Sometimes I must think back to those silent days, which are like a wondrous, fortunately spent life to me, which I could unquestionably enjoy like a gift from kindly, unknown hands. And that small city in the valley rises again in my memory with its broad main street, through which a long avenue of gorgeous linden trees stretches, with its angular alleyways filled by the secret working lives of small buyers and craftsmen—and with the old town fountain in the middle of the plaza, that so dreamily splashes in the sunshine, and where in the evening love-whispers sound in the murmur of water. But the city seems to dream of a past life.

And softly curved hills, over which solemn, taciturn fir forests stretch, lock the valley away from the external world. The summits nestle gently against the far, light-filled sky, and in this contact of sky and earth it seems to one that space is part of the homeland. All at once the figures of people come to my senses, and before me again the life of their past renews, with all its small sufferings and joys, which these people dare to confide to one another without shyness.

I spent eight weeks in this remoteness; these eight weeks are to me like a detached, own part of my life—a life for itself—full of an inexpressible, young happiness, full of a strong longing after far away, beautiful things. Here my boyish soul received for the first time the effect of an important experience.

I see myself again as a schoolboy living in a small house with a small garden in front of it, somewhat remote from the city, hidden almost completely by trees and bushes. There I inhabited a small garret, which was decorated with wonderfully old, faded pictures and I dreamed some evenings away here in the stilnness, and the stilnness took into itself and lovingly preserved my sky-high, foolishly-fortunate boyish dreams and later brought them back to me often enough—in the lonely dusk hours. Often also in the evening I went down to my old uncle who spent nearly the entire day by his ill daughter Maria. Then we three sat for hours in silence together. The tepid evening wind blew in through the window and bore all sorts of confused noise to our ear, that simulated indeterminate dream images to us. And the air was filled with the strong, intoxicating scent of roses, flowering by the garden fence. Slowly the night crept into the room and then I stood up, said “good night,” and went back to my room to dream for still another hour into the night outside.

At first I felt something like a fearful anxiety in the presence of the small invalid, which later changed into a holy, reverent shyness at this silent, strangely poignant suffering. When I saw her, a dark feeling arose in me that she will have to die. And then I was afraid to look at her.

When I roamed the forests during the day, I felt glad in the isolation and stillness, when I stretched myself out tiredly then in the moss, and for hours glanced into the light, flickering sky, which one could see so far into, when a strange, deep feeling of happiness befuddled me there, then I suddenly thought of the ill Maria—and I stood up and overpowered by unexplainable thoughts, meandered around aimlessly and felt a dull pressure in head and heart that made me want to weep.

And when sometimes in the evening I went through the dusty main street, which was filled with the scent of flowering linden trees, and in the shadow of the trees saw whispering couples standing around; when I saw how two people slowly strolled near the quietly splashing well in the moonlit, nestled close together as if they were one, and there an ominous hot shiver flowed over me, at that the ill Maria came into my senses; then a quiet yearning to something unexplainable overtook me, and suddenly I saw myself with her, strolling arm in arm down the street in the shadow of the fragrant linden trees. And in Maria’s large, dark eyes a strange glimmer shone, and the moon let her narrow face appear still more pale and transparent. Then I fled back to my garret, leaned at the window, saw in the dark sky where the stars seemed to expire, and for hours I was gripped by confusing daydreams until sleep overtook me.

And still—and still I have not exchanged ten words with Maria. She never spoke. I sat by her side for hours and looked into her sick, suffering face and felt again and again that she had to die.

In the garden, I lay in the grass and inhaled the scent of a thousand flowers; my eye got drunk on the bright colors of the blooms over which sunlight flooded and I listened to the stillness in the air, only occasionally interrupted by the call of a bird. I heard the fermenting of the fruitful, sultry earth, the mysterious noise of the eternally creating life. At the time I darkly felt the greatness and beauty of life. At that time it also seemed that life belonged to me. But then my gaze fell on the bay window of the house. There I saw the sick Maria sitting—silent and immobile, with closed eyes. And all my pondering was again drawn in by the suffering of that one being, and remained there—became a grievous, only shyly admitted yearning, which I found puzzling and confusing. And shyly, silently, I left the garden, as I had no right to remain in this temple.

Whenever I came by the fence there, I broke off one of the large, shiny red, heavily scented roses like in my thoughts. Quietly I wanted to scurry past the window, as I saw the trembling, delicate shadow of Maria’s figure defined against the gravel path. And my own shadow touched hers as if in an embrace. Yet I now came to the window, as if kept by a fleeting thought, and placed the rose I just broke off in Maria’s lap. Then I slipped away noiselessly, as if I was afraid of being caught.

How often has this little process that seemed so significant for me been repeated! I don’t know. For me, it was as if I put one thousand roses into the ill Maria’s lap, as if our shadows embraced innumerable times. Maria has never mentioned this episode; but I have felt from the gleam of her large shinning eyes that she was happy about it.

Perhaps these hours, when we two sat together and silently enjoyed a large, calm, deep happiness, were so beautiful that I did not need to wish any more beautiful. My old uncle silently approved of us. But one day, when I sat with him in the garden amid all the bright flowers, over which dreamily large yellow butterflies hovered, he said to me with a quiet, thoughtful voice: “Your soul goes out to the suffering, my boy.” And in doing so he lay his hand on my head and appeared to want to say something more. But he was silent. Perhaps he also did not know what he had thereby awaken in me and what has revived powerfully in me since that time.

One day, when I again came to the window where Maria usually sat, I saw that her face was paled and had paralyzed in death. Sunbeams flitted over her light, delicate figure; her free-flowing golden hair fluttered in the wind, it seemed to me as if she had not been carried off by an illness, as if she would be dead without visible cause—a mystery. I put the last rose into her hand, she took it to the grave.

Soon after Maria’s death I traveled off to a large city. But the memory of those still days filled with sunshine stayed alive in me, perhaps more alive than the noisy present. I will never see that small city in the valley again—yes, I avoid visiting it once more. I believe I could not do it, even if sometimes a strong longing overcomes me after those eternally young things of the past. Because I know I would only look in vain for what went by without a trace; I wouldn’t find there what is only still alive in my memory—like the present—and that would probably be a useless agony for me.