Bertha looked out through the open carriage window upon the landscape:
Frau Rupius read a book, which she had taken out of her little
traveling-bag very soon after the train had started. It almost appeared
as though she wished to avoid any lengthy conversation with Bertha, and
the latter felt somewhat hurt. For a long time past she had been
cherishing a wish to be a friend of Frau Rupius, but since the previous
day this desire of hers had become almost a yearning, which recalled to
her mind the whole-hearted devotion of the friendships of the days of her
childhood.
At first, therefore, she had felt quite unhappy, and had a sensation of
having been abandoned, but soon the changing panorama to be seen through
the window began to distract her thoughts in an agreeable manner. As she
looked at the rails which seemed to run to meet her, at the hedges and
telegraph poles which glided and leaped past her, she recalled to mind
the few short journeys to the Salzkammergut, where she had been taken,
when a child, by her parents, and the indescribable pleasure of having
been allowed to occupy a corner seat on those occasions. Then she looked
into the distance and exulted in the gleaming of the river, in the
pleasant windings of the hills and meadows, in the azure of the sky and
in the white clouds.
After a time Anna laid down the book, and began to chat to Bertha and
smiled at her, as though at a child.
"Who would have foretold this of us?" said Frau Rupius.
"That we should be going to Vienna together?"
"No, no, I mean that we shall both--how shall I express it?--pass or end
our lives yonder"--she gave a slight nod in the direction of the place
from which they came.
"Very true, indeed!" answered Bertha, who had not yet considered whether
there was anything really strange in the fact or not.
"Well, you, of course, knew it the moment you were married, but I--"
Frau Rupius gazed straight before her.
"So then your move to the little town," said Bertha, "did not take place
until--until--"
She broke off in confusion.
"Yes, you know that, of course."
In saying this Frau Rupius looked Bertha full in the face as if
reproaching her for her question. But when she continued to speak
she smiled gently, as though her thoughts were not occupied by
anything so sad.
"Yes, I never imagined that I should leave Vienna; my husband had his
position as a government official, and indeed he would certainly have
been able to remain longer there, in spite of his infirmity, had he not
wanted to go away at once."
"He thought, perhaps, that the fresh air, the quiet--" began Bertha, and
she at once perceived that she was not saying anything very sensible.
Nevertheless Anna answered her quite affably.
"Oh, no, neither rest nor climate could do him any good, but he thought
that it would be better for both of us in every way. He was right,
too--what should we have been able to do if we had remained in the city?"
Bertha felt that Anna was not telling her the whole story and she would
have liked to beg her not to hesitate, but to open her whole heart to
her. She knew, however, that she was not clever enough to express such a
request in the right words. Then, as though Frau Rupius had guessed that
Bertha was anxious to learn more, she quickly changed the subject of
their conversation. She asked Bertha about her brother-in-law, the
musical talent of her pupils, and her method of teaching; then she took
up the novel again and left Bertha to herself.
Once she looked up from the book and said:
"You haven't brought anything with you to read, then?"
"Oh, yes," answered Bertha.
She suddenly remembered that she had bought a newspaper; she took it up
and turned over the pages assiduously. The train drew near to Vienna.
Frau Rupius closed her book and put it in the travelling-bag. She looked
at Bertha with a certain tenderness, as at a child who must soon be sent
away alone to meet an uncertain destiny.
"Another quarter of an hour," she remarked; "and we shall be--well, I
very nearly said, home."
Before them lay the town. On the far side of the river chimneys towered
up aloft, rows of tall yellow painted houses stretched away into the
distance, and steeples ascended skywards. Everything lay basking in the
gentle sunlight of May.
Bertha's heart throbbed. She experienced a sensation such as might come
over a traveller returning after a long absence to a longed-for home,
which had probably altered greatly in the meantime, and where surprises
and mysteries of all kinds awaited him. At the moment when the train
rolled into the station she seemed almost courageous in her own eyes.
Frau Rupius took a carriage, and they drove into the town. As they passed
the Ring, Bertha suddenly leaned out of the window and gazed after a
young man whose figure and walk reminded her of Emil Lindbach. She wished
that the young man would turn round, but she lost sight of him without
his having done so.
The carriage stopped before a house in the Kohlmarkt. The two ladies got
out and made their way to the third floor, where the dressmaker's
workroom was situated. While Frau Rupius tried on her new costume,
Bertha had various materials displayed to her from which she made a
choice. The assistant took her measure, and it was arranged that Bertha
should call in a week's time to be fitted. Frau Rupius came out from the
adjoining room and recommended that particular care should be given to
her friend's order.
It seemed to Bertha that everybody was looking at her in a rather
disparaging, almost compassionate manner, and, on looking at herself in
the large pier glass she suddenly perceived that she was very tastelessly
dressed. What on earth had put it into her head to attire herself on this
occasion in the provincial Sunday-best, instead of in one of the simple
plain dresses she usually wore? She grew crimson with shame. She had on a
black and white striped foulard costume, which was three years out of
date, so far as its cut was concerned, and a bright-coloured hat, trimmed
with roses and turned up at an extravagant angle in front, which seemed
to weigh heavily upon her dainty figure and made her appear almost
ridiculous.
Then, as if her own conviction needed further confirmation by some word
of consolation, Frau Rupius said, as they went down the stairs:
"You are looking lovely!"
They stood in the doorway.
"What shall be done now?" asked Frau Rupius. "What do you propose?"
"Will you then ... I ... I mean ..."
Bertha was quite frightened; she felt as though she was being
turned adrift.
Frau Rupius looked at her with kindly commiseration.
"I think," she said, "that you are going to pay a visit to your cousin
now, are you not? I suppose that you will be asked to stay to dinner."
"Agatha will be sure to invite me to dine with her."
"I will accompany you as far as your cousin's, if you would like me to;
then I will go to my brother and, if possible, I will call for you at
three in the afternoon."
Together they walked through the most crowded streets of the central part
of the town and looked at the shop windows. At first Bertha found the din
somewhat confusing; afterwards, however, she found it more pleasant than
otherwise. She gazed at the passers-by and took great pleasure in
watching the well-groomed men and smartly-attired ladies. Almost all the
people seemed to be wearing new clothes, and it seemed to her they all
looked much happier than the people at home.
Presently she stopped before the window of a picture-dealer's shop and
immediately her eyes fell on a familiar portrait; it was the same one of
Emil Lindbach as had appeared in the illustrated paper, Bertha was as
delighted as if she had met an acquaintance.
"I know that man," she said to Frau Rupius.
"Whom?"
"That man there"--she pointed with her finger at the photograph--"what do
you think? I used to attend the conservatoire at the same time he did!"
"Really?" said Frau Rupius.
Bertha looked at her and observed that she had not paid the slightest
attention to the portrait, but was thinking of something else. Bertha,
however, was glad of that, for it seemed to her that there had been too
much warmth lurking in her voice.
All at once a gentle thrill of pride stirred within her at the thought
that the man whose portrait hung there in the shop window had been in
love with her in the days of his youth, and had kissed her. She walked on
with a sensation of inward contentment. After a short time they reached
her cousin's house on the Riemerstrasse.
"So it's settled then," she said; "you will call for me at three o'clock,
won't you?"
"Yes," replied Frau Rupius; "that is to say--but if I should be a little
late, do not on any account wait for me at your cousin's any longer than
you want to. In any case, this much is settled: we will both be at the
railway station at seven o'clock this evening. Good-bye for the present."
She shook hands with Bertha and hurried away.
Bertha gazed after her in surprise. Once more she felt forlorn, just as
she had done in the train when Frau Rupius had read the novel.
Then she went up the two flights of stairs. She had not sent her cousin
word as to her visit, and she was a little afraid that her arrival might
be somewhat inopportune. She had not seen Agatha for many years, and they
had exchanged letters only at very rare intervals.
Agatha received her without either surprise or cordiality, as though it
was only the day before that they had seen each other for the last time.
A smile had been playing around Bertha's lips--the smile of those who
think that they are about to give some one else a surprise--she repressed
it immediately.
"Well, you are not a very frequent visitor, I must say!" said Agatha,
"and you never let us have a word from you."
"But, Agatha, you know it was your turn to write; you have been owing me
a letter these last three months."
"Really!" replied Agatha. "Well, you'll have to excuse me; you can
imagine what a lot of work three children mean. Did I write and tell you
that Georg goes to school now?"
Agatha took her cousin into the nursery, where Georg and his two little
sisters were just having their dinner given them by the
nursery-governess. Bertha asked them a few questions, but the children
were very shy, and the younger girl actually began to cry.
"Do beg Aunt Bertha to bring Fritz with her next time she comes," said
Agatha to Georg at length.
It struck Bertha how greatly her cousin had aged during the last few
years. Indeed, when she bent down to the children Agatha appeared almost
like an old woman; and yet she was only a year older than Bertha, as the
latter knew.
By the time they had returned to the dining-room they had already told
each other all that they had to say, and when Agatha invited Bertha to
stay to dinner, it seemed that she spoke only for the mere sake of making
some remark. Bertha accepted the invitation, nevertheless, and her cousin
went into the kitchen to give some orders.
Bertha gazed around the room, which was furnished economically and in bad
taste. It was very dark, for the street was extremely narrow. She took up
an album which was lying on the table. She found hardly any but familiar
faces in it. At the very beginning were the portraits of Agatha's
parents, who had died long ago; then came those of her own parents and of
her brothers, of whom she scarcely ever heard; portraits of friends whom
they both had known in earlier days, and of whom she now knew hardly
anything; and, finally, there was a photograph, the existence of which
she had long forgotten. It was one of herself and Agatha together, and
had been taken when they were quite young girls. In those days they had
been very much alike in appearance, and had been great friends. Bertha
could remember many of the confidential chats which they had had
together in the days of their girlhood.
And that lovely creature there with the looped plaits was now almost an
old woman! And what of herself? What reason had she, then, for still
looking upon herself as a young woman? Did she not, perhaps, appear to
others as old as Agatha had seemed to her? She resolved that, in the
afternoon, she would take notice of the glances which passers-by bestowed
upon her. It would be terrible if she really did look as old as her
cousin! No, the idea was utterly ridiculous! She called to mind how her
nephew, Richard always called her his "pretty aunt," how Klingemann had
walked to and fro outside her window the other evening--and even the
recollection of her brother-in-law's attentions reassured her. And, when
she looked in the mirror which was hanging opposite to her, she saw two
bright eyes gazing at her from a smooth, fresh face--they were her face
and her eyes.
When Agatha came into the room again Bertha began to talk of the far-away
years of their childhood, but it seemed that Agatha had forgotten all
about those early days, as though marriage, motherhood and week-day cares
had obliterated both youth and its memories. When Bertha went on to speak
of a students' dance they had both attended, of the young men who had
courted Agatha, and of a bouquet which some unknown lover had once sent
her, Agatha at first smiled rather absent-mindedly, then she looked at
Bertha and said:
"Just fancy you still remembering all those foolish things!"
Agatha's husband came home from his Government office. He had grown very
grey since Bertha had last seen him. At first sight he did not appear to
recognize Bertha, then he mistook her for another lady, and excused
himself by remarking that he had a very bad memory for faces. At dinner
he affected to be smart, he inquired in a certain superior way about the
affairs of the little town, and wondered, jestingly, whether Bertha was
not thinking of marrying again. Agatha also took part in this bantering,
although, at the same time, she occasionally glanced reprovingly at her
husband, who was trying to give the conversation a frivolous turn.
Bertha felt ill at ease. Later on she gathered from some words of
Agatha's husband that they were expecting another addition to their
family. Usually Bertha felt sympathy for women in such circumstances, but
in this case the news created an almost unpleasant impression upon her.
Moreover there was not a trace of love to be discerned in the tone of the
husband's voice when he referred to it, but rather a kind of foolish
pride on the score of an accomplished duty. He spoke of the matter as
though it was a special act of kindness on his part that, in spite of the
fact that he was a busy man, and Agatha was no longer beautiful, he
condescended to spend his time at home. Bertha had an impression that
she was being mixed up in some sordid affair which did not concern her in
the least. She was glad when, as soon as he had finished his dinner, the
husband went off--it was his custom, "his only vice," as he said with a
smile, to play billiards at the restaurant for an hour after dinner.
Bertha and Agatha were left together.
"Yes," said Agatha, "I've got that to look forward to again."
Thereupon she began, in a cold, businesslike way, to talk about her
previous confinements, with a candour and lack of modesty which seemed
all the more remarkable because they had become such strangers. While
Agatha was continuing the relation of her experiences, however, the
thought suddenly passed through Bertha's mind that it must be glorious to
have a child by a husband whom one loved.
She ceased to pay attention to her cousin's unpleasant talk; and her
thoughts were only occupied by the infinite yearning for motherhood
which had often come over her when she was quite a young girl, and she
called to mind an occasion when that yearning had been more keen than it
had ever been, either before or after. This had happened one evening
when Emil Lindbach had accompanied her home from the conservatoire, her
hand clasped in his. She still remembered how her head had begun to
swim, and that at one moment she had understood what the phrase meant
which she had sometimes read in novels: "He could have done with her
just as he liked."
Then she noticed that it had grown quite silent in the room, and that
Agatha was leaning back in the corner of the sofa, apparently asleep. It
was three by the clock. How tiresome it was that Frau Rupius had not yet
arrived! Bertha went to the window and looked out into the street. Then
she turned towards Agatha, who had again opened her eyes. Bertha quickly
tried to begin a fresh conversation, and told her about the new costume
which she had ordered in the forenoon, but Agatha was too sleepy even to
answer. Bertha had no wish to put her cousin out, and took her departure.
She decided to wait for Frau Rupius in the street. Agatha seemed very
pleased when Bertha got ready to go. She became more cordial than she had
been at any time during her cousin's visit, and said at the door, as if
struck by some brilliant idea:
"How the time does pass! I do hope you'll come and see us again soon."
Bertha, as she stood before the door of the house, realized that she was
waiting for Frau Rupius in vain. There was no doubt that it had been the
latter's intention from the beginning to spend the afternoon without her.
Of course, it did not necessarily follow that there was anything wicked
in it; as a matter of fact there was nothing wicked in it, but it hurt
Bertha to think that Anna had so little trust in her.
She walked along with no fixed purpose. She had still more than three
hours to while away before she was to be at the station. At first, she
took a walk in the inner town, which she had passed through in the
morning. It was really a pleasant thing to wander about unobserved like
this, as a stranger in the crowd. It was long since she had experienced
that pleasure. Some of the men who passed her glanced at her with
interest, and more than one, indeed, stopped to gaze after her. She
regretted that she was dressed to so little advantage, and rejoiced at
the prospect of obtaining soon the beautiful costume she had ordered
from the Viennese dressmaker. She would have liked to find some one
following her.
Suddenly the thought passed through her mind: would Emil Lindbach
recognize her if she were to meet him? What a question! Such things never
happened, of course. No, she was quite sure that she could wander about
Vienna the whole day long without ever meeting him. How long was it since
she had seen him? Seven--eight years.... Yes, the last time she had met
him was two years before her marriage. She had been with her parents one
warm summer evening in the Schweitzerhaus on the Prater; he had gone by
with a friend and had stopped a few minutes at their table. Ah, and now
she remembered also that amongst the company at their table there had
been the young doctor who was courting her. She had forgotten what Emil
had said on that occasion, but she remembered that he had held his hat
in his hand during the whole time he was standing before her, which had
afforded her inexpressible delight. Would he do the same now, she thought
to herself, if she were to meet him?
Where was he living now, she wondered. In the old days he had a room on
the Weiden, near St. Paul's Church.... Yes, he had pointed out the window
as they passed one day, and had ventured, as they did so, to make a
certain remark--she had forgotten the exact words, but there was no doubt
that they had been to the effect that he and she ought to be in that room
together. She had rebuked him very severely for saying such a thing; she
had even gone the length of telling him that if that was the sort of girl
he thought she was, all was over between them. And, in fact, he had never
spoken another word on the subject.
Would she recognize the window again? Would she find it? It was all the
same to her, of course, whether she went for a walk in this direction or
that. She hurried towards the Weiden as though she had suddenly found an
object for her walk. She was amazed at the complete change which had come
over the neighbourhood. When she looked down from the Elizabeth Bridge
she saw walls that rose from the bed of the Wien, half finished tracks,
little trucks moving to and fro, and busy workmen. Soon she reached St.
Paul's Church by the same road as she had so often followed in the old
days. But then she came to a standstill; she was absolutely at a loss to
remember where Emil had lived--whether she had to turn to the right or to
the left. It was strange how completely it had escaped her memory. She
walked slowly back as far as the Conservatoire, then she stood still.
Above her were the windows from which she had so often gazed upon the
dome of St. Charles' Church, and longingly awaited the end of the lesson
so that she might meet Emil. How great had been her love for him, indeed;
and how strange it was that it should have died so completely!
And now, when she had returned to these scenes, she was a widow, had
been so for years, and had a child at home who was growing up. If she
had died, Emil would never have heard of it, or perhaps not until years
afterwards. Her eyes fell on a large placard fixed on the entrance,
gates of the Conservatoire. It was an announcement of the concert at
which he was going to play, and there was his name appearing among a
number of other great ones, many of which she had long since admired
with gentle awe.
"BRAHMS VIOLIN CONCERTO--EMIL LINDBACH, VIOLINIST TO THE COURT OF
BAVARIA."
"Violinist to the Court of Bavaria!"--she had never heard anything about
that before.
Gazing up at his name, which stood out in glittering letters, it seemed
to her as though the next moment Emil himself might come out through the
gate, his violin case in his hand, a cigarette between his lips. Of a
sudden it all seemed so near, and nearer still when all at once from the
windows above came floating down the long-drawn notes of a violin, just
as she had so often heard in the old days.
She thought she would like to come to Vienna for that concert--yes, even
if she should be obliged to spend the night at an hotel! And she would
take a seat right in front and see him quite close at hand. She wondered
whether he, in his turn, would see her, and, if so, whether he would
recognize her. She remained standing before the yellow placard, wholly
absorbed in thought, until she felt that some young people coming out of
the Conservatoire were staring at her and then she realized that she had
been smiling to herself the whole time, as if lost in a pleasant dream.
She proceeded to walk on. The district around the town-park had also
changed, and, when she sought the places where she and Emil had often
been for walks together, she found that they had quite' disappeared.
Trees had been felled, boardings barred the way, the ground had been dug
up, and in vain she tried to find the seat where she and Emil had
exchanged words of love, the tone of which she remembered so well without
being able to recall the actual phrases.
Presently she reached the trim well-kept part of the park, which was
full of people. But she had a sensation that many were looking at her,
and that some ladies were laughing at her. And once more she felt that
she was looking very countrified. She was vexed at being embarrassed, and
thought of the time when, as a pretty young girl, she had walked, proud
and unconcerned, along these very avenues. It seemed to her that she had
fallen off so much since then, and become so pitiable. Her idea of
sitting in the front row of the concert hall appeared presumptuous,
almost unfeasible. It seemed also highly improbable now that Emil
Lindbach would recognize her; indeed, it struck her as almost impossible
that he should remember her existence. What a number of experiences he
must have had! How many women and girls might well have loved him--and in
a manner quite different from her own!
And whilst she continued her way, walking, now along the less frequented
avenues and at length out of the park upon the Ringstrasse again, she
drew a mental picture of the beloved of her youth figuring in all manner
of adventures, in which confused recollections of events depicted in the
novels she had read and indistinctly formed ideas of his professional
tours were strangely intermingled. She imagined him in Venice with a
Russian princess in a gondola; then in her mind's eye she saw him at the
court of the King of Bavaria, where duchesses listened to his playing,
and fell in love with him; then in the boudoir of an opera singer; then
at a fancy-dress ball in Spain, with crowds of alluring masqueraders
about him. The further he seemed to soar away, unapproachable and
enviable, the more miserable she felt herself to be, and all at once it
seemed utterly inconceivable that she had so lightly surrendered her own
hopes of an artistic career and given up her lover, in order to lead a
sunless existence, and to be lost in the crowd. A shudder seemed to seize
her as she recalled that she was nothing but the widow of an
insignificant man, that she lived in a provincial town, that she earned
her living by means of music lessons, and that she saw old age slowly
approaching. Never had there fallen upon her way so much as a single ray
of the brilliance which shone upon the road his footsteps would tread so
long as he lived. And again the same shudder ran through her at the
thought that she had always been content with her lot, and that, without
hope and indeed, without yearning, she had passed her whole existence in
a gloom, which, at that moment, seemed inexplicable.
She reached the Aspernbrüke without in the least giving heed to where her
footsteps were taking her. She wished to cross the street at this point,
but had to wait while a great number of carriages drove by. Most of them
were occupied by gentlemen, many of whom carried field-glasses. She knew
that they were returning from the races at the Prater.
There came an elegant equipage in which were seated a young man and a
girl, the latter dressed in a white spring costume. Immediately behind
was a carriage containing two strikingly dressed ladies. Bertha gazed
long after them, and noticed that one of the ladies turned round, and
that the object of her attention was the carriage which followed
immediately behind, and in which sat a young and very handsome man in a
long grey overcoat. Bertha was conscious of something very
painful--uneasiness and annoyance at one and the same time. She would
have liked to be the lady whom the young man followed; she would have
liked to be beautiful, young, independent, and, Heaven knows, she would
have liked to be any woman who could do as she wanted, and could turn
round after men who pleased her.
And at that moment she realized, quite distinctly, that Frau Rupius was
now in the company of somebody whom she loved. Indeed why shouldn't she?
Of course, so long as she stayed in Vienna, she was free and mistress of
her own time--besides, she was a very pretty woman, and was wearing a
fragrant violet costume. On her lips there hovered a smile such as only
comes to those who are happy--and Frau Rupius was unhappy at home. All at
once, Bertha had a vision of Herr Rupius sitting in his room, looking at
the engravings. But on that day, surely, he was not doing so; no, he was
trembling for his wife, consumed with an immense fear that some one
yonder in the great city would take her away from him, that she would
never return, and that he would be left all alone with his sorrow. And
Bertha suddenly felt a thrill of compassion for him, such as she had
never experienced before. Indeed, she would have liked to be with him, to
comfort and to reassure him.
She felt a touch on her arm. She started and looked up. A young man
was standing beside her and gazing at her with an impudent leer. She
stared at him, full in the face, still quite absentmindedly; then he
said with a laugh:
"Well?"
She was frightened, and almost ran across the street, quickly passing in
front of a carriage. She was ashamed of her previous desire to be the
lady in the carriage she had seen coming from the Prater. It seemed as
though the man's insolence had been her punishment. No, no, she was a
respectable woman; in the depth of her soul she had an aversion to
everything that savoured of the insolent.... No, she could no longer
stay in Vienna, where women were exposed to such things! A longing for
the peace of her home came over her, and she rejoiced in the prospect of
meeting her little boy again, as in something extraordinarily beautiful.
What time was it, though? Heavens, a quarter of seven! She would have to
take a carriage; there was no question about that now, indeed! Frau
Rupius had, of course, paid for the carriage in the morning, and so the
one which she was now going to take would only cost her half, so to
speak. She took her seat in an open cab, leaned back in the corner, in
almost the same aristocratic manner as that of the lady she had seen in
the white frock. People gazed after her. She knew that she was now
looking young and pretty. Moreover, she was feeling quite safe, nothing
could happen to her. She took an indescribable pleasure in the swift
motion of the cab with its rubber-tyred wheels. She thought how splendid
it would be if on the occasion of her next visit she were to drive
through the town, wearing her new costume and the small straw hat which
made her look so young.
She was glad that Frau Rupius was standing in the entrance to the
station and saw her arrive. But she betrayed no sign of pride, and acted
as though it was quite the usual thing for her to drive up to the
station in a cab.
"We have still ten minutes to spare," said Frau Rupius. "Are you very
angry with me for having kept you waiting? Just fancy, my brother was
giving a grand children's party to-day, and the little ones simply
wouldn't let me go. It occurred to me too late that I might really have
called for you; the children would have amused you so much. I have told
my brother that, next time, I will bring you and your boy with me."
Bertha felt heartily ashamed of herself. How she had wronged this woman
again! She could only press her hand and say:
"Thank you, you are very kind!"
They went on to the platform and entered an empty compartment. Frau
Rupius had a small bag of cherries in her hand, and she ate them slowly,
one after another, throwing the stones out of the window. When the train
began to move out of the station she leaned back and closed her eyes.
Bertha looked out of the window; she felt very tired after so much
walking, and a slight uneasiness arose within her; she might have spent
the day differently, more quietly and enjoyably. Her chilly reception and
the tedious dinner at her cousin's came to her mind. After all, it was a
great pity that she no longer had any acquaintances in Vienna. She had
wandered like a stranger about the town in which she had lived twenty-six
years. Why? And why had she not made the carriage pull up in the morning,
when she saw the figure that seemed to have a resemblance to Emil
Lindbach? True, she would not have been able to run or call after
him--but if it had been really he, if he had recognized her and been
pleased to see her again? They might have walked about together, might
have told each other all that had happened during the long time that had
passed since they had last known anything about one another; they might
have gone to a fashionable restaurant and had dinner; some would
naturally have recognized him, and she would have heard quite distinctly
people discussing the question as to who "she" might really be. She was
looking beautiful, too; the new costume was already finished; and the
waiters served her with great politeness, especially a small youth who
brought the wine--but he was really her nephew, who had, of course,
become a waiter in that restaurant instead of a student. Suddenly Herr
and Frau Martin entered the dining-hall; they were holding one another in
such a tender embrace as if they were the only people there. Then Emil
rose to his feet, took up the violin bow which was lying beside him, and
raised it with a commanding gesture, whereupon the waiter turned Herr and
Frau Martin out of the room. Bertha could not help laughing at the
incident, laughing much too loudly indeed, for by this time she had quite
forgotten how to behave in a fashionable restaurant. But then it was not
a fashionable restaurant at all; it was only the coffee room at the "Red
Apple," and the military band was playing somewhere out of sight. That,
be it known, was a clever invention on the part of Herr Rupius, that
military bands could play without being seen. Now, however, it was her
turn that was immediately to follow. Yonder was the piano--but, of
course, she had long since completely forgotten how to play; she would
run away rather than be forced to play. And all at once she was at the
railway station, where Frau Rupius was already waiting for her. "It is
high time you came," she said. She placed in Bertha's hand a large book,
which, by the way, was her ticket. Frau Rupius, however, was not going
to take the train; she sat down, ate cherries and spat out the stones at
the stationmaster, who took a huge delight in the proceedings. Bertha
entered the compartment. Thank God, Herr Klingemann was already there! He
made a sign to her with his screwed-up eyes, and asked her if she knew
whose funeral it was. She saw that a hearse was standing on the other
line. Then she remembered that the captain with whom the tobacconist's
wife had deceived Herr Klingemann was dead--of course, it was the day of
the concert at the "Red Apple." Suddenly Herr Klingemann blew on her
eyes, and laughed in a rumbling way.
Bertha opened her eyes--at that moment a train was rushing past the
window. She shook herself. What a confused dream! And hadn't it begun
quite nicely? She tried to remember. Yes, Emil played a part in it ...
but she could not recollect what part.
The dusk of evening slowly fell. The train sped on its way along by the
Danube. Frau Rupius slept and smiled. Perhaps she was only pretending to
be asleep. Bertha was again seized with a slight suspicion, and she felt
rising within her a sensation of envy at the unknown and mysterious
experiences which Frau Rupius had had. She, too, would gladly have
experienced something. She wished that someone was sitting beside her
now, his arm pressed against hers--she would fain have felt once more
that sensation that had thrilled her on that occasion when she had stood
with Emil on the bank of the Wien, and when she had almost been on the
point of losing her senses and had yearned for a child.... Ah, why was
she so poor, so lonely, so much in obscurity? Gladly would she have
implored the lover of her youth:
"Kiss me but once again just as you used to do, I want to be happy!"
It was dark; Bertha looked out into the night.
She determined that very night before she went to bed to fetch from the
attic the little case in which she kept the letters of her parents and of
Emil. She longed to be home again. She felt as though a question had been
wakened within her soul, and that the answer awaited her at home.