LAST YEAR AT MARIENBAD
...as if the floor were still sand and gravel, or stone slabs...
over which I advanced once again...
through the corridors, salons, galleries...
the structure of this mournful mansion from another age...
this huge and luxurious mansion...
...silent rooms, where footsteps are absorbed...
by carpets so heavy, so thick...
that one hears no step...
as if the very ear of him who advances once again...
...transverse corridors leading to deserted salons...
encrusted with the ornamentation of another age...
silent rooms, where footsteps are absorbed...
by carpets so heavy, so thick...
that one hears no step, as if the very ear...
...stone slabs, over which I advanced once again...
through the corridors, salons, galleries...
the structure of this mournful mansion from another age...
this huge and luxurious mansion...
where corridors without end follow upon corridors...
silent, deserted...
encrusted with cold, heavy ornamentation...
paneling, stucco, moldings, marble...
black mirrors, shadowy paintings, pillars...
...sculptured portals, ranks of doors, galleries...
transverse corridors leading to deserted salons...
encrusted with the ornamentation of another age...
silent rooms, where footsteps are absorbed...
by carpets so heavy, so thick...
that one hears no step...
as if the very ear were far away...
far away from this numb, barren decor...
far from this elaborate frieze beneath the cornice...
with its branches and garlands...
like dead leaves...
as if the floor were still sand and gravel, or stone slabs...
over which I advanced once again...
as though to meet you...
between richly panelled walls...
stucco, moldings, paintings...
framed prints amidst which I advanced...
among which I found myself already...
waiting for you...
very far from the setting I stand in now...
before you, waiting again...
for one who will not come again...
who will no longer keep us apart...
tear you from me.
We must wait a few minutes, a few seconds--
A few more seconds, as though you were still hesitant...
to separate from him, from yourself...
as though his fading image might reappear...
in this same place where you imagined it...
fearfully or hopefully...
such was your fear of losing this link--
No, this hope is now pointless.
Gone now this fear of losing such a link, a prison, a lie.
This story is already over.
A few seconds more, it has become frozen--
Forever, a past of marble...
like this garden carved in stone...
this mansion, its rooms deserted now...
these still, silent, perhaps long-dead people...
still guarding the web of corridors...
along which I advanced to meet you...
between hedgerows of faces, masklike...
watchful, indifferent...
towards you as you still hesitate, perhaps...
gazing at the entrance to this garden.
There.
Now...
I am yours.
It must have been in 1928 or 1929--
Really... it's unbelievable.
I think we already met.
It has nothing to do with it.
And the fact that if he or she did anything...
that may seem--
The weather was awful for months.
We couldn't get out, when suddenly--
Did you see it yourself?
No, a friend told me.
If a friend told you--
Don't be so concerned about what others are thinking.
You said you would listen to no one but me.
Listen then, I can no longer stand this role.
This silence, these walls...
these whisperings you condemn me to--
Don't raise your voice so.
These whisperings, worse than silence, you condemn me to.
These days, worse than death, we live through side by side...
like two coffins buried together...
in a petrified garden.
A comforting, ordered garden, neatly trimmed...
with formal paths which we pace together...
side by side, day after day...
maintaining our distance without ever--
Quite incredible!
I think it must have been in '28...
'28 or '29--
It froze for a week in the summer of 1929--
A very beautiful woman.
Too fanciful.
Enough of these walls, whisperings...
days lived through side by side...
pacing these corridors, maintaining our distance...
yet these fingers were meant to entwine...
these mouths...
Fingers meant to entwine, eyes meant to see you...
but forced to turn to these walls of another age...
paneling, cut-glass mirrors...
old-fashioned paintings...
stucco, trompe l'oeil capitals...
false doors, false columns...
false perspectives.
It wasn't really so extraordinary.
He initiated it, having worked out...
all the possibilities.
Downy wings, like a swan's.
-Been here long? -No, but I've been here before.
-Do you like the place? -Not particularly.
It just so happens that we always end up here.
My father, you see--
A shoe with a broken heel--
No means of escape?
No means of escape.
Don't you know the story?
It was all the gossip last year.
Frank said her father had asked him...
to keep an eye on her.
A funny sort of eye, as she discovered...
when he tried to enter her room on the pretext that...
he wanted to explain the painting.
The fact of having a German passport proves nothing.
His presence here, old man, has no connection.
I suggest we play another game.
I know a game I always win.
If you can't lose, it's no game.
I can lose, but I always win.
Let's try it.
Two people play. The cards are laid out like this.
Seven.
Five.
Three.
One.
Each player can pick up as many cards as he likes...
but only from one row each time.
The player who picks up the last card is the loser.
Will you start?
You are still the same...
as though I left you only yesterday.
What has become of you all this time?
Nothing, since I am still the same.
Not married?
-Why not? -I value my freedom.
-Why not here? -It's a funny place.
-To be free, you mean? -Yes, especially that.
You're still the same.
But you hardly seem to remember.
Yet you know these baroque ornaments...
this stucco hand, holding grapes...
behind it, foliage...
as though from a garden awaiting us.
Have you never noticed this?
I've never had such a good guide before.
You know the saying: from stem to stern.
There are many other things to see, if you wish.
I'd love to.
-Are there so many secrets here? -Legions.
How mysterious you seem.
Why do you look at me like that?
You hardly seem to remember me.
I first saw you in the gardens of Frederiksbad.
You stood apart from the others...
by a stone balustrade...
on which your hand rested, your arm half-extended.
You were looking towards the broadwalk.
You didn't see me approach.
Then you became aware of my footsteps on the gravel...
and you turned your head.
I don't think it was me. You're mistaken.
Remember.
We were near some stone figures on a plinth...
a man and a woman, in classical style...
whose suspended gestures seemed to hold some significance.
You asked me who they were.
I answered that I didn't know.
You began to guess, and I said...
it could as well be you and l.
Then you began to laugh.
I love-- I loved then--
to hear you laugh.
The other people had drawn nearer.
Someone identified the statue.
Mythological characters, gods or heroes of ancient Greece.
Or perhaps it was an allegory or something like that.
You were no longer listening. You seemed to be far away.
Once more your eyes were grave, vacant.
You turned aside to gaze down the broadwalk again.
Once again we were separated.
It's impossible!
Let's go for a walk.
Frank hasn't arrived yet.
You know the saying: from stem to stern.
What if you play first?
Once again I advanced...
alone, along these same corridors...
through the same deserted rooms...
past the same colonnades...
the same windowless galleries...
across the same thresholds...
taking this route in the labyrinth as if by chance...
and once again...
everything was deserted in this immense hotel...
empty salons, corridors...
salons, doors...
doors, salons...
empty chairs, deep armchairs...
stairs, steps...
steps, one after another...
glass objects, empty glasses...
a dropped glass, a glass partition...
letters, a lost letter...
keys hanging from their rings...
numbered door keys:
309, 307, 305, 303...
chandeliers, chandeliers,
pearls, mirrors...
corridors with not a soul in sight.
And the garden, like all else, was deserted.
It was last year. Have I changed so much, then?
Or are you pretending not to recognize me?
A year already, perhaps more.
You, at least, are still the same.
You have still the same dreamy eyes...
the same smile...
the same sudden laugh...
the same brusque arm movement...
the same way of resting your hand on your shoulder...
and you still use the same perfume.
Remember...
the gardens of Frederiksbad.
You were alone, apart...
almost leaning against a stone balustrade...
on which your hand rested, your arm half-extended.
You were looking towards the broadwalk.
I approached you.
But I stopped short and looked at you.
You turned towards me now.
Yet you didn't seem to see me.
I looked at you, yet you made no sign.
"You seem so alive," I said.
You merely smiled in reply.
To make conversation, I spoke about the statue.
I said the man wanted to stop the young woman.
He had noticed something, a danger...
and he raised his arm to stop her.
You replied that it was the woman who had seen something.
Something marvelous, which she was pointing out.
Both our theories could be right.
Having left their home, they have journeyed for days.
They have come to the top of a cliff.
He stops her going too near the edge...
while she points to the sea stretching to the horizon.
Then you asked me their names.
I said their names didn't matter.
You disagreed and proceeded to name them...
at random, I think.
Then I said they could as well be you and l...
or anyone.
Don't name them. They could mean so many things.
You're forgetting the dog. Why do they have a dog?
It's not theirs. It's a stray.
It's so close to its mistress, though.
She's not its mistress.
It's close because the plinth is small.
They're the same people in that statue, without the dog.
They're facing each other.
She extends her hand to his lips...
but from close up you'll see she's not looking at him.
I don't want to go there. It's too far.
Come with me, please.
Please.
I tell you it's impossible.
I've never been to Frederiksbad.
Well, perhaps it was somewhere else:
Karlstadt, Marienbad, or Baden-Salsa...
or even here, in this salon.
You have followed me here so that I can show you this.
You can see the man...
and the young woman's gesture...
but you would have to be on the other side...
to see that he is stopping her.
He has noticed something, a danger...
and he has raised his arm to stop her.
Allow me. I can explain the statue.
It represents Charles lll and his wife...
but it isn't contemporary, of course.
It is the oath before the Diet, at the treason trial.
The classical costume is simply a convention.
You were waiting for me.
Why should I wait for you?
I have myself waited a long time for you.
In your dreams?
And you are trying to escape once more.
What do you mean?
I don't understand a thing you say.
If they were dreams...
why should you be afraid?
Very well, tell me the rest of our story.
We met again in the afternoon of that day.
By accident, of course!
I don't know.
And where did we meet this time?
Where? That doesn't matter.
You were with a group of acquaintances.
People I hardly knew; perhaps you hardly knew them.
They discussed some topic I knew nothing about.
You knew more about it than l, probably.
I watched you.
Your animated conversation struck me as false.
It was as though none of them knew who you were...
as if only I knew.
And you didn't know, either.
You constantly avoided my eyes.
Obviously you were doing it deliberately.
I waited. I had plenty of time.
I have always thought I had time.
Your glance passed over me as though I didn't exist.
To force you to notice me, at last I said something.
A slightly outrageous contribution to the discussion...
that would turn all eyes toward me.
I forget what it was.
It was you who answered me, in the sudden silence...
greeting my implausible remark with irony.
All the others remained silent.
Again I felt that no one understood your words.
Perhaps I was the only one who even heard them.
To break the silence, someone spoke of the entertainment...
arranged for that evening, or the next day, or the next.
I forget what we said afterwards.
You were not fond of walking in the park.
Your town shoes were not suitable for the gravel.
Once-- maybe it was later--
you even broke a high heel.
You had taken my arm while you removed the shoe.
The heel was hanging on by a mere shred of leather.
You stood poised, looking at it...
the tip of your toe placed before your other foot...
like a dancer at the barre.
You wouldn't let me fetch you another pair of shoes.
So I said I might carry you back in my arms.
You merely laughed, without replying, as if--
You must have walked back, carrying your shoes.
I met you again.
You never seemed to be waiting for me...
but we kept meeting each other...
at each turn, each bush...
beneath each statue...
beside each lake.
It was as if no one had been in that garden...
but you and l.
We talked casually...
about the names of statues, the shape of bushes...
the ornamental lakes.
Or else we didn't speak at all.
At night, especially...
you preferred not to talk.
One night I came to your room.
Always there were walls, everywhere around me.
Smooth, sleek, varnished, unbroken walls.
And the silence.
I never heard anyone raise his voice in this place.
No one.
Conversation flowed in a void apparently meaningless...
or, at any rate, not meant to mean anything.
A phrase hung in midair, as though frozen...
though doubtless taken up again later.
No matter.
The same conversations were always repeated...
by the same colorless voices.
The servants were mute.
Games were played in silence, of course.
It was a place for rest.
Business was not discussed.
No plans were hatched.
No one mentioned anything that might arouse controversy.
There were notices everywhere: "Quiet."
-Yes, I think I remember too. -It's hard to believe.
-Did you see it? -No, a friend told me.
We can check the weather reports in any newspaper collection.
Let's look in the library.
Do you know what I've just heard?
At this time last year...
it was so cold that the lakes froze.
That's surely wrong.
What do you want from me? You know it's impossible.
One night I came to your room.
You were alone.
Leave me alone, please.
It was almost summer.
Yes, you're right...
ice would have been quite impossible.
It's time for the concert.
May I escort you?
Are you going to the concert?
I'll meet you later for dinner.
This story is already over.
A few seconds more and it will finally be frozen...
forever, a past in marble...
like the garden carved in stone...
this mansion, its rooms deserted now.
Leave me alone, please.
You never seemed to be waiting for me...
but we kept meeting each other at each turn...
each bush, beneath each statue...
beside each lake.
As if no one had been in that garden...
but you and l.
We talked casually, about the names of statues...
the shape of bushes, the ornamental lakes...
the color of the sky.
Or else we didn't speak at all.
But you held back, as if on the threshold...
as if at the entrance to a place too dark, too strange.
Come nearer.
Nearer still.
Leave me alone, please.
Always walls, corridors, always doors...
and on the other side, yet more walls.
Before reaching you, rejoining you...
you had no idea what had to be gone through.
And now you are here, where I have brought you.
You are still hesitant, but you are here, in the garden...
within sight, touch, hearing--
-Who are you? -You know.
What is your name?
You know it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter.
You're like a shadow...
waiting for me to come closer.
Leave me alone.
It is already too late.
You asked me not to see you again.
We did see each other, of course...
the next day, or the day after...
or the day after that.
It may have been by chance.
I told you that you must leave with me.
You said it was impossible, of course.
But you know it's possible.
It's all you can do now.
Y es, perhaps.
No, I don't know anymore.
Why me? Why does it have to be me?
You were waiting for me.
No, I wasn't. I wasn't waiting for anyone.
You were waiting for nothing.
You were as though dead.
That's not true.
You are alive still.
You are here. I see you.
Do you remember?
It's not true... probably.
You've already forgotten everything.
It's not true.
You're about to leave. The door of your room is still open.
Why? What do you hope to make of me?
What sort of life will you have me lead?
It's not a question of another life.
It's a question of yours.
Remember.
It was evening, probably the last one.
It was almost dark.
A vague shadow approached slowly through the gloom.
Long before I could distinguish your face...
I knew it was you.
You stopped when you recognized me.
We stood like that, apart...
without speaking.
You stood right in front of me...
waiting, perhaps...
as if you couldn't move in any direction.
You stood there, stiff...
motionless...
arms at your sides...
looking at me.
Your eyes wide open-- too wide--
lips parted as if to speak...
or groan... or scream.
You are afraid.
Your mouth opens still more...
your eyes widen...
your hand is extended expectantly, uncertainly...
or perhaps appealingly, or defensively.
Your fingers tremble slightly.
You are afraid.
Who is he?
Your husband... perhaps.
He was looking for you...
or maybe just passing by.
He was coming to you.
But you remained motionless...
withdrawn... far away.
He felt he didn't quite recognize you.
He stepped nearer.
Something in you evaded him.
He took another step nearer.
You looked through him.
He decided to go away.
And now...
you are still staring into space...
and you still see him.
His gray eyes...
his gray silhouette...
and his smile.
And you are afraid.
You fear he may come again...
or that he's already here...
when I come once again to your room.
His room and yours are separated by a sitting room.
Anyway, he'll be in the gaming room at this hour.
I told you I would come. You made no reply.
I found all the doors ajar:
the door to the suite, to the sitting room...
to your room.
I had only to push them open...
and close them behind me, one after the other.
You know what happened then.
I don't know what happened. I don't know you...
or that room, that bed, that mirror over the fireplace--
What mirror? What fireplace?
I don't know anymore. It's all wrong.
If it's wrong, why are you here?
What was the mirror like?
There's no mirror over the fireplace.
There's a painting.
A landscape, I think. A snow scene.
The mirror is on the chest of drawers.
There's a mirror on the dressing table too.
And there's other furniture, too, of course.
What sort of bed?
A double bed, probably.
What was the view from the window?
I don't know. The window--
What room? I've never been in any room with you.
You don't want to remember, because you're afraid.
Don't you recognize this photograph, either?
I don't know. I don't remember--
-You know who took it. -You're lying.
You know it was last year. I begged you to let me take it.
You said you would feel embarrassed.
Yes, I was right.
I well remember that room...
where you waited for me.
Yes, there was a mirror over the chest of drawers.
I saw you in that mirror...
when I silently opened the door.
You were sitting on the bed, wearing a white robe or gown.
You were all in white, white slippers too...
wearing this ring.
I'm sure you're making it all up.
I never had a white robe.
You're thinking of someone else.
If you say so.
I remember that you were lying among white feathers--
No! Stop it, please.
You're completely mad.
"No, please!"
I can still hear your voice.
You were afraid then.
You were afraid, but I loved your fear that evening.
I watched you...
letting you struggle a little.
I loved you.
There was something in your eyes.
You were so alive.
And then... at first...
remember.
No...
probably it wasn't by force.
But only you know that.
-What is it? -Nothing.
-Are you tired? -Yes, a little, I think.
The sun... so suddenly--
Would you like to go in?
If you want to.
I took the photograph that day.
And you asked me to give you a year...
to put me to the test, perhaps...
or to weary me...
or so that you could forget me.
But time means nothing.
I've come to find you.
No, it's impossible.
"No, it's impossible."
You say that, but you know it is possible...
that you're ready, that we're going to leave.
How are you so sure?
Where will we go?
Anywhere. I don't know.
It's best if we never see each other again.
Last year-- No, it's impossible.
You'll leave alone...
and then we'll be forever--
It's not true!
We don't need to be apart...
alone, eternally waiting.
It's not true.
But you're afraid.
It's too late now.
He had left your room.
Some violent scene had just taken place between you.
Your window looked out onto the garden...
but you didn't have the reassurance of seeing him leave.
You turned to the bed, undecided...
uncertain where to go.
You turned to the bed, you sat down on it...
you fell back on it.
You turned to the bed...
after having stood undecided for a few moments...
staring vacantly ahead.
You turned to the bed.
Listen to me! Remember!
Listen, please!
Yes, there was--
True, there was a huge mirror just by the door...
which you seemed to be afraid to go near.
But you will pretend not to believe me.
Where have you gone?
Why do you always want to escape? It's too late.
It was already too late--
The door was closed now.
No, the door was closed!
Listen, what more proof do you need?
I kept a photograph of you...
taken one afternoon in the park a few days before you left.
But when I showed it to you, you said it proved nothing.
You said anybody might have taken the photograph...
that it could be any garden.
I should have shown you set among white feathers...
a sea of white feathers about your body.
But all bodies, all feathered robes, look alike...
like all hotels, statues, gardens...
but not that unique garden...
where I found you every day.
It is one afternoon--
the next day, probably--
I have come to say we are leaving.
No, you weren't laughing.
We will leave for good the next morning--
That's not it.
Yes, we were in your room.
We must have agreed to leave--
you reluctantly, perhaps.
I was in your room.
From the door, one sees the bed first...
but the dressing table was out of sight.
You were probably by the window...
looking out on the garden.
I can't remember exactly.
He had passed me on the stairs...
after he left you.
Unless that was another day.
The place was deserted that night...
stairs...
corridors...
stairs.
No, I don't remember anymore.
I don't remember anymore myself.
I don't remember.
I knocked. Didn't you hear?
Yes. I said, "Come in."
You couldn't have said it very loudly.
What is the photograph?
As you can see, it's an old photograph of me.
-When was it taken? -I don't know. Last year.
-Who took it? -I don't know. Frank, maybe.
Frank wasn't here last year.
Well, perhaps it wasn't taken here.
Perhaps it was taken at Frederiksbad.
Or perhaps it was someone else.
Yes, perhaps.
What did you do this afternoon?
Nothing. I read.
I looked for you. Were you in the park?
No, in the green salon, near the music room.
I didn't see you there.
Did you have something to tell me?
-You look upset. -I'm rather tired.
You should rest. After all, that's why we're here.
Are you going out?
I think I'll go to the shooting gallery.
-At this hour? -Why not?
Anderson arrives tomorrow.
We'll have lunch with him...
if you have no other plans.
Of course not. What other plans?
Until this evening, then.
After the door closed, you tried to hear him leave...
but there was no sound, no other doors closed.
His quickest way to the gallery lay under your window.
But you can't see the path without opening the window.
You listened for his steps on the gravel...
but you couldn't hear through the window...
and there's probably no gravel, anyway.
One arm is half-bent towards the hair...
the other hand rests on the chin, finger to mouth...
as though to stifle a cry.
And now you are here once more.
No, that ending is not right. I need you alive.
Alive, as you were then...
every evening, for weeks, for months.
I have never stayed so long anywhere.
Yes, I know.
I don't care.
For days and days--
Why don't you want to?
Why won't you remember?
You're insane.
I'm tired. Leave me alone.
-It's a silly game! -You have to know the trick.
-Simply take an odd number. -There must be rules.
The beginner always loses.
I'm sure Frank played that game last year.
You must work on a basis of sevens.
Which row?
Begin now, please.
With pleasure. Which would you like me to take?
This one.
Well, I've lost.
The beginner always wins.
Simply take an even number.
The smallest odd number.
It is a logarithmic series.
One must change row each time.
That's wrong. It wasn't by force.
Remember.
For days and days, every night--
All the rooms are identical...
but for me, that room looked like no other.
There were no more doors, no corridors, hotel or garden.
Not even a garden.
In the middle of the night...
nothing stirred in the hotel.
We found ourselves in the grounds, as before.
You stopped when you recognized me.
We stood like that, apart, without speaking.
You stood right in front of me...
as if you couldn't move in any direction.
You stood there, stiff, motionless...
arms at your sides...
enveloped in some kind of long, dark cape.
Black, perhaps.
Listen, please.
We can't turn back now.
All I ask is that you wait a little.
Here, next year, the same time...
I'll go anywhere with you.
Why delay now?
Please, we must.
A year isn't much.
No, for me it's nothing.
But, listen--
It seems you need more time. Until when?
I'm telling you.
-I've waited so long. -Not so loud, please.
Why should we be so circumspect?
Do you think it's so easy?
I don't know.
And, besides...
I'm not very brave.
You can't put it off again.
I'm only asking for a few hours, that's all.
A few months, a few hours...
a few minutes...
a few seconds more...
as if you still had doubts...
about separating from him...
from yourself...
as if you were his shadow.
Someone's coming. Be quiet, please!
Go away, if you really love me.
A slight indisposition, no doubt?
Yes, it's nothing.
You're feeling better?
Yes, I'm going to my room.
Shall I come with you?
I'd rather be alone. I'll go now.
Once more I advanced along these same corridors...
for days... months...
years... to meet you.
There would be no pause, no rest between these walls.
I will leave tonight, taking you with me.
It must be a year since this story began.
A year of waiting for you, you for me.
You couldn't have endured this trompe l'oeil style...
among these mirrors and columns...
these doors ever ajar, stairways too immense...
this ever open room.
Where are you, my lost love?
I am here with you, in this room.
No, that's no longer true.
Help me, I beseech you.
Give me your hand.
Yes, you felt better.
Yes, you'll go to sleep now.
Yes, you will be quite well before Ackerson arrives...
or Patterson, or whoever you're lunching with tomorrow.
Don't let me leave.
You know it's too late.
Tomorrow I'll be alone.
I'll open the door to your empty room.
I'm cold.
No, you don't need anything.
You don't know what came over you downstairs.
You have no clear recollection of it.
You hope your cry didn't cause a sensation.
Once he had gone-- this man who may be your husband...
whom you perhaps love...
who doesn't know you're leaving him--
you packed and prepared a quick change of clothes.
We agreed to leave during the night.
But it seemed you wanted to give him one more chance.
I don't know. I agreed.
He should have come. He could have taken you back.
The hotel seemed abandoned.
Everyone was attending the long-awaited performance...
from which your indisposition excused you.
It was, I think--
I've forgotten the title now.
The play wouldn't end until very late.
After having left you lying in your room...
he went to the theater to join his friends.
He should have left the play...
if he really wanted to keep you.
You were dressed, ready to leave, and you began to wait, alone...
in a sort of hall on the way to your suite.
For some reason, you asked me to wait till midnight.
I don't know whether you hoped he'd come.
I even thought for a moment you'd told him everything...
and arranged for him to meet you.
Or perhaps you merely thought I wouldn't come.
I came at the agreed time.
The grounds of that mansion were rather in the French style...
without trees, flowers, or any plants at all.
Gravel, stone, marble...
rectilinear, formal...
devoid of mystery.
At first glance...
it seemed impossible to get lost in them...
along the straight paths...
between the immutable statues, granite slabs...
where you were, even now...
losing yourself forever...
in the still night...
alone with me.
THE END