Bertha Garlan | Page 6

hear you call me 'Sir,' Aunt Bertha!" replied the laughing voice of a boy at her back.
"Well, do let me at least open my eyes, Richard," said Bertha, trying to remove the boy's hands from her face. "Have you come from home!" she added, turning round towards him.
"Yes, Aunt, and here's the newspaper which I have brought you."
Bertha took the paper which he handed to her and began to read it.
Klingemann, meanwhile, rose to his feet and turned to Richard.
"Have you done your exercises already?" he asked.
"We have no exercises at all now, Herr Klingemann, because our final examination is to take place in July."
"So you will actually be a student by this time next year?"
"This time next year! It'll be in the autumn!"
As he said this Richard drummed his fingers along the newspaper.
"What do you want, then, you ill-mannered fellow?" asked Bertha.
"I say, Aunt, will you come and visit me when I am in Vienna?"
"Yes, I should like to catch myself! I shall be glad to be rid of you!"
"Here comes Herr Rupius!" said Richard.
Bertha lowered the paper and looked in the direction indicated by her nephew's glance. Along the avenue leading from the town a maidservant came, pushing an invalid's chair, in which a man was sitting. His head was uncovered and his soft felt hat was lying upon his knees, from which a plaid rug reached down to his feet. His forehead was lofty; his hair smooth and fair and slightly grizzled at the temples; his feet were peculiarly large. As he passed the bench on which Bertha was seated he only inclined his head slightly, without smiling. Bertha knew that, had she been alone, he would certainly have stopped; moreover, he looked only at her as he passed by, and his greeting seemed to apply to her alone. It seemed to Bertha that she had never before seen such a grave look in his eyes as on this occasion, and she was exceedingly sorry, for she felt a profound compassion for the paralysed man.
When Herr Rupius had passed by, Klingemann said:
"Poor devil! And wifie is away as usual on one of her visits to Vienna, eh?"
"No," answered Bertha, almost angrily. "I was speaking to her only an hour ago."
Klingemann was silent, for he felt that further remarks on the subject of the mysterious visits of Frau Rupius to Vienna might not have been in keeping with his own reputation as a freethinker.
"Won't he really ever be able to walk again?" asked Richard.
"No," said Bertha.
She knew this for a fact because Herr Rupius had told her so himself on one occasion when she had called on him and his wife was in Vienna.
At that moment Herr Rupius seemed to her to be a particularly pitiful figure, for, as he was being wheeled past her in his invalid's chair, she had, in reading the paper, lighted upon the name of one whom she regarded as a happy man.
Mechanically she read the paragraph again.
"Our celebrated compatriot Emil Lindbach returned to Vienna a few days ago after his professional tour through France and Spain, in the course of which he met with many a triumphant reception. In Madrid this distinguished artist had the honour of playing before the Queen of Spain. On the 24th of this month Herr Lindbach will take part in the charity concert which has been organized for the relief of the inhabitants of Vorarlberg, who have suffered such severe losses as a result of the recent floods. A keen interest in the concert is being shown by the public in spite of the fact that the season is so far advanced."
Emil Lindbach! It required a certain effort on Bertha's part to realize that this was the same man whom she had loved--how many?--twelve years ago. Twelve years! She could feel the hot blood mount up into her brow. It seemed to her as though she ought to be ashamed of having gradually grown older.
The sun had set. Bertha took Fritz by the hand, bade the others good evening, and walked slowly homewards.
She lived on the first floor of a house in a new street. From her windows she had a view of the hill, and opposite were only vacant sites.
Bertha handed Fritz over to the care 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