“Don’t you think that now, after the rain—” Marie objected, but she left her sentence unfinished.
He shook his head impatiently. “Never mind that, what does the rain have to do with it? I don’t like being given warnings all the time.”
As they walked on, the wood thinned out more and more. The lake, barely a hundred paces away now, glinted through the leaves. Where the wood petered out with a few sparse bushes, a narrow tongue of land extended into the water. A few spruce-wood benches and tables stood here, and there was a wooden fence beside the bank. A slight evening breeze had risen and was driving waves to the shore. And now the wind blew further on, through the bushes and above the trees, making water drip off the wet leaves again. The faint light of day as it drew to its close lay over the water.
“I never guessed” said Felix, “how beautiful all this is.”
“It’s lovely, yes.”
“But you don’t know!” cried Felix. “You can’t know, you don’t have to go away and leave it.” And he slowly took a few steps forward and leaned both arms on the slight structure of the fence. The water washed around its narrow posts, and he looked out over the shimmering lake for a long time. Then he turned. Marie was standing behind him, her eyes sad with the tears she was holding back.
“You see,” said Felix jokingly “I’m leaving you all this as a legacy. Yes, I am indeed, for it belongs to me. That’s the secret of being alive, and I’ve discovered it: it’s the sense you have of owning everything. I could do what I liked with all these things. I could make flowers grow on the bare rock over there, I could drive the white clouds out of the sky. I don’t do it because it’s beautiful just the way it is. My dear child, only when you’re alone will you understand me. Yes, then you’ll feel that all this has passed into your possession.”
He took her hand and drew her close to him. Then he gestured with his other arm as though to show her all the beauty of the scene. “All this, all this,” he said. But since she still remained silent, and her eyes were as wide and dry as ever, he broke off abruptly and said “Well, let’s go home!”
Dusk was falling, and they took the path along the bank, which soon brought them back to their lodgings. “It was a delightful walk” said Felix.
She silently nodded.
“We must take it more often, sweetheart.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And” he added, in a tone of derisive pity, “and I won’t torment you either, no, never.”
One afternoon soon after this he decided to start work again. As he was about to put pencil to paper for the first time, he glanced at Marie with a certain mischievous curiosity, to see if she would try to stop him. But she said nothing. Soon he put his paper and pencil aside and picked up the first book that came to hand. Reading it was a better way to occupy his mind. He wasn’t capable of working yet. He would have to reach the point where he entirely despised life, and was looking forward with composure to silent eternity, before he could write his last will and testament, which was to be like the words of a sage. So he planned it. Not a last will and testament of the kind written by ordinary people, a document that always betrays their secret fear of death. Nor was this work to deal with anything that could be grasped and seen but must fall into ruin at last, some time after he did: his testament was to be a poem, a quiet, smiling farewell to the world over which he had triumphed. He said nothing to Marie about these thoughts. She wouldn’t have understood him. He felt that he and she were so different. With a certain pride in himself, he sat opposite her during the long afternoons when, as so often, she had fallen asleep over her book, her loose hair curling on her forehead. His self-awareness grew as he saw how much he could hide from her. He was becoming so isolated, so great.
That afternoon, as her eyelids closed again, he quietly slipped out of the house. He went walking in the wood, surrounded by the silence of the sultry summer afternoon. And now he realised that it could happen today. He breathed deeply, he felt so light, so free. He went on under the heavy shade of the trees. The muted daylight flowed pleasurably over him. He felt it was all a stroke of good fortune: the shade, the peace, the soft air. He drank it in. There was no pain in the thought that he was to lose this life with all its tenderness. “Lose it, lose it,” he said in an undertone to himself. He took a deep breath, and drew the air into his lungs so easily and deliciously that he suddenly couldn’t grasp the fact that he was ill at all. But he was ill, he was doomed. And all at once a kind of enlightenment came to him, and he realised that he didn’t believe it. That was a fact, that was why he felt so free and so well, and that was why it seemed to him that today the right time had come. He had not overcome his love of life, but his fear of death had left him because he didn’t believe in death any more. He knew he was one of those who would be cured, and felt as if something sleeping had woken to new life in a hidden corner of his soul. He felt impelled to open his eyes further, take greater strides forward, breathe yet more deeply. The day grew lighter, life more vivid. So that was it, that was it! And why? Why did he suddenly feel so intoxicated by hope again? Ah, hope! It was more than that. It was certainty. Even this morning his thoughts had still tormented him, had clutched at his throat—and now, now he was better, better. He cried it out loud. “I’m better!” Here he reached the end of the wood. Before him lay the lake, deep-blue and gleaming. He dropped on a bench and sat there in deep content, looking at the water. He thought how strange it was that the joy of his recovery had disguised itself as the desire to take a proud farewell of the world.
There was a slight sound behind him. He hardly had time to turn round. It was Marie. Her eyelids were fluttering, her face was slightly flushed.
“What’s the matter?”
“Why did you go out? Why did you leave me alone? I was so frightened.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, pulling her down to sit beside him. He smiled and kissed her. She had such warm, full lips. “Come here,” he said quietly, taking her on his lap. She nestled close to him, putting her arms round his neck. And she was beautiful! A sultry perfume rose from her blonde hair, and endless love rose in him for this supple, fragrant being against his breast. Tears came to his eyes, and he took her hands to kiss them. He loved her so much!
From the lake came a faint buzzing sound. They both looked up, rose, and went closer to the bank, arm-in-arm. The steamer was in sight in the distance. They waited until it was close enough for them to make out the figures of passengers on deck, and then turned away and strolled home through the wood. They walked armin-arm and slowly, smiling at one another now and then, and speaking again the words they had spoken in their first days of love. Sweet questions passed between them, tentatively affectionate, and ardent words of cajolery and assurance. And they were cheerful, they were children once again, and happy.
Oppressive, sweltering summer weather had come with hot, burning days and mild lascivious nights. Every day was like the day before, every night like the night just past; time stood still. And they were on their own. They thought of nothing but each other, the wood, the lake, the little house—that was their world. Pleasant sultry air surrounded them, and in it they forgot to think. Carefree, laughing nights and weary but tender days flowed by.
It was on one of those nights, when the candle was still burning late, that Marie, who had been lying with her eyes open, sat up in bed. She looked at her lover’s face, full of the peace of deep sleep. She listened to his breathing. It was as good as certain now: every hour was bringing him closer to a cure. Unutterable depths of emotion filled her, and she leaned close to him to feel his breath on her cheeks. How beautiful life was! And he, he alone, was her whole life. Ah, she had him back now, she had him back again, back again for ever!
The sleeping man drew a breath that sounded different from his breathing until now, and it disturbed her. A soft, stifled moan. A look of suffering had appeared on his lips as they opened slightly, and with alarm she saw drops of sweat on his forehead. He had turned his hea
d a little way aside. But then his lips closed again. The peaceful expression returned to his face, and after a moment’s uneasiness his breathing too became regular again, almost silent. But Marie was suddenly in the grip of a fear that tormented her. She would have liked to wake him, nestle close to him, feel his warmth, his life, his very being. A strange pang of guilt assailed her, and all at once her happy belief that he would be saved seemed to her like tempting Providence. She tried persuading herself that it hadn’t been a firm belief, oh no, just a quiet, thankful hope, and she needn’t be too cruelly punished for that. She swore to herself not to be so thoughtlessly happy again. All at once those times when she was dizzy with joy became times of thoughtless sinfulness for which she must atone. Of course! And then, wasn’t what others thought of as sin quite different for them? A love that could perhaps work wonders? Might not these last few sweet nights be the very thing that would restore him to health?
A dreadful groan issued from Felix’s mouth. He had sat up in bed in alarm, half-asleep, eyes wide and staring into space in a way that made Marie cry out. That woke him fully. “What is it, what is it?” he said. Marie could find no words. “Did you cry out, Marie? I heard someone cry out.” He was breathing very fast. “I felt I was choking. I had a dream too, but I can’t remember it.”
“I was so startled,” she stammered.
“And I feel cold now, Marie.”
“Well, yes,” she said, “you’re having bad dreams.”
“Oh, what of it?” And he looked up angrily. “I’m feverish again, that’s what it is.” His teeth were chattering; he lay down and pulled the covers over him.
She looked around desperately. “Shall I—would you like—”
“I wouldn’t like anything. Just go to sleep! I’m tired, I’ll get some sleep too. Leave the light on.” He closed his eyes and pulled the covers over his mouth. Marie dared not ask him any more questions. She knew how much sympathy embittered him when he wasn’t well. He fell asleep after a few minutes, but she couldn’t sleep any more. Soon grey streaks of dawn light began creeping into the room. These first, muted signs of the coming morning did Marie good. She felt as if something smiling and friendly were coming to visit them, and had a strange urge to go out to greet the morning. Very quietly she got out of bed, quickly wrapped her house-dress around her, and crept out on the terrace. The sky, the mountains, the lake were still all blurred in dark, uncertain grey. It was strangely pleasurable to strain her eyes a little to discern outlines more clearly. She sat in the armchair and let her eyes gaze into the twilight. Unutterable contentment flowed through Marie as she leaned back in the deep silence of the summer dawn. Around her, everything was so peaceful, so mild, so eternal. It was so lovely to be alone for a while like this, amidst the great silence—and away from the cramped, stuffy room. A realisation suddenly came to her: she had been glad to rise and leave his side, she was glad to be here, glad to be alone!
All day thoughts of the night just past came back to her. They were not as tormenting, as sinister as they had been in the darkness, but they were all the clearer for that, and they had a bearing on her decisions. Above all, she decided that as far as possible she must moderate the vehemence of his love. She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t thought of that before. But now she would go about it so gently and tactfully that it wouldn’t seem like rejection, only a new and better kind of love.
However, she did not need to be particularly tactful and gentle. His stormy passion seemed to have died down since that night; he himself treated Marie with a weary affection that at first soothed her and ultimately struck her as strange. He read a great deal during the day, or merely seemed to be reading, for often she noticed him looking up from his book and into space. Their conversation touched on a thousand everyday things, and nothing of importance, but without making Marie feel that he was no longer admitting her to his secret thoughts. It all happened quite naturally, as if all those undertones of indifference in him were only a convalescent’s cheerful languor. He lay in bed late in the morning, while she had adopted the habit of going out-of-doors at first light. Then she either sat on the balcony or went down to the lake and, without moving from the bank, sat in a boat and let the gently moving water rock her. Now and then she went walking in the wood, so when she entered the bedroom to wake him she was usually coming back from a little morning outing. She was glad of his healthy sleep, which she saw as a good sign. She didn’t know how often he woke in the night, and she didn’t see the glance of endless grief that rested on her while she herself lay deep in the healthy sleep of youth.
Once, when she had climbed into the boat in the morning and the early sun was sprinkling the lake with its first golden sparks of light, she was overcome by a wish to venture further out on the shining clear water. She rowed some way, and as she was not very good at it she exerted herself a great deal, which increased her enjoyment of the boat ride. Even as early as this you were never entirely alone on the water. Several boats met Marie, and she thought some of them came closer to her on purpose. One small, elegant craft rowed by two young men passed her very fast at close quarters. The gentlemen pulled in their oars, raised their caps, and wished her good morning with civil smiles.
Marie stared at the two of them, and unthinkingly said “Good morning” herself. Then she watched the young men move away, hardly aware of what she was doing. They themselves had turned to wave once more. Suddenly it entered her mind that she had done something wrong, and she rowed back as quickly as her modest skill allowed. It took her almost half an hour to get to shore, and she arrived heated and with her hair untidy. From the water she had seen Felix sitting on the balcony, and now she quickly went into the house. In confusion, as if conscious of some guilty act, she hurried to the balcony, put her arms around Felix from behind, and asked jokingly, in exaggerated high spirits, “Guess who?”
He slowly withdrew from her embrace and looked askance at her. “What is it? What makes you so cheerful?”
“Being back with you.”
“Why are you so hot? You’re glowing!”
“Oh goodness! I’m happy, so happy, so happy!” In high spirits, she pushed the rug off his knees and sat on his lap. She felt annoyed first with her own awkwardness, then with his sullen face, and kissed him on the lips.
“And what makes you so happy?”
“Don’t I have good reason? I’m so glad that …” Here she hesitated and then went on. “That it’s been lifted from you.’
“What has?” There was something like distrust in his question.
She had to go on now, there was nothing for it. “Well, the fear.”
“The fear of death, you mean?”
“Don’t say it out loud.”
“Why do you say it’s been lifted from me? From you too, surely?” So saying he looked at her searchingly and almost with ill-will. And when, instead of answering, she ruffled his hair with her hands and brought her mouth close to his brow, he leaned his head back slightly and went on, cold and relentless, “At least—wasn’t that what you once wanted? My fate was to be yours too, wasn’t it?”
“And so it will be,” she cried in a vivacious, cheerful voice.
“No, it will not,” he gravely interrupted her. “Why are we glossing it over? ‘It’ has not been taken from me. ‘It’ is coming closer, I feel that.”
“But …” Imperceptibly, she had moved away from him, and was now leaning on the balcony rail. He got to his feet and walked up and down.
“Yes, I can feel it. It’s my duty to tell you, anyway. If it happened suddenly, you would probably be too violently alarmed. So I will remind you that almost a quarter of the time left to me is gone. Or perhaps I’m only persuading myself that I must tell you—and nothing but cowardice makes me do it.”
“Are you angry,” she said apprehensively, “because I left you alone?”
“Nonsense!” he was quick to reply. “If I could see you cheerful, then if I know my own nature I myself would wait for the day tha
t’s coming cheerfully enough,. But your merriment, to be honest, is something I find hard to bear. So I’m leaving you free to separate your life from mine within the next few days.”
“Felix!” He was still pacing up and down, and she held him back with both arms. He shook free again.
“The worst time is coming. Until now I’ve been an interesting invalid. Slightly pale, coughing a little, slightly melancholy. A woman can quite like that. But my child, you should spare yourself what lies ahead now. It could poison your memory of me.”
She sought in vain for an answer, and stared at him helplessly.
“You think that’s difficult to accept? There’d be no love in it at the end, it could even be terrible. I’m telling you that now so there can be no doubt about it. Indeed you’ll be doing me and my vanity a great service by accepting my suggestion. For at least I want you to think of the past with pain, to shed real tears for me. What I don’t want is to have you sitting by my bed day and night thinking: if only it were over, since it has to be over some time—and feeling a sense of release when I do leave you.”
She struggled to find words. At last she managed to say, “I’ll stay with you for ever.”
He ignored that. “We won’t talk about it any more. In a week’s time, I think, I’ll go back to Vienna. I have much to put in order. Before we leave this house I’ll ask you my question—no, put my request to you again.”
“Felix! I—”
He interrupted her violently. “I won’t have you saying another word on the subject until then, and I’ll decide on the time myself.” Leaving the balcony, he turned to the bedroom. She was about to follow him. “Leave me now,” he said gently. “I want to be alone for a little while.”
She stayed on the balcony, staring dry-eyed at the glittering water. Felix had gone into the bedroom and thrown himself on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling for a long time. Then he compressed his lips and clenched his fists. And then, with a scornful twist of his lips, he whispered, “Resignation! Resignation!”
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