that evening, I remember only one poem: Paroles sur la Dune.
Oh, if in my egoism, I have drawn a picture of myself rather than of her, let those who read me remember how distant she was from me, what a different world of experience and emotion she inhabited, how difficult, how almost impossible it was for me to imagine what she was suffering. Let them listen again to those tragic, heavy
words, so weighted with memory, regret, remorse, and realize that I came near to understanding them.
Maintenant que mon temps décroît comme un flambeau,
Que mes tâches sont terminées;
Maintenant que voici que je touche au tombeau
Par les deuils et par les années
Où done s’en sont allés mes jours évanouis?
Est-il quelqu’un qui me connaisse?
Ai-je encor quelque chose en mes yeux éblouis,
De la clarté de ma jeunesse?
Ne verrai-je plus rien de tout ce que j’aimais?
Au dedans de moi le soir tombe.
O terre, dont la brume efface les sommets,
Suis-je le spectre, et toi la tombe?
Ai-je donc vidé tout, vie, amour, joie, espoir?
J’attends, je demande, j’implore;
Je penche tour à tour mes urnes pour avoir
De chacune une goutte encore!
Comme le souvenir est voisin du remord!
Comme à pleurer tout nous ramène!
Et que je te sens froide en te touchant, ô mort,
Noir verrou de la porte humaine!
It was to me she was reading. I knew it. Yes, I understood, but no one else did. Once more that sense of profound intimacy, that communion beyond the power of words or caresses to bestow, gathered me to her heart. I was with her, beside her, for ever close to her, in that infinitely lovely, infinitely distant star, which shed its mingled rays of sorrow, affection, and renouncement on the dark cold world below.
11
T he next day, Mlle Julie went to Paris; she hoped to be back for dinner; she wasn’t sure.
We gathered that Mlle Cara had one of her bad migraines. Frau Riesener was in and out of her room all day, looking after her. She was to have a sleeping draught at night—the usual thing in those days, before tabloids or cachets were invented. We were told to creep to bed as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her.
“Frau Riesener’s tired,” Signorina said to me after dinner. “She has gone to bed too and she wants me to prepare the draught and give it to Mlle Cara. But I’m not going to. I’ve told her she’d better give Miss Smith instructions. She’s quite trustworthy.”
Early in bed, I dozed off and slept restlessly for two or three hours. Once I thought I heard footsteps in the passage and listened eagerly. But no; it was some one else, and I didn’t hear Mlle Julie’s carriage drive up till much
later. I looked at my watch; it was nearly twelve. Then my listening began. I must hear her walk past my door before I should be able to sleep again. She delayed a shorter time than usual that night, and sooner than I expected I heard her step at the end of the long corridor. Rapid at first, it became slower and slower as it drew near, seemed to be faltering, came to a stop. She was outside my door. The handle turned and she came in. I could hardly see her in the dark. She came up to my bed and sat down on it. My arms were round her neck, my head on her shoulder. She pressed me to her.
“I’m tired; I’m weak,” she murmured. Then almost passionately, but below her breath, she cried:
“My purest joys have been spoilt. Even my thoughts have been spoilt. Even my inmost self. But I have no joys now. I must say good-bye now to everything I have loved. To you too, Olivia, Olivia.”
She bent her head to kiss me and I felt her tears on my cheek.
And so I lay a moment longer in her arms, my head upon her shoulder, weeping too.
Only a moment. She disengaged herself gently, and as I still clung desperately to her hands, holding them to my heart, she said, almost sternly, “Let me go, Olivia.”
I obeyed.
As the door closed behind her, I lay down in my bed and buried my face in my
Oh, if in my egoism, I have drawn a picture of myself rather than of her, let those who read me remember how distant she was from me, what a different world of experience and emotion she inhabited, how difficult, how almost impossible it was for me to imagine what she was suffering. Let them listen again to those tragic, heavy
words, so weighted with memory, regret, remorse, and realize that I came near to understanding them.
Maintenant que mon temps décroît comme un flambeau,
Que mes tâches sont terminées;
Maintenant que voici que je touche au tombeau
Par les deuils et par les années
Où done s’en sont allés mes jours évanouis?
Est-il quelqu’un qui me connaisse?
Ai-je encor quelque chose en mes yeux éblouis,
De la clarté de ma jeunesse?
Ne verrai-je plus rien de tout ce que j’aimais?
Au dedans de moi le soir tombe.
O terre, dont la brume efface les sommets,
Suis-je le spectre, et toi la tombe?
Ai-je donc vidé tout, vie, amour, joie, espoir?
J’attends, je demande, j’implore;
Je penche tour à tour mes urnes pour avoir
De chacune une goutte encore!
Comme le souvenir est voisin du remord!
Comme à pleurer tout nous ramène!
Et que je te sens froide en te touchant, ô mort,
Noir verrou de la porte humaine!
It was to me she was reading. I knew it. Yes, I understood, but no one else did. Once more that sense of profound intimacy, that communion beyond the power of words or caresses to bestow, gathered me to her heart. I was with her, beside her, for ever close to her, in that infinitely lovely, infinitely distant star, which shed its mingled rays of sorrow, affection, and renouncement on the dark cold world below.
11
T he next day, Mlle Julie went to Paris; she hoped to be back for dinner; she wasn’t sure.
We gathered that Mlle Cara had one of her bad migraines. Frau Riesener was in and out of her room all day, looking after her. She was to have a sleeping draught at night—the usual thing in those days, before tabloids or cachets were invented. We were told to creep to bed as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her.
“Frau Riesener’s tired,” Signorina said to me after dinner. “She has gone to bed too and she wants me to prepare the draught and give it to Mlle Cara. But I’m not going to. I’ve told her she’d better give Miss Smith instructions. She’s quite trustworthy.”
Early in bed, I dozed off and slept restlessly for two or three hours. Once I thought I heard footsteps in the passage and listened eagerly. But no; it was some one else, and I didn’t hear Mlle Julie’s carriage drive up till much
later. I looked at my watch; it was nearly twelve. Then my listening began. I must hear her walk past my door before I should be able to sleep again. She delayed a shorter time than usual that night, and sooner than I expected I heard her step at the end of the long corridor. Rapid at first, it became slower and slower as it drew near, seemed to be faltering, came to a stop. She was outside my door. The handle turned and she came in. I could hardly see her in the dark. She came up to my bed and sat down on it. My arms were round her neck, my head on her shoulder. She pressed me to her.
“I’m tired; I’m weak,” she murmured. Then almost passionately, but below her breath, she cried:
“My purest joys have been spoilt. Even my thoughts have been spoilt. Even my inmost self. But I have no joys now. I must say good-bye now to everything I have loved. To you too, Olivia, Olivia.”
She bent her head to kiss me and I felt her tears on my cheek.
And so I lay a moment longer in her arms, my head upon her shoulder, weeping too.
Only a moment. She disengaged herself gently, and as I still clung desperately to her hands, holding them to my heart, she said, almost sternly, “Let me go, Olivia.”
I obeyed.
As the door closed behind her, I lay down in my bed and buried my face in my
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