"What is the use of that now? Life has crippled me…. What of joy it has to offer becomes torture to me…. I am cut loose from all the kindly bonds that bind man to man…. I cannot bear hatred, neither can I bear love…. I tremble at a thousand dangers that have never threatened and will never threaten me. A very straw has become a cliff to me against which I founder and against which my weary limbs are dashed in pieces…. And this is the worst of all. My vision sees clearly that it is but a straw before which my strength writhes in the dust…. You have come at the right time, Thea. Perhaps you carry in the folds of your robe some little potion that will help me to hurry across the verge."
Again I see a gleam behind the veil—a smiling salutation from some far land where the sun is still shining. And my heart seems about to burst under that gleam. But I control myself and continue to gaze at her with bitter defiance.
"It needs no potion," she says and raises her right hand. I have never seen such a hand…. It seem to be without bones, formed of the petals of flowers. The hand might seem deformed, dried and yet swollen as with disease, were it not so delicate, so radiant, so lily-like. An unspeakable yearning for this poor, sick hand overcomes me. I want to fall on my knees before it and press my lips to it in adoration. But already the hand lays itself softly upon my hair. Gentle and cool as a flake of snow it rests there. But from moment to moment it waxes heavier until the weight of mountains seems to lie upon my head. I can bear the pressure no longer. I sink … I sink … the earth opens…. Darkness is all about me….
Recovering consciousness, I find myself lying in a bed surrounded by impenetrable night.
"One of my stupid dreams," I say to myself and grope for the matches on my bed side table to see the time…. But my hand strikes hard against a board that rises diagonally at my shoulder. I grope farther and discover that my couch is surrounded by a cloak of wood. And that cloak is so narrow, so narrow that I can scarcely raise my head a few inches without knocking against it.
"Perhaps I am buried," I say to myself. "Then indeed my wish would have fulfilled itself promptly."
A fresh softly prickling scent of flowers, as of heather and roses, floats to me.
"Aha," I say to myself, "the odour of the funeral flowers. My favourites have been chosen. That was kind of people." And, as I turn my head the cups of flowers nestle soft and cool against my cheek.
"You are buried amid roses," I say to myself, "as you always desired." And then I touch my breast to discover what gift has been placed upon my heart. My fingers touch hard, jagged leaves.
"What is that?" I ask myself in surprise. And then I laugh shrilly. It is a wreath of laurel leaves which has been pressed with its rough, woodlike leaves between my body and the coffin lid.