Another and more violent attack of fever followed. My wife rose to make me some elder tea.
Left by myself I sat up in bed and looked out through the window opposite. It was a large window in the shape of a triptychon, framed by wild vine; I saw a part of the landscape surrounded by green leaves; in the fore-ground the beautiful scarlet fruit of a quince tree rocked gently among the dark green foliage; apple trees, a little further off, studded the green grass; still further away the steeple of a small church rose into the radiant air, behind it a blue spot, the Lake of Constance, was visible, and far in the background the Tyrol Alps.
We were in the height of summer, and, illuminated by the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, the whole scene formed a charming picture.
From below rose the twittering of the starlings which sat on the vine-props in the vineyards, the chirping of the young chickens, the strident note of the crickets, the tinkling cowbells, clear as crystal. The loud laughter of my children, the directing voice of my wife, who was talking to the gardener's wife about my illness, mingled with these gay sounds of country life.
And as I gazed and listened life seemed good to me, death to be shunned. I had too many duties to perform, too many debts to pay. My conscience tortured me, I felt an overpowering need to confess myself, to ask all men's forgiveness for the wrongs I had committed, to humiliate myself before some one. I felt guilty, stricken with remorse, I did not know for what secret crime; I was burning with the desire to relieve my conscience by a full confession of my fancied culpability.
During this attack of weakness, the result of a sort of innate despondency, my wife returned carrying a cup in her hand; alluding to a slight attack of persecutional mania from which I had once suffered, she tasted the contents before offering it to me.
"You may drink without fear," she said smilingly, "it contains no poison."
I felt ashamed. I did not know what to say. And to make amends for my suspicion I emptied the cup at one draught.
The somniferous elder tea, the fragrance of which recalled in me reminiscences of my own country where the mystic shrub is held sacred by the people, made me feel so sentimental that I there and then gave expression to my remorse.
"Listen to me carefully," I said, "for I believe that my days are numbered. I confess that I have always lived a life of utter selfishness. I have sacrificed your theatrical career to my literary ambition.... I will tell you everything now ... only forgive me...."