Bertha Garlan
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Arthur Schnitzler >> Bertha Garlan
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Where was he living now, she wondered. In the old days he had a room on
the Weiden, near St. Paul's Church.... Yes, he had pointed out the window
as they passed one day, and had ventured, as they did so, to make a
certain remark--she had forgotten the exact words, but there was no doubt
that they had been to the effect that he and she ought to be in that room
together. She had rebuked him very severely for saying such a thing; she
had even gone the length of telling him that if that was the sort of girl
he thought she was, all was over between them. And, in fact, he had never
spoken another word on the subject.
Would she recognize the window again? Would she find it? It was all the
same to her, of course, whether she went for a walk in this direction or
that. She hurried towards the Weiden as though she had suddenly found an
object for her walk. She was amazed at the complete change which had come
over the neighbourhood. When she looked down from the Elizabeth Bridge
she saw walls that rose from the bed of the Wien, half finished tracks,
little trucks moving to and fro, and busy workmen. Soon she reached St.
Paul's Church by the same road as she had so often followed in the old
days. But then she came to a standstill; she was absolutely at a loss to
remember where Emil had lived--whether she had to turn to the right or to
the left. It was strange how completely it had escaped her memory. She
walked slowly back as far as the Conservatoire, then she stood still.
Above her were the windows from which she had so often gazed upon the
dome of St. Charles' Church, and longingly awaited the end of the lesson
so that she might meet Emil. How great had been her love for him, indeed;
and how strange it was that it should have died so completely!
And now, when she had returned to these scenes, she was a widow, had
been so for years, and had a child at home who was growing up. If she
had died, Emil would never have heard of it, or perhaps not until years
afterwards. Her eyes fell on a large placard fixed on the entrance,
gates of the Conservatoire. It was an announcement of the concert at
which he was going to play, and there was his name appearing among a
number of other great ones, many of which she had long since admired
with gentle awe.
"BRAHMS VIOLIN CONCERTO--EMIL LINDBACH, VIOLINIST TO THE COURT OF
BAVARIA."
"Violinist to the Court of Bavaria!"--she had never heard anything about
that before.
Gazing up at his name, which stood out in glittering letters, it seemed
to her as though the next moment Emil himself might come out through the
gate, his violin case in his hand, a cigarette between his lips. Of a
sudden it all seemed so near, and nearer still when all at once from the
windows above came floating down the long-drawn notes of a violin, just
as she had so often heard in the old days.
She thought she would like to come to Vienna for that concert--yes, even
if she should be obliged to spend the night at an hotel! And she would
take a seat right in front and see him quite close at hand. She wondered
whether he, in his turn, would see her, and, if so, whether he would
recognize her. She remained standing before the yellow placard, wholly
absorbed in thought, until she felt that some young people coming out of
the Conservatoire were staring at her and then she realized that she had
been smiling to herself the whole time, as if lost in a pleasant dream.
She proceeded to walk on. The district around the town-park had also
changed, and, when she sought the places where she and Emil had often
been for walks together, she found that they had quite' disappeared.
Trees had been felled, boardings barred the way, the ground had been dug
up, and in vain she tried to find the seat where she and Emil had
exchanged words of love, the tone of which she remembered so well without
being able to recall the actual phrases.
Presently she reached the trim well-kept part of the park, which was
full of people. But she had a sensation that many were looking at her,
and that some ladies were laughing at her. And once more she felt that
she was looking very countrified. She was vexed at being embarrassed, and
thought of the time when, as a pretty young girl, she had walked, proud
and unconcerned, along these very avenues. It seemed to her that she had
fallen off so much since then, and become so pitiable. Her idea of
sitting in the front row of the concert hall appeared presumptuous,
almost unfeasible. It seemed also highly improbable now that Emil
Lindbach would recognize her; indeed, it struck her as almost impossible
that he should remember her existence. What a number of experiences he
must have had! How many women and girls might well have loved him--and in
a manner quite different from her own!
And whilst she continued her way, walking, now along the less frequented
avenues and at length out of the park upon the Ringstrasse again, she
drew a mental picture of the beloved of her youth figuring in all manner
of adventures, in which confused recollections of events depicted in the
novels she had read and indistinctly formed ideas of his professional
tours were strangely intermingled. She imagined him in Venice with a
Russian princess in a gondola; then in her mind's eye she saw him at the
court of the King of Bavaria, where duchesses listened to his playing,
and fell in love with him; then in the boudoir of an opera singer; then
at a fancy-dress ball in Spain, with crowds of alluring masqueraders
about him. The further he seemed to soar away, unapproachable and
enviable, the more miserable she felt herself to be, and all at once it
seemed utterly inconceivable that she had so lightly surrendered her own
hopes of an artistic career and given up her lover, in order to lead a
sunless existence, and to be lost in the crowd. A shudder seemed to seize
her as she recalled that she was nothing but the widow of an
insignificant man, that she lived in a provincial town, that she earned
her living by means of music lessons, and that she saw old age slowly
approaching. Never had there fallen upon her way so much as a single ray
of the brilliance which shone upon the road his footsteps would tread so
long as he lived. And again the same shudder ran through her at the
thought that she had always been content with her lot, and that, without
hope and indeed, without yearning, she had passed her whole existence in
a gloom, which, at that moment, seemed inexplicable.
She reached the Aspernbrueke without in the least giving heed to where her
footsteps were taking her. She wished to cross the street at this point,
but had to wait while a great number of carriages drove by. Most of them
were occupied by gentlemen, many of whom carried field-glasses. She knew
that they were returning from the races at the Prater.
There came an elegant equipage in which were seated a young man and a
girl, the latter dressed in a white spring costume. Immediately behind
was a carriage containing two strikingly dressed ladies. Bertha gazed
long after them, and noticed that one of the ladies turned round, and
that the object of her attention was the carriage which followed
immediately behind, and in which sat a young and very handsome man in a
long grey overcoat. Bertha was conscious of something very
painful--uneasiness and annoyance at one and the same time. She would
have liked to be the lady whom the young man followed; she would have
liked to be beautiful, young, independent, and, Heaven knows, she would
have liked to be any woman who could do as she wanted, and could turn
round after men who pleased her.
And at that moment she realized, quite distinctly, that Frau Rupius was
now in the company of somebody whom she loved. Indeed why shouldn't she?
Of course, so long as she stayed in Vienna, she was free and mistress of
her own time--besides, she was a very pretty woman, and was wearing a
fragrant violet costume. On her lips there hovered a smile such as only
comes to those who are happy--and Frau Rupius was unhappy at home. All at
once, Bertha had a vision of Herr Rupius sitting in his room, looking at
the engravings. But on that day, surely, he was not doing so; no, he was
trembling for his wife, consumed with an immense fear that some one
yonder in the great city would take her away from him, that she would
never return, and that he would be left all alone with his sorrow. And
Bertha suddenly felt a thrill of compassion for him, such as she had
never experienced before. Indeed, she would have liked to be with him, to
comfort and to reassure him.
She felt a touch on her arm. She started and looked up. A young man
was standing beside her and gazing at her with an impudent leer. She
stared at him, full in the face, still quite absentmindedly; then he
said with a laugh:
"Well?"
She was frightened, and almost ran across the street, quickly passing in
front of a carriage. She was ashamed of her previous desire to be the
lady in the carriage she had seen coming from the Prater. It seemed as
though the man's insolence had been her punishment. No, no, she was a
respectable woman; in the depth of her soul she had an aversion to
everything that savoured of the insolent.... No, she could no longer
stay in Vienna, where women were exposed to such things! A longing for
the peace of her home came over her, and she rejoiced in the prospect of
meeting her little boy again, as in something extraordinarily beautiful.
What time was it, though? Heavens, a quarter of seven! She would have to
take a carriage; there was no question about that now, indeed! Frau
Rupius had, of course, paid for the carriage in the morning, and so the
one which she was now going to take would only cost her half, so to
speak. She took her seat in an open cab, leaned back in the corner, in
almost the same aristocratic manner as that of the lady she had seen in
the white frock. People gazed after her. She knew that she was now
looking young and pretty. Moreover, she was feeling quite safe, nothing
could happen to her. She took an indescribable pleasure in the swift
motion of the cab with its rubber-tyred wheels. She thought how splendid
it would be if on the occasion of her next visit she were to drive
through the town, wearing her new costume and the small straw hat which
made her look so young.
She was glad that Frau Rupius was standing in the entrance to the
station and saw her arrive. But she betrayed no sign of pride, and acted
as though it was quite the usual thing for her to drive up to the
station in a cab.
"We have still ten minutes to spare," said Frau Rupius. "Are you very
angry with me for having kept you waiting? Just fancy, my brother was
giving a grand children's party to-day, and the little ones simply
wouldn't let me go. It occurred to me too late that I might really have
called for you; the children would have amused you so much. I have told
my brother that, next time, I will bring you and your boy with me."
Bertha felt heartily ashamed of herself. How she had wronged this woman
again! She could only press her hand and say:
"Thank you, you are very kind!"
They went on to the platform and entered an empty compartment. Frau
Rupius had a small bag of cherries in her hand, and she ate them slowly,
one after another, throwing the stones out of the window. When the train
began to move out of the station she leaned back and closed her eyes.
Bertha looked out of the window; she felt very tired after so much
walking, and a slight uneasiness arose within her; she might have spent
the day differently, more quietly and enjoyably. Her chilly reception and
the tedious dinner at her cousin's came to her mind. After all, it was a
great pity that she no longer had any acquaintances in Vienna. She had
wandered like a stranger about the town in which she had lived twenty-six
years. Why? And why had she not made the carriage pull up in the morning,
when she saw the figure that seemed to have a resemblance to Emil
Lindbach? True, she would not have been able to run or call after
him--but if it had been really he, if he had recognized her and been
pleased to see her again? They might have walked about together, might
have told each other all that had happened during the long time that had
passed since they had last known anything about one another; they might
have gone to a fashionable restaurant and had dinner; some would
naturally have recognized him, and she would have heard quite distinctly
people discussing the question as to who "she" might really be. She was
looking beautiful, too; the new costume was already finished; and the
waiters served her with great politeness, especially a small youth who
brought the wine--but he was really her nephew, who had, of course,
become a waiter in that restaurant instead of a student. Suddenly Herr
and Frau Martin entered the dining-hall; they were holding one another in
such a tender embrace as if they were the only people there. Then Emil
rose to his feet, took up the violin bow which was lying beside him, and
raised it with a commanding gesture, whereupon the waiter turned Herr and
Frau Martin out of the room. Bertha could not help laughing at the
incident, laughing much too loudly indeed, for by this time she had quite
forgotten how to behave in a fashionable restaurant. But then it was not
a fashionable restaurant at all; it was only the coffee room at the "Red
Apple," and the military band was playing somewhere out of sight. That,
be it known, was a clever invention on the part of Herr Rupius, that
military bands could play without being seen. Now, however, it was her
turn that was immediately to follow. Yonder was the piano--but, of
course, she had long since completely forgotten how to play; she would
run away rather than be forced to play. And all at once she was at the
railway station, where Frau Rupius was already waiting for her. "It is
high time you came," she said. She placed in Bertha's hand a large book,
which, by the way, was her ticket. Frau Rupius, however, was not going
to take the train; she sat down, ate cherries and spat out the stones at
the stationmaster, who took a huge delight in the proceedings. Bertha
entered the compartment. Thank God, Herr Klingemann was already there! He
made a sign to her with his screwed-up eyes, and asked her if she knew
whose funeral it was. She saw that a hearse was standing on the other
line. Then she remembered that the captain with whom the tobacconist's
wife had deceived Herr Klingemann was dead--of course, it was the day of
the concert at the "Red Apple." Suddenly Herr Klingemann blew on her
eyes, and laughed in a rumbling way.
Bertha opened her eyes--at that moment a train was rushing past the
window. She shook herself. What a confused dream! And hadn't it begun
quite nicely? She tried to remember. Yes, Emil played a part in it ...
but she could not recollect what part.
The dusk of evening slowly fell. The train sped on its way along by the
Danube. Frau Rupius slept and smiled. Perhaps she was only pretending to
be asleep. Bertha was again seized with a slight suspicion, and she felt
rising within her a sensation of envy at the unknown and mysterious
experiences which Frau Rupius had had. She, too, would gladly have
experienced something. She wished that someone was sitting beside her
now, his arm pressed against hers--she would fain have felt once more
that sensation that had thrilled her on that occasion when she had stood
with Emil on the bank of the Wien, and when she had almost been on the
point of losing her senses and had yearned for a child.... Ah, why was
she so poor, so lonely, so much in obscurity? Gladly would she have
implored the lover of her youth:
"Kiss me but once again just as you used to do, I want to be happy!"
It was dark; Bertha looked out into the night.
She determined that very night before she went to bed to fetch from the
attic the little case in which she kept the letters of her parents and of
Emil. She longed to be home again. She felt as though a question had been
wakened within her soul, and that the answer awaited her at home.
IV
When, late in the evening, Bertha entered her room, the idea which she
had taken into her head of going up to the attic at once and fetching
down the case with the letters seemed to her to be almost venturesome.
She was afraid that some one in the house might observe her on her
nocturnal pilgrimage, and might take her for mad. She could, of course,
go up the next morning quite conveniently and without causing any stir;
and so she fell asleep, feeling like a child who has been promised an
outing into the country on the following day.
She had much to do the next forenoon; her domestic duties and piano
lessons occupied the whole of the time. She had to give her sister-in-law
an account of her visit to Vienna. Her story was that in the afternoon
she had gone for a walk with her cousin, and the impression was conveyed
that she had made an excuse to Frau Rupius at the request of Agatha.
It was not until the afternoon that she went up to the attic and brought
down the dusty travelling-case, which was lying beside a trunk and a
couple of boxes--the whole collection covered with an old and torn piece
of red-flowered coffee-cloth. She remembered that her object on the last
occasion on which she had opened the case had been to put away the
papers which her parents had left behind. On her return to her room she
opened the case and perceived lying on top of the other contents a number
of letters from her brothers and other letters, with the handwriting of
which she was not familiar; then she found a neat little bundle
containing the few letters which her parents had addressed to her: these
were followed by two books of her mother's household accounts, a little
copybook dating back to her own schooldays and containing entries of
timetables and exercises, a few programmes of the dances which she had
attended when a young girl, and, finally, Emil Lindbach's letters, which
were wrapped up in blue tissue paper, torn here and there. And now she
was able to fix the very day on which she had last held those letters in
her hand, although she had not read them on that occasion. It was when
her father had been lying ill for some time and, for whole days, she had
not once gone outside the door.
She laid the bundle aside. She wanted, first of all, to see all the other
things which had been stored in the case, and concerning which she was
consumed with curiosity. A number of letters lay in a loose heap at the
bottom of the case, some with their envelopes and others without. She
cast her eye over them at random. There were letters from old friends, a
few from her cousin, and here was one from the doctor who had courted her
in the old days. In it he asked her to reserve for him the first waltz
at the medical students' dance. Here--what was it? Why, it was that
anonymous letter which some one had addressed to her at the
Conservatoire. She picked it up and read:
"My Dear Fraulein,
"Yesterday I again had the good fortune to have an opportunity of
admiring you on your daily walk; I do not know whether I had also the
good fortune to be observed by you."
No, he had not had that good fortune. Then followed three pages of
enthusiastic admiration, and not a single wish, not a single bold word.
She had, moreover, never heard anything more of the writer.
Here was a letter signed by two initials, "M.G." That was the impudent
fellow who had once spoken to her in the street, and who in this
letter made proposals--wait a minute, what were they? Ah, here was the
passage which had sent the hot blood mounting to her brow when she had
first read it:
"Since I have seen you, and since you have looked on me with a glance so
stern and yet seemingly so full of promise, I have had but one dream, but
one yearning--that I might kiss those eyes!"
Of course, she had not answered the letter; she was in love with Emil at
the time. Indeed, she had even thought of showing him the letter, but was
restrained by the fear of rousing his jealousy. Emil had never learned
anything of "M. G."
And that piece of soft ribbon that now fell into her hands?... A
cravat ... but she had quite forgotten whose it was, and why she had kept
it.
Here again was a little dance album in which she had written the names of
her partners. She tried to call the young men to mind, but in vain.
Though, by the way, it was at that very dance that she had met that man
who had said such passionate words to her as she had never heard from any
other. It seemed as though he suddenly emerged a victor from among the
many shadows that hovered around her. It must have happened during the
time when she and Emil had been meeting each other less frequently. How
strange it was ... or had it only been a dream? This passionate admirer
had clasped her closely in his arms during the dance--and she had not
offered the slightest resistance. She had felt his lips in her hair, and
it had been incredibly pleasant ... Well, and then?--she had never seen
him again.
It suddenly seemed to her that, after all, in those days she had had
many and strange experiences, and she was lost in amazement at the way
in which all these memories had slumbered so long in the travelling case
and in her soul.... But no, they had not slumbered; she had thought of
all these things many a time: of the men who had courted her, of the
anonymous letter, of her passionate partner at the dance, of the walks
with Emil--but only as if they had been merely such things as go to
constitute the past, the youth which is allotted to every young girl,
and from which she emerges to lead the placid life of a woman. On the
present occasion, however, it seemed to Bertha as if these recollections
were, so to speak, unredeemed promises, as if in those experiences of
distant days there lay destinies which had not been fulfilled; nay,
more, as if a kind of deception had long been practised upon her, from
the very day on which she had been married until the present moment; as
if she had discovered it all too late; and here she was, unable to lift
a finger to alter her destiny.
Yet why should it seem so?... She thought of all these futile things, and
there beside her, wrapped up in tissue paper, still lay the treasure, for
the sake of which alone she had rummaged in the case--the letters of the
only man she had loved, the letters written in the days when she had been
happy. How many women might there be now who envied her because that very
man had once loved her--loved her with a different, better, chaster love
than that which he had given any of the women who had followed her in his
affections. She felt herself most bitterly deceived that she, who could
have been his wife if ... if ... her thoughts broke off.
Hurriedly, as though seeking to rid her mind of doubt, or rather,
indeed, of fear, she tore off the tissue paper and seized the letters.
And she read--read them one after another. Long letters, short letters;
brief, hasty notes, like: "To-morrow evening, darling, at seven o'clock!"
or "Dearest, just one kiss ere I go to sleep!" letters that covered many
pages, written during the walking tours which he and his fellow students
had taken in the summer; letters written in the evening, in which he had
felt constrained to impart to her his impressions of a concert
immediately on returning home; endless pages in which he unfolded his
plans for the future; how they would travel together through Spain and
America, famous and happy ... she read them all, one after another, as
though tortured by a quenchless thirst. She read from the very first,
which had accompanied a few pieces of music, to the last, which was dated
two and a half years later, and contained nothing more than a greeting
from Salzburg.
When she came to an end she let her hands fall into her lap and gazed
fixedly at the sheets lying about. Why had that been the last letter? How
had their friendship come to an end? How could it have come to an end?
How had it been possible that that great love had died away? There had
never been any actual rupture between Emil and herself; they had never
come to any definite understanding that all was over between them, and
yet their acquaintanceship had ended at some time or other--when?... She
could not tell, because at the time when he had written that card to her
from Salzburg she had still been in love with him. She had, as a matter
of fact, met him in the autumn--indeed, during the winter of the same
year everything had seemed once more to blossom forth. She remembered
certain walks they had taken over the crunching snow, arm in arm, beside
St. Charles' Church--but when was it that they had taken the last of
these walks? They had, to be sure, never taken farewell of each
other.... She could not understand it.
How was it that she had been able so easily to renounce a happiness which
it might yet have been within her power to retain? How had it come about
that she had ceased to love him? Had the dullness of the daily routine of
her home life, which weighed so heavily upon her spirits ever since she
had left the Conservatoire, lulled her feelings to sleep just as it had
blunted the edge of her ambitions? Had the querulous remarks of her
parents on the subject of her friendship with the youthful
violinist--which had seemed likely to lead to nothing--acted on her with
such sobering effect?
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