Bertha Garlan

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Frau Rupius rose to her feet. The white morning gown streamed around her;
she looked taller and more beautiful than usual, and Bertha was
involuntarily reminded of an actress she had seen on the stage a very
long time ago, and to whom at that moment Frau Rupius bore a remarkable
resemblance. Bertha said to herself: If I were only like Frau Rupius I am
sure I would not be so timid. At the same time it struck her that this
exquisitely lovely woman was married to an invalid--might not the gossips
be right then, after all? But here, again, she was unable to pursue
further her train of thought; she could not imagine in what way the
gossips could be right. And at that moment it dawned upon her mind how
bitter was the fate to which Frau Rupius was condemned, no matter whether
she now bore it or resisted it.

But, as if Anna had again read Bertha's thoughts, and could not tolerate
that the latter should thus insinuate herself into her confidence, the
uncanny gravity of her face relaxed suddenly, and she said in an
innocent tone:

"Just fancy, my husband is still asleep. He has acquired the habit of
remaining awake until late at night, reading and looking at engravings,
and then he sleeps on until midday. As for that, it is quite a matter
of habit; when I used to live in Vienna I was incredibly lazy about
getting up."

And thereupon she began to chat about her girlhood, cheerfully, and with
a confiding manner such as Bertha had never before noticed in her. She
told about her father, who had been an officer on the Staff, about her
mother, who had died when she was quite a young woman; and about the
little house in the garden of which she had played as a child. It was
only now that Bertha learned that Frau Rupius had first become acquainted
with her husband when he was just a boy; he had lived with his parents in
the adjoining house, and had fallen in love with Anna and she with him,
while they were both children. To Bertha the whole period of Frau Rupius'
youth appeared as if radiant with bright sunbeams, a youth replete with
happiness, replete with hope; and it seemed to her, moreover, that Frau
Rupius' voice assumed a fresher tone when she went on to relate about the
travels which she and her husband had undertaken in the early days of
their married life.

Bertha let her talk and hesitated to interrupt her with a word, as though
she were a somnambulist wandering on the ridge of a roof. But while Frau
Rupius was speaking of her past, a period through which the blessedness
of being loved ever beamed brightly as its chiefest glory, Bertha's soul
began to thrill with the hope of a happiness for herself such as she had
not yet experienced. And while Frau Rupius was telling of the walking
tours through Switzerland and the Tyrol, which she had once undertaken
with her husband, Bertha pictured herself wandering by Emil's side on
similar paths, and she was filled with such an immense yearning that she
would dearly have liked at once to get up, go to Vienna, seek him out,
fall into his arms, and at last, at last to taste those delights which
had hitherto been denied her.

Her thoughts wandered so far that she did not notice that Frau Rupius had
long since fallen silent, and was sitting on the sofa, staring at the
flowers in the window of the house over the way. The utter stillness
brought Bertha back to reality; the whole room seemed to her to be filled
with some mysterious atmosphere, in which the past and the future were
strangely intermingled. She felt that there existed an incomprehensible
connexion between herself and Frau Rupius. She rose to her feet,
stretched out her hand, and, as if it were quite a matter of course, the
two ladies kissed each other good-bye like a couple of old friends.

On reaching the door Bertha remarked:

"I am going to Vienna again to-morrow for a few days."

She smiled as she spoke, like a girl about to be married.

After leaving Frau Rupius, Bertha went to her sister-in-law. Her nephew
was already sitting at the piano, improvising in a very wild manner. He
pretended not to have noticed her enter, and proceeded to practise his
finger exercises, which he played in an attitude of stiffness, assumed
for the occasion.

"We will play a duet to-day," said Bertha, endeavouring to find the
volume of Schubert's marches.

She paid not the least attention to her own playing, and hardly noticed
how, in using the pedals, her nephew touched her feet.

In the meantime Elly came into the room and kissed her aunt.

"Ah, just so, I had quite forgotten that!" said Richard, and, whilst
continuing to play, he placed his lips close to Bertha's cheek.

Her sister-in-law came in with her bunch of keys rattling and a deep
dejection on her pale and indistinct features.

"I have given Brigitta notice," she said in a feeble tone. "I couldn't
endure it any longer."

"Shall I get you a maid in Vienna?" asked Bertha with a facility which
even surprised her.

And now for the second time she told the fiction which she had invented
about her cousin's invitation, with even greater assurance than before,
and, moreover, with a little amplification this time. Along with the
secret joy which she found in the telling, she felt her courage
increasing at the same time. Even the possibility of being joined by her
brother-in-law no longer alarmed her. She felt, too, that she had an
advantage over him, because of the way in which he was in the habit of
sidling up to her.

"How long are you thinking of staying in the town, then?" asked her
sister-in-law.

"Two or three days; certainly no longer. And in any case, of course, I
should have had to go on Monday--to the dressmaker."

Richard strummed on the keys, but Elly stood with both arms resting on
the piano, gazing at her aunt with a look almost of terror.

"Whatever is the matter with you?" asked Bertha involuntarily.

"Why do you ask that?" said Elly.

"You are looking at me," said Bertha, "as queerly as though--well, as
though you did not like the idea of missing your music lessons for a
couple of days."

"No, it is not that," replied Elly, smiling. "But ... no, I can't
tell you."

"What is it, though?" asked Bertha.

"No, please, I really can't tell you."

She hugged her aunt, almost imploringly.

"Elly," said her mother, "I cannot permit you to have any secrets."

She sat down as though most deeply grieved and very tired.

"Well, Elly," said Bertha, filled with a vague fear, "if I were to
beg you--"

"But you mustn't laugh at me, Aunt."

"Certainly not."

"Well, you see, Aunt, I was so frightened when you were away in Vienna
that last time--I know very well it is silly--but it is because ...
because of the number of carriages in the streets."

Bertha drew a deep breath as of relief, and stroked Elly's cheeks.

"I will be sure to take great care. You can be quite easy in your mind."

Her sister-in-law shook her head.

"I am afraid that Elly will turn out a most eccentric girl."

Before Bertha left the house she arranged with her sister-in-law that she
would come back to supper, and that she would hand over Fritz to the care
of her relations while she as away in Vienna.

After dinner, Bertha sat down at the writing table, read over Emil's
letter a few more times, and made a rough draft of her reply.

"My Dear Emil,

"It was very good of you to answer me so soon. I was very happy"--she
crossed out "very happy" and substituted "very glad"--"when I received
your dear note. How much has changed since we last saw each other! You
have become a famous virtuoso since then, which I, for my part, was
always quite sure that you would be"--she stopped and struck out the
whole sentence--"I also share your desire to see me soon again"--no, that
was mere nonsense! This was better: "I should be immensely delighted to
have an opportunity of talking to you once more."--Then an excellent
idea occurred to her, and she wrote with great zest: "It is really
strange that we have not met for so long, for I come to Vienna quite
often; for instance, I shall be there this week-end...." Then she allowed
her pen to drop and fell into thought. She was determined to go to Vienna
the next afternoon, to put up at an hotel, and to sleep there, so as to
be quite fresh the following day, and to breathe the air of Vienna for a
few hours before meeting him. The next question was to fix a meeting
place. That was easily done. "In accordance with your kind wish I am
writing to let you know that on Saturday morning at eleven o'clock...."
No, that was not the right thing! It was so businesslike, and yet again
too eager--"if," she wrote, "you would really care to take the
opportunity of seeing your old friend again, then perhaps you will not
consider it too much trouble to go to the Art and History Museum on
Saturday morning at eleven o'clock. I will be in the gallery of the Dutch
School"--as she wrote that she seemed to herself rather impressive and,
at the same time, everything of a suspicious nature seemed to be removed.

* * * * *

She read over the draft. It appeared to her rather dry, but, after all,
it contained all that was necessary, and did not compromise her in any
way. Whatever else was to happen would take place in the Museum, in the
Dutch gallery.

She neatly copied out the draft, signed it, placed it in an envelope,
and hurried down the sunny street to post the letter in the nearest box.
On arriving home again she slipped off her dress, donned a dressing-gown,
sat down on the sofa, and turned over the leaves of a novel by
Gerstacker, which she had read half a score of times already. But she was
unable to take in a word. At first, she attempted to dismiss from her
mind the thoughts which beset her, but her efforts met with no success.

She felt ashamed of herself, but all the time she kept dreaming that she
was in Emil's arms. Why ever did such dreams come to her? She had never,
even for a moment, thought of such a thing! No, ... she would not think
of
it, either ... she was not that sort of woman.... No, she could not be
anyone's mistress--and even on this occasion.... Yes, perhaps if she were
to go to Vienna once more and again ... and again ... yes, much
later--perhaps. And besides, he would not even so much as dare to speak
of such a thing, or even to hint at it.... It was, however, useless to
reason like this; she could no longer think of anything else. Ever more
importunate came her dreams and, in the end, she gave up the struggle.
She lolled indolently in the corner of the sofa, allowed the book to slip
from her fingers and lie on the floor, and closed her eyes.

When she rose to her feet an hour later a whole night seemed to have
passed, and the visit to Frau Rupius seemed, in particular, to be far
distant. Again she wondered at this confusion of time--in truth, the
hours appeared to be longer or shorter just as they chose.

She dressed in order to take Fritz for a walk. She was in the tired,
indifferent mood which usually came over her after an unaccustomed
afternoon nap. It was that mood in which it is scarcely possible to
collect one's thoughts with any degree of completeness, and in which the
usual appears strange, but as though it refers to some one else. For the
first time, it seemed strange to Bertha that the boy, whom she was now
helping into his coat, was her own child, whose father had long been
buried, and for whom she had endured the pangs of motherhood.

Something within her urged her to go to the cemetery again that day. She
had not, however, the feeling that she had a wrong to make reparation
for, but that she must again politely visit some one to whom she had
become a stranger for no valid reason. She chose the way through the
chestnut avenue. There the heat was particularly oppressive that day.
When she passed out into the sun again a gentle breeze was blowing and
the foliage of the trees in the cemetery seemed to greet her with a
slight bow. As she passed through the cemetery gates with Fritz the
breeze came towards her, cool, even refreshing. With a feeling of gentle,
almost sweet, weariness, she walked through the broad centre avenue,
allowed Fritz to run on in front, and did not mind when he disappeared
from her sight for a few seconds behind a tombstone, though at other
times she would not have allowed such behaviour. She remained standing
before her husband's grave. She did not, however, look down at the
flower-bed, as was her general custom, but gazed past the tombstone and
away over the wall into the blue sky. She felt no tears in her eyes; she
felt no emotion, no dread; she did not even realize that she had walked
over the dead, and that there beneath her feet he, who had once held her
in his arms, had crumbled into dust.

Suddenly she heard behind her hurried footsteps on the gravel, such as
she was not generally accustomed to hear in the cemetery. Almost shocked,
she turned round. Klingemann was standing before her, in an attitude of
greeting, holding in his hand his straw hat, which was fixed by a ribbon
to his coat button. He bowed deeply to Bertha.

"What a strange thing to see you here!" she said.

"Not at all, my dear lady, not at all! I saw you from the street; I
recognized you by your walk."

He spoke in a very loud tone, and Bertha almost involuntarily murmured:

"Hush!"

A mocking smile at once made its appearance on Klingemann's face.

"He won't wake up," he muttered, between his clenched teeth.

Bertha was so indignant at this remark that she did not attempt to find
an answer, but called Fritz, and was about to depart.

Klingemann, however, seized her by the hand.

"Stop," he whispered, gazing at the ground.

Bertha opened her eyes wide; she could not understand.

Suddenly Klingemann looked up from the ground and fixed his eyes
on Bertha's.

"I love you, you see," he said.

Bertha uttered a low cry.

Klingemann let go her hand, and added in quite an easy
conversational tone:

"Perhaps that strikes you as rather odd."

"It is unheard of!--unheard of!"

Once more she sought to go, and she called Fritz.

"Stop! If you leave me alone now, Bertha...." said Klingemann, now in a
suppliant tone.

Bertha had recovered her senses again.

"Don't call me Bertha!" she said, vehemently. "Who gave you the right to
do so? I have no wish to say anything further to you ... and here, of all
places!" she added, with a downward glance, which, as it were, besought
the pardon of the dead.

Meanwhile Fritz had come back. Klingemann seemed very disappointed.

"My dear lady," he said, following Bertha, who, holding Fritz by the
hand, was slowly walking away: "I recognize my mistake. I should have
begun differently and not said that which seems now to have frightened
you, until I had come to the end of a well-turned speech."

Bertha did not look at him, but said, as though she were speaking
to herself:

"I would not have considered it possible; I thought you were a
gentleman...."

They were at the cemetery gate. Klingemann looked back again, and in his
glance there was something of regret at not having been able to play out
his scene at the graveside to a finish. Hat in hand, and twisting the
ribbon, by which it was fastened, round his finger, and still keeping by
Bertha's side, he went on to say:

"All I can do now is to repeat that I love you, that you pursue me in my
dreams--in a word, you must be mine!"

Bertha came to a standstill again, as if she were terrified.

"You will, perhaps, consider my remarks insolent, but let us take
things as they are. You"--he made a long pause--"are alone in the
world. So am I--"

Bertha stared him full in the face.

"I know what you are thinking of," said Klingemann. "That is all of no
consequence; that is all done with the moment you give the word. I have a
dim presentiment that we two suit each other very well. Yes, unless I am
very much deceived, the blood should be flowing in your veins, my dear
lady, as warm...."

The glance which Bertha now gave him was so full of anger and loathing
that Klingemann was unable to complete the sentence. He therefore
began another.

"Ah, when you come to think of it, what sort of a life is it that I am
now leading? It is even a long, long time since I was loved by a noble
woman such as you are. I understand, of course, your hesitation, or
rather, your refusal. Deuce take it, of course it needs a bit of
courage--with such a disreputable fellow as I am, too ... although,
perhaps, things are not quite so bad. Ah, if I could only find a human
soul, a kind, womanly soul!"--He emphasized the "womanly soul"--"Yes, my
dear lady, it was as little meant to be my fate as it was yours to pine
away and grow crabbed in such a hole of a town as this. You must not be
offended if I ... if I--"

The words began to fail him when he approached the truth. Bertha looked
at him. He seemed to her at that moment to be rather ridiculous, almost
pitiable, and very old, and she wondered how it was that he still had
the courage, not so much as to propose to her, as even simply to court
her favour.

And yet, to her own amazement and shame, there overflowed from these
unseemly words of a man who appeared absurd to her, the surge, so to
speak, of desire. And when his words had died away she heard them again
in her mind--but as though from the lips of another who was waiting for
her in Vienna--and she felt that she would not be able to withstand this
other speaker. Klingemann continued to talk; he spoke of his life as
being a failure, but yet a life worth saving. He said that women were to
be blamed for bringing him so low, and that a woman could raise him up
again. Away back in his student days he had run away with a woman, and
that had been the beginning of his misfortunes. He talked of his
unbridled passions, and Bertha could not restrain a smile. At the same
time she was ashamed of the knowledge which seemed to her to be implied
by the smile....

"I will walk up and down in front of your window this evening," said
Klingemann, when they reached the gate. "Will you play the piano?"

"I don't know."

"I will take it as a sign."

With that he went away.

In the evening she supped, as she had so often done, at her
brother-in-law's house. At the table she sat between Elly and Richard.
Mention was made of her approaching journey to Vienna as though it was
really nothing more than a matter of paying a visit to her cousin,
trying on the new costume at the dressmaker's, and executing a few
commissions in the way of household necessities, which she had promised
to undertake for her sister-in-law. Towards the end of supper, her
brother-in-law smoked his pipe, Richard read the paper to him, her
sister-in-law knitted, and Elly, who had nestled up close beside Bertha,
leaned her childish head upon her aunt's breast. And Bertha, as her
glance took in the whole scene, felt herself to be a crafty liar. She,
the widow of a good husband, was sitting there in a family circle which
interested itself in her welfare so loyally; by her side was a young
girl who looked up at her as on an older friend. Hitherto she had been a
good woman, honest and industrious, living only for her son. And now,
was she not about to cast aside all these things, to deceive and lie to
these excellent people, and to plunge into an adventure, the end of
which she could foresee? What was it, then, that had come over her these
last few days, by what dreams was she pursued, how was it that her whole
existence seemed only to aspire towards the one moment when she would
again feel the arms of a man about her? She had but to think of it and
she was seized with an indescribable sensation of horror, during which
she seemed devoid of will, as if she had fallen under the influence of
some strange power.

And while the words that Richard was reading beat monotonously upon her
ear, and her fingers played with the locks of Elly's hair--she resisted
for the last time; she resolved that she would be steadfast--that she
would do no more than see Emil once again, and that, like her own mother
who had died long ago, and like all the other good women she knew--her
cousin in Vienna, Frau Mahlmann, Frau Martin, her sister-in-law,
and ... yes, certainly Frau Rupius as well--she would belong only to him
who made her his wife. As soon, however, as she thought of that, the
idea flashed through her mind, like lightning: if he himself...if
Emil.... But she was afraid of the thought, and banished it from her. Not
with such bold dreams as these would she go to meet Emil. He, the great
artist, and she, a poor widow with a child...no, no!--she would see him
once again ... in the Museum of course, at the Dutch gallery ... once
only, and that for the last time, and she would tell him that she did not
wish for anything else than to see him that once. With a smile of
satisfaction she pictured to herself his somewhat disappointed face;
and, as if practising beforehand for the scene, she knitted her brow and
assumed a stern cast of countenance, and had the words ready on her lips
to say to him: "Oh, no, Emil, if you think that...." But she must take
care not to say it in quite too harsh a tone, in order that Emil might
not, as on that previous occasion ... twelve years before! ... cease to
plead after only the one attempt. She intended that he should beg a
second time, a third time--ah, Heaven knew, she intended that he should
continue to plead until she gave way.... For she felt, there in the midst
of all those good, respectable, virtuous people, with whom, indeed, she
would soon no longer be numbered, that she would give way the moment he
first asked her. She was only going to Vienna to be _his_, and after
that, if needs must be, to die.

On the afternoon of the following day Bertha set off. It was very hot,
and the sun beat down upon the leather-covered seats of the railway
carriage. Bertha had opened the window and drawn forward the yellow
curtain, which, however, kept flapping in the breeze. She was alone. But
she scarcely thought of the place towards which she was travelling; she
scarcely thought of the man whom she was about to see again, or of what
might be in store for her--she thought only of the strange words she had
heard, an hour before her departure. She would gladly have forgotten
them, at least for the next few days. Why was it that she had been unable
to remain at home during those few short hours between dinner and her
departure? What unrest had driven her on this glowing hot afternoon out
from her room, on to the street, into the market, and bade her pass Herr
Rupius' house? He was sitting there upon the balcony, his eyes fixed on
the gleaming white pavement, and over his knees, as usual, was spread the
great plaid rug, the ends of which were hanging down between the bars of
the balcony railings; in front of him was the little table with a bottle
of water and a glass. When he perceived Bertha his eyes became fixed upon
her, as though he were making some request to her, and she observed that
he beckoned her with a slight movement of the head.

Why had she obeyed him? Why had she not taken his nod simply as a
greeting and thanked him and gone upon her way? When, however, in answer
to his nod, she turned towards the door of the house, she saw a smile of
thanks glide over his lips and she found it still on his countenance when
she went out to him on the balcony, through the cool, darkened room, and,
taking his outstretched hand, sat down opposite to him on the other side
of the little table.

"How are you getting on?" she asked.

At first he made no answer; then she observed from the working of his
face that he wanted to say something, but seemed as if he was unable to
utter a word.

"She is going to ..." he broke out at length. These first words he
uttered in an unnecessarily loud voice; then, as though alarmed at the
almost shrieking tone, he added very softly: "My wife is going to
leave me."

Bertha involuntarily looked around her.

Rupius raised his hands, as if to reassure her.

"She cannot hear us She is in her room; she is asleep."

Bertha was embarrassed.

"How do you know?..." she stammered. "It is impossible--quite
impossible!"

"She is going away--away, for a time, as she says ... for a time ... do
you understand?" "Why, yes, to her brother, I suppose."

"She is going away for ever ... for ever! Naturally she does not like to
say to me: Good-bye, you will never see me again! So she says: I should
like to travel a little; I need a change; I will go to the lake for a few
weeks; I should like to bathe; I need a change of air! Naturally she does
not say to me: I can endure it no longer; I am young and in my prime and
healthy; you are paralysed and will soon die; I have a horror of your
affliction and of the loathsome state that must supervene before it is at
an end. So she says: I will go away only for a few weeks, then I will
come back again and stay with you."

Bertha's painful agitation became merged in her embarrassment.

"You are certainly mistaken," was all that she could answer.

Rupius hastily drew up the rug, which was on the point of slipping down
off his knees. He seemed to find it chilly. As he continued to speak, he
drew the rug higher and higher, until finally he held it with both hands
pressed against her breast.

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