“My dear Felix, you know very well that I intend you to spend the whole winter in the south. But I can’t let you travel in weather like this.”
“Marie,” said the invalid “get everything ready.”
She looked at the doctor anxiously, a question in her eyes.
“Well, it can’t hurt,” he said.
“Pack everything. I’m going to get up in an hour’s time, and we’ll start as soon as the sun comes out again.”
Felix got up that afternoon. It was almost as if the mere idea of a change of scene had a beneficial effect on him. He was wakeful, and lay on the sofa all the time, but he had no despairing outbursts, nor did he fall into the sombre indifference of the last few days. He took an interest in the preparations that Marie was making, gave directions, told her what books he wanted to take from his library, and himself took from his desk a large sheaf of writings that were to go in the trunk too. “I want to look through some of my old things,” he told Marie, and later, as she was trying to cram the documents into the trunk, he returned to the subject. “Who knows, maybe all this resting has done my mind good! I feel positively ready for anything. I sometimes see everything I’ve ever thought with wonderful clarity.”
After the stormy wind and rain, it turned fine again that very day, and the next day was so mild that they could open the windows. Now the light of a warm pleasant autumn afternoon lay over the floor, and when Marie knelt beside the trunk the sun shone in on her waving hair.
Alfred arrived just as Marie was carefully packing the sheaf of papers, while Felix, lying on the sofa, was beginning to discuss these plans of his. “You want me to give permission for that too?” asked Alfred, smiling. “Well, I hope you’re going to be careful enough not to start working too soon.”
“Oh,” said Felix, “it won’t be like work for me. I can see new, fresh light thrown on all the ideas that were obscure to me before—thousands of fresh insights.”
“Well, that’s excellent,” said Alfred slowly, as he observed the invalid staring fixedly into space.
“Don’t misunderstand me, though,” Felix went on. “I have no clearly outlined projects, but I feel as if something were brewing in my mind.”
“Good, good.”
“It’s like hearing the instruments of an orchestra tuning up, you see. That always had a strong effect on me with a real orchestra. And very soon it will play pure harmonies, and all the instruments will join in at just the right places.” Then, suddenly getting to his feet, he asked, “Have you booked a compartment on the train?”
“Yes,” replied the doctor.
“We’ll be off tomorrow morning then,” cried Marie cheerfully. She was still busy going from the chest of drawers to the trunk, from the trunk to the bookcase, then back to the trunk, arranging and packing everything. Alfred felt strangely moved. He might have been with a couple of happy young people preparing for a pleasure trip! The mood in the room seemed so full of hope today, almost unclouded. When he left, Marie accompanied him to the door. “Oh, my goodness,” she cried “what a good idea it is for us to go away! I’m really looking forward to it. And he’s changed so much now that it’s real.”
Alfred hardly knew what to reply. He shook hands with Marie and turned to go. But then, turning back once more, he told her “You must promise me to—”
“To do what?”
“I mean, I’m more than a doctor, I’m a friend. You know I’m always at your disposal. You need only send me a telegram.”
Marie was alarmed. “You think that might be necessary?”
“I mention it just in case.” And with these words he left.
She stood there thoughtfully for a while, then quickly returned to the sitting-room, afraid that her brief absence might have upset Felix. But he seemed to have been only waiting for her return to continue with his earlier remarks.
“You know, Marie” he said, “the sun has always done me good. When it gets colder we’ll go even further south, to the Riviera, and after that—what do you think of this idea?—to Africa. Yes, I’d be sure to produce a masterpiece below the Equator!”
He talked on like this until at last Marie came over to him, stroked his cheeks and said, smiling: “That will do for now. Don’t get too reckless all at once. And you ought to go to bed, because we’ll have to get up early in the morning.” She saw that his cheeks were very flushed and his eyes sparkling, and when she took his hands to help him up from the sofa they were burning hot.
Felix woke at the first light of dawn. He was in the happy, excited mood of a child going on holiday. Two hours before they were to drive to the railway station he was sitting on the sofa, ready to leave. Marie had finished all the packing long before. She wore her grey duster coat and a hat with a blue veil, and was standing thus clad at the window so that she could see the cab they had ordered in good time when it arrived. Felix asked every five minutes if it was there yet. He was getting impatient, and spoke of sending for another when Marie cried, “Here it comes, here it comes. Why,” she added next moment, “and here’s Alfred too.”
Alfred had come around the corner at the same moment as the cab, and was waving cheerfully up to her. Soon he was in the room with them. “Well, I see you two are all ready,” he cried. “Why do you want to set off for the station so early? Particularly when, as I see, you’ve already had breakfast.”
“Felix is so impatient,” said Marie. Alfred went over to his friend, and the sick man smiled cheerfully at him. “Excellent weather for travelling,” he said.
“Yes, it’s going to keep fine for you,” said the Doctor. He took a rusk from the table. “May I?”
“Goodness, haven’t you had breakfast yet?” cried Marie, quite horrified.
“Oh yes, yes. I drank a glass of cognac.”
“Wait, there’s still some coffee in the pot.” She would not be dissuaded from pouring the rest of the coffee into a cup for him, and then went out to give the servant some instructions in the next room. It took Alfred a long time to drink his coffee and put the cup down. He felt awkward alone with his friend, and would not have been able to talk easily. But Marie came back, saying there was nothing to keep them from leaving the apartment now. Felix rose and went out of the door first. He had a grey Inverness cape over his shoulders, wore a soft, dark hat, and carried a walking stick. He intended to be first down the steps outside the building too, but as soon as he touched the balustrade he began to sway. Alfred and Marie, following just behind him, immediately supported him. “I’m a little dizzy,” said Felix.
“Only natural” said Alfred, “when you’re out of bed for the first time in several weeks.” He took one of the invalid’s arms, Marie took the other, and so they led him down the steps. The cab driver took off his hat when he saw the sick man.
Several sympathetic female faces could be seen at the windows of the building opposite. And as Alfred and Marie lifted Felix, who was now as pale as death, into the vehicle, the caretaker too made haste to come up and offer his help. As the cab drove away, he and the sympathetic women exchanged understanding and emotional glances.
Standing on the footboard of the railway carriage, Alfred talked to Marie until the bell rang for the last time. Felix had settled into a corner of their compartment and seemed indifferent to what was going on. Only when the whistle of the engine was heard did he appear to pay attention again, nodding a goodbye to his friend. The train began to move away. Alfred stayed on the platform for a while, watching it, and then slowly turned to go.
As soon as the train was out of the station Marie sat down very close to Felix and asked him what he would like. Should she open the bottle of cognac, would he like her to find him a book, or read aloud to him from the newspaper? He seemed to feel grateful for her kindness, and pressed her hand. Then he asked, “When do we arrive in Merano?” and finally, as she didn’t know the precise time of their arrival, asked her to read him all the relevant data from the travel guide. He wanted to know where they would be stopping at midd
ay, where they would be at nightfall, and took an interest in a number of trivial matters to which he was usually entirely indifferent. He tried to work out how many people there might be on the train in all, and wondered if there were any young married couples among them. After a while he said he would like some cognac, but it made him cough so much that he instructed Marie, quite angrily, on no account to give him any more even if he asked for it. Later he got her to read him the weather forecast from the paper, nodding with satisfaction when it proved to be a good one. They were passing through the Semmering region. He looked attentively out of the window at the hills, woods, meadows and mountains, but said nothing except for a quiet, “Pretty, very beautiful,” with no pleasure at all in his tone of voice. At midday he ate a little of the cold food they had brought with them, and was angry when Marie refused to give him cognac. In the end she had to let him have some. It went down well this time, he felt better, and began taking an interest in all kinds of things. And soon, in talking about the scenes flying past the windows of their compartment and what he saw in the stations, he returned to the subject of himself. “I’ve read about somnambulists,” he said, “who saw some kind of cure in a dream—something no doctor had thought of, but they tried it and recovered. A sick man should do whatever he wants to do, that’s what I say.”
“Quite right” replied Marie.
“The south! The air of the south! They say the whole difference is that it’s warm there, and there are flowers in bloom all the year round, and perhaps more ozone and no storms and no snow. Who can say what’s in the air of the south? Mysterious elements of which we know nothing yet!”
“I’m sure you’ll get better there” said Marie, taking one of the sick man’s hands between her own and carrying it to her lips.
He talked on, about all the painters to be found in Italy, the fascination of Rome that had attracted so many artists and kings to that city, and Venice, which he had once visited long before he met Marie. At last he felt tired, and decided to lie full length on the seat of the compartment. He stayed there, sleeping lightly most of the time, until evening came.
She sat opposite, looking at him. She felt at peace, and only a little regretful. He was so pale. And he had grown so old. How that handsome face had changed since spring! But it was a different pallor that now lay on her own cheeks. Hers made her look younger, almost virginal. How much better off she was than Felix! The thought had never occurred to her before with such clarity. Why doesn’t my pain hurt more, she wondered? Oh, surely not for lack of pity, it’s just the boundless weariness that hasn’t left her for days, even when she seems to feel better at times. She is glad of her exhaustion, for she fears the pain that will return if she stops feeling tired.
Marie suddenly woke from the sleep into which she had fallen. She looked around her. It was almost dark now. There was a shade over the lamp in the roof of the compartment, so that it cast only a faint, greenish light. And outside the windows it was night! It was as if they were travelling through a long tunnel. Why had she woken with such a violent start? Everything was almost silent but for the constant, monotonous rumble of the wheels. Gradually she accustomed her eyes to the dim light, and now she could make out the sick man’s face again. He seemed to be sleeping very peacefully, lying there motionless. Suddenly he sighed, a strange and plaintive sigh. Her heart thudded. He must have moaned like that before, and that was what woke her. But what was this? She looked more closely and saw that he was not asleep. He lay there with his eyes wide open, as she could now see very clearly. She was afraid of those eyes staring into nothing but space and darkness. And she heard another moan, even more plaintive than before. He moved, and now he sighed again, but not painfully, a wild sigh instead. At once he was sitting up, both hands supporting him on the cushions, and then he threw off the grey cape that covered him, kicked it to the floor of the compartment, and tried to stand. But the movement of the train would not let him, and he sank back into the corner of the seat. Marie had jumped up to remove the green shade from the lamp, but she suddenly felt his arms around her, and now he pulled her down on his knees. She was trembling. “Marie, Marie!” he said in a hoarse voice.
She wanted to free herself, but couldn’t. All his strength seemed to have returned; he held her powerfully to him. “Are you ready, Marie?” he whispered, with his lips close to her throat. She didn’t understand, she merely felt a sensation of boundless fear. She was defenceless and wanted to cry out.
“Are you ready?” he asked again, holding her less convulsively, so that his lips, his breath, his voice were further from her again and she could breathe more easily.
“What do you want?” she asked apprehensively.
“Don’t you understand me?” he replied.
“Let go of me, let go of me,” she cried, but her voice was lost in the noise of the train rolling on.
He took no notice. Then he let his hands drop, and she rose from his knees and sat down in the corner of the compartment opposite him.
“Don’t you understand me?” he asked again.
“What do you want?” she whispered from her own corner.
“I want an answer,” he replied.
She said nothing, but trembled, and wished for daylight.
“The hour is coming closer,” he said in a lower voice, but leaning forward so that she could catch his words more distinctly. “I am asking if you’re ready.”
“What hour?”
“Ours! Ours!”
She did understand him now, and her throat felt tight.
“Do you remember, Marie?” he went on, and now there was a mild and almost pleading note in his voice. He took both her hands in his. “You gave me the right to ask,” he continued, still in a whisper. “Do you remember?”
She had to some extent composed herself again, for although the words he spoke were terrible, his eyes had lost that fixed look and his voice its threatening note. He seemed like a humble petitioner. And again he asked, almost querulously, “Do you remember?”
Now she found the strength to reply, although with quivering lips. “Felix, you’re being childish.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. In an even tone, as if something half-forgotten were returning to his mind with new clarity, he said, “It’s all coming to an end now, Marie, and we must go, our time is up.” There was something spellbinding, resolute, inescapable in those words, softly as they were whispered. For a moment, as he moved closer to her, she felt a terrible fear that he was going to attack and throttle her. She thought of running to the other end of the compartment and breaking the window to call for help, but at that moment he let go of her hands and leaned back as if he had no more to say. Then she found her tongue.
“What nonsense you talk, Felix! And now, when we’re going to the south where you’ll get better again!” He still leaned back on the seat, apparently lost in thought. She stood up and quickly took the green shade off the lamp. That came as a great relief. It was suddenly light, her heart beat more slowly, and her fears vanished. She sat back in her corner again. He had been looking at the floor, and now raised his eyes to her once more. Then he said slowly, “Marie, morning won’t deceive me again. Nor will the south. I know that now.”
Marie thought: why does he speak so calmly? Is he trying to lull me into a sense of security? Is he afraid I’ll try to save myself? And she resolved to be on her guard. She watched him all the time, hardly listening to his words now and followed all his movements, all his glances.
He said: “Well, you’re free. Your promise doesn’t bind you. How can I force you? Won’t you give me your hand?”
She did, but made sure that her own hand rested above his.
“If only day would come!” he whispered.
“Listen, Felix, listen to what I say” she said now. “You should try to sleep a little. Morning will soon be here, and we’ll be in Merano within a few hours.”
“I can’t sleep any more!” he replied, looking up. At that moment their glances met, and
he saw the wary distrust in her eyes. In the same moment it all seemed clear to him. She wanted to make him sleep so that she could get off the train unnoticed at the next station, and run away. “What are you planning?” he cried.
She started nervously. “Nothing.”
He tried to get to his feet. As soon as she saw that, she left her corner and fled to the other, far away from him.
“Air!” he cried. “Air!” He opened the window and put his head out into the night air. Marie felt reassured; it was only his shortness of breath that had made him get up so suddenly. She went back to him and gently drew him away from the window. “That can’t be good for you,” she said. He sank back into his corner, breathing laboriously. She stood in front of him for a while, with one hand on the side of the window opening, and then sat down opposite him again where she had been sitting before. After a while his breathing calmed down, and a soft smile formed on his lips. She looked at him anxiously and in alarm. “I’ll close the window,” she said.
He nodded. “Morning! Morning!” he cried. Streaks of pink were appearing on the horizon.
After that, they sat facing each other for a long time in silence. At last, with his little smile playing around his mouth again, he said, “You’re not ready!”
She was about to say something in her usual manner: that he was being childish, or something of that nature. She couldn’t. That smile made any answer impossible.
The train was going more slowly, and in a few minutes’ time it reached the station where breakfast was to be served. Waiters ran on around the platform with coffee and rolls. Many of the passengers got out of the train, and there was much noise and shouting. Marie felt as if she had woken from a nightmare. The triviality of all this coming and going on the station did her good. She rose, feeling perfectly safe now, and looked at the platform. After a while she beckoned to a waiter and asked him to hand a cup of coffee in to her. Felix watched as she drank it, but shook his head when she asked whether he would like some.
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