Bertha Garlan

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"I have seen it coming; for years I have seen this moment coming.
Imagine what sort of an existence it has been; waiting for such a
moment, defenceless and forced to be silent!--Why are you looking at me
like that?"

"Oh, no," said Bertha, looking down at the market square.

"Well, I beg your pardon for referring to all this. I had no intention of
doing so, but when I saw you walking past--well, thank you very much for
having listened to me."

"Please don't mention it," said Bertha, mechanically stretching out
her hand to him. He did not notice it, however, and she let it lie
upon the table.

"Now it is all over," said Herr Rupius; "now comes the time of
loneliness, the time of dread."

"But has your wife ... she loves you, I'm sure of it!... I am quite
certain that you are giving yourself needless anxiety. Wouldn't the
simplest course be, Herr Rupius, for you to request your wife to forego
this journey?"

"Request?..." said Herr Rupius, almost majestically. "Can I pretend to
have the right to do so? AH these last six or seven years have only been
a favour which she has granted me. I beg you, consider it. During all
these seven years not a word of complaint at the waste of her youth has
passed her lips."

"She loves you," said Bertha, decisively; "and that is the chief point."

Herr Rupius looked at her for a long time.

"I know what is in your mind, although you do not venture to say it. But
your husband, my dear Frau Bertha, lies deep in the grave, and does not
sleep by your side night after night."

He looked up with a glance that seemed to ascend to Heaven as a curse.

Time was getting on; Bertha thought of her train.

"When is your wife going to start?"

"Nothing has been said about that yet--but I am keeping you, perhaps?"

"No, not at all, Herr Rupius, only.... Hasn't Anna told you? I'm going to
Vienna to-day, you know."

She grew burning red. Once more he gazed at her for a long time. It
seemed to her as though he knew everything.

"When are you coming back?" he asked drily.

"In two or three days."

She would have liked to say that he was mistaken, that she was not going
to see a man whom she loved, that all these things about which he was
worrying were sordid and mean, and really of not the slightest importance
to women--but she was not clever enough to find the right words to
express herself.

"If you come back in two or three days' time you may, perhaps, find my
wife still here. So, good-bye! I hope you will enjoy yourself."

She felt that his glance had followed her as she went through the dark,
curtained room and across the market square. And now, too, as she sat in
the railway carriage, she felt the same glance and still in her ears kept
ringing those words, in which there seemed to lie the consciousness of
an immense unhappiness, which she had not hitherto understood. The
torment of this recollection seemed stronger than the expectation of any
joys that might be awaiting her, and the nearer she approached to the
great city the heavier she became at heart. As she thought of the lonely
evening that lay before her she felt as though she were travelling,
without hope, towards some strange, uncertain destination. The letter,
which she still carried in her bodice, had lost its enchantment; it was
nothing but a piece of crackling paper, filled with writing, the corners
of which were beginning to get torn. She tried to imagine what Emil now
looked like. Faces bearing a slight resemblance to his arose before her
mind's eye; many times she thought that she had surely hit upon the right
one, but it vanished immediately. Doubts began to assail her as to
whether she had done the right thing in travelling so soon. Why had she
not waited, at least, until Monday?

Then she was obliged, however, to confess to herself that she was going
to Vienna to keep an appointment with a young man, with whom she had not
exchanged a word for ten years, and who, perhaps, was expecting a quite
different woman from the one who was travelling to see him on the morrow.
Yes, that was the cause of all her uneasiness; she realized it now. The
letter which was already beginning to chafe her delicate skin was
addressed to Bertha, the girl of twenty; for Emil, of course, could not
know what she looked like now. And, although for her own part, she could
assure herself that her face still preserved its girlish features and
that her figure, though grown fuller, still preserved the contours of
youth, might he not see, in spite of all, how many changes a period of
ten years had wrought in her, and, perhaps, even destroyed without her
having noticed it herself?

The train drew up at Klosterneuburg. Bertha's ears were assailed by the
sound of many clear voices and the clatter of hurrying footsteps. She
looked out of the window. A number of schoolboys crowded up to the train
and, laughing and shouting, got into the carriages. The sight of them
caused Bertha to call to mind the days of her childhood, when her
brothers used to come back from picnics in the country, and suddenly
there came before her eyes a vision of the blue room in which the boys
had slept. She seemed to feel a tremor run through her as she realized
how all the past was scattered to the wind; how those to whom she owed
her existence had died, how those with whom she had lived for years under
one roof were forgotten; how friendships which had seemed to have been
formed to last for ever had become dissolved. How uncertain, how mortal,
everything was!

And he ... he had written to her as if in the course of those ten years
nothing had changed, as if in the meantime there had not been funerals,
births, sorrows, illnesses, cares and--for him, at least--so much good
fortune and fame. Involuntarily she shook her head. A kind of perplexity
in the face of so much that was incomprehensible came over her. Even the
roaring of the train, which was carrying her along to unknown adventures,
seemed to her as a chant of remarkable sadness. Her thoughts went back to
the time, by no means remote, in fact no more than a few days earlier,
when she had been tranquil and contented, and had borne her existence
without desire, without regret and without wonder. However had it
happened that this change had come over her? She could not understand.

The train seemed to rush forward with ever-increasing speed towards its
destination. Already she could see the smoke of the great city rising
skywards as out of the depths. Her heart began to throb. She felt as if
she was awaited by something vague, something for which she could not
find a name, a thing with a hundred arms, ready to embrace her. Each
house she passed knew that she was coming; the evening sun, gleaming on
the roofs, shone to meet her; and then, as the train rolled into the
station, she suddenly felt sheltered. Now for the first time, she
realized that she was in Vienna, in _her_ Vienna, the town of her youth
and of her dreams, that she was home. Had she not given the slightest
thought to that before? She did not come from home--no, now she had
arrived home. The din at the station filled her with a feeling of
comfort, the bustle of people and carriages gladdened her, everything
that was sorrowful had been shed from her.

There she stood at the Franz Josef Station in Vienna, on a warm May
evening, Bertha Garlan, young and pretty, free and accountable to no one,
and on the morrow she was to see the only man whom she had ever
loved--the lover who had called her.

She put up at a little hotel near the station. She had determined to
choose one of the less fashionable, partly for the sake of economy, and
partly, too, because she stood in awe, to a certain extent, of smart
waiters and porters. She was shown to a room on the third floor with a
window looking out on the street. The chambermaid closed the window when
the visitor entered, and brought some fresh water, the boots placed her
box beside the stove, and the waiter placed before her the registration
paper, which Bertha filled up immediately and unhesitatingly, with the
pride that comes of a clear conscience.

A feeling of freedom as regards external circumstances, such as she had
not known for a long time, encompassed her; there were none of the petty
domestic cares of the daily round, there was no obligation to talk to
relations or acquaintances; she was at liberty that evening to do just as
she liked.

When she had changed her dress she opened the window. She had already
been obliged to light the candles, but out of doors it was not yet quite
dark. She leaned her elbows on the window-sill and looked down. Again she
remembered her childhood, when she had often looked down out of the
windows in the evenings, sometimes with one of her brothers, who had
thrown his arm around her shoulders. She also thought of her parents with
so keen an emotion that she was on the verge of tears.

Down below the street lamps were already alight. Well, at all events, she
must find something to do. She thought of what might be happening the
next day at that hour.... She could not picture it to herself. At that
moment, it just happened that a lady and gentleman drove by the hotel in
a cab. If things turned out in accordance with her wishes, Emil and she
should be going for a drive together into the country the next
morning--yes, that would be nicest. Some quiet spot away from the town in
a restaurant garden, a candle lamp on the table, and he beside her, hand
in hand like a pair of young lovers. And then back again--and then....
No, she would rather not imagine anything further! Where was he now, she
wondered. Was he alone? Or was he at that very instant engaged in talking
with some one? And with whom--a man?--a woman?--a girl? But, after all,
was it any concern of hers? For the present it was certainly not any
concern of hers. And to Emil it mattered just as little that Herr
Klingemann had proposed to her the previous day, that Richard, her
precocious nephew, kissed her sometimes, and that she had a great
admiration for Herr Rupius. She would be sure to ask him on the
morrow--yes, she must be certain as regards all these points before
she ... well, before she went with him in the evening into the country.

So then she decided to go out--but where? She stopped, irresolute, at
the door. All she could do was to go for a short walk and then have
supper ... but again, where? A lady alone.... No, she would have supper
here in her room at the hotel, and go to bed early so that she might have
a good night's rest and look fresh, young and pretty in the morning.

She locked the door and went out into the street. She turned towards the
inner town, and proceeded at a very sharp pace, for she did not like
walking alone in the evening. Soon she reached the Ring and went past the
University, and on to the Town Hall. But she took no pleasure at all in
this aimless rambling. She felt bored and hungry, and went back to her
hotel in a tramcar. She had no great desire to seek her room. From the
street she had already noticed that the dining-room of the hotel was
barely lighted and evidently empty. She had supper there, after which she
grew tired and sleepy and, with an effort, went up the three flights of
stairs to her room. As she sat on the bed and undid her shoe laces, she
heard ten o'clock chime in a neighbouring church steeple.

When she awoke in the morning she hurried, first of all, to the window
and drew up the blinds with a great longing to see the daylight and the
town. It was a sunny morning, and the air was as fresh as if it had come
flowing down from a thousand springs in the forests and hills into the
streets of the town. The beauty of the morning acted on Bertha as a good
omen; she wondered at the strange, foolish manner in which she had spent
the previous evening--as if she had not quite correctly understood why
she had come to Vienna. The certainty that the repose of a whole night no
longer separated her from the longed-for hour filled her with a sense of
great gladness. All at once, she could no longer understand how it was
that she could have come to Vienna, as she had done just recently,
without daring to make even an attempt to see Emil. Finally, too, she
wondered how it was that she had, for weeks, months, perhaps years,
needlessly deferred availing herself of the opportunity of seeing him.
The fact that she had scarcely thought of him during the whole time, did
not occur to her at first, but, when at length she did realize it, she
was amazed at that, most of all.

At last only four more hours were to be endured, and then she would see
him. She lay down on the bed again; she reclined, at first, with her eyes
wide open, and she whispered to herself, as though she wanted to
intoxicate herself with the words: "Come soon!" She heard Emil himself
speak the words, no longer far away, no, but as though he were close by
her side. His lips breathed them on hers: "Come soon!" he said, but the
words meant: "Be mine! be mine!" She opened her arms as though making
ready to press her beloved to her heart. "I love you," she said, and
breathed a kiss into the air.

At length she got up and dressed. This time she had brought with her a
simple grey costume, cut in the English fashion, which, according to the
general opinion of her friends, suited her very well, and she was quite
content with herself when she had completed her toilet. She probably did
not look like a fashionable lady of Vienna, but, on the other hand, she
had not the appearance of a fashionable lady from the country either; it
seemed to her that she looked more like a governess in the household of
some Count or Prince, than anything else. Indeed, as a matter of fact,
there was something of the young, unmarried lady in her aspect; no one
would have taken her for a married woman and the mother of a
five-year-old boy. She thought, with a slight sigh, that truly she would
have done better to have remained unmarried. But, as to that, she was
feeling that day very much like a bride.

Nine o'clock! Still two long hours to wait! What could she do in the
meantime? She sat down at the table, ordered coffee and sipped it slowly.
There was no sense in remaining indoors any longer; it was better to go
out into the open air at once.

For a time she walked about the streets of the suburb, and she took a
particularly keen pleasure in the wind blowing on her cheeks. She asked
herself: What was Fritz doing at that moment? Probably Elly was playing
with him. Bertha took the road which led towards the public gardens; she
was glad to go for a walk through the avenues, in which, many years ago,
she had played as a child. She entered the garden by the gate opposite
the Burg-theatre. At that early hour of the day there were but few people
in the gardens. Children were playing on the gravel; governesses and
nursemaids were sitting on the seats; little girls were running about
along the steps of the Temple of Theseus and under its colonnade. Elderly
people were walking in the shade of the avenues; young men, who were
apparently studying from large writing books, and ladies, who were
reading books, had taken their seats in the cool shade of the trees.

Bertha sat on a seat and watched two little girls who were jumping over a
piece of string, as she had so often done herself, when a child--it
seemed to her, in just the same spot. A gentle breeze blew through the
foliage; from afar she heard the calls and laughter of some children
playing "catch." The cries came nearer and nearer; and then the children
ran trooping past her. She felt a thrill of pleasure when a young man in
a long overcoat walked slowly by and turned round to look at her for a
second time, when he reached the end of the avenue. Then there passed by
a young couple; the girl, who had a roll of music in her hand, was
neatly but somewhat strikingly dressed; the man was clean-shaven and was
wearing a light summer suit and a tall hat. Bertha thought herself most
experienced when she fancied that she was able with certainty to
recognize in the girl a student of music, and in her companion a young
man who had just gone on the stage. It was very pleasant to be sitting
there, to have nothing to do, to be alone, and to have people walking,
running and playing like this before her. Yes, it would be nice to live
in Vienna and be able to do just as she liked. Well, who could say how
everything would turn out, what the next few hours would bring forth,
what prospects for her future life that evening would open out before
her? What was it then, that really forced her to live in that dreadful
little town? After all, in Vienna she would be able to supplement her
income by giving music lessons just as easily as at home. Why not,
indeed? Moreover, in Vienna, better terms were to be obtained for music
lessons.... Ah, what an idea!... if he came to her aid; if he, the famous
musician, recommended her? Why, certainly it would only need one word
from him. What if she were to speak to him on the subject? And would it
not also be a most advantageous arrangement in view of her child? In a
few years' time he would have to go to school, and then, of course, the
schools were so much better in Vienna than at home. No, it was quite
impossible for her to pass all her life in the little town--she would
have to move to Vienna, and that, too, at no distant date. Moreover, even
if she had to economise here, and--and.... In vain she attempted to
restrain the bold thoughts which now came rushing along.... If she should
take Emil's fancy, if he should again ... if he should still be in love
with her ... if he should ask her to be his wife? If she could be a bit
clever, if she avoided compromising herself in any way, and understood
how to fascinate him--she felt rather ashamed of her craftiness. But,
after all, was it so bad that she should think of such things,
considering that she was really in love with him, and had never loved any
other man but him? And did not the whole tone of his letter give her the
right to indulge in such thoughts?

And then, when she realised that in a few minutes she was to meet him who
was the object of her hopes, everything began to dance before her eyes.
She rose to her feet, and nearly reeled. She saw the young couple, who
had previously walked past her, leave the gardens by the road leading to
the Burgplatz. She went off in the same direction. Yonder, she saw the
dome of the Museum, towering and gleaming. She decided to walk slowly, so
as not to appear too excited or even breathless when she met him. Once
more she was seized with a thrill of fear--suppose he should not come?
But whatever happened, she would not leave Vienna this time without
seeing him.

Would it not, perhaps, even be better if he did not come, she wondered.
She was so bewildered at that moment ... and supposing she was to say
anything silly or awkward.... So much depended on the next few
minutes--perhaps her whole future....

There was the Museum before her. Up the steps, through the entrance, and
she was standing in the large, cool vestibule. Before her eyes was the
grand staircase and, yonder, where it divided to right and left, was the
colossal marble statue of Theseus slaying the Minotaur. Slowly she
ascended the stairs and, as she looked round about her, she grew calmer.
The magnificence of her surroundings captivated her. She looked up at the
galleries which, with their golden railings, ran round the interior of
the dome. She came to a stop. Before her was a door, above which appeared
in gilt letters: "Dutch School."

Her heart gave a sudden convulsive throb. Before her eyes lay the row of
picture galleries. Here and there she saw people standing before the
pictures. She entered the first hall, and gazed attentively at the first
picture hanging at the very entrance. She thought of Herr Rupius'
portfolio. And then she heard a voice say:

"Good morning, Bertha."

VI

It was his voice. She turned round. He was standing before her, young,
slim, elegant and rather pale. In his smile there was a suggestion of
mockery. He nodded to Bertha, took her hand at the same time, and held it
for a while in his own. It was Emil himself, and it was exactly as if the
last occasion on which they had spoken to one another had been only the
previous day.

"Good morning, Emil," she said.

They gazed at each other. His glance was expressive of much: pleasure,
amiability, and something in the nature of a scrutiny. She realised all
this with perfect clearness, whilst she gazed at him with eyes in which
nothing but pure happiness was shining.

"Well, then, how are you getting on, Bertha?" he asked.

"Quite well."

"It is really funny that I should ask you such a question after eight or
nine years. Things have probably gone very differently with you."

"Yes, indeed, that's true. You know, of course, that my husband died
three years ago."

She felt obliged to assume an expression of sorrow.

"Yes, I know that, and I know, too, that you have a boy. Let me see, who
could it have been that told me?"

"I wonder who?"

"Well, it'll come back to me presently. It is new to me, though, that you
are interested in pictures."

Bertha smiled.

"Well, it wasn't really on account of the pictures alone. But you mustn't
think that I am quite so silly as all that. I do take an interest in
pictures."

"And so do I. If the truth must be told, I think I would rather be a
painter than anything else."

"Yet you ought to be quite satisfied with what you have attained."

"Well, that's a question that can't be disposed of in one word. Of
course, I find it a very pleasant thing to be able to play the violin so
well, but what does it all lead to? Only to this, I think: that when I am
dead my name will endure for a short time. That--" his eyes indicated the
picture before which they were standing--"that, on the other hand, is
something different."

"You are awfully ambitious, Emil!"

He looked at her, but without evincing the slightest interest in her.

"Ambitious? Well, it is not such a simple matter as all that. But let's
talk about something else. What a strange idea to indulge in a
theoretical conversation on the subject of art, when we haven't seen
each other for a hundred years! So come, then, Bertha, tell me something
about yourself! What do you do with yourself at home? How do you live?
And what really put it into your head to congratulate me on getting that
silly Order?"

She smiled a second time.

"I wanted to write to you again," she answered; "and, chiefly, I wanted
to hear something of you once more; It was really very good of you to
answer my letter at once."

"Good? Not at all, my child! I was so pleased when, all of a sudden, your
letter came--I recognised your writing at once. You know, you still have
the same schoolgirl writing as.... Well, let us say, as in the old days,
although I can't bear such expressions."

"But why?" she asked, somewhat astonished.

He looked at her, and then said in a rapid voice:

"Well, tell me, how do you live? You must generally get very bored,
I'm sure."

"I haven't much time for that," she replied gravely. "I give lessons, you
must know."

"Oh!"

His tone was one of such disproportionate pity that she felt constrained
to add quickly:

"Oh, not because there is really any pressing need for me to do
so--although, of course, I find it very useful, because ..." she felt
that it would be best to be quite frank with him ... "I could scarcely
live on the slender means that I possess."

"What is it, then, that you are actually a teacher of?"

"What! Didn't I tell you that I give piano lessons?"

"Piano lessons? Really? Yes, of course ... you used to be very talented.
If you hadn't left the Conservatoire when you did ... well, of course,
you would not have become one of the great pianistes, you know, but for
certain things you had quite a pronounced aptitude. For instance, you
used to play Chopin and the little things of Schumann very prettily."

"You still remember that?"

"After all, I dare say that you have chosen the better course."

"In what way?"

"Well, if it is impossible to master everything, it is better, no doubt,
to get married and have children."

"I have only one child."

He laughed.

"Tell me something about him, and all about your own life in general."

They sat down on the divan in the little saloon on front of the
Rembrandts.

"What have I to tell you about myself? There is nothing in it of the
slightest interest. Rather, you tell me about yourself"--she looked at
him with admiration--"things have gone so splendidly with you, you are
such a celebrated man, you see!"

Emil twitched his underlip very slightly, as if discontented.

"Why, yes," she continued, undaunted; "quite recently I saw your portrait
in an illustrated paper."

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.

"But I always knew that you would make a name for yourself," she
added. "Do you still remember how you played the Mendelssohn Concerto
at that final examination at the Conservatoire? Everybody said the
same thing then."

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