Bertha Garlan by Arthur Schnitzler

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And if she found him in the arms of some other woman, what should she
say?... Had he promised her anything? Had he sworn to be true to
her? Had she even so much as demanded loyalty of him? How could she
have imagined that he was waiting for her here in Vienna until she
congratulated him on his Spanish Order?... Yes, could he not say to
her: "You have thrown yourself on my neck and have desired nothing more
than that I should take you as you are...." And if she asked
herself--was he not right?... Had she not come to Vienna to be his
beloved?--and for no other reason ... without any regard to the past,
without any guarantee as to the future?... Yes, that was all she had
come for! All other hopes and wishes had only transiently hovered
around her passion, and she did not deserve anything better than that
which had happened to her.... And if she was candid to herself, she
must also admit that of all that she had experienced this had still
been the best....

She stopped at a street corner. All was quiet around her; the summer air
about her was heavy and sultry. She retraced her steps back to her hotel.
She was very tired, and a new thought rose up convulsively within her:
was it not possible that he had written to put her off only because he
also was tired?... She seemed to herself very experienced when that
idea occurred to her.... And yet another thought flashed through her
mind: that he could also love no other woman in the way in which he had
loved her.... And suddenly she asked whether, after all, the previous
night would remain her only experience--whether she herself would belong
to no other man save him? And she rejoiced in the doubt, as if, by
cherishing it, she was taking a kind of revenge on his compassionate
glance and mocking lips.

And now she was back again in the cheerless room away up in the third
storey of the hotel. The remains of her dinner had not yet been cleared
away. Her jacket and the flowers were still lying on the bed. She took
the flowers in her hand and raised them to her lips, as though about to
kiss them. Suddenly, however, as though her whole anger burst forth
again, she flung them violently to the ground. Then she threw herself on
the bed, her face buried in her hands.

After lying for some time in this position she felt her calmness
gradually returning. It was perhaps just as well that she could return
home that very day. She thought of her boy, how he was accustomed to lie
in his little cot with his whole face beaming with laughter, if his
mother leaned over the railings. She yearned for him. Also she yearned in
some slight degree for Elly and for Frau Rupius. Yes, it was true--Frau
Rupius, of course, was going to leave her husband.... What could there
be at the bottom of it all?... A love affair?... But, strangely
enough, she was now still less able than before to picture to herself the
answer to that question.

It was growing late, it was time for her to get ready for her
departure.... So, then, she would be home again by Sunday evening.

She sat in the carriage; on her lap lay the flowers, which she had picked
up from the floor.... Yes, she was now travelling home, leaving the
town where she ... had experienced something--that was the right
expression, wasn't it?... Words which she had read or heard in
connexion with similar circumstances kept recurring continually to her
mind ... such words as: "bliss" ... "transports of love" ... "ecstasy"
... and a gentle thrill of pride stirred within her at having
experienced what those words denoted. And yet another thought came to her
which caused her to grow singularly calm: if he also--maybe--had an
affair with another woman at that very time ... she had taken him from
_her_ ... not for long indeed, but yet as completely as it was possible
to take a man from a woman. She grew calmer and calmer, almost cheerful.

It was, indeed, clear to her that she, Bertha, the inexperienced woman,
could not, with one assault, completely obtain possession of her
beloved.... But might she not be successful on a second occasion, she
wondered? She was very glad that she had not carried out her
determination to hasten to him at once. Indeed, she even formed the
intention of writing him such a cold letter that he would fall into a
mild fit of anger; she would be coquettish, subtle.... But she must
have him again ... of that she was certain ... soon, and, if possible,
forever!... And so her dreams went on and on as the train carried her
homewards.... Ever bolder they grew as the humming of the wheels grew
deeper and deeper, lulling her into a semi-slumberous state.

On her arrival she found the little town buried in a deep sleep--she
reached home and told the maidservant to fetch Fritz from her
sister-in-law's the first thing in the morning. Then she slowly undressed
herself. Her glance fell on the portrait of her dead husband, which hung
over the bed. She asked herself whether it should remain in that
position. Then the thought occurred to her that there are some women who
come from their lovers and then are able to sleep by the side of their
husbands, and she shuddered.... She could never have done such a thing
while her husband had been alive!... And, if she _had_ done it, she would
never have returned home again....

IX

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."

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