The next morning Bertha was wakened by Fritz. He had jumped on to her bed
and had breathed softly on her eyelids. Bertha sat up, embraced and
kissed him, and he immediately began to tell her how well he had fared
with his uncle and aunt, how Elly had played with him, and how Richard
had once had a fight with him without being able to beat him. On the
previous day, too, he had learned to play the piano, and would soon be as
clever at it as mamma.
Bertha was content just to listen to him.
"If only Emil could hear his sweet prattle now!" she thought.
She considered whether, on the next occasion, she should not take Fritz
with her to Vienna to see Emil, by doing which she would at once remove
anything of a suspicious nature in such a visit.
She thought only of the pleasant side of her experiences in Vienna, and
of the letters which Emil had written to put her off scarcely anything
remained in her memory, other than those words which had reference to a
future meeting.
She got up in an almost cheerful frame of mind and, whilst she was
dressing herself, she felt a quite new tenderness for her own body, which
still seemed to her to be fragrant with the kisses of her beloved.
While the morning was yet young, she went to call on her relations. As
she walked by the house of Herr Rupius she deliberated for a moment
whether she should not go up and see him there and then. But she had a
vague fear of being immediately involved again in the agitated atmosphere
of the household, and she deferred the visit until the afternoon.
At her brother-in-law's house Elly was the first to meet her, and she
welcomed her as boisterously as if Bertha had returned from a long
journey. Her brother-in-law, who was on the point of going out, jestingly
shook a threatening finger at Bertha and said:
"Well, have you had a good time?"
Bertha felt herself blushing crimson.
"Yes," he continued; "these are pretty stories that we hear about you!"
He did not, however, notice her embarrassment and, as he went out of the
door, greeted her with a glance which plainly meant: "You can't keep your
secrets from me."
"Father is always making jokes like that," said Elly. "I don't like him
doing that at all!"
Bertha knew that her brother-in-law had only been talking at random, as
his usual manner was, and that, if she had told him the truth, he would
not have believed her for a moment.
Her sister-in-law came into the room, and Bertha had to relate all about
her stay in Vienna.
To her own surprise she succeeded very well in cleverly blending truth
with fiction. She told how she had been with her cousin to the public
gardens and the picture gallery; on Sunday she had heard Mass at St.
Stephen's Church; she had met in the street a teacher from the
Conservatoire; and finally she even invented a funny married couple, whom
she represented as having had supper one evening at her cousin's. The
further she proceeded with her lies, the greater was her desire to tell
all about Emil as well, and to inform them how she had met in the street
the celebrated violinist Lindbach, who had formerly been with her at the
Conservatoire, and how she had had a conversation with him. But a vague
fear of not being able to stop at the right time caused her to refrain
from making any reference to him.
Frau Albertine Garlan sat on the sofa in an attitude of profound
lassitude, and nodded her head. Elly stood, as usual, by the piano, her
head resting on her hands, and she gazed open-eyed at her aunt.
From her sister-in-law's Bertha went on to the Mahlmanns' and gave the
twins their music lesson. The finger exercises and scales which she had
to hear were at first intolerable to her, but finally she ceased to
listen to them at all, and let her thoughts wander at will. The cheerful
mood of the morning had vanished, Vienna seemed to her to be infinitely
distant, a strange feeling of disquietude came over her and suddenly the
fear seized her that Emil might go away immediately after his concert.
That would indeed be terrible! He might go away all of a sudden without
her having seen him once more--and who could say when he would return?
She wondered whether it would not be well to arrange to be in Vienna in
any case on the day of the concert. She had to admit to herself that she
had not: the slightest longing to hear him play. Indeed, it seemed to her
that she would not in the least mind if he was not a violin virtuoso at
all, if he was not even an artist, but just an ordinary kind of man--a
bookseller, or something like that! If she could only have him for
herself, for herself alone!...
Meanwhile the twins played through their scales. It was surely a terrible
doom to have to sit there and give these untalented brats music lessons.
How was it that she had been in good spirits only just a little earlier
that day?...
Ah, those beautiful days in Vienna! Quite irrespective of Emil--the
entire freedom, the sauntering about the streets, the walks in the public
gardens.... To be sure, she had spent more money during her stay than
she could afford; two dozen lessons to the Mahlmann twins would not
recoup her the outlay.... And now, here she had to come back again to
her relations, to give music lessons, and really it might even be
necessary to look about for fresh pupils, for her accounts would not
balance at all that year!... Ah, what a life!...
In the street Bertha met Frau Martin, who asked her how she had enjoyed
herself in Vienna. At the same time she threw Bertha a glance which
clearly said:
"I'm quite sure you don't enjoy life so much as I do with my husband!"
Bertha had an overwhelming desire to shriek in that person's face:
"I have had a much better time than you think! I have been with an
enchanting young man who is a thousand times more charming than your
husband! And I understand how to enjoy life quite as well as you do! You
have only a husband, but I have a lover!--a lover!--a lover!"...
Yet, of course, she said nothing of the kind, but related how she had
gone with her cousin and the children for a walk in the public gardens.
Bertha also met with some other ladies with whom she was superficially
acquainted. She felt that her mental attitude towards those ladies had
undergone a complete change since her visit to Vienna--that she was
freer, superior. It seemed to her that she was the only woman in the
town with any experience, and she was almost sorry that nobody knew
anything about it, for although, publicly, they would have despised her,
in their hearts all those women would have been filled with unutterable
envy of her.
And if, after all, they _had_ known who.... Although in that hole of a
town there were certainly many who had not so much as heard Emil's name!
If only there was some one in the world to whom she could open her heart!
Frau Rupius--yes, there was Frau Rupius!... But, of course, she was in
the habit of going away, of taking trips!... And, to tell the truth,
thought Bertha, that was also a matter of indifference to her. She would
only like to know how things would eventually turn out so far as she and
Emil were concerned, she would like to know how matters actually stood.
It was the uncertainty that was causing her that terrible uneasiness....
Had she only had a love affair with him, after all?... Ah, but why had
she not gone to him once again?... But, of course, that was quite
impossible!... That letter.... He didn't want to see her, that was it!...
But then, on the other hand, he had sent her flowers....
And now she was back again with her relations. Richard was going to meet
her and embrace her in his playful manner. She pushed him away.
"Impudent boy!" she thought to herself. "I know very well what he means
by doing that, although he himself does not know. I understand these
things--I have a lover in Vienna!..."
The music lesson took its course and, at the end of it, Elly and Richard
played as a duet Beethoven's [Footnote: Query--Brahms (translator's
note).] "Festival Overture" which was intended by them to be a birthday
surprise for their father.
Bertha thought only of Emil. She was nearly being driven out of her mind
by this wretched strumming ... no, it was not possible to live on like
that, whichever way she looked at it!... She was still a young woman,
too.... Yes, that was the secret of it all, the real secret.... She would
not be able to live on like that any more.... And yet it would not do for
her ... any other man.... How could she ever think of such a thing!...
What a very wicked person she must be, after all! Who could tell whether
it had not been that trait in her character which Emil, with his great
experience of life, had perceived in her, and which had been the cause of
his being unwilling to see her any more?... Ah, those women surely had
the best of it who took everything easily, and, when abandoned by one
man, immediately turned to another.... But stay, whatever could it be
that was putting such thoughts as these into her head? Had Emil, then,
abandoned her?... In three or four days she would be in Vienna again;
with him; in his arms!... And had she been able to live for three years
as she had done?... Three?--Six years--her whole life!... If he only knew
that, if he only believed that!
Her sister-in-law came into the room and invited Bertha to have supper
with them that evening.... Yes, that was her only distraction: to go out
to dinner or supper occasionally at some other house than her own!
If only there was a man in the town to whom she could talk!... And Frau
Rupius was going off on her travels and leaving her husband.... Hadn't a
love affair, maybe, something to do with that, Bertha wondered.
The music lesson came to an end and Bertha took her leave. In the
presence of her sister-in-law, too, she noticed that she had that feeling
of superiority, almost of compassion, which had come over her when she
had seen the other ladies. Yes, she was certain that she would not give
up that one hour with Emil for a whole life such as her sister-in-law
led. Moreover, as she thought to herself as she was walking homewards,
she had not been able to arrive at a complete perception of her
happiness, which, indeed, had all slipped by so quickly. And then that
room, that whole house, that frightful picture.... No, no, it was all
really hideous rather than anything else. After all, the only really
beautiful moments had been those which had followed, when Emil had
accompanied her to her hotel in the carriage, and her head had rested on
his breast....
Ah, he loved her indeed; of course, not so deeply as she loved him; but
how could that be possible? What a number of experiences he had had in
his life! She thought of that now without any feeling of jealousy;
rather, she felt a slight pity for him in having to carry so much in his
memory. It was quite evident from his appearance that he was not a man
who took life easily.... He was not of a cheerful disposition.... All the
hours which she had spent with him seemed in her recollection as if
encompassed by an incomprehensible melancholy. If she only knew all about
him! He had told her so little about himself ... nothing, indeed,
absolutely nothing!... But how would that have been possible on the very
first day that they had met again? Ah! if only he really knew her! If she
were only not so shy, so incapable of expressing herself!
She would have to write to him again before seeing him.... Yes, she would
write to him that very day. What a stupid concoction it was, that letter
which she had sent him on the previous day! In truth, he could not have
sent her any other answer than that which she had received. She would not
write to him either defiantly or humbly.... No, after all, she was his
beloved! She who, as she walked along the streets here in the little
town, was regarded by every one who met her as one of themselves ... she
was the beloved of that magnificent man whom she had worshipped since her
girlhood. How unreservedly and unaffectedly she had given herself to
him--not one of all the women she knew would have done that!... Ah, and
she would do still more! Oh, yes! She would even live with him without
being married to him, and she would be supremely indifferent to what
people might say ... she would even be proud of her action! And later on
he would marry her, after all ... of course he would. She was such a
capable housekeeper, too.... And how much good it would be sure to do
him, after the unsettled existence which he had been leading during the
years of his wanderings, to live in a well-ordered house, with a good
wife by his side, who had never loved any man but him.
And now she was home again. Before dinner was served she had made all her
preparations for writing the letter. She ate her dinner with feverish
impatience; she scarcely allowed herself time to cut up Fritz's dinner
and give it to him. Then, instead of undressing him herself and putting
him to bed for his afternoon sleep, as she was always accustomed to do,
she told the maid to attend to him.
She sat down at the desk and the words flowed without effort from her
pen, as though she had long ago composed in her head the whole letter.
"My EMIL, MY BELOVED, MY ALL!
"Since I have returned home again I have been possessed by an
overwhelming desire to write to you, and I should like to say to you over
and over again how happy, how infinitely happy, you have made me. I was
angry with you at first when you wrote and said you could not see me on
Sunday. I must confess that to you as well, for I feel that I am under
the necessity of telling you everything that passes in my mind.
Unfortunately, I could not do so while we were together; I had not the
power of expressing myself, but now I can find the words and you must, I
fear, put up with my boring you with this scribble. My dearest, my only
one--yes, that you are, although it seems to me that you were not quite
so certain of it as you ought to have been. I beseech you to believe that
it is true. You see, I have no means, of course, wherewith to tell you
this, other than these words, Emil, I have never, never loved any man,
but you--and I will never love any other. Do with me as you will. I have
no ties in the little town where I am living now--on the contrary,
indeed, I often find it a terrible thing to be obliged to live my life
here. I will move to Vienna, so as to be near you. Oh, do not fear that I
will disturb you! I am not alone, you see, I have my boy, whom I
_idolize_. I will cut down my expenses, and, in the long run, why
shouldn't I succeed in finding pupils even in a large town like Vienna
just as I do here, perhaps, indeed, even more easily than here, and in
that way improve my position? Yet that is a secondary consideration, for
I may tell you that it has long been my intention to move to Vienna if
only for the sake of my dearly loved boy, when he grows older.
"You cannot imagine how stupid the men are here! And I can no longer bear
to look at any one of them at all, since I have again had the happiness
of being in your company.
"Write to me, my dearest! Yet you need not trouble to send me a whole
long letter. In any case I shall be coming to Vienna again this week. I
would have had to do so in any event, because of some pressing
commissions, and you will then be able to tell me everything--just what
you think of my proposal, and what you consider best for me to do. But
you must promise me this, that, when I live in Vienna, you will often
visit me. Of course, no one need know anything about it, if you do not
care that they should. But you may believe me--every day on which I may
be allowed to see you will be a red-letter day for me and that, in all
the world, there is nobody who loves you in such a true and life-long
manner as I do.
"Farewell, my beloved!
"Your
"BERTHA."
She did not venture to read over what she had written, but left the house
at once so as to take the letter herself to the railway station. There
she saw Frau Rupius, a few paces in front of her, accompanied by a maid
who was carrying a small valise.
What could that mean?
She caught up Frau Rupius, just as the latter was going into the waiting
room. The maid laid the valise on the large table in the centre of the
room, kissed her mistress's hand, and departed.
"Frau Rupius!" exclaimed Bertha, a note of inquiry in her voice.
"I heard that you had returned already. Well, how did you get on?" said
Frau Rupius, extending her hand in a friendly way.
"Very well--very well indeed, but--"
"Why, you are gazing at me as though you were quite frightened! No, Frau
Bertha, I am coming back again--no later than to-morrow. The long
journey that I had in view came to nothing, so I have had to--settle on
something else."
"Something else?"
"Why, of course, staying at home. I shall be back again to-morrow. Well,
how did you get on?"
"I told you just now--very well."
"Yes, of course, you did tell me before. But I see you are going to post
that letter, are you not?"
And then for the first time Bertha noticed that she was still holding the
letter to Emil in her hand. She gazed at it with such enraptured eyes
that Frau Rupius smiled.
"Perhaps you would like me to take it with me? It is to go to Vienna,
I presume?"
"Yes," answered Bertha, and then she added resolutely, as though she was
glad to be able to say it out at last: "to him."
Frau Ropius nodded her head, as if satisfied. But she neither looked at
Bertha nor made any reply.
"I am so glad that I have met you again!" said Bertha. "You are the only
woman here, you know, whom I trust; indeed, you are the only woman who
could understand anything like this."
"Ah, no," said Frau Rupius to herself, as though she were dreaming.
"I do envy you so, because to-day in a few short hours you will see
Vienna again. How fortunate you are!"
Frau Rupius had sat down in one of the leather armchairs by the table.
She rested her chin on her hand, looked at Bertha, and said:
"It seems to me, on the other hand, that it is you who are fortunate."
"No, I must, you see, remain here."
"Why?" asked Frau Rupius. "You are free, you know. But go and put that
letter into the box at once, or I shall see the address, and so learn
more than you wish to tell me."
"I will, though not because of that--but I should be glad if the letter
went by this train and not later."
Bertha hurried into the vestibule, posted the letter and at once returned
to Anna, who was still sitting in the same quiet attitude.
"I might have told you everything, you know," Bertha went on to say;
"indeed I might say that I wished to tell you before I actually went
to Vienna ... but--just fancy, isn't it strange? I did not venture
to do so."
"Moreover at that time, too, there probably had not been anything to
tell," said Frau Rupius, without looking at Bertha.
Bertha was amazed. How clever that woman was! She could see into
everybody's thoughts!
"No, at that time there had not been anything to tell," she repeated,
gazing at Frau Rupius with a kind of reverence. "Just think--you will
probably find it hard to believe what I am going to tell you now, but I
should feel a liar if I kept it secret."
"Well?"
Bertha had sat down on a seat beside Frau Rupius, and she spoke in a
lower tone, for the vestibule door was standing open.
"I wanted to tell you this, Anna: that I do not in the least feel that I
have done anything wicked, not even anything immoral."
"It wouldn't be a very clever thing, either, if you had."
"Yes, you are quite right.... What I really meant to say was rather that
it seems to me as though I had done something quite good, as if I had
done something outstanding. Yes, Frau Rupius, the fact of the matter is,
I have been proud of myself ever since."
"Well, there is probably no reason for that either," said Frau Rupius, as
if lost in thought, stroking Bertha's hand, which lay upon the table.
"I am aware of that, of course, and yet I am so proud and seem quite
different from all the women whom I know. You see if you knew ... if you
were acquainted with him--it is such a strange affair! You mustn't think,
let me tell you, that it is an acquaintanceship which I have made
recently--quite the contrary; I have been in love with him, you must
know, ever since I was quite a young girl, no less than twelve years ago.
For a long time we had completely lost sight of one another, and
now--isn't it wonderful?--now he is my ... my ... my ... lover!"
She had said it at last. Her whole face was radiant.
Frau Rupius threw her a glance in which could be detected a little scorn
and a great deal of kindliness.
"I am glad that you are happy," she said.
"How very kind you are indeed! But then, you see, on the other hand
again, it is a dreadful thing that we are so far apart from one another;
he, in Vienna; I, here--I don't think I shall ever be able to endure
that. Moreover, I have ceased to feel that I belong to this place, least
of all to my relations. If they knew ... no, if they knew! However, they
would never be able to bring themselves to believe it. A woman like my
sister-in-law, for instance--well, I am perfectly certain that she could
never imagine such a thing to be in any way possible."
"But you are really very ingenuous!" said Frau Rupius suddenly, almost
with exasperation. Then she listened for a moment. "I thought I could
hear the train whistling already."
She rose to her feet, walked over to the large glass door leading on to
the platform, and looked out. A porter came and asked for the tickets in
order to punch them.
"The train for Vienna is twenty minutes late," he remarked, at the
same time.
Bertha had stood up and gone over to Frau Rupius.
"Why do you consider that I am ingenuous?" she asked shyly.
"But, indeed, you know absolutely nothing about men," replied Frau
Rupius, as if she were annoyed. "You haven't, you know, the slightest
idea among what kind of people you are living. I can assure you, you have
no reason at all to be proud."
"I know, of course, that it is very stupid of me."
"Your sister-in-law--that is delightful!--your sister-in-law!"
"What do you mean, then?"
"I mean that she has had a lover too!"
"Whatever put such an idea as that into your head!"
"Well, she is not the only woman in this town."
"Yes, there are certainly women who ... but, Albertine--"
"And do you know who it was? That is very amusing! It was Herr
Klingemann!"
"No, that is impossible!"
"Of course, it is now a long time ago, about ten or eleven years."
"But at that time, by the way, you yourself had not come to live here,
Frau Rupius!"
"Oh, I have heard it from the best source. It was Herr Klingemann himself
who told me about it."
"Herr Klingemann himself! But is it possible for a man to be so base as
all that!"
"I don't think there's the least doubt about that," answered Frau Rupius,
sitting down on a seat near the door, whilst Bertha remained standing
beside her, listening in amazement to her friend's words. "Yes, Herr
Klingemann himself.... As soon as I came to the town, you must know, he
did me the honour of making violent love to me, neck or nothing, so to
speak. You know yourself, of course, what a loathsome wretch he is. I
laughed him to scorn, which probably exasperated him a great deal, and
evidently he thought that he would be able conclusively to prove to me
how irresistible he was by recounting all his conquests."
"But perhaps he told you some things which were not true."
"A great deal, probably; but this story, as it happens, is true.... Ah,
what a rabble these men are!"
There was a note of the deepest hatred in Frau Rupius' voice. Bertha was
quite frightened. She had never thought it possible that Frau Rupius
could have said such things.
"Yes, why shouldn't you know what kind of men they are amongst whom you
are living?" continued Frau Rupius.
"No, I would never have thought it possible! If my brother-in-law knew
about it!--"
"If he knew about it? He knows about it as well as you or I do!"
"What do you say! No, no!"
"Indeed, he caught them together--you understand me! Herr Klingemann and
Albertine! So that, however much inclined he might have been to make the
best of things, there was no doubt possible!"
"But, for Heaven's sake--what did he do, then?"
"Well, as you can see for yourself, he has not turned her out!"
"Well, yes, the children ... of course!"
"The children--pooh-pooh! He forgave her for the sake of convenience--and
chiefly because he could do as he liked after that. You can see for
yourself how he treats her. When all is said and done, she is but little
better than his servant; you know as well as I do in what a miserable,
brow-beaten way she slinks about. He has brought it to this, that, ever
since that moment, she has always had to look upon herself as a woman who
has been treated with mercy. And I believe she has even a perpetual fear
that he is reserving the punishment for some future day. But it is stupid
of her to be afraid of that, for he wouldn't look out for another
housekeeper for anything.... Ah, my dear Frau Bertha, we are not by any
means angels, as you know now from your own experiences, but men are
infamous so long"--she seemed to hesitate to complete the phrase--"so
long as they are men."
Bertha was as though crushed; not so much on account of the things which
Frau Rupius had told her as on account of the manner in which she had
done so. She seemed to have become a quite different woman, and Bertha
was pained at heart.
The door leading to the platform was opened and the low, incessant
tinkling of the telegraph was heard. Frau Rupius stood up slowly, her
features assumed a mild expression, and, stretching out her hand to
Bertha, she said:
"Forgive me, I was only a little bit vexed. Things can be also very nice;
of course, there are certainly decent men in the world as well as others.
Oh, yes, things can be very nice, no doubt."
She looked out on to the railway lines and seemed to be following the
iron track into the distance. Then she went on to say with that same
soft, harmonious voice which appealed so strongly to Bertha:
"I shalt be home again to-morrow evening.... Oh, yes, of course, my
travelling case!"
She hurried to the table and took her valise.
"It would have been a terrible catastrophe if I had forgotten that! I
cannot travel without my ten bottles! Well, good-bye! And don't forget,
though, that all I have been telling you happened ten years ago."
The train came into the station. Frau Rupius hurried to a compartment,
got in, and, looking out of the window, nodded affably to Bertha. The
latter endeavoured to respond as cheerfully, but she felt that her wave
of the hand to the departing Frau Rupius was stiff and forced.
Slowly she walked homewards again. In vain she sought to persuade herself
that all that she had heard was not the least concern of hers; the long
past affair of her sister-in-law, the mean conduct of her brother-in-law,
the baseness of Klingemann, the strange whims of that incomprehensible
Frau Rupius; all had nothing to do with her. She could not explain it to
herself, but somehow, it seemed to her as though all these things were
mysteriously related to her own adventure.
Suddenly the gnawing doubts appeared again.... Why hadn't Emil wanted
to see her again? Not on the following day, or on the second or on
the third day? How was it? He had attained his object, that was
sufficient for him.... However had she been able to write him that
mad, shameless letter?
And a thrill of fear arose within her.... If he were to show her letter
to another woman, maybe ... make merry over it with her.... No, how on
earth could such an idea come into her head? It was ridiculous even to
think of such a thing!... It was possible, of course, that he would not
answer the letter and would throw it into the wastepaper basket--but
nothing worse than that.... No.... However, she must just have patience,
and in two or three days all would be decided. She could not say
anything with certainty, but she felt that this unendurable confusion
within her mind could not last much longer. The question would have to
be settled, somehow.
Late in the afternoon she again went for a walk amongst the
vine-trellises with Fritz, but she did not go into the cemetery. Then she
walked slowly down the hill and sauntered along under the chestnut trees.
She chatted with Fritz, asked him about all sorts of things, listened to
his stories and, as her frequent custom was, instilled some knowledge
into his head on several subjects. She tried to explain to him how far
the sun is distant from the earth, how the rain comes from the clouds,
and how the bunches of grapes grow, from which wine is made. She was not
annoyed, as often happened, if the boy did not pay proper attention to
her, because she realized well enough that she was only talking for the
sake of distracting her own thoughts.
Then she walked down the hill, under the chestnut trees, and so back to
the town. Presently she saw Herr Klingemann approaching, but the fact
made not the slightest impression upon her. He spoke to her with forced
politeness; all the time he held his straw hat in his hand and affected a
great and almost gloomy gravity. He seemed very changed, and she
observed, too, that his clothes in reality were not at all elegant, but
positively shabby. Suddenly she could not help picturing him tenderly
embracing her sister-in-law, and she felt extremely disgusted.
Later on she sat down on a bench and watched Fritz playing with some
other children, all the time making an effort to keep her attention fixed
on him so that she would not have to think of anything else.
In the evening she went to her relatives. She had a sensation as though
she had had a presentiment of everything long before, for otherwise how
could she have failed to have been struck before this by the kind of
relations which existed between her brother-in-law and his wife? The
former again made jocular remarks about Bertha's visit to Vienna. He
asked when she was going there again, and whether they would not soon be
hearing of her engagement. Bertha entered into the joke, and told how at
least a dozen men had proposed to her, amongst others, a Government
official; but she felt that her lips alone were speaking and smiling,
while her soul remained serious and silent.
Richard sat beside her, and his knee touched hers, by chance. And as he
was pouring out a glass of wine for her and she seized his hand to stop
him, she felt a comforting glow steal up her arm as far as her shoulder.
It made her feel happy. It seemed to her that she was being unfaithful to
Emil. And that was quite as she wished; she wanted Emil to know that her
senses were on the alert, that she was just the same as other women, and
that she could accept the embraces of her nephew in just the same way as
she did his.... Ah, yes, if he only knew it! That was what she ought to
have written in her letter, not that humble, longing letter!...
But even while these thoughts were surging through her mind, she remained
serious in the depths of her soul, and a feeling of solitude actually
came over her, for she knew that no one could imagine what was taking
place within her.
Afterwards, when she was walking homewards through the deserted streets,
she met an officer whom she knew by sight. With him he had a pretty woman
whom she had never seen before.
"Evidently a woman from Vienna!" she thought, for she knew that the
officers often had such visitors.
She had a feeling of envy towards the woman; she wished that she was also
being accompanied by a handsome young officer at that moment.... And why
not?... After all, everybody was like that.... And now she herself had
ceased to be a respectable woman. Emil, of course, did not believe that,
any more than anybody else, and, anyhow, it was all just the same!
She reached home, undressed and went to bed. But the air was too sultry.
She got up again, went to the window and opened it. Outside, all was
dark. Perhaps somebody could see her standing there at the window, could
see her skin gleaming through the darkness.... Indeed, she would not mind
at all if anybody did see her like that!... Then she lay down on the bed
again.... Ah, yes, she was no better than any of the others! And there
was no good reason either why she should be....
Her thoughts grew indistinct.... Yes, he was the cause of it all, he had
brought her to this, he had just taken her like a woman of the
street--and then cast her off!... Ah, it was shameful, shameful!---how
base men were! And yet ... it was delightful....
She fell asleep.
X
A warm rain was gently falling the next morning. Thus Bertha was able
to endure her immense impatience more easily than if the sun had been
blazing down. She felt as though during her sleep much had been
smoothed out within her. In the soft grey of the morning everything
seemed so simple and so utterly commonplace. On the morrow she would
receive the letter she was expecting, and the present day was just like
a hundred others.
She gave her pupils their music lessons. She was very strict with her
nephew that day and rapped him on the knuckles when he played unbearably
badly. He was a lazy pupil--that was all.
In the afternoon she was struck by an idea, which seemed to herself to be
extremely praiseworthy. She had for a long time past intended to teach
Fritz how to read, and she would make a start that very day. For a whole
hour she slaved away, instilling a few letters into his head.
The rain still kept falling; it was a pity that she could not go for a
walk. The afternoon would be long, very long. Surely she ought to go and
see Herr Rupius without further delay. It was too bad of her that she had
not called on him since her return from Vienna. It was quite possible
that he would feel somewhat ashamed of himself in her presence, because
just lately he had been using such big words, and now Anna was still with
him, after all....
Bertha left the house. In spite of the rain, she walked, first of all,
out into the open country. It was long since she had been so tranquil as
she was that day; she rejoiced in the day without agitation, without
fear, and without expectation. Oh, if it could be always like that! She
was astonished at the indifference with which she could think of Emil.
She would be more than content if she should not hear another word from
him, and could continue in her present state of tranquillity forever....
Yes, it was good and pleasant to be like that--to live in the little
town, to give the few music lessons, which, after all, required no great
effort, to educate her boy, to teach him to read, to write, and to count!
Were her experiences of the last few days, she asked herself, worth so
much anxiety--nay, so much humiliation? No, she was not intended for such
things. It seemed as though the din of the great city, which had not
disturbed her on her last visit, was now for the first time ringing in
her ears, and she rejoiced in the beautiful calm which encompassed her in
her present surroundings.
Thus the state of profound lassitude into which her soul had fallen after
the unaccustomed agitations of the last few days appeared to Bertha as a
state of tranquillity that would be final.... And yet, only a short time
later, when she was wending her way back to the town, the internal
quietude gradually disappeared, and vague forebodings of fresh agitations
and sorrows awoke within her.
The sight of a young couple who passed her, pressed close to one another
under an open umbrella, aroused in her a yearning for Emil. She did not
resist it, for she already realized that everything within her was in
such a state of upheaval that every breath brought some fresh and
generally unexpected thing on to the surface of her soul.
It was growing dusk when Bertha entered Herr Rupius' room. He was sitting
at the table, with a portfolio of pictures before him. The hanging lamp
was lighted.
He looked up and returned her greeting.
"Let me see; you, of course, came back from Vienna on the evening of the
day before yesterday," he said.
It sounded like a reproach, and Bertha had a sensation of guilt.
"Well, sit down," he continued; "and tell me what happened to you
in Vienna."
"Nothing at all," answered Bertha. "I went to the Museum, and I have seen
the originals of several of your pictures."
Herr Rupius made no reply.
"Your wife is coming back this very evening?"
"I believe not"--he was silent for a time, and then said, with
intentional dryness: "I must ask your pardon for having told you
recently things which I am sure could not possibly have been of any
interest to you. For the rest, I do not think that my wife will
return to-day."
"But.... She told me so herself, you know."
"Yes, she told me also. She simply wanted to spare me the farewell, or
rather the comedy of farewell. By that I don't mean anything at all
untruthful, but just the things which usually accompany farewells:
touching words, tears.... However, enough of that. Will you be good
enough to come and see me at times? I shall be rather lonely, you know,
when my wife is no longer with me."
All this he said in a tone the sharpness of which was so little in
keeping with the meaning of his words that Bertha sought in vain
for a reply.
Rupius, however, continued at once:
"Well, and what else did you see besides the Museum?"
With great animation, Bertha began to tell all sorts of things about her
visit to Vienna. She also mentioned that she had met an old friend of her
schooldays, whom she had not seen for a long time. Strangely, too, the
meeting had taken place exactly in front of the Falckenborg picture.
While she was speaking of Emil in this way without mentioning his name,
her yearning for him increased until it seemed boundless, and she thought
of writing to him again that day.
Then she noticed that Herr Rupius was keeping his gaze fixed intently on
the door. His wife had come into the room. She went up to him, smiling.
"Here I am, back again!" she said, kissing him on the forehead; and then
she held out her hand to Bertha.
"Good evening, Frau Rupius," said Bertha, highly delighted.
Herr Rupius spoke not a word, but signs of violent agitation could be
seen on his face. His wife, who had not yet taken off her hat, turned
away for a moment, and then Bertha noticed how Herr Rupius had rested his
face on both his hands, and had begun to sob inwardly.
Bertha left them. She was glad that Frau Rupius had returned; it seemed
to be something in the nature of a good omen. By an early hour on the
morrow she might receive the letter which would, perhaps, decide her
fate. Her sense of restfulness had again completely vanished, but her
being was filled with a different yearning from that which she had
experienced before. She wished only to have Emil there, near her; she
would have liked only to see him, to walk by his side.
In the evening, after she had put her little boy to bed, she stopped on
for a long time alone in the dining-room; she went to the piano and
played a few chords, then she walked over to the window and gazed out
into the darkness. The rain had ceased, the earth was imbibing the
moisture, the clouds were still hanging heavily over the landscape.
Bertha's whole being became imbued with yearning; everything within her
called to him; her eyes sought to see him before her in the darkness; her
lips breathed a kiss into the air, as though it could reach his lips;
and, unconsciously, as if her wishes had to soar aloft, away from all
else that surrounded her, she looked up to Heaven and whispered:
"Give him back to me!..."
Never had she been as at that moment. She had an impression that for the
first time she now really loved him. Her love was free from all the
elements which had previously disturbed it; there was no fear, no care,
no doubt. Everything within her was the purest tenderness, and now, when
a faint breeze came blowing and stirring the hair on her forehead, she
felt as though it was a breath from the lips of Emil.
The next morning came, but no letter. Bertha was a little disappointed,
but not disquieted. Soon Elly, who had suddenly acquired a great liking
for playing with Fritz, made her appearance. The servant, on returning
from the market, brought the news that the doctor had been summoned in
the greatest haste to Herr Rupius' house, though she did not know whether
it was Herr Rupius or his wife who was ill. Bertha decided to go and
inquire herself without waiting until after dinner.
She gave the Mahlmaan twins their music lesson, feeling very
absent-minded and nervous all the time, and then went to Herr Rupius'
house. The servant told her that her mistress was ill in bed, but that it
was nothing dangerous, although Doctor Friedrich had strictly forbidden
that any visitors should be admitted. Bertha was frightened. She would
have liked to speak to Herr Rupius, but did not wish to appear
importunate.
In the afternoon she made an attempt at continuing Fritz's education,
but, do what she could, she met with no success. Again, she had the
impression that her own hopes were influenced by Anna having been taken
ill; if Anna had been well, it would have surely happened also that the
letter would have arrived by that time. She knew that such an idea was
utter nonsense, but she could not resist it.
Soon after five o'clock she again set out to call on Herr Rupius. The
maid admitted her. Herr Rupius himself wanted to speak to her. He was
sitting in his easy-chair by the table.
"Well?" asked Bertha.
"The doctor is with her just at this moment--if you will wait a few
minutes ..."
Bertha did not venture to ask any questions, and both remained silent.
After a few seconds, Doctor Friedrich came out from the bedroom.
"Well, I cannot say anything definite yet," he said slowly; then, with a
sudden resolution, he added: "Excuse me, Frau Garlan, but it is
absolutely necessary for me to have a few words with Herr Rupius alone."
Herr Rupius winced.
"Then I won't disturb you," said Bertha mechanically, and she left them.
But she was so agitated that it was impossible for her to go home, and
she walked along the pathway leading between the vine-trellises to the
cemetery. She felt that something mysterious was happening in that house.
The thought occurred to her that Anna might, perhaps, have made an
attempt to commit suicide. If only she did not die, Bertha said to
herself. And immediately the thought followed: if only a nice letter were
to come from Emil!
She seemed to herself to be encompassed by nothing but dangers. She went
into the cemetery. It was a beautiful, warm summer's day, and the flowers
and blossoms were fragrant and fresh after the rain of the previous day.
Bertha followed her accustomed path towards her husband's grave, but she
felt that she had absolutely no object in going there. It was almost
painful to her to read the words on the tombstone; they had no longer the
least significance for her:
"Victor Mathias Garlan, died the 6th June, 1895."
It seemed to her, then, that any of her walks with Emil, which had
happened ten years before, were nearer than the years she had spent by
the side of her husband. Those years were as though they had not even
existed ... she would not have been able to believe in them if Fritz had
not been alive.... Suddenly the idea passed through her mind that Fritz
was not Garlan's son at all ... perhaps he was really Emil's son.... Were
not such things possible, after all?... And she felt at that moment that
she could understand the doctrine of the Holy Ghost.... Then she was
alarmed at the madness of her own thoughts.
She looked at the broad roadway, stretching straight from the cemetery
gate to the opposite wall, and all at once she knew, for a positive fact,
that in a few days a coffin, with the corpse of Frau Rupius within it,
would be borne along that road. She wanted to banish the idea, but the
picture was there in full detail; the hearse was standing before the
gate; the grave, which two men were digging yonder just at that moment,
was destined for Frau Rupius; Herr Rupius was waiting by the open grave.
He was sitting in his invalid chair, his plaid rug across his knees, and
was staring at the coffin, which the black-garbed undertakers were slowly
carrying along.... The vision was more than a mere presentiment; it was a
precognition.... But whence had this idea come to her?
Then she heard people talking behind her. Two women walked past her--one
was the widow of a lieutenant-colonel who had recently died, the other
was her daughter. Both greeted Bertha and walked slowly on. Bertha
thought that these two women would consider her a faithful widow who
still grieved for her husband, and she seemed to herself to be an
impostor, and she retired hastily.
Possibly there would be some news awaiting her at home, a telegram from
Emil, perhaps--though that, indeed, would be nothing extraordinary ...
after all, the two things were closely connected.... She wondered whether
Frau Rupius still thought of what Bertha had told her at the railway
station, and whether, perhaps, she would speak of it in her delirium ...
however, that was a matter of indifference, indeed. The only matters of
importance were that Emil should write and that Frau Rupius should get
better.... She would have to call again and see Herr Rupius; he would be
sure to tell her what the doctor had had to say.... And Bertha hastened
homewards between the vine-trellises down the hill....
Nothing had arrived, no letter, no telegram.... Fritz had gone out with
the maid. Ah, how lonely she was. She hurried to Herr Rupius' house once
more, and the maid opened the door to her. Things were progressing very
badly, Herr Rupius was unable to see anyone....
"But what is the matter with her? Don't you know what the doctor said?"
"An inflammation, so the doctor said."
"What kind of an inflammation?"
"Or it might even be blood poisoning, he said. A nurse from the hospital
will be here immediately."
Bertha went away. On the square in front of the restaurant a few people
were sitting, and one table, right in front, was occupied by some
officers, as was usual at that time of the day.
They didn't know what was going on up yonder, thought Bertha, otherwise
they wouldn't be sitting there and laughing.... Blood poisoning--well,
what could that mean?... Obviously Frau Rupius had attempted to commit
suicide!... But why?... Because she was unable to go away--or did not
wish to?--but she wouldn't die--no, she must not die!
Bertha called on her relatives, so as to pass the time. Only her
sister-in-law was at home; she already knew that Frau Rupius had been
taken ill, but that did not affect her very much, and she soon began to
talk of other things. Bertha could not endure it, and took her departure.
In the evening she tried to tell Fritz stories, then she read the paper,
in which, amongst other things, she found another announcement of the
concert at which Emil was to play. It struck her as very strange that the
concert was still an event which was announced to take place, and not one
long since over.
She was unable to go to bed without making one more inquiry at Herr
Rupius' house. She met the nurse in the anteroom. It was the one Doctor
Friedrich always sent to his private patients. She had a cheerful-looking
face, and a comforting expression in her eyes.
"The doctor will be sure to pull Frau Rupius through," she said.
And, although Bertha knew that the nurse was always making such
observations, she felt more reassured.
She walked home, went to bed, and fell quietly asleep.