Andreas by Hugo von Hofmannsthal

the faith, that she lived for him. He returned to the world like one blessed. He felt that she might be standing below, had thrown a stone at the window pane and awakened him. He ran to the window; a pane was cracked, a dead bird lay on the sill. He went slowly back, the bird in his hand, and laid it on his pillow. The little body poured delight through his veins, he felt as if he could easily have restored the bird to life if he had only taken it to his heart. He sat on the bed, a thousand thoughts streamed round him, he was happy. His body was a temple in which Romana’s being dwelt, and time in its flow swept round him, and lapped on the steps of the temple.
    In the house everything was at first still in the greying morning, and rain was falling. When he arose from his dreaming ecstasy, day had come and it was light. The whole house was at work. He went downstairs, asked for a piece of bread and drank from the fountain. He wandered about the house, nobody heeded him. Wherever he was, whateverhe did, he was at ease: his soul had a centre. He took his food with the people, the farmer had not returned, nobody mentioned the wife or Romana. In the afternoon the carrier arrived. He was ready to take Andreas with him, but to judge from the way his business was going, he would have to leave before evening: they would spend the night in the next village down the valley.
    A fresh wind was blowing into the valley, beautiful, big clouds were driving across it, and beyond, over the country, all was shining clear. A farm-hand carried the portmanteau and valise down to the cart, Andreas followed him. At the bottom of the stairs he turned back, and a voice told him that Romana was standing waiting up in his empty room. When he entered the room and found it empty, he could hardly believe it; he searched every corner, as though she might be hidden in the whitewashed wall. With bent head he went downstairs again. There he stood for a while irresolute, listening. Outside the grooms were talking as they helped to put the horses in. Andreas felt his breast contract. Without his will his feet carried him to the stable. The bay was standing there looking dejected, with its ears laid back; a few of the farm horses turned in their stalls as Andreas came in. Andreas stood—he did not know how long—in the dim place, listening to a twittering—then throughthe little barred window a shaft of gold shot slanting to the stable door, and hung there, a swallow glided through, flashing, and behind it Romana’s mouth, open, moist and twitching with suppressed weeping. He could hardly grasp that she was standing bodily before him, but he did grasp it, and the fulness of his heart paralysed his limbs. She was barefoot, her plaits were hanging down as if she had that moment jumped out of bed and run to him. He could and would not ask, but his arms half rose towards her. She did not come to him, nor did she shrink from him. She was as close to him as if she were part of him, and yet it was as if she did not see him. In any case, she did not look at him, and he made no move to approach her. Her mouth struggled with the words, her eyes with the tears that would not come. She pulled ceaselessly at her thin silver chain, as if she were trying to strangle herself, so as to withdraw from him utterly. It was as though pain were having its way with her, so that she did not even feel that Andreas was near. At last the chain broke—one piece slid into the bosom of her open gown, the other stayed in her hand. She pressed it from above on to the back of Andreas’s hand; her mouth twitched as if a scream must come and could not. She leaned against him; her mouth, moist and twitching, kissed his—then she was gone. The piece of silver chain had slipped fromAndreas’s hand. He picked it up out of the straw—he did not know whether to follow her—everything was happening outside him, and at the same time in the very depths of his heart, where, till now, nothing that