Bertha Garlan Part 25

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 encompa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 hea.r.s.e 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 pa.s.s 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 rea.s.sured.

She walked home, went to bed, and fell quietly asleep.

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. Circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sure 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."