You led me to the table. You sat on my right, and you were so calm. You are always so calm. Why should you not be calm, you are not in love.
You invited me to drink, and I who never drink wine, drank with you, only a sip. It was ... no, I cannot speak of it. But now I understand that clergymen really believe it when they say, “This is the body and blood of Christ.”
No one could read my thoughts.
Now I know what it is that I have lacked hitherto, and I am glad that I have lacked it.
You made a speech in my honour. It was so natural that you should. You led me to the table, and it was my birthday. For me it was a sacred miracle. The words you spoke have gone to sleep in my heart. When I die one day in my coffin, and my children weep over me, they will arise and whisper and sing as your yellow flowers sang when I was ill.
I hold so fast to my happiness. But my hands are weak, and it slips through them like running sand.
The hours go as they came.
Why do you rend my dream in twain? Why do you thrust a knife in my heart? I have never thought of being your mistress. I only grant you every delight there is. But why in this night, in this night, when I woke and clung to my happiness! When Magna Wellmann telephoned me to-day, I knew everything. She said nothing and I asked no questions.
My yellow orchids hang on their stalks like dead butterflies. I have forgotten to give them water.
Forgive me! I am not. I won’t be like this, and now it is over. It hurts no longer. I am well, like the little boy who was run over the day before yesterday. He cried and moaned that he was going to die, and all the time was quite unhurt.