XI

The next morning Bertha was late in waking up. She was fresh after her

good night's rest. A letter was lying beside the bed. And then, for the

first time that morning, everything came back to her mind; Frau Rupius

was very ill, and here was a letter from Emil. She seized it so hurriedly

that she set the little candlestick shaking violently; she opened the

envelope and read the letter.

"My DEAR BERTHA,

"Many thanks for your nice letter. I was very pleased to get it. But I

must tell you that your idea of coming to live permanently in Vienna

requires again to be carefully considered by you. Circumstances here are

quite different from what you seem to imagine. Even the native, fully

accredited musicians have the greatest difficulty in obtaining pupils at

anything like decent fees, and for you it would be--at the beginning, at

least--almost a matter of impossibility. Where you are now you have your

assured income, your circle of relations and friends, your home; and,

finally, it is the place where you lived with your husband, where your

child was born, and so it is the place where you ought to be.

"And, apart from all these considerations, it would be a very foolish

procedure on your part to plunge into the exhausting struggle for a

livelihood in the city. I purposely refrain from saying anything about

the part which your affection for me (you know I return it with all my

heart) seems to play in your proposals; to bring that in would carry

the whole question over to another domain, and we must not let that

happen. I will accept no sacrifice from you, under any condition. I

need not assure you that I would like to see you again, and soon, too,

for there is nothing I desire so much as to spend another such an hour

with you as that which you recently gave me (and for which I am very

grateful to you).

"So, then, arrange matters, my child, in such a way that, say, every four

or six weeks you can come to Vienna for a day and a night. We will often

be very happy again, I trust. I regret I cannot see you during the next

few days, and, moreover, I start off on a tour immediately after the

concert. I have to play in London during the season there, and after that

I am going on to Scotland. So I look forward to the joyful prospect of

meeting you again in the autumn.

"I greet you and kiss that sweet spot behind your ear, which I love

best of all.

"Your

"EMIL."

When Bertha had read the letter to the end, for some little time she sat

bolt upright in the bed. A shudder seemed to pass through her whole body.

She was not surprised; she knew that she had expected no other kind of

letter. She shook herself....

Every four or six weeks ... excellent! Yes, for a day and a night.... It

was shameful, shameful!... And how afraid he was that she might go to

Vienna.... And then that observation right at the end, as if his object

had been, while he was still at a safe distance, so to speak, to

stimulate her senses, because that, forsooth, was the only kind of

relations he desired to keep up with her.... It was shameful,

shameful!... What sort of a woman had she been! She felt a

loathing--loathing!...

She sprang out of bed and dressed herself.... Well, what was going to

happen after that?... It was over, over, over! He had not time to spare

for her--no time at all!... One night every, six weeks, after the

autumn.... Yes, my dear sir, I at once accept your honourable proposals

with pleasure. Indeed, for myself, I desire nothing better! I will go on

turning sour; I will go on giving music lessons and growing imbecile in

this hole of a town.... You will fiddle away, turn women's heads, travel,

be rich, famous and happy--and every four or six weeks I may hope to be

taken for one night to some shabby room where you entertain your women of

the street.... It was shameful, shameful, shameful!...

Quick! She would get ready to go to Frau Rupius--Anna was ill, seriously

ill--what mattered anything else?

Before she went out, Bertha pressed Fritz to her heart, and she recalled

the passage in Emil's letter: it is the place where your child was

born.... Indeed, that was quite right, too; but Emil had not said that

because it was true, but only to avoid the danger of having to see her

more than once in six weeks.

She hurried off.... How was it, then, that she did not feel any

nervousness on Frau Rupius' account?... Ah, of course, she had known

that Frau Rupius had been better the previous evening. But where was

the letter, though?... She had again thrust it quite mechanically into

her bodice.

Some officers were sitting in front of the restaurant having breakfast.

They were all covered with dust, having just returned from the

manoeuvres. One of them gazed after Bertha. He was a very young man, and

could only have obtained his commission quite recently....

Pray, don't be afraid, thought Bertha. I am altogether at your disposal.

I have an engagement which takes me into Vienna only once every four or

six weeks ... please, tell me when you would like ...

The balcony door was open, the red velvet piano cover was hanging over

the balustrade. Well, evidently order had been restored again--otherwise,

would the cover have been hanging over the balustrade?... Of course not,

so forward then, and upstairs without fear....

The maid opened the door. There was no need for Bertha to ask her any

questions; in her wide-open eyes there was an expression of terrified

amazement, such as is only called forth by the proximity of an

appalling death.

Bertha went in. She entered the drawing-room first; the door leading to

the bedroom was open to its full extent. The bed was standing in the

middle of the room, away from the wall, and free on all sides. At the

foot was sitting the nurse, looking very tired, with her head sunk upon

her breast, Herr Rupius was sitting in his invalid's chair by the head of

the bed. The room was so dark that it was not until Bertha had come quite

close that she could see Anna's face clearly. Frau Rupius seemed to be

asleep. Bertha came nearer. She could hear the patient's breathing; it

was regular, but inconceivably rapid--she had never heard a human being

breathe like that before. Then Bertha felt that the eyes of the two

others were fixed upon her. Her surprise at having been admitted in this

unceremonious manner lasted only for a moment, since she understood that

all precautionary measures had now become superfluous; the matter had

been decided.

Suddenly another pair of eyes turned towards Bertha. Frau Rupius opened

her eyes, and was watching her friend attentively. The nurse made room

for Bertha, and went into the adjoining room. Bertha sat down, moving her

chair closer to the bed. She noticed that Anna was slowly stretching out

her hand towards her. She grasped it.

"Dear Frau Rupius," she said, "you are already getting on much better

now, are you not?"

She felt that she was again saying something awkward, but she knew she

could not help doing so. It was just her fate to say such things in the

presence of Frau Rupius, even in her last hour.

Anna smiled; she looked as pale and young as a girl.

"Thank you, dear Bertha," she said.

"But whatever for, my dear, dear Anna?"

She had the greatest difficulty in restraining her tears. At the same

time, however, she was very curious to hear what had actually happened.

A long interval of silence ensued. Anna closed her eyes again and

appeared to sleep. Herr Rupius sat motionless in his chair. Bertha looked

sometimes at Anna and sometimes at him.

In any case, she must wait, she thought. She wondered what Emil would

say if _she_ were suddenly to die. Ah, surely it would cause him some

slight grief if he had to think that she whom he had held in his arms a

few days before now lay mouldering in the grave. He might even weep.

Yes, he would weep if she were to die ... wretched egoist though he was

at other times....

Ah, but where were her thoughts flying to again? Wasn't she still

holding her friend's hand in her own? Oh, if she could only save her!...

Who was now in the worse plight--this woman who was doomed to die, or

Bertha herself--who had been so ignominiously deceived? Was it necessary,

though, to put it so strongly as that, because of one night?... Ah, but

that had much too fine a sound!... for the sake of one hour--to humiliate

her so--to ruin her so--was not that unscrupulous and shameless?... How

she hated him! How she hated him!... If only he were to break down at the

next concert, so that all the people would laugh him to scorn, and he

would be put to shame, and all the papers would have the news--"The

career of Herr Emil Lindbach is absolutely ended." And all his women

would say: "Ah, I don't like that a bit, a fiddler who breaks down!"...

Yes, then he would probably remember her, the only woman who had loved

him since the days of her girlhood, who loved him truly ... and whom he

was now treating so basely!... Then he would be sure to come back to her

and beg her to forgive him--and she would say to him: "Do you see, Emil;

do you see, Emil?"... for, naturally, anything more intelligent than that

would not occur to her....

And there she was thinking again of him, always of him--and here somebody

was dying, and she was sitting by the bed, and that silent person there

was the husband.... It was all so quiet; only from the street, as though

wafted up over the balcony and through the open door, came a confused

murmur--men's voices, the rumble of the traffic, the jingle of a

cyclist's bell, the clattering of a sabre on the pavement, and, now and

then, the twitter of the birds--but it all seemed so far away, so utterly

unconnected with actuality.

Anna became restless and tossed her head to and fro--several times,

quickly, quicker and quicker....

"Now it's beginning!" said a soft voice behind Bertha.

She turned round. It was the nurse with the cheerful features; but Bertha

now perceived that that expression did not denote cheerfulness at all,

but was only the result of a strained effort never to allow sorrow to be

noticeable, and she considered the face to be indescribably fearful....

What was it the nurse had said?... "Now it's beginning."... Yes, like a

concert or a play ... and Bertha remembered that once the same words had

been spoken beside her own bed, at the time when she began to feel the

pangs of childbirth....

Suddenly Anna opened her eyes, opened them very wide, so that they

appeared immense; she fixed them on her husband, and, vainly striving,

meanwhile, to raise herself up, said in a quite clear voice:

"It was only you, only you ... believe me, it was only you whom I

have..."

The last word was unintelligible, but Bertha guessed it.

Then Herr Rupius bent down, and kissed the dying woman on the forehead.

Anna threw her arms around him; his lips lingered long on her eyes.

The nurse had gone out of the room again. Suddenly Anna pushed her

husband away from her; she no longer recognized him; delirium had set in.

Bertha rose to her feet in great alarm, but she remained standing

by the bed.

"Go now!" said Herr Rupius to her.

She lingered.

"Go!" he repeated, this time in a stern voice.

Bertha realized that she must go. She left the room quietly on tip-toes,

as though Anna might still be disturbed by the sound of footsteps. Just

as she entered the adjoining room she saw Doctor Friedrich, who was

taking off his overcoat and, at the same time, was talking to a young

doctor, the assistant at the hospital.

He did not notice Bertha, and she heard him say:

"In any other case I would have notified the authorities, but, as this

affair falls out as it does.... Besides, there would be a terrible

scandal, and poor Rupius would be the worst sufferer--" then he saw

Bertha--"Good day, Frau Garlan."

"Oh, doctor, what is really the matter, then?"

Doctor Friedrich threw his colleague a rapid glance.

"Blood poisoning," he replied. "You are, of course, aware, my dear

Frau Garlan, that people often cut their fingers and die as a

result; the wound cannot always he located. It is a great

misfortune.... Yes, indeed!"

He went into the room, followed by the assistant.

Bertha went into the street like one stupified. What could be the meaning

of the words which she had overheard--"information?"--"scandal?" Yes, had

Herr Rupius, perhaps, murdered his own wife?... No, what nonsense! But

some injury had been done to her, it was quite obvious ... and it must

have been, in some way, connected with the visit to Vienna; for she had

been taken ill during the night subsequent to her journey.... And the

words of the dying woman recurred to Bertha: "It was only you, only you

whom I have loved!..." Had they not sounded like a prayer for

forgiveness? "Loved only you"--but ... another ... of course, she had a

lover in Vienna.... Well, yes, but what followed?... Yes, she had wished

to go away, and had not done so after all.... What could it have been

that she said on that occasion at the railway station?... "I have made up

my mind to do something else."... Yes, of course, she had taken leave of

her lover in Vienna, and, on her return--had poisoned herself?... But why

should she do that, though, if she loved only her husband?... And that

was not a lie, certainly not!

Bertha could not understand....

Why ever had she gone away, then?... What should she do now, too?... She

could not rest. She could neither go home nor to her relatives, she must

go back again.... She wondered, too, whether Anna would have to die if

another letter from Emil came that day?... In truth, she was losing her

reason.... Of course, these two things had not the least connection

between them ... and yet ... why was she unable to dissociate them one

from the other?...

Once more she hurried up the steps. Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed

since she had left the house. The hall door was open, the nurse was in

the anteroom.

"It is all over," she said.

Bertha went on. Herr Rupius was sitting by the table, all alone; the door

leading to the death-chamber was closed. He made Bertha come quite close

to him, then he seized the hand which she stretched out to him.

"Why, why did she do it?" he said. "Why did she do _that_?"

Bertha was silent.

"It wasn't necessary," continued Herr Rupius, "Heaven knows, it wasn't

necessary. What difference could the other men make to me--tell me that?"

Bertha nodded.

"The main point is to live--yes, that is it! Why did she do that?"

It sounded like a suppressed wail, although he seemed to be speaking

very quietly. Bertha burst into tears.

"No, it wasn't necessary! I would have brought it up--brought it up as my

own child!"

Bertha looked up sharply. All at once she understood everything, and a

terrible fear ran through her whole being. She thought of herself. If in

that night she also ... in that one hour?... So great was her terror that

she believed that she must be losing her reason. What had hitherto been

scarcely more than a vague possibility floating through her mind now

loomed suddenly before her, an indisputable certainty. It could not

possibly be otherwise, the death of Anna was an omen, the pointing of the

finger of God.

At the same time there arose within her mind the recollection of the day,

twelve years ago, when she had been walking with Emil on the bank of the

Wien, and he had kissed her and for the first time she had felt an ardent

yearning for a child. How was it that she had not experienced the same

yearning when, recently, she felt his arms about her?... Yes, she knew

now; she had desired nothing more than the pleasures of the moment; she

had been no better than a woman of the streets. It would be only the just

punishment of Heaven if she also perished in her shame, like the poor

woman lying in the next room.

"I would like to see her once more," she said.

Rupius pointed towards the door. Bertha opened it, went up slowly to the

bed on which lay the body of the dead woman, gazed upon her friend for a

long time, and kissed her on both eyes. Then a sense of unequalled

restfulness stole over her. She would have liked to have remained beside

the corpse for hours together, for, in proximity to it, her own sorrow

and disappointment became as nothing to her. She knelt down by the bed

and clasped her hands, but she did not pray.

All at once everything danced before her eyes. Suddenly a well-known

attack of weakness came over her, a dizziness which passed off

immediately. At first she trembled slightly, but then she drew a deep

breath, as one who has been rescued, because, indeed, with the approach

of that lassitude, she felt at the same time that, at that moment, not

only her previous apprehensions, but all the illusion of that confused

day, the last tremors of the desires of womanhood, everything which she

had considered to be love, had begun to merge and to fade away into

nothingness. And kneeling by the death-bed, she realized that she was not

one of those women who are gifted with a cheerful temperament and can

quaff the joys of life without trepidation. She thought with disgust of

that hour of pleasure that had been granted her, and, in comparison with

the purity of that yearning kiss, the recollection of which had

beautified her whole existence, the shameless joys which she then had

tasted seemed to her like an immense falsehood.

The relations which had existed between the paralysed man in the room

beyond and this woman, who had had to die for her deceit, seemed now to

be spread out before her with wonderful clearness. And, while she gazed

upon the pallid brow of the dead woman she could not help thinking of the

unknown man, on account of whom Anna had had to die, and who, exempt from

punishment, and, perhaps, remorseless, too, dared to go about in a great

town and to live on, like any other--no, like thousands and thousands of

others who had stared at her with covetous, indecent glances. Bertha

divined what an enormous wrong had been wrought against the world in that

the longing for pleasure is placed in woman just as in man: and that with

women that longing is a sin, demanding expiation, if the yearning for

pleasure is not at the same time a yearning for motherhood.

She rose, threw a last farewell glance at her dearly loved friend, and

left the death-chamber.

Herr Rupius was sitting in the adjoining room, exactly as she had left

him. She was seized with a profound desire to speak some words of

consolation to him. For a moment it seemed to her as though her own

destiny had only had this one purpose: to enable her fully to understand

the misery of that man. She would have liked to have been able to tell

him so, but she felt that he was one of those who desire to be alone with

their sorrow. And so, without speaking, she sat down opposite to him.