It was his voice. She turned round. He was standing before her, young, slim, elegant and rather pale. In his smile there was a suggestion of mockery. He nodded to Bertha, took her hand at the same time, and held it for a while in his own. It was Emil himself, and it was exactly as if the last occasion on which they had spoken to one another had been only the previous day.
"Good morning, Emil," she said.
They gazed at each other. His glance was expressive of much: pleasure, amiability, and something in the nature of a scrutiny. She realised all this with perfect clearness, whilst she gazed at him with eyes in which nothing but pure happiness was shining.
"Well, then, how are you getting on, Bertha?" he asked.
"Quite well."
"It is really funny that I should ask you such a question after eight or nine years. Things have probably gone very differently with you."
"Yes, indeed, that"s true. You know, of course, that my husband died three years ago."
She felt obliged to a.s.sume an expression of sorrow.
"Yes, I know that, and I know, too, that you have a boy. Let me see, who could it have been that told me?"
"I wonder who?"
"Well, it"ll come back to me presently. It is new to me, though, that you are interested in pictures."
Bertha smiled.
"Well, it wasn"t really on account of the pictures alone. But you mustn"t think that I am quite so silly as all that. I do take an interest in pictures."
"And so do I. If the truth must be told, I think I would rather be a painter than anything else."
"Yet you ought to be quite satisfied with what you have attained."
"Well, that"s a question that can"t be disposed of in one word. Of course, I find it a very pleasant thing to be able to play the violin so well, but what does it all lead to? Only to this, I think: that when I am dead my name will endure for a short time. That--" his eyes indicated the picture before which they were standing--"that, on the other hand, is something different."
"You are awfully ambitious, Emil!"
He looked at her, but without evincing the slightest interest in her.
"Ambitious? Well, it is not such a simple matter as all that. But let"s talk about something else. What a strange idea to indulge in a theoretical conversation on the subject of art, when we haven"t seen each other for a hundred years! So come, then, Bertha, tell me something about yourself! What do you do with yourself at home? How do you live?
And what really put it into your head to congratulate me on getting that silly Order?"
She smiled a second time.
"I wanted to write to you again," she answered; "and, chiefly, I wanted to hear something of you once more; It was really very good of you to answer my letter at once."
"Good? Not at all, my child! I was so pleased when, all of a sudden, your letter came--I recognised your writing at once. You know, you still have the same schoolgirl writing as.... Well, let us say, as in the old days, although I can"t bear such expressions."
"But why?" she asked, somewhat astonished.
He looked at her, and then said in a rapid voice:
"Well, tell me, how do you live? You must generally get very bored, I"m sure."
"I haven"t much time for that," she replied gravely. "I give lessons, you must know."
"Oh!"
His tone was one of such disproportionate pity that she felt constrained to add quickly:
"Oh, not because there is really any pressing need for me to do so--although, of course, I find it very useful, because ..." she felt that it would be best to be quite frank with him ... "I could scarcely live on the slender means that I possess."
"What is it, then, that you are actually a teacher of?"
"What! Didn"t I tell you that I give piano lessons?"
"Piano lessons? Really? Yes, of course ... you used to be very talented.
If you hadn"t left the Conservatoire when you did ... well, of course, you would not have become one of the great pianistes, you know, but for certain things you had quite a p.r.o.nounced apt.i.tude. For instance, you used to play Chopin and the little things of Schumann very prettily."
"You still remember that?"
"After all, I dare say that you have chosen the better course."
"In what way?"
"Well, if it is impossible to master everything, it is better, no doubt, to get married and have children."
"I have only one child."
He laughed.
"Tell me something about him, and all about your own life in general."
They sat down on the divan in the little saloon on front of the Rembrandts.
"What have I to tell you about myself? There is nothing in it of the slightest interest. Rather, you tell me about yourself"--she looked at him with admiration--"things have gone so splendidly with you, you are such a celebrated man, you see!"
Emil twitched his underlip very slightly, as if discontented.
"Why, yes," she continued, undaunted; "quite recently I saw your portrait in an ill.u.s.trated paper."
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.
"But I always knew that you would make a name for yourself," she added. "Do you still remember how you played the Mendelssohn Concerto at that final examination at the Conservatoire? Everybody said the same thing then."
"I beg you, my dear girl, don"t, please, let us have any more of these mutual compliments! Tell me, what sort of a man was your late husband?"
"He was a good; indeed, I might say n.o.ble, man."
"Do you know, though, that I met your father about eight days before he died?"
"Did you really?"