always discover that there is still one thing or another on their minds, which they must let out in letters. But round Marie there was the silence of the tomb. From her at all events a little postscript would have been welcome; but, after all, it was best so. Evidently she had forgotten me, as I had forgotten her. Indeed, I had hardly time to think of her, so taken up was I with gaiety and—work. For sometimes even I work, too. On what?
My work is to build lovely dream castles, to create beautiful women, to make colours out of words, and poems of the colours.
But first and foremost I enjoyed myself— just because I had forgotten Marie!
XXVIIIForgetfulness! dear bird with the soft black wings, shadow the couch where Marie has rested. Keep watch over my dreams lest they call her up again in all her naked loveliness. Soothe my longing with your song, lest it should once more awake.
Marie is no more, do you hear me—spirit of forgetfulness? She must no longer exist. But your hollow eyes are glaring mockingly at me. Do you doubt me? Are you forsaking me?
Faithless bird! You must not betray me, my forgetfulness! at least not now when night is here, with her seductive thoughts and painful imaginings, flickering above my sleepless rest. In the day-time I need you not—for the sunshine keeps all phantoms at bay—but do not leave me now that it is night.
