Bertha Garlan
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Arthur Schnitzler >> Bertha Garlan
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She drew near her husband and kissed him on the temple. Bertha heard her
say in a soft voice, as she did so:
"Dearest!"
Rupius, however, continued to stare before him as though he shrank from
meeting his wife's glance.
Both were silent and seemed to be absorbed in themselves, as though
Bertha was not in the room. Bertha comprehended vaguely that there was
some mysterious factor in the relations of these two people, but what
that factor was she was not clever, or not experienced, or not good
enough to understand. For a whole minute the silence continued, and
Bertha was so embarrassed that she would gladly have gone away had it
not been necessary to arrange with Frau Rupius the details of the
morrow's journey.
Anna was the first to speak.
"So then it is agreed that we are to meet at the railway station in time
for the morning train--isn't it? And I will arrange matters so that we
return home by the seven o'clock train in the evening. In eight hours,
you see, it is possible to get through a good deal."
"Certainly," said Bertha; "provided, of course, that you are not
inconveniencing yourself on my account in the slightest degree."
Anna interrupted her, almost angrily.
"I have already told you how glad I am that you will be travelling
with me, the more so as there is not a woman in the town so congenial
to me as you."
"Yes," said Herr Rupius, "I can corroborate that. You know, of course,
that my wife is on visiting terms with hardly anybody here--and as it has
been such a long time since you came to see us I was beginning to fear
that she was going to lose you as well."
"However could you have thought such a thing? My dear Herr Rupius! And
you, Frau Rupius, surely you haven't believed--"
At that moment Bertha felt an overwhelming love for both of them. Her
emotion was such that she detected her voice to be assuming an almost
tearful tone.
Frau Rupius smiled, a strange, deliberate smile.
"I haven't believed anything. As a matter of fact there are some things
over which I do not generally ponder for long. I have no great need of
friends, but you, Frau Bertha, I really and truly love."
She stretched out her hand to her. Bertha cast a glance at Rupius. It
seemed to her that an expression of contentment should now be observable
on his features. To her amazement, however, she saw that he was gazing
into the corner of the room with an almost terrified look in his eyes.
The parlourmaid came in with some coffee. Further particulars as to their
plans for the morrow were discussed, and finally they drew up a tolerably
exact time-table which, to Frau Rupius' slight amusement, Bertha entered
in a little notebook.
When Bertha reached the street again, the sky had become overcast, and
the increasing sultriness foretold the approach of a thunderstorm. The
first large drops were falling before she reached home, and she was
somewhat alarmed when, on going upstairs, she failed to find the servant
and little Fritz. As she went up to the window, however, in order to shut
it, she saw the two come running along. The first thunderclap crashed
out, and she started back in terror. Then immediately came a brilliant
flash of lightning.
The storm was brief, but unusually violent. Bertha went and sat on her
bed, held Fritz on her lap, and told him a story, so that he should not
be frightened. But, at the same time, she felt as though there was a
certain connexion between her experiences of the past two days and the
thunderstorm.
In half an hour all was over. Bertha opened the window; the air was now
fresh, the darkening sky was clear and distant. Bertha drew a deep
breath, and a feeling of peace and hope seemed to permeate her being.
It was time to get ready for the concert in the gardens. On her
arrival she found her friends already gathered at a large table
beneath a tree. It was Bertha's intention to tell her sister-in-law at
once about her proposed visit to Vienna on the morrow, but a sense of
shyness, as though there was something underhand in the journey,
caused her to refrain.
Herr Klingemann went by with his housekeeper towards their table. The
housekeeper was getting on towards middle-age; she was a very voluptuous
looking woman, taller than Klingemann, and, when she walked, always
appeared to be asleep. Klingemann bowed towards them with exaggerated
politeness. The gentlemen scarcely acknowledged the salutation, and the
ladies pretended not to have noticed it. Only Bertha nodded slightly and
gazed after the couple.
"That is his sweetheart--yes, I know it for a positive fact," whispered
Richard, who was sitting near his aunt.
Herr Garlan's party ate, drank and applauded. At times various
acquaintances came over from other tables, sat down with them for awhile,
and then went away again to their places. The music murmured around
Bertha without making any impression on her. Her mind was continuously
occupied with the question as to how to inform them of her project.
Suddenly, while the music was playing very loudly, she said to Richard:
"I say, I won't be able to give you a music lesson to-morrow. I am going
to Vienna."
"To Vienna!" exclaimed Richard; then he called across to his mother; "I
say, Aunt Bertha is going to Vienna to-morrow!"
"Who's going to Vienna?" asked Garlan, who was sitting furthest away.
"I am," answered Bertha.
"What's this! What's this!" said Garlan, playfully threatening her with
his finger.
So, then, it was accomplished. Bertha was glad. Richard made jokes
about the people who were sitting in the garden, also about the fat
bandmaster who was always skipping about while he was conducting, and
then about the trumpet-player whose cheeks bulged out and who seemed to
be shedding tears when he blew into his instrument. Bertha could not
help laughing very heartily. Jests were bandied about her high spirits
and Doctor Friedrich remarked that she must surely be going to some
rendezvous at Vienna.
"I should like to put a stop to that, though!" exclaimed Richard, so
angrily that the hilarity became general.
Only Elly remained serious, and gazed at her aunt in downright
astonishment.
III
Bertha looked out through the open carriage window upon the landscape:
Frau Rupius read a book, which she had taken out of her little
traveling-bag very soon after the train had started. It almost appeared
as though she wished to avoid any lengthy conversation with Bertha, and
the latter felt somewhat hurt. For a long time past she had been
cherishing a wish to be a friend of Frau Rupius, but since the previous
day this desire of hers had become almost a yearning, which recalled to
her mind the whole-hearted devotion of the friendships of the days of her
childhood.
At first, therefore, she had felt quite unhappy, and had a sensation of
having been abandoned, but soon the changing panorama to be seen through
the window began to distract her thoughts in an agreeable manner. As she
looked at the rails which seemed to run to meet her, at the hedges and
telegraph poles which glided and leaped past her, she recalled to mind
the few short journeys to the Salzkammergut, where she had been taken,
when a child, by her parents, and the indescribable pleasure of having
been allowed to occupy a corner seat on those occasions. Then she looked
into the distance and exulted in the gleaming of the river, in the
pleasant windings of the hills and meadows, in the azure of the sky and
in the white clouds.
After a time Anna laid down the book, and began to chat to Bertha and
smiled at her, as though at a child.
"Who would have foretold this of us?" said Frau Rupius.
"That we should be going to Vienna together?"
"No, no, I mean that we shall both--how shall I express it?--pass or end
our lives yonder"--she gave a slight nod in the direction of the place
from which they came.
"Very true, indeed!" answered Bertha, who had not yet considered whether
there was anything really strange in the fact or not.
"Well, you, of course, knew it the moment you were married, but I--"
Frau Rupius gazed straight before her.
"So then your move to the little town," said Bertha, "did not take place
until--until--"
She broke off in confusion.
"Yes, you know that, of course."
In saying this Frau Rupius looked Bertha full in the face as if
reproaching her for her question. But when she continued to speak
she smiled gently, as though her thoughts were not occupied by
anything so sad.
"Yes, I never imagined that I should leave Vienna; my husband had his
position as a government official, and indeed he would certainly have
been able to remain longer there, in spite of his infirmity, had he not
wanted to go away at once."
"He thought, perhaps, that the fresh air, the quiet--" began Bertha, and
she at once perceived that she was not saying anything very sensible.
Nevertheless Anna answered her quite affably.
"Oh, no, neither rest nor climate could do him any good, but he thought
that it would be better for both of us in every way. He was right,
too--what should we have been able to do if we had remained in the city?"
Bertha felt that Anna was not telling her the whole story and she would
have liked to beg her not to hesitate, but to open her whole heart to
her. She knew, however, that she was not clever enough to express such a
request in the right words. Then, as though Frau Rupius had guessed that
Bertha was anxious to learn more, she quickly changed the subject of
their conversation. She asked Bertha about her brother-in-law, the
musical talent of her pupils, and her method of teaching; then she took
up the novel again and left Bertha to herself.
Once she looked up from the book and said:
"You haven't brought anything with you to read, then?"
"Oh, yes," answered Bertha.
She suddenly remembered that she had bought a newspaper; she took it up
and turned over the pages assiduously. The train drew near to Vienna.
Frau Rupius closed her book and put it in the travelling-bag. She looked
at Bertha with a certain tenderness, as at a child who must soon be sent
away alone to meet an uncertain destiny.
"Another quarter of an hour," she remarked; "and we shall be--well, I
very nearly said, home."
Before them lay the town. On the far side of the river chimneys towered
up aloft, rows of tall yellow painted houses stretched away into the
distance, and steeples ascended skywards. Everything lay basking in the
gentle sunlight of May.
Bertha's heart throbbed. She experienced a sensation such as might come
over a traveller returning after a long absence to a longed-for home,
which had probably altered greatly in the meantime, and where surprises
and mysteries of all kinds awaited him. At the moment when the train
rolled into the station she seemed almost courageous in her own eyes.
Frau Rupius took a carriage, and they drove into the town. As they passed
the Ring, Bertha suddenly leaned out of the window and gazed after a
young man whose figure and walk reminded her of Emil Lindbach. She wished
that the young man would turn round, but she lost sight of him without
his having done so.
The carriage stopped before a house in the Kohlmarkt. The two ladies got
out and made their way to the third floor, where the dressmaker's
workroom was situated. While Frau Rupius tried on her new costume,
Bertha had various materials displayed to her from which she made a
choice. The assistant took her measure, and it was arranged that Bertha
should call in a week's time to be fitted. Frau Rupius came out from the
adjoining room and recommended that particular care should be given to
her friend's order.
It seemed to Bertha that everybody was looking at her in a rather
disparaging, almost compassionate manner, and, on looking at herself in
the large pier glass she suddenly perceived that she was very tastelessly
dressed. What on earth had put it into her head to attire herself on this
occasion in the provincial Sunday-best, instead of in one of the simple
plain dresses she usually wore? She grew crimson with shame. She had on a
black and white striped foulard costume, which was three years out of
date, so far as its cut was concerned, and a bright-coloured hat, trimmed
with roses and turned up at an extravagant angle in front, which seemed
to weigh heavily upon her dainty figure and made her appear almost
ridiculous.
Then, as if her own conviction needed further confirmation by some word
of consolation, Frau Rupius said, as they went down the stairs:
"You are looking lovely!"
They stood in the doorway.
"What shall be done now?" asked Frau Rupius. "What do you propose?"
"Will you then ... I ... I mean ..."
Bertha was quite frightened; she felt as though she was being
turned adrift.
Frau Rupius looked at her with kindly commiseration.
"I think," she said, "that you are going to pay a visit to your cousin
now, are you not? I suppose that you will be asked to stay to dinner."
"Agatha will be sure to invite me to dine with her."
"I will accompany you as far as your cousin's, if you would like me to;
then I will go to my brother and, if possible, I will call for you at
three in the afternoon."
Together they walked through the most crowded streets of the central part
of the town and looked at the shop windows. At first Bertha found the din
somewhat confusing; afterwards, however, she found it more pleasant than
otherwise. She gazed at the passers-by and took great pleasure in
watching the well-groomed men and smartly-attired ladies. Almost all the
people seemed to be wearing new clothes, and it seemed to her they all
looked much happier than the people at home.
Presently she stopped before the window of a picture-dealer's shop and
immediately her eyes fell on a familiar portrait; it was the same one of
Emil Lindbach as had appeared in the illustrated paper, Bertha was as
delighted as if she had met an acquaintance.
"I know that man," she said to Frau Rupius.
"Whom?"
"That man there"--she pointed with her finger at the photograph--"what do
you think? I used to attend the conservatoire at the same time he did!"
"Really?" said Frau Rupius.
Bertha looked at her and observed that she had not paid the slightest
attention to the portrait, but was thinking of something else. Bertha,
however, was glad of that, for it seemed to her that there had been too
much warmth lurking in her voice.
All at once a gentle thrill of pride stirred within her at the thought
that the man whose portrait hung there in the shop window had been in
love with her in the days of his youth, and had kissed her. She walked on
with a sensation of inward contentment. After a short time they reached
her cousin's house on the Riemerstrasse.
"So it's settled then," she said; "you will call for me at three o'clock,
won't you?"
"Yes," replied Frau Rupius; "that is to say--but if I should be a little
late, do not on any account wait for me at your cousin's any longer than
you want to. In any case, this much is settled: we will both be at the
railway station at seven o'clock this evening. Good-bye for the present."
She shook hands with Bertha and hurried away.
Bertha gazed after her in surprise. Once more she felt forlorn, just as
she had done in the train when Frau Rupius had read the novel.
Then she went up the two flights of stairs. She had not sent her cousin
word as to her visit, and she was a little afraid that her arrival might
be somewhat inopportune. She had not seen Agatha for many years, and they
had exchanged letters only at very rare intervals.
Agatha received her without either surprise or cordiality, as though it
was only the day before that they had seen each other for the last time.
A smile had been playing around Bertha's lips--the smile of those who
think that they are about to give some one else a surprise--she repressed
it immediately.
"Well, you are not a very frequent visitor, I must say!" said Agatha,
"and you never let us have a word from you."
"But, Agatha, you know it was your turn to write; you have been owing me
a letter these last three months."
"Really!" replied Agatha. "Well, you'll have to excuse me; you can
imagine what a lot of work three children mean. Did I write and tell you
that Georg goes to school now?"
Agatha took her cousin into the nursery, where Georg and his two little
sisters were just having their dinner given them by the
nursery-governess. Bertha asked them a few questions, but the children
were very shy, and the younger girl actually began to cry.
"Do beg Aunt Bertha to bring Fritz with her next time she comes," said
Agatha to Georg at length.
It struck Bertha how greatly her cousin had aged during the last few
years. Indeed, when she bent down to the children Agatha appeared almost
like an old woman; and yet she was only a year older than Bertha, as the
latter knew.
By the time they had returned to the dining-room they had already told
each other all that they had to say, and when Agatha invited Bertha to
stay to dinner, it seemed that she spoke only for the mere sake of making
some remark. Bertha accepted the invitation, nevertheless, and her cousin
went into the kitchen to give some orders.
Bertha gazed around the room, which was furnished economically and in bad
taste. It was very dark, for the street was extremely narrow. She took up
an album which was lying on the table. She found hardly any but familiar
faces in it. At the very beginning were the portraits of Agatha's
parents, who had died long ago; then came those of her own parents and of
her brothers, of whom she scarcely ever heard; portraits of friends whom
they both had known in earlier days, and of whom she now knew hardly
anything; and, finally, there was a photograph, the existence of which
she had long forgotten. It was one of herself and Agatha together, and
had been taken when they were quite young girls. In those days they had
been very much alike in appearance, and had been great friends. Bertha
could remember many of the confidential chats which they had had
together in the days of their girlhood.
And that lovely creature there with the looped plaits was now almost an
old woman! And what of herself? What reason had she, then, for still
looking upon herself as a young woman? Did she not, perhaps, appear to
others as old as Agatha had seemed to her? She resolved that, in the
afternoon, she would take notice of the glances which passers-by bestowed
upon her. It would be terrible if she really did look as old as her
cousin! No, the idea was utterly ridiculous! She called to mind how her
nephew, Richard always called her his "pretty aunt," how Klingemann had
walked to and fro outside her window the other evening--and even the
recollection of her brother-in-law's attentions reassured her. And, when
she looked in the mirror which was hanging opposite to her, she saw two
bright eyes gazing at her from a smooth, fresh face--they were her face
and her eyes.
When Agatha came into the room again Bertha began to talk of the far-away
years of their childhood, but it seemed that Agatha had forgotten all
about those early days, as though marriage, motherhood and week-day cares
had obliterated both youth and its memories. When Bertha went on to speak
of a students' dance they had both attended, of the young men who had
courted Agatha, and of a bouquet which some unknown lover had once sent
her, Agatha at first smiled rather absent-mindedly, then she looked at
Bertha and said:
"Just fancy you still remembering all those foolish things!"
Agatha's husband came home from his Government office. He had grown very
grey since Bertha had last seen him. At first sight he did not appear to
recognize Bertha, then he mistook her for another lady, and excused
himself by remarking that he had a very bad memory for faces. At dinner
he affected to be smart, he inquired in a certain superior way about the
affairs of the little town, and wondered, jestingly, whether Bertha was
not thinking of marrying again. Agatha also took part in this bantering,
although, at the same time, she occasionally glanced reprovingly at her
husband, who was trying to give the conversation a frivolous turn.
Bertha felt ill at ease. Later on she gathered from some words of
Agatha's husband that they were expecting another addition to their
family. Usually Bertha felt sympathy for women in such circumstances, but
in this case the news created an almost unpleasant impression upon her.
Moreover there was not a trace of love to be discerned in the tone of the
husband's voice when he referred to it, but rather a kind of foolish
pride on the score of an accomplished duty. He spoke of the matter as
though it was a special act of kindness on his part that, in spite of the
fact that he was a busy man, and Agatha was no longer beautiful, he
condescended to spend his time at home. Bertha had an impression that
she was being mixed up in some sordid affair which did not concern her in
the least. She was glad when, as soon as he had finished his dinner, the
husband went off--it was his custom, "his only vice," as he said with a
smile, to play billiards at the restaurant for an hour after dinner.
Bertha and Agatha were left together.
"Yes," said Agatha, "I've got that to look forward to again."
Thereupon she began, in a cold, businesslike way, to talk about her
previous confinements, with a candour and lack of modesty which seemed
all the more remarkable because they had become such strangers. While
Agatha was continuing the relation of her experiences, however, the
thought suddenly passed through Bertha's mind that it must be glorious to
have a child by a husband whom one loved.
She ceased to pay attention to her cousin's unpleasant talk; and her
thoughts were only occupied by the infinite yearning for motherhood
which had often come over her when she was quite a young girl, and she
called to mind an occasion when that yearning had been more keen than it
had ever been, either before or after. This had happened one evening
when Emil Lindbach had accompanied her home from the conservatoire, her
hand clasped in his. She still remembered how her head had begun to
swim, and that at one moment she had understood what the phrase meant
which she had sometimes read in novels: "He could have done with her
just as he liked."
Then she noticed that it had grown quite silent in the room, and that
Agatha was leaning back in the corner of the sofa, apparently asleep. It
was three by the clock. How tiresome it was that Frau Rupius had not yet
arrived! Bertha went to the window and looked out into the street. Then
she turned towards Agatha, who had again opened her eyes. Bertha quickly
tried to begin a fresh conversation, and told her about the new costume
which she had ordered in the forenoon, but Agatha was too sleepy even to
answer. Bertha had no wish to put her cousin out, and took her departure.
She decided to wait for Frau Rupius in the street. Agatha seemed very
pleased when Bertha got ready to go. She became more cordial than she had
been at any time during her cousin's visit, and said at the door, as if
struck by some brilliant idea:
"How the time does pass! I do hope you'll come and see us again soon."
Bertha, as she stood before the door of the house, realized that she was
waiting for Frau Rupius in vain. There was no doubt that it had been the
latter's intention from the beginning to spend the afternoon without her.
Of course, it did not necessarily follow that there was anything wicked
in it; as a matter of fact there was nothing wicked in it, but it hurt
Bertha to think that Anna had so little trust in her.
She walked along with no fixed purpose. She had still more than three
hours to while away before she was to be at the station. At first, she
took a walk in the inner town, which she had passed through in the
morning. It was really a pleasant thing to wander about unobserved like
this, as a stranger in the crowd. It was long since she had experienced
that pleasure. Some of the men who passed her glanced at her with
interest, and more than one, indeed, stopped to gaze after her. She
regretted that she was dressed to so little advantage, and rejoiced at
the prospect of obtaining soon the beautiful costume she had ordered
from the Viennese dressmaker. She would have liked to find some one
following her.
Suddenly the thought passed through her mind: would Emil Lindbach
recognize her if she were to meet him? What a question! Such things never
happened, of course. No, she was quite sure that she could wander about
Vienna the whole day long without ever meeting him. How long was it since
she had seen him? Seven--eight years.... Yes, the last time she had met
him was two years before her marriage. She had been with her parents one
warm summer evening in the Schweitzerhaus on the Prater; he had gone by
with a friend and had stopped a few minutes at their table. Ah, and now
she remembered also that amongst the company at their table there had
been the young doctor who was courting her. She had forgotten what Emil
had said on that occasion, but she remembered that he had held his hat
in his hand during the whole time he was standing before her, which had
afforded her inexpressible delight. Would he do the same now, she thought
to herself, if she were to meet him?
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