“Well, what is your secret?” asked Daniel brusquely, after they had sat in perfect silence for some time.
Eberhard got up, and made a gesture which meant that Daniel was to follow him. They crossed the narrow hall, climbed up a pair of small steps, and then Eberhard opened a door leading into the attic room.
A stupefying, deadening odour of decayed flowers struck them in the face. Involuntarily Daniel turned to go, but the Baron pointed at the walls in absolute silence.
“What is this? What kind of a room is this?” asked Daniel, rather forcibly.
The four walls of the room were completely covered with bouquets, garlands, and wreaths of withered flowers. The leaves had fallen from most of them, and were now lying scattered about the floor. Leaves that had once been green had turned brown; the grasses and mosses were in shreds, the twigs were dry and brittle. Many of the bouquets had had ribbons attached to them; these, once red or blue, were now faded. Others had been bound with gold tinsel; this had rusted. The slanting rays of the sun fell on others, and lighted them as it had shone on the copper engraving in the room below. Through the purple rays could be seen a dancing stream of dust.
It was a flower mausoleum; a vault of bouquets, a death-house of memories. Daniel suspected what it all meant. He felt his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth; a chill ran over him. And when Eberhard at last began to speak, his eyes filled with hot, gushing tears.
“The flowers were all picked and bound by her hands, by Eleanore’s hands,” said Eberhard. And then, after a pause: “She prepared the bouquets for a florist, and I bought them; she had no idea who bought them.” That was all he said.
Daniel looked back into his past life, as if an invisible arm were drawing him to the pinnacle of some high mountain. He looked, and his soul was dissolved in anxiety, torture, and repentance.
What had he left? Two graves: that was all. No, he had, aside from the two graves, a broken harp, some withered flowers, and a mask of terracotta.
He looked at the dead stems and withered chalices: Eleanore’s fingers had once touched all of these. Her fingers were even then hovering over the dead buds like figures from the realm of spirits. In the dusty spider webs hung caught at present unused moments, kind words that were never spoken, consolation that was never expressed, encouragement, consideration, and happiness that were allowed to pass unclaimed and unapplied. Oh, this living and not knowing what the present contains! Oh, this being with a living life, and remaining unaware of it! This failure to avail one’s self of a wonderful day, a breathing, pulsing hour! This dragging, falling, plunging into the night of desire and delusion, this proud, vain, criminal discontent! O winged creature, winged creature, where art thou! Where can one call out to thee!