I wandered about the streets the whole afternoon, while the snow fell slowly, in large flakes — and now I am at home, my lamp is burning, my cigar is lighted and my books lie close by; in fact, I have everything that affords true comfort. Yet all is in vain, and I can only think of one thing.
But hadn’t she been dead for a long time, as far as I was concerned? Yes, dead, or as I thought with the childish pathos of the deceived, "worse than dead"? And now that I know that she is not "worse than dead," but simply dead, like the many others who lie out there, under the ground, forever — in spring, in the hot summer, and when the snow falls, as today — without any hope of ever returning. Since that time I know that she did not die a moment sooner for me than she did for the rest of the world. Sorrow? No, it is only the general horror that we all feel when something that once belonged to us, and whose entire being is still clear in our minds, sinks into the grave.
It was very sad when I discovered that she was deceiving me; — but there was so much else with it! — the fury and sudden hatred, and the horror of existence, and — ah, yes — the wounded vanity; — the sorrow only came later! But then there was the consolation that she also must be suffering. I still have them all, I can reread them at any time, those dozens of letters which sob, pray, and beseech forgiveness! And I can still see her before me, in her dark dress and small straw hat, standing at the street corner in the twilight as I stepped out of the gate… looking after me…. And I still think of our last meeting, when she stood in front of me with her large, beautiful eyes, set in that round, child-like face that now had become pale and wan. I did not give her my hand when she left me; — when she left me for the last time. And I watched her go down the street from my window and then she disappeared forever. Now she can never return. . . .
My knowing it at all is due to an accident. I could have been unaware of it for weeks and months. I happened to meet her uncle one morning. I had not seen him for at least a year, as he does not come to Vienna very often. In fact, I had only met him two or three times before this. Our first meeting was three years ago at a bowling party. She and her mother were there also. — And then the following summer: I was in a restaurant at the Prater* with a few friends. Her uncle was sitting at the next table with some gentlemen. They were all in good spirits, and he drank to my health. And before he left he came up to me and told me confidentially that his niece was madly in love with me! — And in my half-giddiness it seemed very foolish and queer that the old gentleman should tell me such a thing here, amidst the music of the cymbals and violins — to me, who knew it so well, and on whose lips still clung the impression of her last kiss. And now this morning! I almost walked past him. I asked about his niece, more out of politeness than interest. I knew nothing more about her; her letters had stopped coming a long time ago; only she sent me flowers, regularly. Recollections of our happiest days! Once a month they came, with no card - just silent, humble flowers. And when I asked the old gentleman he was all astonishment. "You don't know that the poor girl died a week ago?" It was a terrible shock! Then he told me more. She was ill for a long while, but was in bed hardly a week. And her illness? "Melancholia… anemia… the doctors themselves were not quite sure."
I remained a long while standing where the old gentleman had left me. I was enervated, as if I had just gone through some great trouble. And now it seems to me as if today marks the termination of a part of my life. Why — why? It was simply something external. I had no more feeling for her; in fact, I seldom thought of her any more. But now that I have written this all down I feel better; I am more composed. I am beginning to appreciate the coziness of my home. It is foolish and tormenting to think of it any more. There are certainly other people today who have a great deal more to mourn about than I do.
I have taken a walk. It is a serene winter's day. The sky looks so gray, so cold, so far away. And I am very calm. The old gentleman whom I met yesterday — it seems as if it had been weeks ago. And when I think of her I can see her in a peculiarly sharp and finished outline. Only one thing is lacking: the anger which always associated itself with my thoughts of her. The realization that she is no more on earth, that she is lying in a coffin, that she has been buried – this I don’t have. I feel no sorrow. The world seemed calmer to me today. I understood at one point that there is neither happiness nor sorrow; no, there are only the grimaces of joy and sadness; we laugh and we weep and we invite our soul to be present. I could sit down now and read deep, serious books, and should soon be able to penetrate into all of their learning. Or, I could stand in front of old pictures, which until now have meant nothing to me, and appreciate their true beauty. And when I think of certain dear friends who have died, my heart does not feel as sad as it used to — death has become something friendly; it walks among us but does not want to harm us.
Snow, high, white snow on all the streets. Little Gretel came to me and suggested that we ought, to take a sleigh ride. And we drove out into the country, over the smooth road, the sleigh bells ringing and the blue-gray sky above us. Gretel rested against my shoulder and looked out upon the long road with happy eyes. We came to an inn that we knew well from the summer. The oven was all aglow, and it was so hot that we had to move the table away, as Gretel's left ear and cheek became fiery red. I had to kiss the paler cheek. Afterwards, the return home in the twilight! Gretel sat very close to me and held both of my hands in hers. Then she said: "At last I have you again." She had thus, without racking her brain, struck the right note to make me happy. But perhaps it was the biting, clear air that unchained my thoughts, for I feel freer and more contented than I have in the last few days.
A short while ago again, as I lay dozing on my couch, a strange thought came to my mind. I appeared hard and cold to myself. As one who, without tears, in fact, without any emotion, stands at the grave in which he has buried a dear one. As one who has grown so hard that he cannot reconcile the horror of death. — Yes, irreconcilable, that is it.
Gone, quite gone! Life, happiness, and a little love drives all that foolishness away. I go again among people. I like them; they are harmless, they chatter about all sorts of jolly things. And Gretel is a dear, kind creature; and she is prettiest when she stands at my window and the sunbeams shine on her golden hair.
Something strange happened today. It is the day on which she always sent me flowers. And the flowers came again as — as if nothing had changed. They came with the first mail, in a long, narrow white box. It was quite early, and I was still sleepy. And only when I was actually opening the box did I gain full consciousness. Then I almost had a shock. There lay, daintily tied with a golden string, violets and pinks. They lay as in a coffin. And as I took the flowers in my hand a shudder went through my heart. But I understand how it is that they came again today. When she felt her illness, possibly even when she felt death approaching, she gave her usual order to the florist so that I would be sure to notice her attention. Certainly, that is the explanation - as something quite natural, as something touching perhaps. And still as I held them in my hands, these flowers, and they seemed to nod and tremble, then, in spite of reason and will power, I looked upon them as something ghostly, as if they had come from her, as if they were her greeting — as if she wanted always, even now that she was dead, to tell me of her love — of her tardy faithfulness. Ah, we do not understand death, we will never understand it, and a person is dead only after all that have known him have also passed away. Today I grasped the flowers differently than usual, as if I might injure them were I to hold them too tight — as if their souls might begin to sob softly. And as they now stand in front of me on my desk, in a narrow, light-green vase, they seem to nod their heads in mournful gratitude. All the pain of a useless yearning spreads over me from them, and I believe that they could tell me something if we could only understand the language of all living things, not only of the things that talk.
I do not want to let myself be fooled. They are only flowers. They are a message from the past. They are no call, surely no call from the grave. They are simply flowers, and some florist tied them together mechanically, put a bit of cotton around them, then laid them in the white box, and mailed it. — And now that they are here, why do I think about them?
I spend many hours in the open air and take long, lonely walks. When I am among people I do not feel compatible with them. And I notice it when the sweet, blonde girl sits in my room, chattering away about all sorts of things — I don't know about what. When she is gone, in a moment it is as if she were miles away from me, as if the flood of people had engulfed her and left no traces behind. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did not come again.
The flowers are in the tall, green vase; their stems are in the water and their scent fills the room. They still retain their odor — in spite of the fact that I have had them a week and that they are already fading. And I begin to believe all sorts of nonsense that I used to laugh at: I believe in the possibility of conversing with things in nature, I believe that one can communicate with clouds and springs, and I am waiting for these flowers to begin to talk. But no, I feel sur