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128 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1936
“In death” is the usual term, but it did not actually take place in death, rather in that time and space which intervene between dying and death itself. For that there is such an interval, many people consider quite certain. According to some it lasts only a few moments; according to others, several days – nine in extreme cases.
In a few moments, we reached the dirt ramp that led up to the bridge. I saw three or four dragoons vanish from their saddles as if blown away, and several horses also turned head over heels. Snow, stones, and lumps of ice whirled upward and hit me.
Meanwhile, from the carriage next to which she had been standing, a girl or a young lady in a bearskin coat came up to my horse and asked: “Baron Bagge?” I had no chance to get a closer look at her, for as I bent down courteously to her, to say that I was, her face suddenly moved close to mine; for a moment I looked into wonderful eyes, and then her arms were already around my neck and my mouth was closed by a kiss.
'How odd you are,' she replied. 'You're looking for explanations for an emotion, as though an emotion were a trivial decision such as what hour to get up or whether to go for a drive or whether to buy something that takes our fancy. But feelings are not decisions. They arise of their own accord. I told you that I knew you well. My parents used to relate to me many things about you which they had heard from your mother, and they said that your mother also told you about me. I believe they were even thinking of a match between us. And I imagine they went to some lengths to present us to one another in the best light. But none of these things are to the purpose. Their one importance, I imagine, was that I, incidentally, saw photographs of you by which I was enabled to recognize you. But I would have thought about you even I had known no more about you than that you existed. Perhaps I would even have conceived of you in dreams if you had never been. Isn't it said that we always dream only of beings who do not exist? So I might have been disappointed when I saw you at last. But true feeling cannot be disappointed by anything, for it is self-engendered and has little to do with the object. You have simply become for me the person of whom I dreamed. You have become that by chance, if there is such a thing as chance. My parents might equally well have spoken of someone else and wished that I would marry this someone else. So you must understand that I was not being importunate when I said what I said a moment ago. It imposes no obligation upon you. And even if you did feel under obligation, you could not do anything for me, even as you could not do anything against me. For every one of us has only himself to deal with; no one can help another person, and every individual, I feel, is alone, utterly alone. I suppose there are no real relationships between human beings. How can there be? We are always only pretexts for one another, nothing more. Pretexts for hatred or for love. But love and hatred arise within us; they operate in us and pass away again solely within ourselves. No real ties link people together. All that we can ever be towards one another is a finer or viler pretext for our own emotions. So I was happy when I saw you and liked you, for I had longed for you, and all that I can hope for is that I am not displeasing to you.'