Bertha Garlan | Page 2

May.
From the bench on which she was sitting she could trace back the
course of the path down which she had come. In the sunlight it ran
between the vine-trellises, up and up, until it reached the brightly
gleaming wall of the cemetery. She was in the habit of taking a walk
along that path two or three times a week. She had long since ceased to
regard such visits to the cemetery as anything other than a mere walk.
When she wandered about the well-kept gravel paths amongst the
crosses and the tombstones, or stood offering up a silent prayer beside
her husband's grave, or, maybe, laying upon it a few wild flowers
which she had plucked on her way up, her heart was scarcely any
longer stirred by the slightest throb of pain. Three years had, indeed,
passed since her husband had died, which was just as long as their
married life had lasted.
Her eyes closed and her mind went back to the time when she had first
come to the town, only a few days after their marriage--which had
taken place in Vienna. They had only indulged in a modest honeymoon
trip, such as a man in humble circumstances, who had married a
woman without any dowry, could treat himself to. They had taken the
boat from Vienna, up the river, to a little village in Wachau, not far
from their future home, and had spent a few days there. Bertha could
still remember clearly the little inn at which they had stayed, the
riverside garden in which they used to sit after sunset, and those quiet,
rather tedious, evenings which were so completely different from those

her girlish imagination had previously pictured to her as the evenings
which a newly-married couple would spend. Of course, she had had to
be content.
She was twenty-six years old and quite alone in the world when Victor
Mathias Garlan had proposed to her. Her parents had recently died. A
long time before, one of her brothers had gone to America to seek his
fortune as a merchant. Her younger brother was on the stage; he had
married an actress, and was playing comedy parts in third-rate German
theatres. She was almost out of touch with her relations and the only
one whom she visited occasionally was a cousin who had married a
lawyer. But even that friendship had grown cool as years had passed,
because the cousin had become wrapped up in her husband and
children exclusively, and had almost ceased to take any interest in the
doings of her unmarried friend.
Herr Garlan was a distant relation of Bertha's mother. When Bertha was
quite a young girl he had often visited the house and made love to her
in a rather awkward way. In those days she had no reasons to
encourage him, because it was in another guise that her fancy pictured
life and happiness to her. She was young and pretty; her parents,
though not actually wealthy people, were comfortably off, and her hope
was rather to wander about the world as a great pianiste, perhaps, as the
wife of an artist, than to lead a modest existence in the placid routine of
the home circle. But that hope soon faded. One day her father, in a
transport of domestic fervour, forbade her further attendance at the
conservatoire of music, which put an end to her prospects of an artistic
career and at the same time to her friendship with the young violinist
who had since made such a name for himself.
The next few years were singularly dull. At first, it is true, she felt
some slight disappointment, or even pain, but these emotions were
certainly of short duration. Later on she had received offers of marriage
from a young doctor and a merchant. She refused both of them; the
doctor because he was too ugly, and the merchant because he lived in a
country town. Her parents, too, were by no means enthusiastic about
either suitor.

When, however, Bertha's twenty-sixth birthday passed and her father
lost his modest competency through a bankruptcy, it had been her lot to
put up with belated reproaches on the score of all sorts of things which
she herself had begun to forget--her youthful artistic ambitions, her
love affair of long ago with the violinist, which had seemed likely to
lead to nothing, and the lack of encouragement which the ugly doctor
and the merchant from the country received at her hands.
At that time Victor Mathias Garlan was no longer resident in Vienna.
Two years before, the insurance company, in which he had been
employed since he had reached the age of twenty, had, at his own
request, transferred him, in the capacity of manager, to the
recently-established