Heart to Heart
I had witnessed my father, as he finished a bottle of the finest, and his eyes locked onto mine. Accustomed to this routine of ours, I turned instinctively toward the cabinet to fetch him another.
Yet, against the pattern established by years of my work and instinct, he summoned me back. I hesitated then, standing in that half dimmed hallway. I was puzzled by his change in behavior backed with years of precedent. Why had he stopped me now? Was it to dispose of the empty bottle? He did order so on occasion, but the occurrences were few and far between.
He was my father, so I followed his command, so I turned back and retraced my steps. Yet my confusion only deepened when he gestured for me to sit beside him on the couch. I complied without hesitation, though my eyes did not fail to note the telltale signs of inebriation etched hard upon his face.
For a time he said nothing, setting the empty bottle deliberately upon the table and fixing his gaze on the wall ahead. The room descended into an oppressive silence, like an unspoken challenge, a peculiar game of will between us. As the moments stretched on, the silence grew heavier, its weight pressing upon us both, creating a tension that seemed to effect the very air itself.
At last, weary of the contest of wills, and ready to withdraw myself from the situation against my better judgment, he finally broke that sound of silence.
"I love you, son," he began, his voice somewhat wavering. "Life is brief, and it is harsh."
I was struck physically by his words. Why? He seldom spoke of love, least of all to me. Why now, and in this moment of all times? Why bring up a random reflection on the difficulty of life. Before I could begin to voice my questions, he resumed, picking up the empty bottle only to set it down again, a sign of a nonverbal tick perhaps. A demonstration of his restfulness.
"You may read of life's hardships," he said, his tone carrying resignation, "but there is a vast gulf between the lessons learned from your books, and the brutal realities of the world."
"I do not wish for you to carry a burden of regret, as I have done," he admitted, his face clearly giving away his sorrow.
"When you look upon my life," he continued, "you may see a failure---perhaps it was my destiny, perhaps you may think that of me now."
"I do not care what you think of me," He declared with a tone of finality.
After a prolonged silence, during which his thoughts seemed to weigh, he spoke once more.
"Your opinion of me is meaningless, son. What truly matters is you."
"You stand at the beginning of your life, while I am going to die someday."
"I was shown many options for adventure, yet I squandered them all."
"I might have cast aside this vice, but I was---am, too dependent, too feeble of will."
"I should have shown greater kindness in raising you and your brother, I failed. I failed my family, and most of all, I failed you,"
For a time, he stared at the empty bottle, his hand moving it in an unconscious, repetitive motion before he resumed speaking.
"But my failures are of no consequence. What matters is your future."
"I know Gustav has his life charted out almost to an uncanny precision, but you?" he paused.
"I do not know, Adolf. I just worry for you."
"I cannot say what I hoped to achieve with this one-sided talk, but if nothing else, I beg you to live your life in such a way, that when age claims you, you won't bare regrets like me, be weighed down upon them.
"Live your life to the fullest, to take, and accomplish what you want."
"Get rich, become renown, found a company, build a family, become an explorer or a statesman---I don't care. So long as you do something meaningful to yourself."
"In the end, as you reflect upon your life, I wish for you to be able to say, with full and final conviction, that you truly gave your absolute best."
"That you can face death with the solace of knowing you gave your all."
There was the silence once more, again it grew tedious. As I prepared to rise and leave, he called me for one final request.
"Promise me, Adolf, that you will live your life to its fullest. No matter the issues you face, how hard life gets, you will continue to give your best."
There was nothing I could give him besides the assurance he sought. "Yes, dad, I promise," I said, clearly. And with that, the matter was settled.
I have always strived to uphold my promises of the verbal kind, for my word is my life. I would not fail this one.
Stuck
It was in the year 1902, shortly after I had entered my thirteenth year, that my father announced he must travel to Vienna for a work meeting. This time, he declared that we should accompany him, ostensibly to experience the grandeur of the city but, in truth, to explore potential career paths---though this unspoken expectation was directed solely upon me. Father did not trouble Gustav with such concerns as he did myself.
I understood the reason, of course, yet it pained me nonetheless that Gustav was afforded a faith I was denied. My father envisioned me as a customs officer, or something directly adjacent, much like himself, even going so far as to offer me a glimpse into his workplace and the world of his employer. But I harbored an irrational yet unshakable disdain for such a fate. His intent was clear: to guide me towards a life of safety and security. Gustav had gambled greatly against his own life and emerged victorious. What, then, were the odds of a second son replicating such grand success?
For my father, it must have been an abiding fear---perhaps his greatest---to witness his second son descend into the poverty from which he himself had endured in his youth. To toil ceaselessly merely to survive, to battle against one's permanent station in life, all of it spoke to a grim reality he sought to shield me from. Irrational though such fears may have been, they were genuine, and I could not dispel them. I bore him no such resentment for this; indeed, a part of me even understood, or agreed. Yet I believed with unwavering conviction that destiny had ordained me for something far greater, Thus, I resolved myself to triumph against all odds bared against me. To Win.
I yearned to pursue my passion for art, to prove to myself, father and mother that, like Gustav, I could forge my path through sheer determination. Beyond this personal ambition, the thought of a life bound by petty regulations, as a servant of bureaucratic decrees, filled me with profound aversion.
When father departed for his meeting, we remained at the hotel the three of us. Following a few exchanged offers of assistance and dismissive replies of "I've got it," Gustav and I resolved to explore the local sights. The nearest attraction was an art gallery---one of the largest in Vienna. Upon arriving, I noted that the significant entry fee, and without hesitation, Gustav offered to cover the cost, fully aware that I lacked the means to pay for such a thing.
I was momentarily taken aback but grateful nonetheless, as I had no means to cover the expense myself. Gustav, thankfully, left me unburdened by personal debt. From the faint smirk that was given, I could tell he understood the sheer depth of my aversion to such petty obligations, a sentiment that was likely written plainly across my face.
Upon entering, we paused at the main desk to retrieve a paper pamphlet detailing the exhibitions on display that month---a sheer necessity for galleries of such magnitude, where such works were rotated monthly or biweekly. As we strolled through the entrance hall, perusing the pamphlets separately, I became acutely aware that the steady rhythm of Gustav's dress shoes had been suddenly ceased.
I turned to see him standing motionless in the main hallway, his hands carrying a visible tremble. The pamphlet he had been holding lay discarded at his feet, a stark testament to his uncharacteristic agitation.
Never before had I seen Gustav in such a disconcerting state. He was always the embodiment of composure and calm in the family. To my younger self, this was an incomprehensible sight. The only slightly comparable moment was when I had fallen from a tree and broken my arm, though even then, he had quickly regained his steadiness and assisted me without hesitation.
I felt an urgent need to uncover the source of his distress. Had he noticed something I had overlooked? Had he been pickpocketed? Were we being followed? Careful to avoid causing a scene near the desk---having even a small sense of propriety in my youth---I pulled him aside to the entrance doors and pressed him for an explanation.
"Do you believe in destiny? Be truthful with me," Gustav asked, his tone abnormally grave.
"No," I replied hastily, though an uncertain "Maybe" soon followed. Bewildered, I pressed him further: "Why? What's gotten into you? You're never... like this." Making sure to give some motion with my hands to emphasize the fact.
He appeared momentarily caught by some internal conflict, his forced his trembling hands to still before he finally responded: "It's nothing. I just had a bad feeling." Taking a moment to compose himself, he added, "I'm sorry---let's just head back." I sought to meet his gaze, attempting to discern a falsehood, but before I could try, his eyes darted away. Gustav's evasive glances were a telltale sign of his dishonesty, as he knew I could tell if he met my gaze.
It became clear he had resolved himself to not elaborate further, his expression settling into one of deliberate neutrality. With no other choice, I followed as he briskly made his way back into the gallery. As we moved along the myriad of works on display, I noticed another shift in his demeanor---his pace slowed considerably, though the tremors had ceased.
I chose to disregard this shift in his behavior as we continued through row after row of artworks, his silence unyielding. Adapting to his uncharacteristically sluggish pace, I tried to focus on the displays. And then I saw it. Towering above the rest, it was to me, one of the greatest painting in the gallery. Its golden trim framed a commanding scene: a lone figure astride a horse, a red cape billowing around him as he brandished a sword held aloft. Following in his wake were the wretched, the damned. The dim natural light in the room compelled me to draw closer, eager to truly see.
As I inched closer, my changing perspective made the central figure's features become more discernible---a gaunt man with his hair swept neatly to the side. Straining to make out the finer details, I leaned in closer and marveled at the meticulous craftsmanship. Each wrinkle on his cheeks were rendered with precision, his nose curved downward in a bent arc, beneath which sat a sharply defined mustache, of the clipped sort. His canine companion, crafted with equal care, exuded an eerie presence, its hollowed eyes seeming to pierce directly through the viewer.
"It's magnificent," I murmured to myself. "Could it be... another Stuck?"
I quickly found my answer upon reading the inscription engraved on the bronze plaque beneath the painting. Indeed, it was another masterpiece by Stuck. His works were unparalleled in their ability to captivate, embodying either the grim or the hollowed with an artistry that defied description in the written word.
Stuck, is what my mother would proclaim, was "a creator of True Art." Gazing upon the man depicted in the painting, I felt an unnerving sensation---as though his eyes were fixed upon me, silently judging, weighing my worth. Though I knew the image was lifeless, I could not shake the eerie conviction that the figure's gaze shifted, following me as I circled around to admire from every angle.
In that moment, I resolved with an unshakeable certainty that I too would one day create a work akin to Stuck's---one that would move its audience with a gift of deep emotion. One that would stir their very souls.
Even then, I understood that a painting could possess the power to alter the world of those who beheld it. Yet, I had not anticipated encountering a work that would move me as deeply as this one. It stood to me, apart from Stuck's other masterpieces, igniting within me a profound spirit and an unwavering drive as I stood in awe before it.
It was a sensation I would not experience again for another year. After a few more moments of basking in its splendor, I turned to view the next painting---only to realize Gustav was no longer beside me. He had disappeared without a word. Since he had already covered my entrance fee, I decided to continue exploring the gallery alone, assuming he had left to attend to whatever had unsettled him earlier.
When I had finished marveling at the displays of art, I made my way back to the hotel. There I found Gustav assisting our mother with preparations for the evening. Smiling, I joined in, cherishing the rare moment of togetherness. It was, without question, one of the most fascinating and delightful trips we had ever taken as a family, father included. Yet, tragically, it would also be the last.