; now it was no longer mine; it was like a child that had grown taller than its father; it lived and acted of its own accord and looked at me independently through its own eyes; yet it bore my name and my imprint. I experienced the same conflicting, sometimes frightening, sensation when my works were performed later on.
"She must have a good voice," he said approvingly, "high and sweet. Will you take me there sometime?"
"I intended in any case to ask them if you could come. I should like to hear you sing with Miss Imthor once or twice; some corrections will be necessary. As soon as the Imthors are back in town, I will ask them."
Gertrude Page 9
