Bertha Garlan
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Arthur Schnitzler >> Bertha Garlan
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Then she recalled to mind that even at a later date, when some months had
elapsed since she had last seen him, he had called at her parents' house,
and had kissed her in the back room. Yes, that had been the last time of
all. And then she remembered further that on that occasion she had
noticed that his relation towards women had changed; that he must have
had experiences of which she could know nothing--but the discovery had
not caused her any pain.
She asked herself how it all would have turned out if in those days she
had not been so virtuous, if she had taken life as easily as some of the
other girls? She called to mind a girl at the Conservatoire with whom she
had ceased to associate on finding that her friend had an intrigue with a
dramatic student. She remembered again the suggestive words which Emil
had spoken as they were walking together past his window, and the
yearning that had come over her as they stood by the bank of the Wien. It
seemed inconceivable that those words had not affected her more keenly at
the moment, that that yearning had been awakened within her only once,
and then only for so short a time. With a kind of perplexed amazement she
thought of that period of placid purity and then, with a sudden agonized
feeling of shame which drove the blood to her temples, of the cold
readiness with which she had given herself afterwards to a man whom she
had never loved. The consciousness that whatever happiness she had tasted
in the course of her married life had been gained in the arms of the
husband she had not loved made her shudder with horror, for the first
time, in its utter wretchedness. Had that, then, been life such as her
thoughts had depicted to her, had that been the mystic happiness such as
she had yearned for?... And a dull feeling of resentment against
everything and everybody, against the living and the dead, began to
smoulder within her bosom. She was angry with her dead husband and with
her dead father and mother; she was indignant with the people amongst
whom she was now living, whose eyes were always upon her so that she
dared not allow herself any freedom; she was hurt with Frau Rupius, who
had not turned out to be such a friend that Bertha could rely on her for
support; she hated Klingemann because, ugly and repulsive as he was, he
desired to make her his wife; and finally she was violently enraged with
the man she had loved in the days of her girlhood, because he had not
been bolder, because he had withheld from her the ultimate happiness, and
because he had bequeathed her nothing but memories full of fragrance, yet
full of torment. And there she was, sitting in her lonely room amongst
the faded mementoes of a youth that had passed unprofitably and
friendlessly; there she was, on the verge of the time when there would be
no more hopes and no more desires--life had slipped through her fingers,
and she was thirty and poor.
She wrapped up the letters and the other things, and threw them, all
crumpled as they were, into the case. Then she closed it and went over to
the window.
Evening was at hand. A gentle breeze was blowing over from the direction
of the vine-trellises. Her eyes swam with unwept tears, not of grief, but
of exasperation. What was she to do? She, who had, without fear and
without hope, seen the days, nights, months, years extending into the
future, shuddered at the prospect of the emptiness of the evening which
lay before her.
It was the hour at which she usually returned home from her walk. On that
day she had sent the nursemaid out with Fritz--not so much as once did
she yearn for her boy. Indeed, for one moment there even fell on her
child a ray of the anger which she felt against all mankind and against
her fate. And, in her vast discontent, she was seized with a feeling of
envy against many people who, at ordinary times, seemed to her anything
but enviable. She envied Frau Martin because of the tender affection of
her husband; the tobacconist's wife because she was loved by Herr
Klingemann and the captain; her sister-in-law, because she was already
old; Elly, because she was still young; she envied the servant, who was
sitting on a plank over there with a soldier, and whom she heard
laughing. She could not endure being at home any longer; She took up her
straw hat and sunshade and hurried into the street. There she felt
somewhat better. In her room she had been unhappy; in the street she was
no more than out of humour.
In the main thoroughfare she met Herr and Frau Mahlmann, to whose
children she gave music lessons. Frau Mahlmann was already aware that
Bertha had ordered a costume from a dressmaker in Vienna on the
previous day, and she began to discuss the matter with great
weightiness. Later on, Bertha met her brother-in-law, who came towards
her from the chestnut avenue.
"Well," he said, "so you were in Vienna yesterday! Tell me, what did you
do with yourself there? Did you have any adventures?"
"What do you mean?" asked Bertha, looking at him in great alarm, as
though she had done something she ought not, and had been found out.
"What? You had no adventures? But you were with Frau Rupius; all the men
must surely have run after you?"
"What on earth has come into your head? Frau Rupius' conduct is
irreproachable! She is one of the most well-bred ladies I know."
"Quite so, quite so! I am not saying a word against Frau Rupius or you."
She looked him in the face. His eyes were gleaming, as they often did
when he had had a little too much to drink. She could not help recalling
that somebody had once foretold that Herr Garlan would die of an
apoplectic stroke.
"I must pay another visit to Vienna myself one of these days," he said.
"Why, I haven't been there since Ash Wednesday. I should like to see some
of my acquaintances once again. The next time you and Frau Rupius go, you
might just take me with you."
"With pleasure," answered Bertha. "I shall have to go again, of course,
before long, to have my costume tried on."
Garlan laughed.
"Yes, and you can take me with you, too, when you try it on."
He sidled up closer to her than was necessary. It was a way he had always
to squeeze up against her, and, moreover, she was accustomed to his
jokes, but on the present occasion she thought him particularly
objectionable. She was very much annoyed that he, of all men, always
spoke of Frau Rupius in such a suspicious way.
"Let us sit down," said Herr Garlan; "if you don't mind."
They both sat down on a seat. Garlan took the newspaper from his pocket.
"Ah!" said Bertha involuntarily.
"Will you have it?" asked Garlan.
"Has your wife read it yet?"
"Tut, tut!" said Garlan disdainfully. "Will you have it?"
"If you can spare it."
"For you--with pleasure. But we might just as well read it together."
He edged closer to Bertha and opened the paper.
Herr and Frau Martin came along, arm in arm, and stopped before them.
"Well, so you are back again from the momentous journey," said
Herr Martin.
"Ah, yes, you were in Vienna," said Frau Martin, nestling against her
husband. "And with Frau Rupius, too," she added, as though that implied
an aggravation of the offence.
Once more Bertha had to give an account of her new costume. She told them
all about it in a somewhat mechanical manner, indeed; but she felt, none
the less, that it was long since she had been such an interesting
personage as she was now.
Klingemann went by, bowed with ironical politeness, and turned round to
Bertha with a look which seemed to express his sympathy for her in having
to be friendly with such people.
It seemed to Bertha as though she were gifted that day with the ability
to read men's glances.
It began to grow dark. They set off together towards the town. Bertha
suddenly grew uneasy at not having met her boy. She walked on in
front with Frau Martin, who turned the conversation on to the subject
of Frau Rupius. She badly wanted to find out whether Bertha had
observed anything.
"But what do you mean, Frau Martin? I accompanied Frau Rupius to her
brother's house, and called for her there on my way back."
"And are you convinced that she was with her brother the whole time?"
"I really don't know what you expect Frau Rupius to do! Where would she
have been then?"
"Well," said Frau Martin; "really, you are an artless creature. I must
say--or are you only putting on? Do you quite forget then ..."
Then she whispered something into Bertha's ear, at which the latter grew
very red. She had never heard such an expression from a woman. She was
indignant.
"Frau Martin," she said, "I am not so old myself either and, as you see,
it is quite possible to live a decent life in such circumstances."
Frau Martin was a little taken aback.
"Yes, of course!" she said. "Yes, of course! You must, I dare say, think
that I am a little over-nice in such matters."
Bertha was afraid that Frau Martin might be about to give her some
further and more intimate disclosures, and she was very glad to find
that, at that moment, they had reached the street corner where she could
say good-bye.
"Bertha, here's your paper!" her brother-in-law called after her.
She turned round quickly and took the paper. Then she hastened home.
Fritz had returned and was waiting for her at the window. She hurried up
to him. She embraced and kissed him as though she had not seen him for
weeks. She felt that she was completely engrossed with love for her boy,
a fact which, at the time, filled her with pride. She listened to his
account of how he had spent the afternoon, where he had been, and with
whom he had played. She cut up his supper for him, undressed him, put him
to bed, and was satisfied with herself. Her state of mind of the
afternoon, when she had rummaged among the old letters, had cursed her
fate and had even envied the tobacconist's wife, seemed to her, at the
thought of it, as an attack of fever. She ate a hearty supper and went to
bed early. Before falling to sleep, however, it occurred to her that she
would like to read the paper. She stretched her limbs, shook up the soft
bolster so that her head should be higher, and held the paper as near the
candle as possible.
As her custom was, she first of all skimmed through the theatrical and
art news. Even the short announcements, as well as the local reports, had
acquired a new interest for her, since her trip to Vienna. Her eyelids
were beginning to grow heavy when all at once she observed the name of
Emil Lindbach amongst the personal news. She opened her eyes wide, sat up
in bed and read the paragraph.
"Emil Lindbach, violinist to the Court of Bavaria, whose great success at
the Spanish Court we were recently in a position to announce, has been
honoured by the Queen of Spain, who has invested him with the Order of
the Redeemer."
A smile flitted across her lips. She was glad, Emil Lindbach had obtained
the Order of the Redeemer.... Yes ... the man whose letters she had been
reading that very day ... the man who had kissed her--the man who had
once written to her that he would never adore any other woman.... Yes,
Emil--the only man in all the world in whom she really had still any
interest--except her boy, of course. She felt as though this notice in
the paper was intended only for her, as though, indeed, Emil himself had
selected that expedient, so as to establish some means of communication
with her. Had it not been he, after all, whose back she had seen in the
distance on the previous day? All at once she seemed to be quite near to
him; still smiling, she whispered to herself: "Herr Emil Lindbach,
violinist to the Court of Bavaria, ... I congratulate you...."
Her lips remained half open. An idea had suddenly come to her. She got up
quickly, donned her dressing-gown, took up the light and went into the
adjoining room. She sat down at the table and wrote the following letter
as fluently as though some one were standing beside her and dictating it,
word for word:
"DEAR EMIL,
"I have just read in the newspaper that the Queen of Spain has honoured
you by investing you with the Order of the Redeemer. I do not know
whether you still remember me"--she smiled as she wrote these
words--"but, all the same, I will not let this opportunity slip without
congratulating you upon your many successes, of which I so often have the
pleasure of reading. I am living most contentedly in the little town
where fate has cast me; I am getting on very well!
"A few lines in reply would make me very happy.
"Your old friend,
"BERTHA.
"P.S.--Kind regards also from my little Fritz (five years old)."
She had finished the letter. For a moment she asked herself whether she
should mention that she was a widow; but even if he had not known it
before, it was quite obvious from her letter. She read it over and nodded
contentedly. She wrote the address.
"Herr Emil Lindbach, violinist to the Court of Bavaria, Holder of the
Order of the Redeemer ..." Should she write all that? He was certain to
have many other Orders also ... "Vienna ..."
But where was he living at present? That, however, was of no consequence
with such a celebrated name. Moreover the inaccuracy in the address would
also show that she did not attach so very much importance to it all; if
the letter reached him--well, so much the better. It was also a way of
putting fate to the test.... Ah, but how was she to know for a certainty
that the letter had arrived or not? The answer might, of course, quite
easily fail to reach her if.... No, no, certainly not! He would be sure
to
thank her. And so, to bed.
She held the letter in her hand. No, she could not go to bed now, she
was wide awake again. And, moreover, if she did not post the letter until
next morning it would not go before the midday train, and would not reach
Emil before the day after. That was an interminably long time. She had
just spoken to him, and were thirty-six hours to be allowed to elapse
before her words reached his ears?... Supposing she did not wait, but
went to the post now?... no, to the station? Then he would have the
letter at ten o'clock the next morning. He was certain to be late in
rising--the letter would be brought into his room with his breakfast....
Yes, she must post the letter at once!
Quickly she dressed again. She hurried down the stairs--it was not yet
late--she hastened along the main street to the station, put the letter
in the yellow box, and was home again.
As she stood in her room, beside the tumbled bed, and she saw the paper
lying on the floor and the candle flickering, it seemed as though she had
returned from a strange adventure. For a long time she remained sitting
on the edge of the bed, gazing through the window into the bright,
starlit night, and her soul was filled with vague and pleasurable
expectations.
V
"My Dear Bertha!
"I am wholly unable to tell you how glad I was to receive your letter. Do
you really still think of me, then? How curious it is that it should have
been an Order, of all things, that was the cause of my hearing from you
again! Well, at all events, an Order has at least had some significance
for once in a way! Therefore, I heartily thank you for your
congratulations. But, apart from all that, don't you come to Vienna
sometimes? It is not so very far, after all. I should be immensely
pleased to see you again. So come soon!
"With all my heart,
"Your old
"Emil."
Bertha was sitting at breakfast, Fritz beside her. He was chatting, but
she was not listening to him. The letter lay before her on the table.
It seemed miraculous. Two nights and a day ago she had posted her letter,
and here was his reply already. Emil had not allowed a day to pass, not
even an hour! He had written to her as cordially as if they had only
parted the previous day.
She looked out of the window. What a splendid morning it was! Outside
the birds were singing, and from the hills came floating down the
fragrance of the early summer-tide.
Bertha read the letter again and again. Then she took Fritz, lifted him
up and kissed him to her heart's content. It was long since she had
been so happy.
While she was dressing she turned things over in her mind. It was
Thursday; on Monday she had to go to Vienna again to try on the costume.
That was four long days, just the same space of time as had elapsed since
she had dined at her brother-in-law's--what a long time it seemed to have
to wait. No, she must see Emil sooner than that. She could, of course, go
the very next morning and remain in Vienna a few days. But what excuse
could she make to the people at home?... Oh, she would be sure to find
some pretext. It was more important to decide in what way she should
answer his letter and tell him where she would meet him.... She could not
write and say: "I am coming, please let me know where I can see you...."
Perhaps he would answer: "Come to my rooms...." No, no, no! It would be
best to let him have a definite statement of fact. She would write to the
effect that she was going to Vienna on such and such a day and was to be
found at such and such a place....
Oh, if she only had someone with whom she could talk the whole thing
over!... She thought of Frau Rupius--she had a genuine yearning to tell
her everything. At the same time she had an idea that, by so doing, she
might become more intimate with her and might win her esteem. She felt
that she had become much more important since the receipt of Emil's
letter. Now she remarked, too, that she had been very much afraid that
Emil might quite possibly have changed and become conceited, affected and
spoiled--just as was the case with so many celebrated men. But there was
not the slightest trace of such things in the letter; there was the same
quick, heavy writing, the same warmth of tone, as in those earlier
letters. What a number of experiences he might well have had since she
had last seen him--well, had not she also had many experiences, and were
they not all seemingly obliterated?
Before going out she read Emil's letter again. It grew more like a living
voice; she heard the cadence of the words, and that final "Come soon"
seemed to call her with tender yearning. She stuck the letter into her
bodice and remembered how, as a girl, she had often done the same with
his notes, and how the gentle touch had sent a pleasant thrill coursing
through her.
First of all, she went to the Mahlmanns', where she gave the twins their
music lesson. Very often the finger exercises, to which she had to
listen there, were positively painful to her, and she would rap the
children on the knuckles when they struck a false note. On the present
occasion, however, she was not in the least strict. When Frau Mahlmann,
fat and friendly as ever, came into the room and inquired whether Bertha
was satisfied, the latter praised the children and added, as though
suddenly inspired:
"Now, I shall be able to give them a few days' holiday."
"Holiday! How will that be, then, dear Frau Garlan?"
"You see, Frau Mahlmann, I have no choice in the matter. What do you
think, when I was in Vienna lately my cousin begged me so pressingly to
be sure to come and spend a few days with her--"
"Quite so, quite so," said Frau Mahlmann.
Bertha's courage kept rising, and she continued to add falsehood to
falsehood, taking a kind of pleasure in her own boldness:
"I really wanted to put it off till June. But this very morning I had a
letter from her, saying that her husband is going away for a time, and
she is so lonely, and just now"--she felt the letter crackle, and had an
indescribable desire to take it out; but yet restrained herself--"and I,
think I shall perhaps take advantage of the opportunity...."
"Well, to tell the truth," said Frau Mahlmann, taking Bertha by both
hands, "if I had a cousin in Vienna, I would like to stay with her a week
every fortnight!"
Bertha beamed. She felt as though an invisible hand was clearing away
the obstacles which lay in her path; everything was going so well. And,
indeed, to whom, after all, was she accountable for her actions?
Suddenly, however, the fear flashed through her mind that her
brother-in-law really intended to go with her to Vienna. Everything
became entangled again; dangers cropped up and suspicion lurked even
under the good-natured smile of Frau Mahlmann....
Ah, she must on no account fail to take Frau Rupius into her confidence.
Directly the lesson was over she went to call upon her.
It was not until she had found Frau Rupius in a white morning gown,
sitting on the sofa, and had observed the surprised glance with which the
latter received her, that it struck Bertha that there was anything
strange in her early visit, and she said with affected cheerfulness:
"Good morning! I'm early to-day, am I not?"
Frau Rupius remained serious. She had not the usual smile on her lips.
"I am very glad to see you. The hour makes no difference to me."
Then she threw her a questioning glance, and Bertha did not know what to
say. She was annoyed, too, at the childish embarrassment, of which she
could not rid herself in the presence of Frau Rupius.
"I wanted," she said, at length, "to ask you how you felt after
our trip."
"Quite well," answered Frau Rupius, rather stiffly. But all at once
her features changed, and she added with excessive friendliness:
"Really, it was my place to have asked you. I am accustomed to those
trips, you know."
As she said this she looked through the window and Bertha mechanically
followed her gaze, which wandered over to the other side of the market
square to an open window with flowers on the sill. It was quite calm, and
the repose of a summer day shrouded the slumbering town. Bertha would
have dearly liked to sit beside Frau Rupius and be kissed upon the brow
by her, and blessed; but at the same time she had a feeling of compassion
towards her. All this puzzled her. For what reason, indeed, had she
really come? And what should she say to her?... "I'm going to-morrow to
Vienna to see the man who used to be in love with me when I was a
girl?"... In what way did all that concern Frau Rupius? Would it really
interest her in the very slightest degree? There she sat as if surrounded
by something impenetrable; it was impossible to approach her. _She_ could
not approach her, that was the trouble. Of course, there was a word by
means of which it was possible to find the way to her heart, only Bertha
did not know it.
"Well, how is your little boy?" asked Frau Rupius, without taking her
eyes off the flowers in the opposite window.
"He is going on as well as ever. He is very well-behaved, and is a
marvellously good child!"
The last word she uttered with an intentional tenderness as though Frau
Rupius was to be won over by that means.
"Yes, yes," answered the latter, her tone implying that she knew he was
good, and had not asked about that. "Have you a reliable nursemaid?"
she added.
Bertha was somewhat astonished at the question.
"My maid has, of course, many other things to attend to besides her
nurse's duties," she replied; "but I cannot complain of her. She is also
a very good cook."
"It must be a great happiness to have such a boy," said Frau Rupius very
drily, after a short interval of silence.
"It is, indeed, my only happiness," said Bertha, more loudly than was
necessary.
It was an answer which she had often made before, but she knew that, on
that day, she was not speaking with entire sincerity. She felt the
sheet of paper touch her skin, and, almost with alarm, she realized
that she had also deemed it a happiness to have received that letter.
At the same time it occurred to her that the woman sitting opposite her
had neither a child nor even the prospect of having one, and Bertha
would have been glad to take back what she had said. Indeed, she was on
the point of seeking some qualifying word. But, as if Frau Rupius was
able to see into her soul, and as if in her presence a lie was
impossible, she said at once:
"Your only happiness? Say, rather, 'a great happiness,' and that is no
small thing! I often envy you on that score, although I really think
that, apart from such considerations, life in itself is a joy to you."
"Indeed, my life is so lonely, so...."
Anna smiled.
"Quite so, but I did not mean that. What I meant was that the fact that
the sun is shining and the weather is now so fine also makes you glad."
"Oh yes, very glad!" replied Bertha assiduously. "My frame of mind is
generally dependent on the weather. During that thunderstorm a few days
ago I was utterly depressed, and then, when the storm was over--"
Frau Rupius interrupted her.
"That is the case with every one, you know."
Bertha grew low-spirited. She felt that she was not clever enough for
Frau Rupius; she could never do any more than follow the ordinary lines
of conversation, like the other women of her acquaintance. It seemed as
though Frau Rupius had arranged an examination for her, which she had not
passed, and, all at once, she was seized with a great apprehension at the
prospect of meeting Emil again. What sort of a figure would she cut in
his presence? How shy and helpless she had become during the six years
of her narrow existence in the little town!
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