WINNER, GOLDEN LION
VENICE FILM FESTIVAL 1961
LAST YEAR AT MARIENBAD
...silent rooms
where one's footsteps are absorbed by carpets so thick, so heavy,
that no sound reaches one's ear,
as if the very ear
of him who walks on once again along these corridors,
through these salons and galleries, in this edifice of a bygone era,
this sprawling, sumptuous, baroque, gloomy hotel,
where one endless corridor follows another,
silent, empty corridors
heavy with cold, dark woodwork,
stucco, molded paneling,
marble, black mirrors,
dark-toned portraits, columns,
sculpted doorframes, rows of doorways,
galleries, side corridors
that in turn lead to empty salons,
salons heavy with ornamentation of a bygone era...
...as if the ground were still sand or gravel
or flagstones
over which I walked once again
along these corridors, through these salons and galleries,
in this edifice
of a bygone era, this sprawling, sumptuous,
baroque, gloomy hotel,
where one endless corridor follows another...
...silent rooms
where one's footsteps are absorbed
by carpets so thick, so heavy,
that no sound reaches one's ear,
as if the very ear of him who walks on
once again along these corridors,
through these salons and galleries,
in this edifice of a bygone era...
...sculpted doorframes, rows of doorways,
galleries, side corridors
that in turn lead to empty salons
heavy with ornamentation of a bygone era,
silent rooms,
where one's footsteps are absorbed
by carpets so thick, so heavy,
that no sound reaches one's ear,
as if the very ear...
...flagstones
over which I walked once again,
along these corridors, through these salons and galleries,
in this edifice of a bygone era,
this sprawling, sumptuous, baroque, gloomy hotel,
where one endless corridor follows another,
silent and deserted,
heavy with cold, dark woodwork,
stucco, molded paneling,
marble, black mirrors,
dark-toned portraits, columns,
sculpted doorframes, rows of doorways,
galleries,
side corridors that in turn lead to empty salons,
salons heavy with ornamentation of a bygone era...
...dark-toned portraits, columns,
sculpted doorframes, rows of doorways,
galleries, side corridors
that in turn lead to empty salons,
salons heavy with ornamentation of a bygone era...
silent rooms where one's footsteps are absorbed
by carpets so thick, so heavy,
that no sound reaches one's ear,
as if one's very ear were far away,
far from the ground, from the carpet,
far from this heavy, empty setting,
far from this complex frieze running just beneath the ceiling,
with its branches and garlands,
like ancient leaves,
as if the ground were still sand or gravel
or flagstones,
over which I walked once again
as if in search of you,
between these walls laden with woodwork,
stucco, moldings, paintings,
framed prints past which I strode,
among which even then
I was waiting for you,
far from this setting in which I now find myself
standing before you,
waiting for the man who will not be coming now,
who is not likely to come now
to part us again,
to tear you away from me.
Will you come?
We must wait a little. A few minutes more.
Just a few minutes. A few seconds.
A few seconds more,
as if you still hesitated to part with him, with yourself,
as if his silhouette, now gray, might still reappear,
here where you had imagined him too insistently,
too fearfully, or too hopefully,
for fear of losing this bond -
No, that hope is now fruitless.
Gone is the fear of losing that bond,
that confinement, that falsehood.
That entire story is now over. It is ending.
A few seconds more and it will solidify -
Forever, in a past of marble,
like these statues, this garden carved out of stone,
this very hotel with its now-deserted rooms,
these frozen, silent figures,
long dead no doubt,
which still guard the corridors
down which I walked toward you,
between two rows of faces,
forever inert, frozen, watchful, indifferent,
toward you, perhaps still hesitant,
as you continue to watch the threshold of this garden.
There.
And now...
I am yours.
I don't quite remember. It was in '28 or '29.
Really? How amazing.
We've met before.
Connection? There's absolutely no connection, my friend.
The fact that he or she could say or do certain things to suggest...
And an impossible climate!
You're stuck indoors for months, and suddenly,
when you least expect it...
You saw it yourself?
No, I heard about it from a friend.
Ah, so you only heard about it.
The others? What others?
Forget what they think.
But you know -
You claimed you'd listen only to me.
I'm listening.
Then listen to my grievance. Enough of this role,
this silence, these walls, these whispers you've made my prison.
Lower your voice, please.
These silences to which you confine me are worse than death.
These days we spend here side by side are worse than death.
We're like coffins buried side by side
in a frozen garden.
Be quiet.
A garden of reassuring order,
with clipped hedges and geometric paths,
where we stroll with measured steps, side by side, day after day,
at arm's length, never closer...
Be quiet.
It's truly incredible.
I don't quite remember.
It must have been in '28.
In '28 or '29.
In the summer of 1929, we had freezing weather for a week.
A very beautiful woman.
But an overactive imagination.
This intolerable silence, these walls,
these whispers worse than the silence you've made my prison.
These days here side by side,
walking along these corridors with measured steps,
at arm's length, never closer,
never reaching out with fingers or lips.
Be quiet.
These fingers made to hold and eyes made to see you,
which must turn from you
toward this ornamentation of a bygone era:
woodwork, cut-glass mirrors,
old-fashioned paintings,
stucco garlands with baroque ornaments,
trompe-l'œil! capitals,
false doors, fake columns, painted perspectives,
false exits.
Extraordinary!
Not as extraordinary as all that.
He was behind it all.
He knew all the outcomes in advance.
That explains it.
Still, it was impressive.
Feathery wings like a swan's.
- You haven't been here long? - No, but I've been here before.
- So you like it here? - Not really.
It was just chance. We always come back here.
- Father was up for a position... - I see.
In the area.
Influence peddling.
A shoe with a broken heel.
From which there is no escape?
From which there is no escape.
Don't you know the story?
It was all the talk last year.
Frank said he'd come as her father's friend to chaperone her.
Strange chaperone, he was!
She realized it a bit late,
the night he tried to get into her room as if by accident,
on an absurd pretense: to explain a painting to her...
The fact he has a German passport doesn't prove much.
But his presence here has no connection, my friend.
Not now. I suggest another game.
I know a game I always win.
If you can't lose, that's no game.
I can lose...
but I always win.
Let's try it.
It's for two players.
The cards are laid out like this.
Seven.
Five.
Three.
One.
Each player takes cards in turn,
as many as he wants,
but only from one row each time.
Whoever picks up the last card loses.
Would you like to begin?
You're the same as ever.
As if I last saw you only yesterday.
What's become of you in all this time?
Nothing, since I'm the same as ever.
Not married?
Try it. It's fun.
- I like my freedom. - Here?
- Why not here? - It's a strange place.
You mean, to be free?
Especially that.
You're the same as ever.
But you hardly seem to remember.
Yet you recognize these baroque ornaments,
this stucco hand holding a cluster of grapes.
Behind the hand you see foliage, like living foliage,
in a garden awaiting us.
You never noticed all that?
I never had such a good guide.
You know the proverb: “Said the compass to the ship...”
There's much more to see here.
If you please.
With pleasure.
Does this hotel have so many secrets?
A vast amount.
What a mysterious air.
Why are you looking at me like that?
You hardly seem to remember me.
The first time I saw you
was in the gardens at Frederiksbad.
You were alone, apart from the others,
standing against a stone balustrade
on which you rested your hand, with your arm half-extended.
You were turned slightly towards the central path,
and you didn't see me coming.
The sound of my steps on the gravel finally caught your attention,
and you turned your head.
I doubt it was me. You must be mistaken.
Try to remember.
We were near a group of stone figures
on a fairly high pedestal.
A man and a woman in classical dress.
Their frozen gestures seemed to dramatize some specific scene.
You asked me who the figures were.
I said I didn't know.
You took a few guesses, but I said
they could just as well be you and me.
Then you began to laugh.
I love that.
Even then...
I loved the sound of your laugh.
The others around us came over.
Someone identified the statues.
They were mythological figures:
gods or heroes of ancient Greece.
Or maybe it was an allegory, something like that.
You'd stopped listening.
You seemed far away.
Your look had grown serious and vacant again.
You turned away slightly
to look down the central path again.
One, two, three, four,
five, six, seven.
One, two, three,
four, five.
One...
two, three.
One.
And once again we were separated.
Impossible!
Let's go for a stroll in the gardens.
Frank isn't here yet.
You know the proverb: “Said the compass to the ship...”
What if you go first?
And once again I walked on,
alone,
down these same corridors,
through these same empty rooms.
I passed these same colonnades,
these same windowless galleries.
I crossed these same thresholds,
picking my way as if at random
through a maze of identical paths.
And once again,
everything was deserted in this vast hotel.
Everything was empty.
Empty salons.
Corridors... salons... doors.
Doors... salons.
Empty chairs... deep armchairs.
Staircases... steps.
Steps, one after the other.
Glass objects... empty glasses.
A falling glass... a glass partition.
Letters... a lost letter.
Keys hanging on their rings.
Numbered door keys:
309... 307...
305... 303...
Chandeliers... chandeliers.
Beads... mirrors.
Empty corridors as far as the eye could see.
And the gardens, like everything else, were deserted.
It was last year. Have I changed that much?
Or are you pretending not to know me?
A year already. Maybe more.
You, at least, haven? changed.
You have the same faraway look,
the same smile, the same abrupt laugh.
The same way of extending your arm as if to ward off something -
a child, a branch -
and slowly raising your hand to the hollow of your shoulder.
You're also wearing the same perfume.
Try to remember.
It was in the gardens at Frederiksbad.
You were alone, to one side.
You were standing at a slight angle against a stone balustrade,
on which you rested your hand, your arm half-extended.
You were looking down the central path.
I came toward you,
but I stopped at a distance
and looked at you.
You were turned toward me now.
But you didn't seem to see me.
I looked at you.
You didn't make a move.
I told you that you looked alive.
Your response was simply to laugh.
To say something, I spoke of the statue.
I said the man wanted to hold the woman back.
He had seen something, some danger probably,
and he stopped his companion with a gesture.
You replied that it was she
who may have seen something,
but something marvelous,
which she was pointing out.
Both were possibilities.
The man and woman have left home
and have been walking for days.
They've just reached a steep cliff.
He holds his companion back from the cliff's edge
as she points to the sea stretching to the horizon.
Then you asked me the names of these figures.
I said it didn't matter.
You didn't agree,
and you gave them names,
more or less arbitrarily.
Then I said they might as well be you and me...
or anybody else.
Don't give them names. They may have had so many other adventures.
Don't forget the dog. Why is a dog with them?
It's not theirs. It just happened by.
It's huddled against its mistress.
She's not its mistress,
and it's huddling because of the narrow pedestal.
Look there. It's the same couple, but no dog.
They're facing each other. She holds a hand up to her friend's lips.
But up close, she's looking somewhere else. You coming?
I don't feel like it. It's too far.
Follow me, please.
Please.
Impossible, I tell you. I've never even been to Frederiksbad.
Then somewhere else perhaps.
Karlstadt,
Marienbad,
or Baden-Salsa.
Or even here in this salon.
You followed me here so that I could show you...
that picture.
You can clearly distinguish the man's movements
and the gesture the young woman makes with her arm.
But only from the other side can you see
that he's trying to stop her from going further.
He's seen something, some danger probably.
He motions her to stop.
Excuse me, sir.
I think I can provide more detailed information.
That is a statue of Charles Ill and his wife,
but done at a later period.
The scene is his oath before the Diet, during his trial for treason.
The classical garments are pure convention.
You were waiting for me.
No. Why would I be waiting for you?
I've waited so long for you.
In your dreams?
And you're trying to flee again.
What are you talking about?
I don't understand a word you're saying.
If it was all a dream,
why should you be afraid?
Then tell me the rest of our story.
We met again the afternoon of that same day.
By chance, of course.
I couldn't say.
And where was it this time?
Where?
It doesn't matter.
You were with a group of friends, chance acquaintances.
People I hardly knew,
and perhaps you knew them no better.
They were discussing some affair of the moment
about which I knew nothing.
You knew more about it than I did, most likely.
I was watching you.
You joined in the conversation with a zeal I found forced.
It struck me that none of these people knew who you were,
that I alone knew.
And you didn't know either.
But you avoided my gaze.
You clearly did it on purpose...
intentionally.
I waited. I had time.
I've always believed I had time.
Your eyes darted from face to face,
passing over me as if I didn't exist.
To make you look at me, I said something,
suddenly joining the conversation
with an absurd remark
designed to draw attention to the speaker.
I forget what I said.
It was you who answered me, in the sudden silence,
with a sarcastic remark about the unlikelihood of what I'd said.
The others remained silent.
Again I had the feeling no one had understood your words.
Even that I was the only one to have heard them.
To break the silence,
someone mentioned the entertainment planned for that evening,
or the next day, or in the days to come.
I don't remember what was said next.
You disliked walking in the garden
because of the gravel, uncomfortable in your street shoes.
One day - but it was probably much later -
you broke one of your high heels.
You had to take my arm to keep your balance
as you removed your shoe.
The heel was almost torn off,
dangling by a thin strip of leather.
You stood there gazing at it a moment,
the tip of your bare foot touching the ground,
a bit ahead of the other foot, in a dance-school pose.
I offered to go get you another pair.
You refused.
So I said I could also carry you back in my arms.
You just laughed but said nothing,
as if it was -
You must have walked back, shoes in hand,
over the grave! to the hotel.
I met you again.
You never seemed to be waiting for me...
but we kept meeting at every turn in the path...
behind every shrub,
at the foot of every statue...
at the edge of every fountain.
It was as if, in that entire garden,
there were only you and me.
We spoke of this and that:
the names of the statues,
the shape of the shrubs,
the water in the fountains.
Or else we said nothing at all.
At night, especially,
you liked to remain silent.
One evening I went up to your room.
There were always walls,
walls all around me.
Smooth, even, glazed, without the slightest relief.
There were always walls,
and silence, as well.
I've never heard anyone raise his voice in this hotel.
No one.
Conversations took place in a void
as if words meant nothing,
or weren't meant to, in any case.
A sentence, once begun, hung suspended in the air,
as if frozen by the frost,
and picked up, probably,
where it left off, or elsewhere.
It made no difference.
l! was always the same conversations,
the same absent voices.
The servants were mute.
The games were silent, of course.
It was a place for relaxation.
No business was carried out,
no plots were hatched.
No one ever discussed any topic that might cause excitement.
There were signs everywhere:
“Silence...”
- I think I remember too. - Still, it seems incredible.
You saw it yourself?
- I heard about it. - Ah, so you only heard about it.
It's easy to check.
Go through the weather reports in the newspapers.
Let's go look in the library.
Do you know what I just heard?
Last year, at this time,
it was so cold
that the fountains froze over.
But there must be some mistake.
What do you want from me? You know it's impossible.
One evening
I went up to your room.
You were alone.
Leave me alone, please.
Leave me alone.
It was almost summer.
Yes, you're right.
Ice...
would be out of the question.
It's time for the concert.
May I accompany you?
Going to the concert?
I'll join you for dinner.
This story is now over. It is coming to an end.
A few seconds more and it will solidify
forever in a past of marble.
Like these statues, this garden carved out of stone,
this very hotel with its now-deserted rooms.
Leave me alone...
please.
You never seemed to be waiting for me...
but we kept meeting at every turn in the path...
behind every shrub...
at the foot of every statue...
at the edge of every fountain.
It was as if in that entire garden
there were only you and me.
We spoke of this and that:
the names of the statues,
the shape of the shrubs,
the water in the fountains,
the color of the sky.
Or else we said nothing at all.
But you always kept a certain distance,
as if on some threshold,
the entryway to someplace too dark
or unfamiliar.
Come here.
Come closer.
Leave me alone, please.
Always walls, corridors, doors...
and beyond, still more walls.
Before coming to you, before meeting you -
you have no idea what I had to go through.
And now you are here where I brought you.
You still shy away, but you're here in this garden,
within arm's reach, within earshot,
within my sight, within arm's reach.
Who are you?
You know.
What's your name?
It doesn't matter.
You're like a shadow,
and you're waiting for me to approach.
Leave me alone.
It's already too late.
You asked me not to see you again.
We did see each other again, of course -
the next day,
or the day after, or the day after that.
Perhaps it was by chance.
I told you that you had to go away with me.
You said it was impossible, of course.
But you knew it was possible,
and that now there's nothing else for you to do.
Yes... perhaps.
Oh, no. I don't know anymore.
But why me? Why must it be me?
You were waiting for me.
No, I wasn't waiting for you, or anyone.
You weren't waiting for anything.
It was as if you were dead.
That's not true. You're still alive.
You're here. I can see you.
Do you remember?
That's not true...
probably.
You've already forgotten it all.
It's not true.
It's not true. You're about to leave.
Your door is still open.
Why? What do you expect from me?
What other life can you offer me?
This isn't about another life.
This is about your life.
Try to remember.
It was evening. The last evening, probably.
It was almost dark.
A faint shadow moved slowly through the dusk.
Even before I could make out your features,
I knew it was you.
When you recognized me, you stopped.
We stood there, a few yards apart,
without speaking.
You stood in front of me,
waiting perhaps,
as if unable to take another step forward or turn back.
You were there, standing straight
and still,
your arms at your side.
And you looked at me.
Your eyes are wide open, much too wide.
Your lips are slightly parted, as if you were about to speak,
OT moan, OT scream.
You are afraid.
Your mouth opens a bit more,
your eyes open wider still.
Your hand is extended in an incomplete gesture
of expectation, uncertainty.
Or perhaps of appeal,
or defense.
Your fingers tremble slightly.
You're afraid.
Who was that?
Your husband?
Perhaps.
He was looking for you,
or else he just happened by.
He was already approaching you.
But you remained frozen,
withdrawn, absent.
He didn't appear to recognize you at first.
He took a step forward.
Something about you confused him.
Another step.
You looked right through him.
He thought it best to turn back.
And now
you keep staring into space.
You keep seeing him...
his gray eyes,
his gray silhouette,
and his smile.
And you're afraid.
You fear he might come back, or that he's already there,
when I again enter your room.
His room was adjacent to yours, separated b y a sitting room.
But at that hour, he's in the game room anyway.
I had told you I'd be coming.
You'd made no reply.
I found all the doors ajar.
The hallway door,
the sitting room door, your bedroom door.
I only had to push them open, one by one,
then close them behind me, one by one.
You know the rest.
No, I don't know the rest. I don't know you.
I don't know that room, that silly bed, that fireplace with the mirror.
What mirror? What fireplace? What did you say?
Yes... I don't know anymore.
It's not true. I don't know.
If it's not true, why would you be here?
What was the mirror like?
There's no mirror over the fireplace.
It's a painting.
A landscape, I think. A snowy landscape.
The mirror is over the chest.
There's also a dressing table with a mirror.
And other furniture...
of course.
What kind of bed?
A double bed, probably.
What was the view from the windows?
I don't know. The windows...
What room? I've never been in any bedroom with you.
You don't want to remember...
because you're afraid.
And you don't recognize this photo either?
Yes, I do.
No, I don't. I don't know. I don't remember.
You know who took it.
You're lying.
It was last year. I had to insist on taking it.
You said it would make you uneasy.
Yes, that's true. I was right.
Well, I remember that room where you waited for me.
True, there was a mirror over the chest.
It was in that mirror that I first saw you,
when I silently pushed the door open.
You sat on the edge of the bed,
in a kind of dressing gown, or negligee, in white.
I remember you dressed all in white.
You wore white slippers and this ring.
No, I'm sure you're making it up.
I've never had a white dressing gown.
You see, it's someone else.
If you say so.
But I remember the room,
and the white feathers in which you lay across the bed.
Be quiet, please.
You're completely mad.
“No, no, please.”
I hear your voice as it was then.
You were afraid.
You were afraid... even then.
You've always been afraid. But I loved your fear that evening.
I looked at you,
letting you struggle a bit.
I loved you.
There was something in your eyes.
You were alive.
anyway---
in the beginning...
Try to remember.
Oh, not at all.
It was probably not by force.
But only you know.
What is it?
It's nothing.
Are you tired?
A bit, yes. I think I am.
The sun all of a sudden.
We can go back in, if you wish.
If you wish.
That was the day I took your picture.
And you asked me to give you a year...
thinking perhaps to test me...
or wear me down...
or just forget all about me.
But time...
doesn't count.
I've come for you now.
It's impossible.
Naturally.
But you know it is possible,
that you're ready, that we're leaving.
What makes you so sure?
Leaving for where?
Anywhere. I don't know.
You see.
It's best that we part for good.
Last year -
No, it's impossible.
You will leave alone...
and then we'll be forever...
It's not true!
It's not true that we need absence,
loneliness, endless waiting.
It's not true!
But you're afraid.
But it's too late now.
He had just left your room.
I don't know what violent scene must have taken place
a moment before.
The window of your room looks out on the gardens,
but you didn't see him go out,
which might have reassured you.
Then you turned back to the bed.
At first unsure, not knowing where to go,
you turned back to the bed and sat down.
Then you let your body fallback and you -
You turned back to the bed.
After lying there a few seconds,
maybe a few minutes, unsure,
not knowing what to do,
staring straight ahead into space.
And you turned back to the bed.
Listen to me.
Try to remember.
Listen to me, please.
Yes, there was -
Yes, ifs true. There was a large mirror by the door.
A huge mirror you didn't dare go near,
as if it scared you.
But you insist on pretending not to believe me.
Where are you? Where have you gone?
Why keep trying to run away? It's too late.
It was too late even then. There was no more -
The door was closed now.
No, the door was closed.
Listen to me.
What more proof do you need?
I'd kept a photo of you,
taken one afternoon in the gardens, a few days before you left.
But when I gave it to you, you again said that it proved nothing.
Anyone could have taken the snapshot,
anytime, anywhere.
A garden. Any garden.
I would have had to show you the white feathers,
the sea of white feathers where your body -
But all bodies look alike,
as do all feather negligees, all hotels, all statues, all gardens.
But this garden, for me, was like no other.
Every day
I'd meet you there.
It's afternoon.
The next day, probably.
I'd just told you we were leaving -
no, you weren't laughing -
that we were leaving the next morning for good,
while he -
No, that's not it.
Yes, we were in your room.
We'd decided the day before that we would leave.
You had agreed - reluctantly, perhaps.
I was in your room.
The first thing you see from the door is the bed.
But you can't see the dressing table.
You were probably on the other side, near the window,
perhaps watching the garden.
I don't remember exactly.
I'd met him going down the stairs.
He'd just left your room.
Or was that another day?
That night everything was empty.
Stairs. ..
Corridors. ..
Stairs.
I don't remember anymore.
I don't remember myself.
I don't remember anymore.
I knocked. Didn't you hear?
I did. I told you to come in.
I see.
You must not have said it very loud.
What's this photo?
As you can see, it's an old photo of me.
When was it taken?
I don't know. Last year.
Who took it?
I don't know. Frank, perhaps.
Frank wasn't here last year.
It may not have been here.
It may have been at Frederiksbad.
Or someone else took it.
Yes, most likely.
What did you do this afternoon?
Nothing. I read.
I looked for you. Were you in the gardens?
No, in the green salon, near the music room.
I see.
But I looked in there.
Did you have something to tell me?
You look anxious.
I'm a bit tired.
Get some rest.
Remember: That's why we're here.
Are you going out?
I may go down to the shooting gallery.
This late?
Why not?
Anderson arrives tomorrow.
We'll lunch with him at 12:00,
if you have no other plans.
No, of course not. What plans?
See you tonight, then.
Once the door shut,
you listened for footsteps in the adjoining sitting room,
but you heard nothing.
Nor did you hear any doors open or close.
The easiest way to the shooting gallery is through the terrace
along the rear of the hotel.
But without opening the window,
you can't see that space at the foot of the wall.
You hoped to hear his footsteps on the gravel,
but you can't hear that high up with the window closed.
There's probably no gravel there anyway.
An arm half-bent toward your hair.
A hand cast down, the other on your chin,
index finger over your mouth...
as if to stifle a cry.
And now here you are again.
No, that isn't the right ending.
I must have you alive.
Alive as you have been, every evening,
for weeks, for months.
I've never stayed anywhere that long.
Yes, I know.
I don't care.
For days and days.
Why do you still refuse
to remember anything?
You're raving.
I'm tired.
Leave me alone.
- It's a stupid game. - There's a trick.
Just take an odd number.
There must be rules.
Whoever goes first loses.
I remember Frank played last year. I'm sure of it.
You have to take the complement of seven each time.
From which row?
If you'd care to begin.
With pleasure.
Which one shall I take?
This one.
Fine.
Oh, well...
I lose.
Whoever goes first wins.
You have to take an even number.
The lowest whole odd number.
It's a logarithmic series.
You have to pick a different row each time.
- Divided by three. - Seven times seven, 49.
It's not true.
It wasn't by force.
Try to remember.
For days and days,
every night.
All bedrooms are alike.
But that bedroom, for me, was like no other.
There were no more doors,
no more corridors, no more hotel,
no more garden.
There wasn't even a garden anymore.
It was the middle of the night. The hotel slept.
We met in the garden,
as we used to.
You recognized me and stopped.
We stood like that, a few yards apart, without speaking.
You stood there in front of me, waiting,
unable to take a step forward or turn back.
You were there, standing straight and still,
arms by your side,
wrapped in a kind of long, dark cape.
Black, perhaps.
Listen to me, for pity's sake.
We can't turn back now.
All I ask is to wait a little longer.
Next year, here,
same day, same time,
and I'll follow you anywhere.
Why wait any longer?
I beg of you. We must.
A year isn't long.
For me, it's nothing.
- Listen to me. - So you need more time?
How long? How long?
I'm telling you why.
- I've waited too long as it is. - Lower your voice, please.
Whose feelings are you sparing? What are you hoping for?
Do you think this is so easy?
I don't know.
And perhaps, as well...
I don't have the courage.
I can't put it off again.
A few hours is all I ask.
A few months,
a few hours,
a few minutes,
a few seconds more.
As if you still hesitated
to part with him,
to part with yourself...
as if his figure -
Someone's coming.
Be quiet, for pity's sake.
Go away if you love me.
A feeling of faintness, probably.
A dizzy spell.
Yes, it's nothing.
You're better already.
Yes. I'll go upstairs.
Shall I take you up?
I'd rather be alone.
I'm going.
And once again
I walked down these same corridors,
walking for days, for months,
for years, in search of you.
There can be no stopping between these walls,
no respite.
I'll leave tonight, taking you with me.
It would be a year ago that this story began
with me waiting for you, and you waiting for me too.
A year.
You couldn't have gone on
living amid this trompe-l'œil architecture,
amid these mirrors and columns,
amid these doors always ajar,
these oversized staircases,
in this always-open bedroom.
Where are you, my lost love?
Here.
I'm here.
I'm with you in this room.
No, you're not.
That's already no longer true.
Help me.
I beg of you, help me.
Take my hand.
Yes, you were feeling better.
Hold my hands tight.
Yes, you'll get some sleep now.
Yes, you'll be back on your feet for that Ackerson...
Where are you?
Or Patterson...
whom you're to lunch with.
Don't let me go.
You know it's too late.
Tomorrow I'll be alone.
I'll find your room empty.
I'm cold.
You need nothing.
Not yet.
You don't know what came over you downstairs just now.
You don't remember quite what happened.
You hope you didn't cause a scandal, screaming like that.
When this man who may be your husband had gone,
whom you may love,
whom you will leave tonight forever, without his knowing it yet,
you packed some personal affairs
and prepared a quick change of clothes.
We agreed to leave during the night,
but you wanted to give one last chance
to the man who still seemed to have a hold on you.
I don't know.
I agreed to it.
He should have come.
He could have taken you back.
The hotel was deserted, as if abandoned.
Everyone was at the play,
announced so long ago,
from which your fainting had excused you.
I think it was -
I forget the title.
It was due to finish late.
After leaving you lying on the bed in your room,
he went down to the little theater
and joined a group of friends.
He'd have to come up before the final curtain
if he really wanted you to stay.
You were dressed, ready to go,
and you sat down to wait for him alone
in a sort of hall or salon
that one had to cross to reach your rooms.
Out of some superstition, you'd asked me to give you until midnight.
I don't know if you were hoping he'd come or not.
For a moment, I even thought you'd told him everything
and arranged for him to meet you.
Or perhaps you were thinking
I wouldn't come.
I came at the appointed time.
The hotel grounds
were laid out like a kind of French garden,
devoid of trees, flowers,
or any kind of vegetation.
Gravel, stone, marble,
and straight lines
marked out rigid spaces,
areas devoid of mystery.
At first glance, it seemed impossible to lose your way.
At first glance.
Down straight paths,
between statues with frozen gestures and granite slabs,
where even now
you were losing your way
forever,
in the stillness of the night,
alone with me.