Soon after that the train moved off again, and as they left the station hall they saw that it was fully light now. And beautiful! The mountains towered up with the red light of early morning pouring over them. Marie determined never to feel afraid of night again. Felix looked out of the window now and then, and seemed to be trying to avoid her eyes. She felt he must be a little ashamed of what had been said last night.
The train stopped several times at short intervals now, and it was a beautiful morning, as warm as summer, when it came into Merano station.
“Here we are!” cried Marie. “At last, at last!”
They had hired a carriage and drove round in search of suitable lodgings. “We don’t need to scrimp,” said Felix. “My fortune will last long enough.” They told the driver to stop at certain villas, and while Felix stayed in the carriage Marie saw round the rooms available to rent and looked at the gardens. They soon found what they wanted, a little house with a small garden. Marie asked the landlady to come out with her to tell the young man sitting in the carriage about the various advantages of the villa, Felix agreed to everything, and a few minutes later the two of them had moved in.
Without really sharing Marie’s brisk interest in the house, Felix had withdrawn to the bedroom and was looked briefly around it. It was spacious and comfortable, with pale green wallpaper and a big window that now stood open, so that the whole room was filled with the scent of the garden. The beds were opposite this window, and Felix was so exhausted that he fell full length on one of them.
Meanwhile Marie asked the landlady to show her round, and was particularly pleased with the little garden, which had a tall fence around it. There was a way to get into the garden through a small gate in the far side of the fence, without having to go through the house. Beyond the fence, a broad track led straight to the station, a short cut by comparison with the carriage road which the front of the house faced.
When Marie returned to the room where she had left Felix, she found him lying on the bed. She called out to him, but he did not answer. On coming closer she saw that he was even paler than usual. She called again; no answer, and he didn’t move. A terrible fear came over her, and she called to the housekeeper and sent her for a doctor. No sooner had the woman gone than Felix opened his eyes. But just as he was about to say something, he raised himself, his face twisted with fear and he fell back again, breathing stertorously. A little blood was flowing from his lips. Feeling helpless and desperate, Marie bent over him. She went quickly to the door to see if the doctor was coming yet, then hurried back to Felix and called his name. Oh, she thought, if only Alfred were here!
At last the doctor arrived: an elderly man with grey side-whiskers. “Help him, help him!” Marie cried. Then she gave him as much information as she could in her state of agitation. The doctor looked at the sick man, felt his pulse, said he couldn’t examine him properly when he had just been bringing up blood, and told her what to do for him. Accompanying the doctor out, Marie asked what she should expect. “I can’t say yet,” he replied. “Have a little patience, and we’ll hope for the best.” He promised to come back that evening, and from the carriage he waved to Marie, who was standing in the doorway of the house in as friendly and casual a way as if he had been paying a social call.
Marie stood there at a loss for no more than a second. Next moment she had an idea that seemed to her to promise salvation, and she hurried to the post office to send Alfred a telegram. Once she had dispatched it she felt relieved. She thanked the housekeeper who had been caring for the sick man while she was out, apologized for the inconvenience they had given her on their very first day, and promised that they would show their appreciation.
Felix was still lying unconscious and fully clothed on the bed, but his breath was more regular now. While Marie sat down at the head of the bed the housekeeper comforted her, telling her about all the invalids who had been cured here in Merano and adding that she herself had been in delicate health in her youth and—well, Marie need only look at her!—she had recovered wonderfully well. Even with all the misfortunes she had known. Her husband dead after two years of marriage, her sons now gone out into the world—oh yes, it could all have turned out differently, but now she was glad to have her post looking after this villa. And she couldn’t complain of the owner, particularly as he came over from Bolzano only twice a month at the most to see that everything was all right. She rambled on and on, from one subject to the next, brimming over with friendliness. She offered to unpack their baggage, an offer that Marie gratefully accepted, and later brought some lunch to their rooms. There was milk for the invalid, and the slight movements that he was making seemed to suggest that he would soon come round.
At last Felix did return to consciousness, turned his head back and forth several times, and then fixed his gaze on Marie, who was bending over him. He smiled, and pressed her hand faintly. “What happened to me?” he asked.
The doctor, coming later in the day, thought he was much better and said he could be undressed and put to bed. Felix, indifferent, let it all wash over him.
Marie did not move from the sick man’s bedside. It was an endless afternoon. The mild scents of the garden came in through the window, which was left open on the doctor’s orders—and it was so quiet! Her eyes mechanically followed the movement of the sunlight flickering over the floor. Felix held her hand almost all the time. His own was cool and damp, and Marie did not like the sensation. Sometimes she broke the silence with a few words, and had to force herself to speak them. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you? … There, you see! … No, don’t talk … No, you mustn’t … The day after tomorrow you’ll be able to go out in the garden!” And he nodded and smiled. Then Marie tried to work out when Alfred might arrive. He could be here tomorrow evening. Another night and another day, then. Oh, if only he were here!
The afternoon seemed endless. The sun disappeared, the room itself began to lie in twilight, but when Marie looked out into the garden she saw golden sunlight still moving over the white gravel path and the posts of the fence. Suddenly, just as she was looking out of the window, she heard the sick man’s voice. “Marie.”
She quickly turned her head to him.
“I do feel much better now,” he said, in quite a strong voice.
“You mustn’t talk too loud,” she said lovingly.
“Much better,” he whispered. “It turned out all right this time. Perhaps that was the crisis.”
“I’m sure it was,” she agreed.
“I’m pinning my hopes on the air here. But that mustn’t happen again, or I’m done for.”
“Hush! You wait and see, you’ll soon be feeling better again.”
“You’re a good girl, Marie, thank you. But look after me well. Take care, take care!”
“Do you have to tell me that?” she asked, in a tone of gentle reproach.
However, he was continuing, in a whisper. “Because if I must go, I’m taking you with me.”
Mortal terror flashed through her as he spoke those words. But why? He could be no danger, he was too weak for any act of violence. She was ten times stronger now. What could he be thinking of? What were his eyes seeking in the air, on the wall, in space? He couldn’t rise to his feet and stand, and he had no weapons with him. Although poison was possible. He could have bought poison, perhaps he was carrying it with him, and would slip it into her glass. But then where could he be keeping it? She herself had helped to undress him. Maybe he had a powder of some kind in his wallet? But that was in his coat. No, no, no! He had been uttering words inspired by his fever and his wish to torment her, nothing else. But if his fever can inspire such words, such ideas, she thought, then why not the deed itself too? Perhaps he’s just planning to use a moment when she’s asleep to strangle her. It would take so little force to do that. She could lose consciousness instantly and then be left defenceless. She won’t sleep at all tonight, she tells herself—and tomorrow Alfred will be here!
Evening came on, and
then night. Felix had not spoken another word, and the smile had disappeared entirely from his lips; he looked straight ahead of him with the same morose gravity. As it grew dark, the housekeeper brought in lighted candles and set about making the bed beside the sick man’s. Marie signed to her that it would not be necessary. Felix had noticed. “Why not?” he asked, then immediately adding, “You’re too kind, Marie, you ought to get some sleep, I do feel better.” She felt as if she heard derision in those words. She did not sleep, but spent the long night that dragged slowly by at his bedside, never once closing her eyes. Felix lay there quietly almost all the time. Now and then she wondered if he might perhaps just be feigning sleep to lull her into a sense of security. She looked more closely, but the uncertain light of the candle mimicked small twitching movements around the invalid’s eyes and mouth that confused her. Once she went to the window and looked out into the garden. It was bathed in a soft blue-grey light, and if she leaned a little way out and looked up she could see the moon apparently hovering above the trees. Not a breath of wind was moving, and in the endless silence and stillness all around it seemed to her as if the posts of the fence, which she could see clearly, were slowly moving forward and then stopping again.
Felix woke after midnight. Marie rearranged his pillows, and in obedience to a sudden impulse took the opportunity of letting her fingers search for anything hidden among them. She still heard his voice in her ears: “If I must go, I’m taking you with me.” But would he have said that if he meant it seriously? If he were able to make such a plan at all? Surely he would have been first and foremost intent on keeping it secret. She was being really childish, letting a sick man’s disturbed fantasies frighten her. She felt sleepy, and moved her chair away from the bed—just in case. She didn’t want to go to sleep. but her thoughts began to lose their clarity, and fluttered from the lucid awareness of day into the twilight of grey dreams. Memories rose in her. Memories of days and nights of great happiness. Memories of hours when he had held her in his arms while the breath of the young spring wafted over them and into the room. She had a vague feeling that the fragrance of the garden outside dared not enter here. She had to go to the window again to drink it in, for a sweetish, stale smell seemed to come from the sick man’s moist hair, filling the air of the room unpleasantly. What now? If only it were over! Yes, over! She no longer shrank from the idea, and those treacherous words that made hypocritical pity out of the most dreadful wish of all came to her mind. “If only he were at peace!”
And then what? She saw herself sitting on a bench under a tall tree out in the garden, pale and tear-stained. But these signs of grief were only on her face, on the surface. A joyful peace had taken possession of her soul, peace such has she hadn’t known for a long, long time. Then she saw the figure that was herself rise, go out into the street, and slowly walk away. For now she could go anywhere she liked.
But amidst all these reveries she remained wakeful enough to listen for the sick man’s breathing, which sometimes turned to groans. At last, and hesitantly, morning approached. At first light of dawn the housekeeper appeared in the doorway, and in her kindly manner offered to take over from Marie for the next few hours. Marie accepted with genuine delight. After one last, fleeting glance at Felix, she left the bedroom and went into the room next door, where a sofa was comfortably prepared for her to rest there. Oh, how good that was! She threw herself down on the sofa fully clothed and closed her eyes.
She did not wake up for many hours. A pleasant semidarkness surrounded her. Narrow shafts of sunlight fell through the cracks in the closed shutters. She quickly rose, and immediately had a clear idea of the situation. Alfred must surely arrive today! That thought helped her to face the sombre atmosphere of the next few hours more bravely. Without hesitation, she went into the next room, and when she opened the door was briefly dazzled by the white cover spread over the sick man’s bed. But then she saw the housekeeper, a finger to her lips as she rose from her chair, tiptoeing towards Marie as she entered the room. “He’s fast asleep,” she whispered, and went on to say that until an hour ago he had been lying awake in a high fever, asking now and then for the young lady. The doctor had come early in the morning, and said the sick man’s condition was unchanged. She, the housekeeper, had wanted to wake the young lady at that point, but the doctor himself wouldn’t let her, and said he would be back some time in the afternoon.
Marie listened carefully to the good old lady, thanked her for her kindness, and then took her place.
It was a warm, almost sultry day. Midday was approaching. Sunlight and silence lay oppressively over the garden. When Marie looked at the bed, the first thing she saw were the sick man’s two thin hands lying on the bedspread, sometimes twitching slightly. His chin had dropped, his face was pale as death, his lips slightly open. His breathing stopped for seconds at a time, and then he began drawing superficial, dragging breaths again. “He’ll die before Alfred arrives after all,” was the thought that passed through Marie’s mind. As Felix lay there, his face had regained an expression of youthful suffering, of relaxation after untold pain, resignation after a hopeless struggle. It was suddenly clear to Marie what had brought such a terrible change to his features recently: the bitterness in them when he looked at her. There was surely no hatred in his dreams now, and he was handsome again. She wished he would wake up. Looking at him again, she felt full of unutterable grief and a consuming fear for him. The man she now saw dying was her lover again. In an instant, she realised once more what that meant. All the grief of the inevitable, terrible outcome came over her, and she understood everything again, everything. That he had been her happiness and her life, and she had wanted to die with him, and now the moment was eerily close when all would be over and could never be brought back. And the frozen cold that had come over her heart, the indifference of whole days and nights, merged into a sombre yet indefinable feeling. But now, now, she told herself, it’s still all right. He is still alive, breathing, perhaps dreaming. Then, however, he will lie stiff and dead, he’ll be buried and lie deep in the ground, in a quiet graveyard over which the monotonous days pass as he moulders away. And she will live, she will live among human beings, while she is aware of the silent grave out there where he rests—he, whom she has loved! Her tears flowed and would not cease. At last she sobbed out loud. Then he moved, and as she quickly passed her handkerchief over her cheeks he opened his eyes and looked at her questioningly for a long time, but said nothing. Then, after a few minutes, he whispered “Come here!”. She rose from her chair, bent over him, and he raised his arms as if to put them round her neck. But then he let them drop again, and asked “Have you been crying?”
“No,” she quickly replied, putting her hair back from her forehead.
He looked at her long and gravely, and then turned away. He seemed to be thinking.
Marie wondered whether she should tell the sick man about her telegram to Alfred. Ought she to prepare him? No, what would be the point? It would be best for her to act as if she herself were surprised by Alfred’s arrival. The whole of the rest of the day passed by in sombre, tense expectation. Outward events passed her by as if in a mist. The doctor’s visit was soon over. He found his patient apathetic, only occasionally waking from a fretful half-sleep to ask questions and express wishes, but in a tone of indifference. He asked what the time was, wanted water; the housekeeper went in and out. Marie stayed in the room all the time, usually in the armchair beside the invalid. Now and then she stood at the end of the bed, leaning her arms on it, sometimes she went to the window and looked out at the garden where the shadows of the trees were gradually lengthening, until at last dusk fell over the meadows and paths. It had been a sultry evening, and the light of the candle standing on the bedside table next to the sick man’s head scarcely moved. Only when night had fallen, and the moon rose above the grey-blue mountains visible far away in the distance, did a slight wind rise. Marie felt greatly refreshed when it blew over her brow, and it seemed to do the
sick man good too. He moved his head and turned his wide eyes to the window. And at last he was breathing deeply.
Marie took his hand, which he had left hanging outside the covers. “Is there anything you want?” she asked.
He slowly withdrew his hand from hers, and said, “Come here, Marie!”
She moved closer, with her head very close to his pillows. He placed his hand on her hair as if in blessing, and let it rest there. Then he said quietly, “Thank you for all your love.” She had now laid her head on the pillow next to his, and felt her tears coming again. It was perfectly still in the room. Only the whistle of a railway train sounded in the distance, dying away. Then the stillness of the sultry summer evening returned, heavy, sweet and mysterious. Suddenly Felix sat up in bed, so quickly, so violently that Marie took fright. She raised her head from the pillows and stared into his face. He took Marie’s head in both hands as he had often done in moments of wild passion. “Marie” he cried, “I want to remind you now.”
“Remind me of what?” she asked, trying to withdraw her head from his hands. But he seemed to have all his strength back, and held it fast.
“Remind you of your promise” he said quickly. “Your promise to die with me.” As he spoke these words he had moved very close to her. She felt his breath brush her mouth, and she could not get away. He was speaking, as close to her as if she were to drink in his words with her own lips. “I’m taking you with me, I don’t want to go alone. I love you, I’m not leaving you here!”
Fear seemed to paralyse her. A hoarse scream broke from her throat, but in a stifled tone so that she could hardly hear it herself. Her head was immovable between his hands, which were convulsively pressing her temples and cheeks. He was still speaking, and his hot, moist breath burned close to her.
“Together! Together! That was what you wanted. And I’m afraid to die alone. Will you come with me? Will you?”