"I am afraid that Elly will turn out a most eccentric girl."
Before Bertha left the house she arranged with her sister-in-law that she would come back to supper, and that she would hand over Fritz to the care of her relations while she as away in Vienna.
After dinner, Bertha sat down at the writing table, read over Emil's letter a few more times, and made a rough draft of her reply.
"My Dear Emil,
"It was very good of you to answer me so soon. I was very happy"—she crossed out "very happy" and substituted "very glad"—"when I received your dear note. How much has changed since we last saw each other! You have become a famous virtuoso since then, which I, for my part, was always quite sure that you would be"—she stopped and struck out the whole sentence—"I also share your desire to see me soon again"—no, that was mere nonsense! This was better: "I should be immensely delighted to have an opportunity of talking to you once more."—Then an excellent idea occurred to her, and she wrote with great zest: "It is really strange that we have not met for so long, for I come to Vienna quite often; for instance, I shall be there this week-end…." Then she allowed her pen to drop and fell into thought. She was determined to go to Vienna the next afternoon, to put up at an hotel, and to sleep there, so as to be quite fresh the following day, and to breathe the air of Vienna for a few hours before meeting him. The next question was to fix a meeting place. That was easily done. "In accordance with your kind wish I am writing to let you know that on Saturday morning at eleven o'clock…." No, that was not the right thing! It was so businesslike, and yet again too eager—"if," she wrote, "you would really care to take the opportunity of seeing your old friend again, then perhaps you will not consider it too much trouble to go to the Art and History Museum on Saturday morning at eleven o'clock. I will be in the gallery of the Dutch School"—as she wrote that she seemed to herself rather impressive and, at the same time, everything of a suspicious nature seemed to be removed.
* * * * *
She read over the draft. It appeared to her rather dry, but, after all, it contained all that was necessary, and did not compromise her in any way. Whatever else was to happen would take place in the Museum, in the Dutch gallery.
She neatly copied out the draft, signed it, placed it in an envelope, and hurried down the sunny street to post the letter in the nearest box. On arriving home again she slipped off her dress, donned a dressing-gown, sat down on the sofa, and turned over the leaves of a novel by Gerstacker, which she had read half a score of times already. But she was unable to take in a word. At first, she attempted to dismiss from her mind the thoughts which beset her, but her efforts met with no success.
She felt ashamed of herself, but all the time she kept dreaming that she was in Emil's arms. Why ever did such dreams come to her? She had never, even for a moment, thought of such a thing! No, … she would not think of it, either … she was not that sort of woman…. No, she could not be anyone's mistress—and even on this occasion…. Yes, perhaps if she were to go to Vienna once more and again … and again … yes, much later—perhaps. And besides, he would not even so much as dare to speak of such a thing, or even to hint at it…. It was, however, useless to reason like this; she could no longer think of anything else. Ever more importunate came her dreams and, in the end, she gave up the struggle. She lolled indolently in the corner of the sofa, allowed the book to slip from her fingers and lie on the floor, and closed her eyes.
When she rose to her feet an hour later a whole night seemed to have passed, and the visit to Frau Rupius seemed, in particular, to be far distant. Again she wondered at this confusion of time—in truth, the hours appeared to be longer or shorter just as they chose.