Bertha Garlan by Arthur Schnitzler

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"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.

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