Bertha Garlan

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"But ..."

"Well, what?"

"You are a man, you see!"

"Yes--but what do you mean by that?"

"I mean that certainly you must have loved many women."

"Loved ... loved ... yes, I suppose I have."

"But I," she broke out with animation, as though the truth was too strong
to be restrained within her; "I have loved no one but you."

He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

"I think we might rather leave that undecided, though," he said.

"Look, I have brought some violets with me for you."

He smiled.

"Are they to prove that you have told me the truth? Anybody would think,
from the way in which you said that, that you have done nothing else
since we last met but pluck, or, at least, buy, violets for me. However,
many thanks! But tell me, why didn't you want to get into the carriage?"

"Oh, but you know, a walk is so nice."

"But we can't walk forever.... We are having supper together, though?"

"Yes, I shall be delighted--for instance, here in an hotel," she
added hastily.

At that time they were walking through quieter streets, and it was
growing dusk.

Emil laughed.

"Oh, no, we will arrange things a little more cosily than that."

Bertha cast her eyes down.

"However, we mustn't sit at the same table as strangers," she said.

"Certainly not. We will even go somewhere where there is nobody
else at all."

"What are you thinking of?" she asked. "I don't do that sort of thing!"

"Just as you please," he answered, shrugging his shoulders. "Have you an
appetite yet?"

"No, not at all."

They were both silent for a time.

"Shall I not make the acquaintance of your boy some day?" he asked.

"Certainly," she replied, greatly pleased; "whenever you wish."

She began to tell him about Fritz, and then went on to speak about her
family. Emil threw in a question at times, and soon he knew all that
happened in the little town, even down to the efforts of Klingemann, of
which Bertha gave him an account, laughingly, but with a certain
satisfaction.

The street lamps were alight; the rays glittered on the damp pavements.

"My dear girl, we can't stroll about the streets all night, you know,"
said Emil suddenly.

"No ... but I cannot come with you ... into a restaurant.... Just think,
if I should happen to meet my cousin or anyone else!"

"Make your mind easy, no one will see us."

Quickly he passed through a gateway and closed the umbrella.

"What are you going to do, then?"

She saw a large garden before her. Near the walls, from which canvas
shelters were stretched, people were sitting at tables, laid for supper.

"There, do you mean?"

"No. Just come with me."

Immediately on the right of the gate was a small door, which had been
left ajar.

"Come in here."

They found themselves in a narrow, lighted passage, on both sides of
which were rows of doors. A waiter bowed and went in front of them, past
all the doors. The last one he opened, allowed the guests to enter, and
closed it again after them.

In the centre of the little room stood a small table laid for three; by
the wall was a blue velvet sofa, and opposite that hung a gilt framed
oval mirror, before which Bertha took her hat off and, as she did so,
she noticed that the names "Irma" and "Rudi" had been scratched on the
glass. At the same time, she saw in the mirror Emil coming up behind
her. He placed his hands on her cheeks, bent her head back towards
himself, and kissed her on the lips. Then he turned away without
speaking, and rang the bell.

A very young waiter came in at once, as if he had been standing outside
the door. When he had taken his order he left them, and Emil sat down.
"Well, Bertha!"

She turned towards him. He took her gently by the hand and still
continued to hold it in his, when Bertha had taken a seat beside him on
the sofa. Mechanically she touched her hair with her other hand.

An older waiter came in, and Emil made his choice from the menu. Bertha
agreed to everything. When the waiter had departed, Emil said:

"Mustn't the question be asked: How is it that all this hasn't happened
before to-day?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why didn't you write to me long ago?"

"Well, I would ... if you had got your Order sooner!"

He held her hand and kissed it.

"But you come to Vienna fairly often!"

"Oh, no."

He looked up.

"But you said something like that in your letter!"

She remembered then, and grew red.

"Well, yes ... often ... Monday was the last time I was here."

The waiter brought sardines and caviar, and left the room.

"Well," said Emil; "it is probably just the right time."

"In what way?"

"That we should have met again."

"Oh, I have often longed for you."

He seemed to be deep in thought.

"And perhaps it is also just as well that things _then_ turned out as
they did," he said. "It is on that very account that the recollection is
so charming."

"Yes, charming."

They were both silent for a time.

"Do you remember ..." she said, and then she began to talk of the old
days, of their walks in the town-park, and of her first day at the
Conservatoire.

He nodded in answer to everything she said, held his arm on the back of
the sofa, and lightly touched the lock of hair, which curled over the
nape of her neck. At times he threw in a word. Then Emil himself
recalled something which she had forgotten; he had remembered a further
outing: a trip to the Prater one Sunday morning.

"And do you still recollect," said Bertha, "how we ..." she hesitated to
utter it--"once were almost in love with each other?"

"Yes," he said. "And who knows ..."

He was perhaps about to say: "It would have been better for me if I had
married you"--but he did not finish the sentence.

He ordered champagne.

"It is not so long ago," said Bertha, "since I tasted champagne. The last
time was about six months ago, at the party which my brother-in-law gave
on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday."

She thought of the company at her brother-in-law's, and it was amazing
how remote from the present time it all seemed--the entire little town
and all who lived there.

The young waiter brought an ice-tub with the wine. At that moment it
occurred to Bertha that Emil had certainly been there before, many a
time, with other women. That, however, was a matter of tolerable
indifference to her.

They clinked glasses and drank. Emil embraced Bertha and kissed her. That
kiss reminded her of something ... what could it have been, though?... Of
the kisses she had received when a young girl?... Of the kiss of her
husband?... No.... Then it suddenly occurred to her that it was exactly
like the kisses which her young nephew Richard had lately given to her.

The waiter came in with fruit and pastry. Emil put some dates and a bunch
of grapes on a plate for Bertha.

"Why don't you say something?" she asked. "Why do you leave me to do all
the talking? And you know you could tell me so much!"

"I?..."

He slowly sipped the wine.

"Why, yes, about your tours."

"Good Heavens, one town is just like all the others. You must not, of
course, lose sight of the fact that I only rarely travel for my own
pleasure."

"Quite so, of course."

During the whole time she had not given a thought to the fact that it was
Emil Lindbach, the celebrated violin virtuoso, with whom she was sitting
there; and she felt bound to say:

"By the way, you are playing in Vienna soon. I should be very glad to
hear you."

"Not a soul will hinder you from doing so," he replied drily.

It passed through her mind that it would really be very much nicer for
her to hear him play, not at the concert, but for herself alone. She had
almost said so, but then it occurred to her that that would have meant
nothing else than: "I will come with you"--and, who could say, perhaps
very soon she would go with him. It would be as easy for her as ever, if
she had had some wine.... Yet, not so, the wine was affecting her
differently from usual--it was not the soft inebriation which made her
feel a little more cheerful; it was better, lovelier. It was not the few
drops of wine that made it so; it was the touch of his dear hand, as he
stroked her brow and hair. He had sat down beside her and he drew her
head onto his shoulder. How gladly would she have fallen asleep like
that.... Yes, indeed, nothing else did she desire.... Then she heard him
whisper: "Darling."... She trembled softly.

Why was this the first time? Could she not have had all this before? Was
there a grain of sense in living as she did?... After all, there was
nothing wicked in what she was doing now.... And how sweet it was to feel
the breath of a young man upon her eyelids!... No, not--not the breath of
a young man... of a lover....

She had shut her eyes. She made not the slightest effort to open them
again, she had not the least desire to know where she was, or with whom
she was.... Who was it, after all?... Richard?... No.... Was she falling
asleep, then?... She was there with Emil.... With whom?... But who was
this Emil?... How hard it was to be clear as to who it was!... The breath
upon her eyelids was the breath of the man she had loved when a girl ...
and, at the same time, that of the celebrated artist who was soon to
give a concert ... and, at the same time, of a man whom she had not seen
for thousands and thousands of days ... and, at the same time, of a
gentleman with whom she was sitting alone in a restaurant, and who, at
that moment, could do with her just as he pleased.... She felt his kiss
upon her eyes.... How tender he was ... and how handsome.... But what did
he really look like, then?... She had only to open her eyes to be able to
see him quite plainly.... But she preferred to imagine what he was like,
without actually seeing him.... No, how funny--why, that was not in the
least like his face!... Of course, it was the face of the young waiter,
who had left the room a minute or two before.... But what did Emil look
like, after all?... Like this?... No, no, of course, that was Richard's
face.... But away ... away.... Was she then so low as to think of nothing
but other men while she ... was with him?... If she could only open her
eyes!... Ah!

She shook herself violently, so that she almost pushed Emil away--and
then she tore her eyes wide open.

Emil gazed at her, smiling.

"Do you love me?" he asked.

She drew him towards her and kissed him of her own accord.... It was the
first time that day that she had given him a kiss of her own accord, and
in doing so she felt that she was not acting in accordance with her
resolve of the morning.... She tried to think what that resolve had
been.... To compromise herself in no way; to deny herself.... Yes, there
had certainly been a time when that had been her wish, but why? She was
in love with him, really and truly; and the moment had arrived which she
had been awaiting for days.... No, for years!

Still their lips remained pressed together.... Ah, she longed to feel his
arms about her ... to be his, body and soul. She would not let him talk
any more ... he would have to take her unto himself.... He would have to
realize that no other woman could love him so well as she did....

Emil rose to his feet and paced up and down the little room a few times.
Bertha raised her glass of champagne to her lips again.

"No more, Bertha," said Emil, in a low tone.

Yes, he was right, she thought. What was she really doing? Was she going
to make herself drunk, then? Was there any need for that? After all, she
was accountable to no one, she was free, she was young; she was
determined to taste of happiness at last.

"Ought we not to be thinking of going?" said Emil.

Bertha nodded. He helped her to put on her jacket. She stood before the
mirror and stuck the pin through her hat. They went. The young waiter was
standing before the door; he bowed. A carriage was standing before the
gate; Bertha got in; she did not hear what instructions Emil gave the
driver. Emil took his seat by her side. Both were silent; they sat
pressing closely against each other. The carriage rolled on, a long, long
way. Wherever could it be, then, that Emil lived? But, perhaps, he had
purposely told the driver to take a circuitous route, knowing, no doubt,
how pleasant it was to drive together through the night like this.

The carriage pulled up. Emil got out.

"Give me your umbrella," he said.

She handed it out to him and he opened it. Then she got out and they both
stood under the shelter of the umbrella, on which the rain was rattling
down. Was this the street in which he lived? The door opened; they
entered the hall; Emil took a candle which the porter handed to him.
Before them was a fine broad staircase. When they reached the first floor
Emil opened a door. They passed through an ante-chamber into a
drawing-room. With the candle which he held in his hand Emil lighted two
others upon the table; then he went up to Bertha, who was still standing
in the doorway, as though waiting, and led her further into the room. He
took the pin out of her hat, and placed the hat upon the table. In the
uncertain light of the two feebly-burning candles, Bertha could only see
that a few coloured pictures were hanging on the wall--portraits of the
Emperor and Empress, so it appeared to her--that, on one side, was a
broad divan covered with a Persian rug and that, near the window, there
was an upright piano with a number of framed photographs on the lid.
Over the piano a picture was hanging, but Bertha was unable to make it
out. Yonder, she saw a pair of red curtains hanging down beside a door,
which was standing half open and through the broad folds something white
and gleaming could be seen within.

She could no longer restrain the question:

"Do you live here?"

"As you see."

She looked straight before her. On the table stood a couple of little
glasses, a decanter containing liqueur and a small epergne, loaded with
fruit and pastry.

"Is this your study?" asked Bertha.

Mechanically her eyes sought for a desk such as violin players use. Emil
put his arm round her waist and led her to the piano. He sat down on the
piano stool and drew her on to his knees.

"I may as well confess to you at once," he said to her, simply and almost
drily, "that really I do not live here. It was only for our own sake ...
that I have ... for a short while ... I deemed it prudent ... Vienna, you
know, is a small town, and I didn't want to take you into my house at
night-time."

She understood, but was not altogether satisfied. She looked up. She was
now able to see the outlines of the picture which was hanging above the
piano.... It was a naked female figure. Bertha had a curious desire to
examine the picture, close at hand.

"What is that?" she asked.

"It is not a work of art," said Emil.

He struck a match and held it up, so as to throw the light on the
picture. Bertha saw that it was merely a wretched daub, but at the same
time she felt that the painted woman, with the bold laughing eyes, was
looking down at her, and she was glad when the match went out.

"You might just play something to me upon the piano," said Emil.

She wondered at the coldness of his demeanour. Didn't he realize that
she was with him?... But, on the other hand, did she herself feel any
special emotion?... No.... A strange sadness seemed to come welling
forth from every corner of the room.... Why hadn't he rather taken her
to his own house?... What sort of a house was this, she wondered.... She
regretted now that she had not drunk more wine.... She wished that she
was not so sober....

"Well, won't you play something to me?" said Emil. "Just think how long
it is since I have heard you."

She sat down and struck a chord.

"Indeed, I have forgotten everything."

"Oh, do try!"

She played very softly Schumann's Albumblatt, and she remembered how, a
few days before, late in the evening, she had improvised as she was
sitting at home, and Klingemann had walked up and down in front of the
window. She could not help thinking also of the report that he had a
scandalous picture in his room. And involuntarily, she glanced up again
at the picture of the naked woman over the piano, but now the figure
seemed to be gazing into space.

Emil had brought a chair beside Bertha's. He drew her towards him and
kissed her while her fingers first continued to play, and at length
rested quietly upon the keys. Bertha heard the rain beating against the
window-panes and a sensation as of being at home came over her.

Then she felt as though Emil was lifting her up and carrying her. Without
letting her out of his arms he had stood up and was slowly bearing her
out of the room. She felt her right arm graze against the curtain.... She
kept her eyes closed; she could feel Emil's cool breath upon her hair....

VIII

When they went out into the street the rain had left off, but the air was
permeated with a wondrous mildness and humidity. Most of the street lamps
had already been extinguished; the one at the street corner was the
nearest that was alight; and, as the sky was still overcast with clouds,
deep darkness hung over the city. Emil had offered Bertha his arm; they
walked in silence. From a church tower a clock struck--one. Bertha was
surprised. She had believed that it must be nearly morning, but now she
was glad at heart to wander mutely through the night in the still, soft
air, leaning on his arm--because she loved him very much.

They entered an open square; before them lay the Church of St. Charles.

Emil hailed a driver who had fallen asleep, sitting on the footboard of
his open carriage.

"It is such a fine night," said Emil; "we can still indulge in a short
drive before I take you to your hotel--shall we?"

The carriage started off. Emil had taken off his hat; she laid it in her
lap, an action which also afforded her pleasure. She took a sidelong
glance at Emil; his eyes seemed to be looking into the distance.

"What are you thinking of?"

"I ... To tell the truth, Bertha, I was thinking of a melody out of the
opera, which that man I was telling you about played to me this
afternoon. But I can't get it quite right."

"You are thinking of melodies now ..." said Bertha, smiling, but with a
slight-tone of reproach in her voice.

Again there was silence. The carriage drove slowly along the deserted
Ringstrasse, past the Opera House, the Museum and the public gardens.

"Emil?"

"What do you want, my darling?"

"When shall I at last have an opportunity of hearing you play again?"

"I am playing at a concert to-day, as a matter of fact," he said, as if
it were a joke.

"No, Emil, that was not what I meant--I want you to play to me alone. You
will do that just once ... won't you? Please!"

"Yes, yes."

"It would mean so much to me. I should like you to know that there was no
one in the room except myself listening to you."

"Quite so. But never mind that now, though."

He spoke in such a decided tone of voice that it seemed as if he was
defending something from her. She could not understand for what reason
her request could have been distasteful to him, and she continued:

"So then it is settled: to-morrow at five o'clock in the evening at
your house?"

"Yes, I am curious to see whether you will like it there."

"Oh, of course I shall. Surely it will be much nicer being at your house
than at that place where we have been this evening. And shall we spend
the evening together? Do you know, I am just thinking whether I ought not
to see my cousin...."

"But, my dearest one, please, don't let us map out a definite programme."

In saying this he put his arm round her neck, as if he wanted to make her
feel the tenderness which was absent from the tone of his voice.

"Emil!"

"Well?"

"To-morrow we will play the Kreatzer Sonata together--the Andante
at least."

"But, my dear child, we've talked enough about music; do let us drop the
subject. I am quite prepared to believe that you are immensely
interested in it."

Again he spoke in that vague way, from which she could not tell whether
he really meant what he said or had spoken ironically. She did not,
however, venture to ask. At the same time her yearning at that moment to
hear him play the violin was so keen that it was almost painful.

"Ah, here we are near your hotel, I see!" exclaimed Emil; and, as if
he had completely forgotten his wish to go for a drive with her
before leaving her at her door, he called out the name of the hotel to
the driver.

"Emil--"

"Well, dearest?"

"Do you still love me?"

Instead of answering he pressed her close to him and kissed her on the
lips.

"Tell me, Emil--"

"Tell you what?"

"But I know you don't like anybody to ask much of you."

"Never mind, my child, ask anything you like."

"What will you.... Tell me, what are you accustomed to do with your
forenoons?"

"Oh, I spend them in all sorts of ways. To-morrow, for instance, I am
playing the violin solo in Haydn's Mass in the Lerchenfeld Church."

"Really? Then, of course, I won't have to wait any longer than to-morrow
morning before I can hear you."

"If you want to. But it is really not worth the trouble.... That is to
say, the Mass itself, of course, is very beautiful."

"However does it happen that you are going to play in the
Lerchenfeld Church?"

"It is ... an act of kindness on my part."

"For whom?"

"For whom ... well, for Haydn, of course."

A thrill of pain seemed to seize Bertha. At that moment she felt that
there must be some special connexion between it and his taking part in
the Mass at the Lerchenfeld Church. Perhaps some woman was singing in the
Mass, who.... Ah, what did she know, after all?... But she would go to
the church, yes, she must go ... she could let no other woman have Emil!
He belonged to her, to her alone ... he had told her so, indeed.... And
she would find a way to hold him fast... She had, she told herself, such
infinite tenderness for him ... she had reserved all her love for him
alone.... She would completely envelop him in it ... no more would he
yearn for any other woman.... She would move to Vienna, be with him each
day, be with him for ever.

"Emil--"

"Well, what is the matter with you, darling?"

He turned towards her and looked at her rather uneasily.

"Do you love me? Good Heavens, here we are already!"

"Really?" said Emil, with surprise.

"Yes--there, do you see?--that's where I am staying. So tell me, please,
Emil, tell me once more--"

"Yes, to-morrow at five o'clock, my darling. I am very glad."

"No, not that.... Tell me, do you--" The carriage stopped. Emil waited by
Bertha's side until the porter came out and opened the door, then he
kissed her hand with the most ceremonious politeness, and said:

"Good-bye till we meet again, dear lady."

He drove away.

Bertha's sleep that night was sound and heavy.

When she awoke, the light of the morning sun was streaming around her.
She remembered the previous evening, and she was very glad that something
which she had imagined to be so hard, and almost grievous, had been done
and had proved to be quite easy and joyous. And then she felt a thrill of
pride on recollecting her kisses, which had had nothing in them of the
timidity of a first adventure. She could not observe the slightest trace
of repentance in her heart, although it occurred to her that it was
conventional to be penitent after such things as she had experienced.
Words, too, like "sin" and "love affair" passed through her mind, without
being able to linger in her thoughts, because they seemed to be devoid of
all meaning. She believed herself certain that she replied to Emil's
tenderness just like a woman accomplished in the art of love, and was
very happy in the thought that all those things which came to other women
as the result of the experiences of nights of drunkenness had come to her
from the depth of her feelings. It seemed to her as though in the
previous evening she had discovered in herself a gift, of the existence
of which she had hitherto had no premonition, and she felt a slight
emotion of regret stir within her at not having turned that gift to the
best advantage earlier. She remembered one of Emil's questions as to her
past, on account of which she had not been so shocked as she ought to
have been, and now, as she recalled it to mind, the same smile appeared
on her lips, as when she had sworn that she had told him the truth, which
he had not wanted to believe. Then she thought of their next meeting; she
pictured to herself how he would receive her and escort her through his
rooms. The idea came to her that she would behave just as if nothing at
all had yet happened between them. Not once would he be able to read in
her glance the recollection of the previous evening; he would have to win
her all over again, he would have to woo her--not with words alone, but
also with his music.... Yes.... Wasn't she going to hear him play that
very forenoon?... Of course--in the Church.... Then she remembered the
sudden jealousy which had seized her the previous evening.... Yes, but
why?... It seemed to her now to be so absurd--jealousy of a singer who
perhaps was taking part in singing the Mass, or of some other unknown
woman. She would, however, go to the Church in any case. Ah, how fine it
would be to stand in the dim light of the Church, unseen by him and
unable to see him, and to hear only his playing, which would float down
to her from the choir. And she felt as though she rejoiced in the
prospect of a new tenderness which should come to her from him without
his apprehending it.

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