Bertha Garlan | Page 5

of them were not people to whom she
was in the habit of talking, they flitted by like shadows. Yonder came
the saddler, Peter Nowak, and his wife; Doctor Rellinger drove by in
his little country trap and bowed to her as he passed; he was followed
by the two daughters of Herr Wendelein, the landowner; presently
Lieutenant Baier and his fiancée cycled slowly down the road on their
way to the country. Then, again, there seemed to be a short lull in the
movement before her and Bertha heard nothing but the laughter of the
children as they played.
Then, again, she saw that some one was slowly approaching from the
town, and she recognized who it was while he was still a long way off.
It was Herr Klingemann, to whom of late she had been in the habit of
talking more frequently than had previously been her custom. Some
twelve years ago or more he had moved from Vienna to the little town.
Gossip had it that he had at one time been a doctor, and had been
obliged to give up his practice on account of some professional error, or
even of some more serious lapse. Some, however, asserted that he had
never qualified as a doctor at all, but, failing to pass his examinations,
had finally given up the study of medicine. Herr Klingemann, for his
own part, gave himself out to be a philosopher, who had grown weary
of life in the great city after having enjoyed it to satiety, and for that
reason had moved to the little town, where he could live comfortably
on what remained of his fortune.
He was now but little more than five-and-forty. There were still times
when he was of a genial enough aspect, but, for the most part, he had
an extremely dilapidated and disagreeable appearance.
While yet some distance away he smiled at the young widow, but did
not hasten his steps. Finally he stopped before her and gave her an

ironical nod, which was his habitual manner of greeting people.
"Good evening, my pretty lady!" he said.
Bertha returned his salutation. It was one of those days on which Herr
Klingemann appeared to make some claim to elegance and
youthfulness. He was attired in a dark grey frock coat, so tightly fitting
that he might almost have been wearing stays. On his head was a
narrow brimmed brown straw hat with a black band. About his throat,
moreover, there was a very tiny red cravat, set rather askew.
For a time he remained silent, tugging his slightly grizzled fair
moustache upwards and downwards.
"I presume you have come from up there, my dear lady?" he said.
Without turning his head or even his eyes, he pointed his finger over
his shoulder, in a somewhat contemptuous manner, in the direction of
the cemetery behind him.
Throughout the town Herr Klingemann was known as a man to whom
nothing was sacred, and as he stood before her, Bertha could not help
thinking of the various bits of gossip that she had heard about him. It
was well known that his relations with his cook, whom he always
referred to as his housekeeper, were of a somewhat more intimate
nature than that merely of master and servant, and his name was also
mentioned in connexion with the wife of a tobacconist, who, as he had
himself told Bertha with proud regret, deceived him with a captain of
the regiment stationed in the town. Moreover, there were several
eligible girls in the neighbourhood who cherished a certain tender
interest in him.
Whenever these things were hinted at Herr Klingemann always made
some sneering remark on the subject of marriage in general, which
shocked the susceptibilities of many, but, on the whole, actually
increased the amount of respect in which he was held.
"I have been out for a short walk," said Bertha.

"Alone?"
"Oh, no; with my boy."
"Yes--yes--of course, there he is! Good evening, my little mortal!"--he
gazed away over Fritz's head as he said this--"may I sit down for a
moment beside you, Frau Bertha?"
He pronounced her name with an ironic inflection and, without waiting
for her to reply, he sat down on the bench.
"I heard you playing the piano this morning," he continued. "Do you
know what kind of an impression it made upon me? This: that with you
music must take the place of everything."
He repeated the word "everything" and, at the same time, looked at
Bertha in a manner which caused her to blush.
"What a pity I so seldom have the opportunity of hearing you play!" he
went on. "If I don't happen to be passing your open window when you
are at the piano--"
Bertha noticed that he kept on