Dying

by Arthur Schnitzler

  At first she didn’t know what he meant. “What would?”

  They were standing outside a garden restaurant close to the Kurpark, with tall trees spreading above tables with white covers, and a few lighted lanterns. There were not many guests here. They had plenty of tables to choose from, and finally settled in a corner of the garden. There were barely twenty people in the place. Close to them sat the elegant young couple whom they had already seen once that day. Marie recognised them at once. A chorus was beginning over in the park. Slightly muted, but very melodious, the voices came to their ears, and it was as if the leaves of the trees moved as the mighty echo of cheerful song passed over them. Felix had ordered a good Rhine wine, and he sat there with his eyes half-closed, relishing the wine on his tongue and giving way to the magic of the music without troubling any more about its source. Marie had moved close to him, and he felt the warmth of her knee beside his. After the terrible agitation of the last few minutes a kind of indifference had come over him, doing him good, and he was glad that he had forced himself to feel that indifference. For as soon as they sat down at the table he had firmly resolved to overcome the sharp pain he felt. He was too exhausted to wonder more closely how far his will had helped him to do so. Now, however, many considerations soothed his feelings: perhaps he had read more and worse into that look of Marie’s than it deserved, perhaps she would have glanced at anyone else in just the same way, and indeed she was now observing the two strangers at the next table exactly as she had looked at those singers a little earlier.

  The wine was good, the pleasing music drifted their way, the summer evening was intoxicatingly mild, and as Felix looked at Marie he saw the light of endless love and kindness in her eyes. He wished he could immerse himself entirely into the present moment. He made one final demand on his will, to free himself from all that was the past or the future. He wanted to be happy, or at least drunk. And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, an entirely new and wonderfully liberating sensation came to him: he felt that now it would barely cost him any determination at all to end his life. To end it now. And that option was always open; his present mood could easily be induced again. Music, to be slightly tipsy with a sweet girl beside him—oh yes, it was Marie. He thought. Perhaps any other girl would have been as dear to him just now. She too was sipping the wine with pleasure. Felix would soon have to order another bottle. He felt more content than he had been for a long time. He told himself that, fundamentally, all this was to be put down to a little more alcohol than he usually drank. But what did that matter, if he could feel like this? Truly, death held no more terrors for him. Nothing mattered.

  “Don’t you agree, sweetheart?” he said.

  She moved close to him. “What did you want to know?”

  “Nothing matters, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” she said, “except that I love you for ever and ever.”

  It seemed to him very strange that she should say that so gravely just now. He was hardly aware of her as a person. She merged with everything else. Yes, this was the way, this was how to handle it. No, it’s not the wine talking, he thought, wine simply liberates us from what usually makes us plodding and cowardly—it drains their importance from people and things. A little white powder, now, tip it into the glass—how simple that would be! As he thought this he felt a few tears come to his eyes. He was slightly moved by himself.

  Over in the park the chorus ended. They could hear the applause and cries of “Bravo!” and then the orchestra struck up again, this time the measured merriment of a polonaise. Felix beat time with his hand. A thought passed through his mind: I’ll live what little life is left as well as I can. There was nothing terrible in that idea, rather something proud and royal. What, wait in fear for the last breath, a moment that is certain to come to everyone? Spoil his days and nights with empty brooding, he thinks, when he feels to his innermost being that he is still capable and strong enough for all kinds of pleasures, when he’s aware of the music inspiring him, the wine that tastes delicious, when he’d like to take this glowing girl on his lap and cover her with kisses? No, it’s too soon yet to let himself feel embittered! And when the hour does come in which nothing inspires him, in which desire does not exist for him any more—then a quick end made of his own free will, proud and kingly! He took Marie’s hand and held it in his own for a long time, letting his breath waft slowly over her.

  “Ah,” whispered Marie, with a look of contentment.

  He scrutinized her at length. And she was beautiful—beautiful! “Come on” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Why don’t we listen to another song?” she ingenuously replied.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “We’ll open our window and let the wind carry the song into our room.”

  “Are you feeling tired now?” she asked, with a little anxiety.

  He stroked her hair, laughing. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  They rose and left the garden. She took his arm, clung fast to it, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. On their way back the two of them were accompanied by the ever-receding sound of the chorus, which the solo singers had just joined. The music was cheerful, in waltz time with a high-spirited refrain, so that they were obliged to walk more lightly and easily. The hotel was only a few minutes away. As they climbed the steps the sound of the music died away, but no sooner were they in their room than the refrain of the waltz song met their ears again, as merry as ever.

  They found the window wide open, and blue moonlight flooding softly in. Opposite, the Mönchsberg and the fortress on it were sharply outlined. There was no need for a light, since a broad strip of silver moonlight lay over the floor, leaving only the corners of the room still dark. In one of them, close to the window, stood an armchair. Felix dropped into it and pulled Marie firmly to him. He kissed her, she kissed him back. Over in the park the song had ended, but the applause went on and on until the singers began all over again. Suddenly Marie rose and hastened to the window. Felix followed her. “What is it?” he asked.

  “No, no!”

  He stamped his foot. “What do you mean, no?”

  “Felix!” Beseechingly, she folded her hands.

  “No?” he said through compressed lips. “No? You think I ought to be preparing to die with dignity?”

  “Oh, Felix!” And she was down on the floor in front of him, clasping his knees.

  He raised her to her feet. “You’re such a child,” he whispered, and then into her ear, “I love you, did you know? And we’ll be happy as long as this little bit of life lasts. I don’t want a year spent in fear and trembling, I’d rather have just a few weeks, a few days and nights, but I want to live them fully, I won’t deny myself anything, anything, and then—well, down there, if you like.” And as he stood with one arm round her, he pointed with the other to the window, where the river flowed past. The singers had ended their song, and now they could hear the quiet rushing of the water.

  Marie did not reply. She had both hands clasped behind his neck, and Felix drank in the fragrance of her hair. How he adored her! Yes, a few more days of happiness, and then …

  All was quiet around them, and Marie had fallen asleep beside him. The concert was over long ago, and below their window the last straggling members of the audience were walking by, talking and laughing loudly. And Felix thought how strange it was that these noisy people could well be the same whose singing had moved him so deeply. Even the last voices finally died away, and now he heard only the melancholy flowing of the river. Yes, just a few more days and nights, and then—but she was too fond of life. Would she ever dare to do it? Though she needn’t dare anything, needn’t even know anything. The time will come, he thinks, when she falls asleep in his arms, as she is sleeping now—and never wakes up again. And when he is quite sure of that then—yes, then he too can be gone. But he won’t say anything to her, she likes living too much! She’d be afraid of him, and then in the end he’ll have to be alone as he—oh, a terrible thought!
It would be best to do it now, at once—she’s sleeping so soundly! A little firm pressure here on her throat, and it’s done. But no, how stupid. He has many hours of happiness ahead of him first; he’ll know which must be the last.

  He looked at Marie, and felt as if he were holding his sleeping slave-girl in his arms.

  The decision he had finally made soothed him. Over the next few days, a smile of glee played around his mouth as he walked through the streets with Marie and sometimes saw a man’s eyes rest admiringly on her. And when they went out together, when they sat in a garden in the evening, when he held her in a close embrace at night, he felt more pride of possession than ever before. Only one thing sometimes troubled him, and that was that she wouldn’t be going with him of her own free will. But he saw indications that he could achieve that too. She no longer ventured to reject his stormy desires, she had never before abandoned herself to him as wonderfully as she had these last few nights, and with trembling joy he saw the moment approach when he would dare to tell her, “We will die today”. However, he kept putting that moment off. Sometimes he saw a picture in his mind painted in romantic colours: he himself driving a dagger into her heart, she kissing his beloved hand as she breathed her last. He kept asking himself if the moment had come yet, and he still wasn’t sure.

  One morning Marie woke and was severely alarmed: Felix wasn’t beside her. She sat up in bed, and then she saw him sitting in the armchair by the window, pale as death, his head sunk on his chest, his shirt open. In the grip of dreadful fear, she ran to him. “Felix!”

  He opened his eyes. “What? Where?” Then he clutched his chest and groaned.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” she cried, wringing her hands.

  “It’s all right now,” he said. She hurried over to the bed, took the blanket off it and spread it over his knees.

  “For Heaven’s sake, how did you get here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I must have been dreaming. Something seized me by the throat, and I couldn’t breathe. I never thought of you! Breathing is easier here by the window.”

  Marie had quickly put on a dress and closed the window, for an uncomfortable wind had risen, and now fine rain began to fall from the grey sky, bringing chilly, damp air into the room. Suddenly all the comfortable intimacy of the summer night was gone, the place was grey and strange. All at once a cheerless autumn morning was here, dispelling the magic that they had dreamed into the place.

  Felix was perfectly calm. “Why do you look so alarmed? What’s the matter? I’ve always had bad dreams, even when I was in good health.”

  There was no pacifying her. “Please, Felix, let’s go back, let’s go home to Vienna.”

  “But—”

  “Summer’s over now anyway. Just look out of the window—it’s all so bleak and unwelcoming! And it could be dangerous if the weather is turning cold.”

  He listened attentively. To his own surprise, at this moment he felt very well, like a tired convalescent. His breath came easily, and there was something sweet and soothing in his weariness. He liked the idea of leaving Salzburg. The thought of a change of place appealed to him. He looked forward to reclining in their compartment of the railway carriage, this cool, rainy day with his head on Marie’s breast.

  “Good,” he said, “let’s leave.”

  “Today?”

  “Yes, today. By the noon express, if you like.”

  “But won’t that tire you?”

  “Oh, what ideas you take into your head! The journey won’t be any strain, why would it be? And you’ll deal with anything that might trouble me, won’t you?”

  She was immensely glad to have brought him round so easily to the idea of leaving, and immediately set about packing. She saw to paying their bill, ordered a cab, and reserved a compartment on the train. Felix was soon dressed, but did not leave the room, and spent all morning lying on the sofa. He watched Marie hurrying busily around, and sometimes smiled. But most of the time he slept. He was so tired, so tired, and when he looked at her he was glad to think of her staying with him everywhere he went. And the thought that they would rest together went through his head, as if in a dream. “Soon, soon,” he thought, yet the moment had never seemed to him so far away.

  So that afternoon, just as he had pictured it earlier, Felix lay in the compartment of the railway carriage, comfortably stretched out full length, his head on Marie’s breast, the rug spread over him. He stared through the closed window panes at the grey day outside, saw the rain falling, and let his eyes wander to the mist from which nearby hills and buildings sometimes emerged. Telegraph poles shot by, their wires dancing up and down, now and then the train stopped at a station, but from where he lay Felix couldn’t make out any passengers on the platform. He heard only the muted sounds of footsteps, voices, bells ringing, train horns giving signals. At first he asked Marie to read him the paper, but she had to raise her voice too much, and soon they gave up the attempt. They were both glad to be going home.

  Dusk was gathering, and still the rain fell. Felix needed to think perfectly clearly, but his ideas refused to take distinct shape. He fell into reflective mood. So here we have a man who’s severely ill … he’s been staying in the mountains, because that’s where severely ill people go in summer … and there’s his mistress, who has cared for him faithfully, but now she’s tired … She looks so pale, or is that just the light? … Ah, yes, the overhead lighting is on. But it isn’t entirely dark outside yet … And now autumn is coming … autumn, such a sad, quiet time … We’ll be back at home in Vienna this evening … And then I’ll feel as if I’d never been away … It’s just as well that Marie is asleep. I wouldn’t want to listen to her talking now … I wonder if there are any people from that festival of vocal music on this train? I’m tired, that’s all, not ill. There are a great many passengers in a worse way than me on the train … It’s good to be alone … How has this whole day passed? Was it really today that I was lying on the sofa in Salzburg? It’s so long ago … ah, what do we know about time and space? … the mystery of the world, perhaps we’ll solve it when we die … And now a melody sounded in his ear. He knew it was only the sound of the moving train, yet it was a melody … A folk-song, a Russian song … monotonous … very beautiful …

  “Felix, Felix!”

  “What is it?”

  Marie was standing in front of him, caressing his cheeks. “Did you sleep well, Felix?”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ll be in Vienna in a quarter-of-an-hour’s time.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe it!”

  “You had a really healthy sleep. I’m sure it’s done you good.”

  She put their baggage in order as the train rushed on through the night. Every minute now they heard a shrill, long-drawn-out whistle, while lights flashed in through the window from outside and quickly died away again. They were passing through the stations near Vienna.

  Felix sat up. “I feel quite tired from lying down so long,” he said. He sat in the corner and looked out of the window. From afar, he could already see the glow over the city streets. The train was going more slowly now; Marie opened the compartment window and leaned out. They came into the station, and Marie waved out of the window. Then she turned to Felix, saying, “There he is, there he is.”

  “Who?”

  “Alfred!”

  “Alfred?”

  She was still waving. Felix had risen to his feet and was looking over her shoulder. Alfred quickly came over to their compartment and reached his hand up to Marie. “Good evening! Hello, Felix.”

  “How do you come to be here?”

  “I sent him a telegram,” Marie was quick to reply. “To say we were coming.”

  “A nice kind of friend you are!” Alfred told him. ‘I suppose letter-writing is an unknown invention so far as you’re concerned. Well, come along now!”

  “I’ve slept so much,” said Felix, “I still feel quite muzzy.” He smiled as he climbed down the steps from the carri
age, swaying slightly.

  Alfred took one of his arms, and Marie, as if just to link arms with him, quickly took the other.

  “You must both be very tired, I’m sure.”

  “I’m worn to a shred!” said Marie. “All this tedious train travelling leaves one tired out, doesn’t it, Felix?”

  Slowly, they went down the steps from the station. Marie was trying to catch Alfred’s eye, he avoided her glance. At the bottom of the steps he hailed a cab. “I’m glad to have seen you, my dear Felix,” he said. “I’ll come round in the morning, and we’ll have a good long chat.”

  “I feel all muzzy,” repeated Felix. Alfred tried to help him into the cab. “Oh, not as bad as that, dear me, no!” He got in and reached his hand out to Marie. “There, you see?” Marie followed him.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said, giving Alfred her hand in farewell through the cab window. There was such questioning fear in her eyes that Alfred forced himself to smile.

  “Yes, tomorrow,” he called. “I’ll come to breakfast with you!” And the cab drove away. Alfred stood where he was for a while, his face grave.

  “My poor friend!” he whispered to himself.

  Next morning Alfred arrived very early, and Marie met him at the door. “I must talk to you,” she said.

  “Let me go in and see him first. Everything we have to discuss will make more sense after I’ve examined him.”