Dying E-Book

Arthur Schnitzler

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2006

Beschreibung

When Marie realises, with horror, that Felix is intent on making her fulfill her rash vow to die with him, she is left with a terrible conundrum: how can she escape with her life without compromising the self-imposed decorum of attending to the wishes of her dying lover? Schnitzler's talent as a dramatist shines through in this engrossing and shocking psychological study set in fin de siecle Vienna. 'Schnitzler was a remarkable and versatile talent who adapted for his artistic purposes both the new techniques of psychoanalysis and what was later to be known as the stream of consciousness'--John Bayley, TImes Literary Supplement Arthur Schnitzler was born in Vienna in 1862, the son of a prominent Jewish doctor, and studied medicine at the University of Vienna. In later years he devoted his time to writing and was successful as a novelist, dramatist and short story writer. Schnitzler's work shows a remarkable ability to create atmosphere and a profound understanding of human motives. Pushkin Press will publish a new translation of Die Traumnovelle, the novel by Schnitzler upon which Stanley Kubrick's based his notorious film Eyes Wide Shut.

Leseprobe

ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

DYING

Translated from the German by Anthea Bell

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—

The nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs …

Emily Dickinson

Contents

Title Page

Epigraph

DYING

Also Available from Pushkin Press

About the Publisher

Copyright

DYING

DUSK WAS FALLING, and Marie rose from the bench where she had been sitting for the last half-hour, first reading her book, then looking down the avenue along which Felix would come. He didn’t usually keep her waiting. It was a little cooler now, but the air was still mild with the warmth of the May day as it drew to a close.

There were not many people left in the Augarten, and those who had been out walking were making for the gate that would soon be shut. Marie was near the way out of the park herself when she saw Felix. Although he was late, he was walking slowly, and only when his eyes met hers did he quicken his pace slightly. She stopped, waited for him, and as he took the hand she casually offered him and pressed it, smiling, she asked with a note of gentle displeasure in her voice, “Did you have to work all this time?”

He gave her his arm, but did not reply. “Well?” she asked again.

“Yes, dear,” he said then, “and I quite forgot to look at the time.”

She glanced sideways at him. He seemed paler than usual. “Don’t you think,” she said lovingly, “it would be better for you to give a little more time to your Marie? Leave your work alone for a while. Then we can walk more together. How about that? Now you’ll always be leaving home in my company.”

“Well …”

“Yes, indeed, Felix, I’m not leaving you on your own any more.” He gave her a swift glance, almost a look of alarm. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing!”

They had reached the gate of the park, and were out in the lively hurry and bustle of the evening streets. Something of the general subconscious happiness that usually comes with spring seemed to lie over the city. “Well, do you know what we could do?” he asked.

“Now?”

“Go to the Prater.”

“Oh no, it’s been so cold there recently.”

“Come along, it’s almost sultry here in the street! We can come straight back again. Let’s go!” He spoke in a distracted, abrupt manner.

“Why do you talk like that, Felix?”

“Like what?”

“What is it? You’re with me, with your own girl!” But he looked at her with a fixed and absent gaze.

“What is it?” she cried in alarm, holding his arm more firmly.

“Yes, yes,” he said, pulling himself together. “Sultry weather, yes, so it is. I’m not being absent-minded—or if I am, you mustn’t hold it against me.” They set off along the streets to the Prater. Felix was even quieter than usual. The street lamps were already lit.

“Did you go to see Alfred today?” she suddenly asked.

“Why?”

“Well, you said you were going to.”

“Did I?”

“You were feeling so tired yesterday evening.”

“I was, yes.”

“Then you haven’t been to see Alfred?”

“No.”

“But oh dear, you were still sick yesterday, and now you want to go to the Prater where it’s so damp. It really is rash of you.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’ll ruin your health.”

“Please,” he said, in an almost querulous tone, “let’s go, let’s just go. I’d really like to be in the Prater. We’ll visit that place we liked so much before—the garden restaurant, remember? It isn’t chilly there.”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, really it isn’t! And it’s very warm today anyway. We can’t go home yet, it’s too early. And I don’t want to eat dinner in town, I don’t feel like being inside the walls of some restaurant, and the smoke would be bad for me—I don’t want to be in a crowd either, all that noise hurts me.” He had spoken fast at first, and louder than usual, but he let his last words die away. Marie clung to his arm more tightly than ever. She was frightened, and said no more because she felt she would sound tearful. His wish for a visit to the quiet restaurant in the Prater, for a spring evening among green foliage and silence, had communicated itself to her. When neither of them had said anything for a while, she saw a slow, weary smile on his lips, and as he turned to her he tried to make that smile a happy one. But knowing him as well as she did, she could easily tell that it was forced.

They were in the Prater now, where the first avenue leading off the main thoroughfare almost disappeared into the dark and led to their destination. There it was, the plain and simple restaurant, its large garden dimly lit, tables not yet laid, chairs leaning up against them. Faint red lights flickered in the globes perched on slender green poles. A few guests were sitting in the garden, with the proprietor himself among them. Marie and Felix walked past, and he rose to greet them, lifting his cap. They opened the door into the garden room, where a few turned-down gaslights were hissing. A youthful waiter had been sitting and dozing in one corner. He quickly rose, made haste to turn the gas up, and then helped the guests off with their coats. They sat down in a dimly lit, comfortable corner, drew their chairs close together, and ordered something to eat and drink without lingering over their choice. Now they were alone except for the dull red light of the lamps blinking at them from the entrance. The far corners of the room were lost in twilight too.

Still they were both silent, until at last the anxious Marie began, in a trembling voice, “Felix, do tell me, what’s the matter? I beg you to tell me.” And again that smile came to his lips. “Nothing, child,” he said, “don’t ask. You know my odd moods by now, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, I certainly know your moods, but you’re not in one of them now. Something has upset you, I can see it has. There must be some reason. Please, Felix, what is it? I beg you, tell me!”

He looked impatient, for the waiter was just bringing their order. And as she repeated, “Tell me, tell me!” he glanced at the lad and made a gesture of irritation. The waiter withdrew.

“We’re alone now,” said Marie. She moved closer to him and took both his hands in hers. “What’s the matter? What is it? I have to know. Don’t you love me any more?” He said nothing. She kissed his hand, which he slowly withdrew from her. “What is it?”

He looked around as if in search of help. “Oh, please, leave me alone, don’t ask, don’t torment me!”

She let go of his hand and looked him full in the face. “But I want to know.”

He rose and took a deep breath, then put both hands to his head and said, “You’ll drive me mad! Don’t ask!” And he stood there for a while with a fixed gaze, staring into a void. In alarm, she followed his gaze. Then he sat down, breathing more calmly now, and a mild weariness spread over his features. For a few seconds his terrors seemed to have left him, and he said quietly and affectionately to Marie, “Do eat something, have something to drink.”

She obediently picked up knife and fork and asked, but still with alarm in her voice, “What about you?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied, but he went on sitting there motionless and touched nothing.

“Then I can’t eat anything either,” she said, and at that he did begin to eat and drink, but soon he silently laid down his knife and fork, leaned his head on his hand, and looked away from Marie. She watched him for a little while with her lips compressed, then removed the arm that was hiding his face from her. Now she saw the brightness in his eyes, and just as she cried out, “Oh, Felix, Felix!” he began to sob and weep hot tears. She laid his head against her breast, stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, tried to kiss away his tears. “Felix, Felix!” And his weeping grew quieter and quieter. “What is it, darling, my only beloved dear one, do tell me!”

Then, with his head still against her breast so that his words came to her with a heavy, hollow sound, he said, “Marie, Marie, I didn’t want to tell you. One more year and then it will all be over.” Now he was weeping violently and loudly.

She sat there as pale as death, eyes wide open, not understanding, not wanting to understand. Something cold and terrible constricted her throat, until she suddenly cried out, “Felix, Felix,” flung herself in front of him and looked into the tearful, desperate face that had now sunk to his chest. He saw her kneeling before him and whispered, “Get up, get up!” She did so, mechanically obeying his words, and sat down opposite him. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t ask any questions. And he, after a few seconds of deep silence, suddenly cried out, wailing aloud with his eyes raised as if something incomprehensible was weighing down on him “It’s terrible! Terrible!”

She recovered her voice. “Come, come! …” But she could say no more.

“Yes, let’s go,” he said, making a movement as if to shake something off. He called to the waiter, paid, and they quickly left the restaurant together.

Outside, the spring night surrounded them in silence. Marie stopped in the dark avenue and took her lover’s hand. “Now, tell me about it.”

He was perfectly calm now, and what he told her sounded as plain and simple as if it were really a minor matter. He freed his hand and stroked her face. It was so dark that they could barely see each other.

“You mustn’t be frightened, sweetheart, a year is a long, long time. You understand, that’s it: I have only a year to live.”

She cried out, “Oh no, you’re crazy, you’re crazy!”

“It’s pitiful of me to tell you at all, and stupid too. But you see, being the only one to know, going about feeling so lonely, always with that thought in my mind—I really couldn’t have endured it for long. And perhaps it’s a good thing for you to get used to it. But come along, why are we standing here? I’m used to the idea now myself, Marie. It’s been a long time since I believed anything Alfred said.”

“So you didn’t go to see Alfred? But other doctors don’t know anything.”

“You see, child, I’ve suffered so much from the uncertainty these last few weeks. It’s better now. Now at least I know. I went to see Professor Bernard and at least he told me the truth.”

“No, no, he didn’t. I’m sure he just wanted to frighten you to make you take more care of yourself.”

“My dear child, I’ve had a very serious conversation with the man. I had to know for sure. For your sake too.”

“Felix, Felix,” she cried, flinging both arms around him. “What are you saying? I won’t live a day without you, not an hour.”

“Come, come,” he said quietly. “Calm down.” They had reached the way out of the Prater. The scene around them was lively now, bright and noisy. Carriages rattling along the roads, trams whistling and ringing their bells, the heavy rumble of a railway train passing over the bridge above them. Marie shivered. All this liveliness suddenly had something scornful and hostile about it, and it hurt her. She led him the way she wanted to go, avoiding the broad main thoroughfare and making their way home along quiet side streets instead.

For a moment it occurred to her that he ought to take a cab, but she hesitated to say so. They could always walk slowly.

“You’re not going to die, no, no,” she said under her breath, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I can’t live without you.”

“My dear child, you’ll change your mind. I’ve thought it all out carefully. Indeed I have. Do you know, when the line was suddenly drawn like that, I saw it all so distinctly, so clearly.”

“No line’s been drawn.”

“I know it’s hard to believe, darling. At this moment I don’t believe it myself. It’s so hard to grasp, isn’t it? Just think, here I am walking along beside you, speaking words out loud, words that you can hear, and in a year I’ll be lying cold in the ground, perhaps already rotting away.”

“Stop it, stop it!”

“And you’ll look as you do now. Just as you look now, perhaps still a little pale from weeping, but then another evening will come, and many more, and summer and autumn and winter, and another spring—and then I’ll have been dead and cold for a year—what’s the matter?”

She was weeping bitterly. Her tears ran over her cheeks and down her throat.