Bertha Garlan | Page 7

of the maid, sat down by the
window, took up the paper and began to read again. She had kept the
custom of glancing through the art news first of all. This habit had been
formed in the days of her early childhood, when she and her brother,
who was now an actor, used to go to the top gallery of the Burg-Theater
together. Her interest in art naturally grew when she attended the
conservatoire of music; in those days she had been acquainted with the
names of even the minor actors, singers and pianists. Later on, when
her frequent visits to the theatres, the studies at the conservatoire and
her own artistic aspirations came to an end, there still lingered within
her a kind of sympathy, which was not free from the touch of
homesickness, towards that joyous world of art. But during the latter
portion of her life in Vienna all these things had retained scarcely any
of their former significance for her; just as little, indeed, as they had
possessed since she had come to reside in the little town, where
occasional amateur concerts were the best that was offered in the way
of artistic enjoyment. One evening during the first year of her married
life, she had taken part in one of these concerts at the "Red Apple"
Hotel. She had played two marches by Schubert as a duet with another
young lady in the town. On that occasion her agitation had been so
great that she had vowed to herself never again to appear in public, and
was more than glad that she had given up her hopes of an artistic
career.
For such a career a very different temperament from hers was
necessary--for example, one like Emil Lindbach's. Yes, he was born to
it! She had recognized that by his demeanour the very moment when

she had first seen him step on to the daïs at a school concert. He had
smoothed back his hair in an unaffected manner, gazed at the people
below with sardonic superiority, and had acknowledged the first
applause which he had ever received in the calm, indifferent manner of
one long accustomed to such things.
It was strange, but whenever she thought of Emil Lindbach she still
saw him in her mind's eye as youthful, even boyish, just as he had been
in the days when they had known and loved each other. Yet not so long
before, when she had spent the evening with her brother-in-law and his
wife in a restaurant, she had seen a photograph of him in an illustrated
paper, and he appeared to have changed greatly. He no longer wore his
hair long; his black moustache was curled downwards; his collar was
conspicuously tall, and his cravat twisted in accordance with the
fashion of the day. Her sister-in-law had given her opinion that he
looked like a Polish count.
Bertha took up the newspaper again and was about to read on, but by
that time it was too dark. She rose to her feet and called the maid. The
lamp was brought in and the table laid for supper. Bertha ate her meal
with Fritz, the window remaining open. That evening she felt an even
greater tenderness for her child than usual; she recalled once more to
memory the times when her husband was still alive, and all manner of
reminiscences passed rapidly through her mind. While she was putting
Fritz to bed, her glance lingered for quite a long time on her husband's
portrait, which hung over the bed in an oval frame of dark brown wood.
It was a full-length portrait; he was wearing a morning coat and a white
cravat, and was holding his tall hat in his hand. It was all in memory of
their wedding day.
Bertha knew for a certainty, at that moment, that Herr Klingemann
would have smiled sarcastically had he seen that portrait.
Later in the evening she sat down at the piano, as was a not infrequent
custom of hers before going to bed, not so much because of her
enthusiasm for music, but because she did not want to retire to rest too
early. On such occasions she played, for the most part, the few pieces
which she still knew by heart--mazurkas by Chopin, some passages

from one of Beethoven's sonatas, or the Kreisleriana. Sometimes she
improvised as well, but never pursued the theme beyond a succession
of chords, which, indeed, were always the same.
On that evening she began at once by striking those chords, somewhat
more softly than usual; then she essayed various modulations and, as
she made the last triad resound for a long time by means of the
pedal--her hands were now lying in her lap--she felt a gentle joy in the