Bertha Garlan | Page 8

melodies which were hovering, as it were, about her. Then
Klingemann's observation recurred to her.
"With you music must take the place of everything!"
Indeed he had not been far from the truth. Music certainly had to take
the place of much.
But everything--? Oh, no!
What was that? Footsteps over the way....
Well, there was nothing remarkable in that. But they were slow, regular
footsteps, as though somebody was passing up and down. She stood up
and went to the window. It was quite dark, and at first she could not
recognize the man who was walking outside. But she knew that it was
Klingemann. How absurd! Was he going to haunt the vicinity like a
love-sick swain?
"Good evening, Frau Bertha," he said from across the road, and she
could see in the darkness that he raised his hat.
"Good evening," she answered, almost confusedly.
"You were playing most beautifully."
Her only answer was to murmur "really?" and that perhaps did not
reach his ears.
He remained standing for a moment, then said:

"Good night, sleep soundly, Frau Bertha."
He pronounced the word "sleep" with an emphasis which was almost
insolent.
"Now he is going home to his cook!" thought Bertha to herself.
Then suddenly she called to mind something which she had known for
quite a long time, but to which she had not given a thought since it had
come to her knowledge. It was rumoured that in his room there hung a
picture which was always covered with a little curtain because its
subject was of a somewhat questionable nature.
Who was it had told her about that picture? Oh, yes, Frau Rupius had
told her when they were taking a walk along the bank of the Danube
one day last autumn, and she in her turn had heard of it from some one
else--Bertha could not remember from whom.
What an odious man! Bertha felt that somehow she was guilty of a
slight depravity in thinking of him and all these things. She continued
to stand by the window. It seemed to her as though it had been an
unpleasant day. She went over the actual events in her mind, and was
astonished to find that, after all, the day had just been like many
hundreds before it and many, many more that were yet to come.

II
They stood up from the table. It had been one of those little Sunday
dinner parties which the wine merchant Garlan was in the habit of
occasionally giving his acquaintances. The host came up to his
sister-in-law and caught her round the waist, which was one of his
customs on an afternoon.
She knew beforehand what he wanted. Whenever he had company
Bertha had to play the piano after dinner, and often duets with Richard.
The music served as a pleasant introduction to a game of cards, or,
indeed, chimed in pleasantly with the game.

She sat down at the piano. In the meantime the door of the
smoking-room was opened; Garlan, Doctor Friedrich and Herr Martin
took their seats at a small baize-covered table and began to play. The
wives of the three gentlemen remained in the drawing-room, and Frau
Martin lit a cigarette, sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs--on
Sundays she always wore dress shoes and black silk stockings. Doctor
Friedrich's wife looked at Frau Martin's feet as though fixed to the spot
by enchantment. Richard had followed the gentlemen--he already took
an interest in a game of taroc. Elly stood with her elbows leaning on the
piano waiting for Bertha to begin to play. The hostess went in and out
of the room; she was perpetually giving orders in the kitchen, and
rattling the bunch of keys which she carried in her hand. Once as she
came into the room Doctor Friedrich's wife threw her a glance which
seemed to say: "Just look how Frau Martin is sitting there!"
Bertha noticed all those things that day more clearly, as it were, than
usual, somewhat after the manner in which things are seen by a person
suffering from fever. She had not as yet struck a note. Then her
brother-in-law turned towards her and threw her a glance, which was
intended to remind her of her duty. She began to play a march by
Schubert, with a very heavy touch.
"Softer," said her brother-in-law, turning round again.
"Taroc with a musical accompaniment is a speciality of this house,"
said Doctor Friedrich.
"Songs without words, so to speak," added Herr Martin.
The others laughed. Garlan turned round towards Bertha again, for she
had suddenly left off playing.
"I have a slight headache," she said, as if it were necessary to make
some excuse; immediately, however, she felt as though it were beneath
her