I cannot write any more. My head is so heavy; my limbs ache; I am feverish. I must lie down. Perhaps all will soon be over. Perhaps, this once, fate will be kind to me, and I shall not have to see them take away my boy.... I cannot write any more. Farewell, dear one, farewell. All my thanks go out to you. What happened was good, in spite of everything. I shall be thankful to you till my last breath. I am so glad that I have told you all. Now you will know, though you can never fully understand, how much I have loved you; and yet my love will never be a burden to you. It is my solace that I shall not fail you. Nothing will be changed in your bright and lovely life. Beloved, my death will not harm you. This comforts me.

But who, ah who, will now send you white roses on your birthday? The vase will be empty. No longer will come that breath, that aroma, from my life, which once a year was breathed into your room.

I have one last request — the first, and the last. Do it for my sake. Always on your birthday — a day when one thinks of oneself — get some roses and put them in the vase. Do it just as others, once a year, have a Mass said for the beloved dead. I no longer believe in God, and therefore I do not want a Mass said for me. I believe in you alone. I love none but you. Only in you do I wish to go on living-just one day in the year, softly, quietly, as I have always lived near you. Please do this, my darling, please do it.... My first request, and my last.... Thanks, thanks.... I love you, I love you….Farewell....

The letter fell from his nerveless hands. He thought long and deeply. Yes, he had vague memories of a neighbor’s child, of a girl, of a woman in a dancing hall — all was dim and confused, like the flickering and shapeless view of a stone in the bed of a swiftly running stream. Shadows chased one another across his mind, but would not fuse into a picture. There were stirrings of memory in the realm of feeling, and still he could not remember. It seemed to him that he must have dreamed of all these figures, must have dreamed often and vividly — and yet they had only been the phantoms of a dream. His eyes wandered to the blue vase on the writing-table. It was empty. For years it had not been empty on his birthday. He shuddered, feeling as if an invisible door had been suddenly opened, a door through which a chill breeze from another world was blowing into his sheltered room. An intimation of death came to him, and an intimation of deathless love. Something welled up within him; and the thought of the dead woman stirred in his mind, bodiless and passionate, like the sound of distant music.

我再也写不下去了。我头晕脑胀，四肢疼痛，浑身发热。我得躺下了。也许一切很快就会结束了。也许，这一次，命迹会对我开一次恩，我不用亲眼看着他们把我的孩子带走.......我无法再写下去了。永别了，亲爱的，永别了。我把所有的感谢都给你。过去的一切都很好，不管怎么样，很好。我对你会一直心怀感激，直到我生命的最后一息。我很高兴把一切都告诉你了。尽管你不能完全理解，但你现在知道了，我一直以来是多么地爱你，而且我对你的爱从来不会成为你的负担。我很欣慰我不会负你。你光鲜亮丽的美好生活不会有什么改变。亲爱的，我的死不会给你带来伤害。这使我感到很安慰。

可是有谁，哦，谁还会在你的生日给你送白玫瑰呢？花瓶会空的。再也不会有那丝来自我生命的气息和芳香一年一次地萦绕在你的房间里了。

我还有最后一个请求-第一个，也是最后一个。为了我，请做这件事吧。每年你过生日的时候-一个人想起自己的那一天-去买些玫瑰花，插在花瓶里吧。请这样去做吧，就像别人一年一度为逝去的爱人做一次弥撒一样。我已经不再相信上帝，因此不想别人给我做弥撒。我只信你。我爱的只有你。我只希望在你的心中继续活下去-一年就只活那么一天，温柔地、默默地活着，就像我一直以来活在你身边一样。请这样做吧，亲爱的，请这样去做.......我对你的第一个请求，也是最后一个.......谢谢，谢谢.......我爱你，我爱你......永别了.......

信从他无力的双手中掉了下来。他久久地陷在沉思当中。是的，他对邻家的女孩，一个少女，一个舞厅的女人有一些模模糊糊的记忆-可是所有这些记忆都是朦朦胧胧、混乱不清的，就像哗哗流淌的溪水底下的一块石头，闪烁不定，变幻多端。那些影像在他脑中不时地闪现，但构不成整个画面。他感受到了丝丝涌动的记忆，但他还是想不起来。似乎所有这些影像他都梦见过，常常梦到，并且梦境非常鲜活-然而这些也只是虚无缥缈捉摸不定的梦中的幻影而已。他的目光落到了书桌上的那只蓝色花瓶上。瓶子是空的。多年来，在他生日这一天，瓶子都没有空过。他悚然一惊，似乎觉得有一扇看不见的门突然打开了，阴冷的风从另外一个世界穿过这扇门吹进了他紧闭的房间。他感觉到了一种死亡，感觉到了一种不朽的爱。某种情愫涌上他的心头，他脑中想起了那个死去的女人，无影无形，却充满激情，犹如远方传来的乐声。