Bertha Garlan

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The sun had set. Bertha took Fritz by the hand, bade the others good
evening, and walked slowly homewards.

She lived on the first floor of a house in a new street. From her windows
she had a view of the hill, and opposite were only vacant sites.

Bertha handed Fritz over to the care of the maid, sat down by the window,
took up the paper and began to read again. She had kept the custom of
glancing through the art news first of all. This habit had been formed in
the days of her early childhood, when she and her brother, who was now an
actor, used to go to the top gallery of the Burg-Theater together. Her
interest in art naturally grew when she attended the conservatoire of
music; in those days she had been acquainted with the names of even the
minor actors, singers and pianists. Later on, when her frequent visits to
the theatres, the studies at the conservatoire and her own artistic
aspirations came to an end, there still lingered within her a kind of
sympathy, which was not free from the touch of homesickness, towards that
joyous world of art. But during the latter portion of her life in Vienna
all these things had retained scarcely any of their former significance
for her; just as little, indeed, as they had possessed since she had come
to reside in the little town, where occasional amateur concerts were the
best that was offered in the way of artistic enjoyment. One evening
during the first year of her married life, she had taken part in one of
these concerts at the "Red Apple" Hotel. She had played two marches by
Schubert as a duet with another young lady in the town. On that occasion
her agitation had been so great that she had vowed to herself never again
to appear in public, and was more than glad that she had given up her
hopes of an artistic career.

For such a career a very different temperament from hers was
necessary--for example, one like Emil Lindbach's. Yes, he was born to it!
She had recognized that by his demeanour the very moment when she had
first seen him step on to the dais at a school concert. He had smoothed
back his hair in an unaffected manner, gazed at the people below with
sardonic superiority, and had acknowledged the first applause which he
had ever received in the calm, indifferent manner of one long accustomed
to such things.

It was strange, but whenever she thought of Emil Lindbach she still saw
him in her mind's eye as youthful, even boyish, just as he had been in
the days when they had known and loved each other. Yet not so long
before, when she had spent the evening with her brother-in-law and his
wife in a restaurant, she had seen a photograph of him in an illustrated
paper, and he appeared to have changed greatly. He no longer wore his
hair long; his black moustache was curled downwards; his collar was
conspicuously tall, and his cravat twisted in accordance with the fashion
of the day. Her sister-in-law had given her opinion that he looked like a
Polish count.

Bertha took up the newspaper again and was about to read on, but by that
time it was too dark. She rose to her feet and called the maid. The lamp
was brought in and the table laid for supper. Bertha ate her meal with
Fritz, the window remaining open. That evening she felt an even greater
tenderness for her child than usual; she recalled once more to memory the
times when her husband was still alive, and all manner of reminiscences
passed rapidly through her mind. While she was putting Fritz to bed, her
glance lingered for quite a long time on her husband's portrait, which
hung over the bed in an oval frame of dark brown wood. It was a
full-length portrait; he was wearing a morning coat and a white cravat,
and was holding his tall hat in his hand. It was all in memory of their
wedding day.

Bertha knew for a certainty, at that moment, that Herr Klingemann would
have smiled sarcastically had he seen that portrait.

Later in the evening she sat down at the piano, as was a not infrequent
custom of hers before going to bed, not so much because of her enthusiasm
for music, but because she did not want to retire to rest too early. On
such occasions she played, for the most part, the few pieces which she
still knew by heart--mazurkas by Chopin, some passages from one of
Beethoven's sonatas, or the Kreisleriana. Sometimes she improvised as
well, but never pursued the theme beyond a succession of chords, which,
indeed, were always the same.

On that evening she began at once by striking those chords, somewhat more
softly than usual; then she essayed various modulations and, as she made
the last triad resound for a long time by means of the pedal--her hands
were now lying in her lap--she felt a gentle joy in the melodies which
were hovering, as it were, about her. Then Klingemann's observation
recurred to her.

"With you music must take the place of everything!"

Indeed he had not been far from the truth. Music certainly had to take
the place of much.

But everything--? Oh, no!

What was that? Footsteps over the way....

Well, there was nothing remarkable in that. But they were slow, regular
footsteps, as though somebody was passing up and down. She stood up and
went to the window. It was quite dark, and at first she could not
recognize the man who was walking outside. But she knew that it was
Klingemann. How absurd! Was he going to haunt the vicinity like a
love-sick swain?

"Good evening, Frau Bertha," he said from across the road, and she could
see in the darkness that he raised his hat.

"Good evening," she answered, almost confusedly.

"You were playing most beautifully."

Her only answer was to murmur "really?" and that perhaps did not
reach his ears.

He remained standing for a moment, then said:

"Good night, sleep soundly, Frau Bertha."

He pronounced the word "sleep" with an emphasis which was almost
insolent.

"Now he is going home to his cook!" thought Bertha to herself.

Then suddenly she called to mind something which she had known for quite
a long time, but to which she had not given a thought since it had come
to her knowledge. It was rumoured that in his room there hung a picture
which was always covered with a little curtain because its subject was of
a somewhat questionable nature.

Who was it had told her about that picture? Oh, yes, Frau Rupius had told
her when they were taking a walk along the bank of the Danube one day
last autumn, and she in her turn had heard of it from some one
else--Bertha could not remember from whom.

What an odious man! Bertha felt that somehow she was guilty of a slight
depravity in thinking of him and all these things. She continued to stand
by the window. It seemed to her as though it had been an unpleasant day.
She went over the actual events in her mind, and was astonished to find
that, after all, the day had just been like many hundreds before it and
many, many more that were yet to come.

II

They stood up from the table. It had been one of those little Sunday
dinner parties which the wine merchant Garlan was in the habit of
occasionally giving his acquaintances. The host came up to his
sister-in-law and caught her round the waist, which was one of his
customs on an afternoon.

She knew beforehand what he wanted. Whenever he had company Bertha had to
play the piano after dinner, and often duets with Richard. The music
served as a pleasant introduction to a game of cards, or, indeed, chimed
in pleasantly with the game.

She sat down at the piano. In the meantime the door of the smoking-room
was opened; Garlan, Doctor Friedrich and Herr Martin took their seats at
a small baize-covered table and began to play. The wives of the three
gentlemen remained in the drawing-room, and Frau Martin lit a cigarette,
sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs--on Sundays she always wore
dress shoes and black silk stockings. Doctor Friedrich's wife looked at
Frau Martin's feet as though fixed to the spot by enchantment. Richard
had followed the gentlemen--he already took an interest in a game of
taroc. Elly stood with her elbows leaning on the piano waiting for Bertha
to begin to play. The hostess went in and out of the room; she was
perpetually giving orders in the kitchen, and rattling the bunch of keys
which she carried in her hand. Once as she came into the room Doctor
Friedrich's wife threw her a glance which seemed to say: "Just look how
Frau Martin is sitting there!"

Bertha noticed all those things that day more clearly, as it were, than
usual, somewhat after the manner in which things are seen by a person
suffering from fever. She had not as yet struck a note. Then her
brother-in-law turned towards her and threw her a glance, which was
intended to remind her of her duty. She began to play a march by
Schubert, with a very heavy touch.

"Softer," said her brother-in-law, turning round again.

"Taroc with a musical accompaniment is a speciality of this house," said
Doctor Friedrich.

"Songs without words, so to speak," added Herr Martin.

The others laughed. Garlan turned round towards Bertha again, for she had
suddenly left off playing.

"I have a slight headache," she said, as if it were necessary to
make some excuse; immediately, however, she felt as though it were
beneath her dignity to say that, and she added: "I don't feel any
inclination to play."

Everybody looked at her, feeling that something rather out of the common
was happening.

"Won't you come and sit by us, Bertha?" said Frau Garlan.

Elly had a vague idea that she ought to show her affection for her aunt,
and hung on her arm; and the two of them stood side by side, leaning
against the piano.

"Are you going with us to the 'Red Apple' this evening?" Frau Martin
asked of her hostess.

"No, I don't think so."

"Ah," broke in Herr Garlan, "if we must forgo our concert this afternoon
we will have one in the evening instead--your lead, Doctor."

"The military concert?" asked Doctor Friedrich's wife.

Frau Garlan rose to her feet.

"Do you really mean to go to the 'Red Apple' this evening?" she asked
her husband.

"Certainly."

"Very well," she answered, somewhat flustered, and at once went off to
the kitchen again to make fresh arrangements.

"Richard," said Garlan to his son; "you might make haste and run over and
tell the manager to have a table reserved for us in the garden."

Richard hurried off, colliding in the doorway with his mother, who was
just coming into the room. She sank down on the sofa as though exhausted.

"You can't believe," she said to Doctor Friedrich's wife; "how difficult
it is to make Brigitta understand the simplest thing."

Frau Martin had gone and sat down beside her husband, at the same time
throwing a glance towards Bertha, who was still standing silently with
Elly beside the piano. Frau Martin stroked her husband's hair, laid her
hand on his knee and seemed to feel that she was under the necessity of
showing the company how happy she was.

"I'll tell you what. Aunt," said Elly suddenly to Bertha; "let's go into
the garden for a while. The fresh air will drive your headache away."

They went down the steps into the courtyard, in the centre of which a
small lawn had been laid out. At the back, it was shut off by a wall,
against which stood a few shrubs and a couple of young trees, which still
had to be propped up by stakes. Away over the wall only the blue sky was
to be seen; in boisterous weather the rush of the river which flowed
close by could be heard. Two wicker garden chairs stood with their backs
against the wall, and in front of them was a small table. Bertha and Elly
sat down, Elly still keeping her arm linked in her aunt's.

"Tell you what, Elly?"

"See, I am quite a big girl now; do tell me about him."

Bertha was somewhat alarmed, for it struck her at once that her niece's
question did not refer to her dead husband, but to some one else. And
suddenly she saw before her mind's eye the picture of Emil Lindbach,
just as she had seen it in the illustrated paper; but immediately both
the vision and her slight alarm vanished, and she felt a kind of emotion
at the shy question of the young girl who believed that she still grieved
for her dead husband, and that it would comfort her to have an
opportunity for talking about him.

"May I come down and join you, or are you telling each other secrets?"

Richard's voice came at that moment from a window overlooking the
courtyard. For the first time Bertha was struck by the resemblance he
bore to Emil Lindbach. She realized, however, that it might perhaps only
be the youthfulness of his manner and his rather long hair that put her
in mind of Emil. Richard was now nearly as old as Emil had been in the
days of her studies at the conservatoire.

"I've reserved a table," he said as he came into the courtyard. "Are you
coming with us, Aunt Bertha?"

He sat down on the back of her chair, stroked her cheeks, and said in his
fresh, yet rather affected, way:

"You will come, won't you, pretty Aunt, for my sake?"

Mechanically Bertha closed her eyes. A feeling of comfort stole over her,
as if some childish hand, as if the little fingers of her own Fritz, were
caressing her cheeks. Soon, however, she felt that some other memory as
well rose up in her mind. She could not help thinking of a walk in the
town park which she had taken one evening with Emil after her lesson at
the conservatoire. On that occasion he had sat down to rest beside her on
a seat, and had touched her cheeks with tender fingers. Was it only once
that that had happened? No--much oftener! Indeed, they had sat on that
seat ten or twenty times, and he had stroked her cheeks. How strange it
was that all these things should come back to her thoughts now!

She would certainly never have thought of those walks again had not
Richard by chance--but how long was she going to put up with his stroking
her cheek?

"Richard!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes.

She saw that he was smiling in such a way that she thought that he must
have divined what was passing through her mind. Of course, it was quite
impossible, because, as a matter of fact, scarcely anybody in the town
was aware that she was acquainted with Emil Lindbach, the great
violinist. If it came to that, was she really acquainted with him still?
It was indeed a very different person from Emil as he must now be that
she had in mind--a handsome youth whom she had loved in the days of her
early girlhood.

Thus her thoughts strayed further and further back into the past, and it
seemed altogether impossible for her to return to the present and
chatter with the two children.

She bade them good-bye and went away.

The afternoon sun lay brooding heavily upon the streets of the little
town. The shops were shut, the pavements almost deserted. A few officers
were sitting at a little table in front of the restaurant in the market
square. Bertha glanced up at the windows of the first story of the house
in which Herr and Frau Rupius lived. It was quite a long time since she
had been to see them. She clearly remembered the last occasion--it was
the day after Christmas. It was then that she had found Herr Rupius alone
and that he had told her that his affliction was incurable. She also
remembered distinctly why she had not called upon him since that day:
although she did not admit it to herself, she had a kind of fear of
entering that house which she had then left with her mind in a state of
violent agitation.

On the present occasion, however, she felt that she must go up; it seemed
as though in the course of the last few days a kind of bond had been
established between her and the paralysed man, and as though even the
glance with which he had silently greeted her on the previous day, when
she was out walking, had had some significance.

When she entered the room her eyes had, first of all, to become
accustomed to the dimness of the light; the blinds were drawn and a
sunbeam poured in only through the chink at the top, and fell in front
of the white stove. Herr Rupius was sitting in an armchair at the table
in the centre of the room. Before him lay stacks of prints, and he was
just in the act of picking up one in order to look at the one beneath it.
Bertha could see that they were engravings.

"Thank you for coming to see me once again," he said, stretching out his
hand to her. "You see what it is I am busy on just now? Well, it is a
collection of engravings after the old Dutch masters. Believe me, my dear
lady, it is a great pleasure to examine old engravings."

"Oh, it is, indeed."

"See, there are six volumes, or rather six portfolios, each containing
twenty prints. It will probably take me the whole summer to become
thoroughly acquainted with them."

Bertha stood by his side and looked at the engraving immediately before
him. It was a market scene by Teniers.

"The whole summer," she said absent-mindedly.

Rupius turned towards her.

"Yes, indeed," he said, his jaw slightly set, as though it was a matter
of vindicating his point of view; "what I call being thoroughly
acquainted with a picture. By that I mean: being able, so to speak, to
reproduce it in my mind, line for line. This one here is a Teniers--the
original is in one of the galleries at The Hague. Why don't you go to
The Hague, where so many splendid examples of the art of Teniers and so
many other styles of painting are to be seen, my dear lady?"

Bertha smiled.

"How can I think of making such a journey as that?"

"Yes, yes, of course, that's so," said Herr Rupius; "The Hague is a very
beautiful town. I was there fourteen years ago. At that time I was
twenty-eight, I am now forty-two--or, I might say, eighty-four"--he
picked up the print and laid it aside--"here we have an Ostade--'The Pipe
Smoker.' Quite so, you can see easily enough that he is smoking a pipe.
'Original in Vienna.'"

"I think I remember that picture."

"Won't you come and sit opposite to me, Frau Bertha, or here beside me,
if you would care to look at the pictures with me? Now we come to a
Falkenborg--wonderful, isn't it? In the extreme foreground, though, it
seems so void, so cramped. Yes, nothing but a peasant lad dancing with a
girl, and there's an old woman who is cross about it, and here is a house
out of the door of which someone is coming with a pail of water. Yes,
that is all--a mere nothing of course, but there in the background you
see, is the whole world, blue mountains, green towns, the clouded sky
above, and near it a tourney--ha! ha!--in a certain sense perhaps it is
out of place, but, on the other hand, in a certain sense it may be said
to be appropriate. Since everything has a background and it is therefore
perfectly right that here, directly behind the peasant's house, the world
should begin with its tourneys, and its mountains, its rivers, its
fortresses, its vineyards and its forests."

He pointed out the various parts of the picture to which he was referring
with a little ivory paper-knife.

"Do you like it?" he continued. "The original also hangs in the Gallery
in Vienna. You must have seen it."

"Oh, but it is now six years since I lived in Vienna, and for many years
before that I had not paid a visit to the museum."

"Indeed? I have often walked round the galleries there, and stood before
this picture, too. Yes, in those earlier days I _walked_."

He was almost laughing as he looked at her, and; her embarrassment was
such that she could not make any reply.

"I fear I am boring you with the pictures," Herr Rupius went on abruptly.
"Wait a little; my wife will be home soon. You know, I suppose, that she
always goes for a two hours walk after dinner now. She is afraid of
becoming too stout."

"Your wife looks as young and slender as ... well, I don't think she has
altered in the very least since I have come to live here."

Bertha felt as though Rupius' countenance had grown quite rigid. Then
suddenly he said, in a gentle tone of voice which was not by any means
in keeping with the expression of his face:

"A quiet life in a little town such as this keeps me young, of course. It
was a clever idea of mine and hers, for it occurred simultaneously to
both of us, to move here. Who can say whether, had we stayed in Vienna,
it might not have been all over already?"

Bertha could not guess what he meant by the expression "all over";
whether he was referring to his own life, to his wife's
youthfulness, or to something else. In any case, she was sorry that
she had called that day; a feeling of shame at being so strong and
well herself came over her.

"Did I tell you," continued Rupius, "that it was Anna who got these
portfolios for me? It was a chance bargain, for the work is usually very
expensive. A bookseller had advertised it and Anna telegraphed at once
to her brother to procure it for us. You know, of course, that we have
many relations in Vienna, both Anna and myself. Sometimes, too, she goes
there to visit them. Soon after they pay us a return visit. I should be
very glad indeed to see them again, especially Anna's brother and his
wife, I owe them a great deal of gratitude. When Anna is in Vienna, she
dines and sleeps at their house--but, of course, you already know all
that, Frau Bertha."

He spoke rapidly and, at the same time, in a cool, businesslike tone. It
sounded as though he had made up his mind to tell the same things to
every one who should enter the room that day. It was the first time that
he had as much as spoken to Bertha of the journeys of his wife to Vienna.

"She is going again to-morrow," he continued; "I believe the matter in
hand this time is her summer costume."

"I think that is a very clever notion of your wife," said Bertha, glad to
have found an opening for conversation.

"It is cheaper, at the same time," added Herr Rupius. "Yes, I assure you
it is cheaper even if you throw in the cost of the journey. Why don't you
follow my wife's example?"

"In that way, Herr Rupius?"

"Why, in regard to your frocks and hats! You are young and pretty, too!"

"Heavens above! On whose account should I dress smartly?"

"On whose account! On whose account is it that my wife dresses so
smartly?"

The door opened and Frau Rupius entered in a bright spring costume, a red
sunshade in her hand and a white straw hat, trimmed with red ribbon, on
her dark hair, which was dressed high. A pleasant smile was hovering
around her lips, as usual, and she greeted Bertha with a quiet
cheerfulness.

"Are you making an appearance in our house once more?" she said, handing
her sunshade and hat to the maid, who had followed her into the room.

"Are you also interested in pictures, Frau Garlan?"

She went up close behind her husband and softly passed her hand over his
forehead and hair.

"I was just telling Frau Garlan," said Rupius, "how surprised I am that
she never goes to Vienna."

"Indeed," Frau Rupius put in; "why don't you do so? Moreover, you must
certainly have some acquaintances there, too. Come with me one
day--to-morrow, for example. Yes, to-morrow."

Rupius gazed straight before him while his wife said this, as though he
did not dare to look at her.

"You are really very kind, Frau Rupius," said Bertha, feeling as though a
perfect stream of joy was coursing through her being.

She wondered, too, how it was that all this time the possibility of
making such a journey had not once entered her mind, the more so as it
could be accomplished with so little trouble. It appeared to her at
that moment that such a journey might be a remedy for the strange
sense of dissatisfaction under which she had been suffering during the
past few days.

"Well, do you agree, Frau Garlan?"

"I don't really know--I daresay I could spare the time, for I have only
one lesson to give tomorrow at my sister-in-law's, and she, of course,
won't be too exacting; but wouldn't I be putting you to some
inconvenience?"

A slight shadow flitted across Frau Rupius' brow.

"Putting me to inconvenience! Whatever are you dreaming of! I shall be
very glad to have pleasant company during the few hours of the journey
there and back. And in Vienna--oh, we shall be sure to have much to do
together in Vienna."

"Your husband," said Bertha, blushing like a girl who is speaking of her
first ball, "has told me ... has advised me ..."

"Surely, he has been raving to you about my dressmaker," said Frau
Rupius, laughing.

Rupius still sat motionless in his chair and looked at neither of them.

"Yes, I should really like to ask you about her, Frau Rupius. When
I see you I feel as if I should like to be well dressed again, just
as you are."

"That is easily arranged," said Frau Rupius. "I will take you to my
dressmaker, and by so doing I hope also to have the pleasure of your
company on my subsequent visits. I am glad for your sake as well," she
said to her husband, touching his hand which was lying on the table. Then
she turned to Bertha and added: "and for yours. You will see how much
good it will do you. Wandering about the streets without being known to a
soul has a wonderful effect on one's spirits. I do it from time to time,
and I always come back quite refreshed and--" in saying this she threw a
sidelong glance, full of anxiety and tenderness, in the direction of her
husband--"and then I am as happy here as ever it is possible to be;
happier, I believe, than any other woman in the world."

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