



Produced by David Widger





THE DEAD ARE SILENT

By Arthur Schnitzler

Copyright, 1907, by Courtland H. Young


HE could endure the quiet waiting in the carriage no longer; it was
easier to get out and walk up and down. It was now dark; the few
scattered lamps in the narrow side street quivered uneasily in the wind.
The rain had stopped, the sidewalks were almost dry, but the rough-paved
roadway was still moist, and little pools gleamed here and there.

"Strange, isn't it?" thought Franz. "Here we are scarcely a hundred
paces from the Prater, and yet it might be a street in some little
country town. Well, it's safe enough, at any rate. She won't meet any of
the friends she dreads so much here."

He looked at his watch. "Only just seven, and so dark already! It is an
early autumn this year... and then this confounded storm I..." He turned
his coat-collar up about his neck and quickened his pacing. The glass in
the street lamps rattled lightly.

"Half an hour more," he said to himself, "then I can go home. I could
almost wish--that that half-hour were over." He stood for a moment
on the corner, where he could command a view of both streets. "She'll
surely come to-day," his thoughts ran on, while he struggled with his
hat, which threatened to blow away. "It's Friday.... Faculty meeting
at the University; she needn't hurry home." He heard the clanging of
street-car gongs, and the hour chimed from a nearby church tower. The
street became more animated. Hurrying figures passed him, clerks of
neighboring shops; they hastened onward, fighting against the storm.
No one noticed him; a couple of half-grown girls glanced up in idle
curiosity as they went by. Suddenly he saw a familiar figure coming
toward him. He hastened to meet her.... Could it be she? On foot?

She saw him, and quickened her pace.

"You are walking?" he asked.

"I dismissed the cab in front of the theatre. I think I've had that
driver before."

A man passed them, turning to look at the lady. Her companion glared at
him, and the other passed on hurriedly. The lady looked after him. "Who
was it?" she asked, anxiously.

"Don't know him. We'll see no one we know here, don't worry. But come
now, let's get into the cab."

"Is that your carriage?"

"Yes."

"An open one?"

"It was warm and pleasant when I engaged it an hour ago."

They walked to the carriage; the lady stepped in.

"Driver!" called the man.

"Why, where is he?" asked the lady.

Franz looked around. "Well, did you ever? I don't see him anywhere."

"Oh--" her tone was low and timid.

"Wait a moment, child, he must be around here somewhere."

The young man opened the door of a little saloon, and discovered his
driver at a table with several others. The man rose hastily. "In a
minute, sir," he explained, swallowing his glass of wine.

"What do you mean by this?"

"All right, sir... Be there in a minute." His step was a little unsteady
as he hastened to his horses. "Where'll you go, sir?"

"Prater--Summer-house."

Franz entered the carriage. His companion sat back in a corner,
crouching fearsomely under the shadow of the cover.

He took both her hands in his. She sat silent. "Won't you say good
evening to me?"

"Give me a moment to rest, dear. I'm still out of breath."

He leaned back in his corner. Neither spoke for some minutes. The
carriage turned into the Prater Street, passed the Tegethoff Monument,
and a few minutes later was rolling swiftly through the broad, dark
Prater Avenue.

Emma turned suddenly and flung both arms around her lover's neck. He
lifted the veil that still hung about her face, and kissed her.

"I have you again--at last!" she exclaimed.

"Do you know how long it is since we have seen each other?" he asked.

"Since Sunday."

"Yes, and that wasn't good for much."

"Why not? You were in our house."

"Yes--in your house. That's just it. This can't go on. I shall not enter
your house again.... What's the matter?"

"A carriage passed us."

"Dear girl, the people who are driving in the Prater at such an hour,
and in such weather, aren't noticing much what other people are doing."

"Yes--that's so. But some one might look in here, by chance."

"We couldn't be recognized. It's too dark."

"Yes--but can't we drive somewhere else?"

"Just as you like." He called to the driver, who did not seem to hear.
Franz leaned forward and touched the man.

"Turn around again. What are you whipping your horses like that for?
We're in no hurry, I tell you. Drive--let me see--yes--drive down the
avenue that leads to the Reichs Bridge."

"The Reichsstrasse?"

"Yes. But don't hurry so, there's no need of it."

"All right, sir. But it's the wind that makes the horses so crazy."

Franz sat back again as the carriage turned in the other direction.

"Why didn't I see you yesterday?"

"How could I?"...

"You were invited to my sister's."

"Oh--yes."

"Why weren't you there?"

"Because I can't be with you--like that--with others around. No, I just
can't." She shivered. "Where are we now?" she asked, after a moment.

They were passing under the railroad bridge at the entrance to the
Reichsstrasse.

"On the way to the Danube," replied Franz. "We're driving toward the
Reichs Bridge. We'll certainly not meet any of our friends here," he
added, with a touch of mockery.

"The carriage jolts dreadfully."

"We're on cobblestones again."

"But he drives so crooked."

"Oh, you only think so."

He had begun to notice himself that the vehicle was swaying to and
fro more than was necessary, even on the rough pavement. But he said
nothing, not wishing to alarm her.

"There's a great deal I want to say to you today, Emma."

"You had better begin then; I must be home at nine o'clock."

"A few words may decide everything."

"Oh, goodness, what was that!" she screamed. The wheels had caught in a
car-track, and the carriage turned partly over as the driver attempted
to free it. Franz caught at the man's coat. "Stop that!" he cried. "Why,
you're drunk, man!"

The driver halted his horses with some difficulty. "Oh, no--sir--"

"Let's get out here, Emma, and walk."

"Where are we?"

"Here's the bridge already. And the wind is not nearly as strong as
it was. It will be nicer to walk a little. It's so hard to talk in the
carriage."

Emma drew down her veil and followed him. "Don't you call this windy?"
she exclaimed as she struggled against the gust that met her at the
corner.

He took her arm, and called to the driver to follow them.

They walked on slowly. Neither spoke as they mounted the ascent of the
bridge; and they halted where they could hear the flow of the water
below them. Heavy darkness surrounded them. The broad stream stretched
itself out in gray, indefinite outlines; red lights in the distance,
floating above the water, awoke answering gleams from its surface.
Trembling stripes of light reached down from the shore they had just
left; on the other side of the bridge the river lost itself in the
blackness of open fields. Thunder rumbled in the distance; they looked
over to where the red lights soared. A train with lighted windows rolled
between iron arches that seemed to spring up out of the night for an
instant, to sink back into darkness again. The thunder grew fainter and
more distant; silence fell again; only the wind moved, in sudden gusts.

Franz spoke at last, after a long silence. "We must go away."

"Of course," Emma answered, softly.

"We must go away," he continued, with more animation. "Go away
altogether, I mean--"

"Oh, we can't!"

"Only because we are cowards, Emma."

"And my child?"

"He will let you have the boy, I know."

"But how shall we go?" Her voice was very low. "You mean--to run away--"

"Not at all. You have only to be honest with him; to tell him that you
cannot live with him any longer; that you belong to me."

"Franz--are you mad?"

"I will spare you that trial, if you wish. I will tell him myself."

"No, Franz, you will do nothing of the kind."

He endeavored to read her face. But the darkness showed him only that
her head was turned toward him.

He was silent a few moments more. Then he spoke quietly: "You need not
fear; I shall not do it."

They walked toward the farther shore. "Don't you hear a noise?" she
asked. "What is it?"

"Something is coming from the other side," he said.

A slow rumbling came out of the darkness. A little red light gleamed out
at them. They could see that it hung from the axle of a clumsy country
cart, but they could not see whether the cart was laden or not and
whether there were human beings on it. Two other carts followed the
first. They could just see the outlines of a man in peasant garb on the
last cart, and could see that he was lighting his pipe. The carts passed
them slowly. Soon there was nothing to be heard but the low rolling
of the wheels as their own carriage followed them. The bridge dropped
gently to the farther shore. They saw the street disappear into
blackness between rows of trees. Open fields lay before them to the
right and to the left; they gazed out into gloom indistinguishable.

There was another long silence before Franz spoke again. "Then it is the
last time--"

"What?--" Emma's tone was anxious.

"The last time we are to be together. Stay with him, if you will. I bid
you farewell."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely."

"There, now you see, it is you who always spoil the few hours we have
together?--not I."

"Yes, you're right," said Franz. "Let's drive back to town."

She held his arm closer. "No," she insisted, tenderly, "I don't want to
go back. I won't be sent away from you."

She drew his head down to hers, and kissed him tenderly. "Where would we
get to if we drove on down there?" she asked.

"That's the road to Prague, dear."

"We won't go quite that far," she smiled, "but I'd like to drive on a
little, down there." She pointed into the darkness.

Franz called to the driver. There was no answer; the carriage rumbled
on, slowly. Franz ran after it, and saw that the driver was fast asleep.
Franz roused him roughly. "We want to drive on down that street. Do you
hear me?"

"All right, sir."

Emma entered the carriage first, then Franz. The driver whipped his
horses, and they galloped madly over the moist earth of the road-bed.
The couple inside the cab held each other closely as they swayed with
the motion of the vehicle.

"Isn't this quite nice?" whispered Emma, her lips on his.

In the moment of her words she seemed to feel the cab mounting into the
air. She felt herself thrown over violently, readied for some hold, but
grasped only the empty air. She seemed to be spinning madly like a top,
her eyes closed, suddenly she found herself lying on the ground, a great
silence about her, as if she were alone, far away from all the world.
Then noises began to come into her consciousness again; hoofs beat the
ground near her; a low moaning came from somewhere; but she could
see nothing. Terror seized her; she screamed aloud. Her terror grew
stronger, for she could not hear her own voice. Suddenly she knew what
had happened; the carriage had hit some object, possibly a mile-stone;
had upset, and she had been thrown out. Where is Franz? was her next
thought. She called his name. And now she could hear her voice, not
distinctly yet, but she could hear it. There was no answer to her call.
She tried to get up. After some effort she rose to a sitting, posture,
and, reaching out, she felt something, a human body, on the ground
beside her. She could now begin to see a little through the dimness.
Franz lay beside her, motionless. She put out her hand and touched
his face; something warm and wet covered it. Her heart seemed to
stop beating--Blood?--Oh, what had happened? Franz was wounded and
unconscious. Where was the coachman? She called him, but no answer
came. She still sat there on the ground. She did not seem to be injured,
although she ached all over. "What shall I do?" she thought; "what shall
I do? How can it be that I am not injured? Franz!" she called again. A
voice answered from somewhere near her.

"Where are you, lady? And where is the gentleman? Wait a minute,
Miss--I'll light the lamps, so we can see. I don't know what's got into
the beasts to-day. It ain't my fault, Miss, sure--they ran into a pile
of stones."

Emma managed to stand up, although she was bruised all over. The fact
that the coachman seemed quite uninjured reassured her somewhat.
She heard the man opening the lamp and striking a match. She waited
anxiously for the light. She did not dare to touch Franz again. "It's
all so much worse when you can't see plainly," she thought. "His eyes
may be open now--there won't be anything wrong...."

A tiny ray of light came from one side. She saw the carriage, not
completely upset, as she had thought, but leaning over toward the
ground, as if one wheel were broken. The horses stood quietly. She saw
the milestone, then a heap of loose stones, and beyond them a ditch.
Then the light touched Franz's feet, crept up over his body to his face,
and rested there. The coachman had set the lamp on the ground beside the
head of the unconscious man. Emma dropped to her knees, and her heart
seemed to stop beating as she looked into the face before her. It was
ghastly white; the eyes were half open, only the white showing. A thin
stream of blood trickled down from one temple and ran into his collar.
The teeth were fastened into the under lip. "No--no--it isn't possible,"
Emma spoke, as if to herself.

The driver knelt also and examined the face of the man. Then he took
the head in both his hands and raised it. "What are you doing?" screamed
Emma, hoarsely, shrinking back at the sight of the head that seemed to
be rising of its own volition.

"Please, Miss--I'm afraid--I'm thinking--there's a great misfortune
happened--"

"No--no--it's not true!" said Emma. "It can't be true!--You are not
hurt? Nor am I--"

The man let the head he held fall back again into the lap of the
trembling Emma. "If only some one would come--if the peasants had only
passed fifteen minutes later."

"What shall we do?" asked Emma, her lips trembling.

"Why, you see, Miss, if the carriage was all right--but it's no good as
it is--we've got to wait till some one comes--" he talked on, but Emma
did not hear him. Her brain seemed to awake suddenly, and she knew what
was to be done. "How far is it to the nearest house?" she asked.

"Not much further, Miss--there's Franz-Josef's land right there. We'd see
the houses if it was lighter--it won't take five minutes to get there."

"Go there, then; I'll stay here--Go and fetch some one."

"I think I'd better stay here with you, Miss. Somebody must come; it's
the main road."

"It'll be too late; we need a doctor at once."

The coachman looked down at the quiet face, then he looked at Emma, and
shook his head.

"You can't tell," she cried.

"Yes, Miss--but there'll be no doctor in those houses."

"But there'll be somebody to send to the city--"

"Oh, yes, Miss--they'll be having a telephone there, anyway! We'll
telephone to the Rescue Society."

"Yes, yes, that's it. Go at once, run--and bring some men back with you.
Why do you wait? Go at once. Hurry!"

The man looked down again at the white face in her lap. "There'll be no
use here for doctor or Rescue Society, Miss."

"Oh, go!--for God's sake go!"

"I'm going, Miss--but don't get afraid in the darkness here."

He hurried down the street. "'Twasn't my fault," he murmured as he ran.
"Such an idea! to drive down this road this time o' night."

Emma was left alone with the unconscious man in the gloomy street.

"What shall I do now?" she thought "It can't be possible--it can't." The
thought circled dizzily in her brain--"It can't be possible." Suddenly
she seemed to hear a low breathing. She bent to the pale lips--no--not
the faintest breath came from them. The blood had dried on temple and
cheek. She gazed at the eyes, the half-closed eyes, and shuddered. Why
couldn't she believe it?... It must be true--this was Death! A shiver
ran through her--she felt but one thing--"This is a corpse. I am here
alone with a corpse!--a corpse that rests on my lap!" With trembling
hands she pushed the head away, until it rested on the ground. Then
a feeling of horrible alone-ness came over her. Why had she sent the
coachman away? What should she do here all alone with this dead man in
the darkness? If only some one would come--but what was she to do then
if anybody did come? How long would she have to wait here? She looked
down at the corpse again. "But I'm not alone with him," she thought,
"the light is there." And the light seemed to her to become alive,
something sweet and friendly, to which she owed gratitude. There was
more life in this little flame than in all the wide night about her. It
seemed almost as if this light was a protection for her, a protection
against the terrible pale man who lay on the ground beside her. She
stared into the light until her eyes wavered and the flame began to
dance. Suddenly she felt herself awake--wide awake. She sprang to her
feet. Oh, this would not do! It would not do at all--no one must find
her here with him. She seemed to be outside of herself, looking at
herself standing there on the road, the corpse and the light below her;
she saw herself grow into strange, enormous proportions, high up into
the darkness. "What am I waiting for?" she asked herself, and her brain
reeled. "What am I waiting for? The people who might come? They don't
need me. They will come, and they will ask questions--and I--why am I
here? They will ask who I am--what shall I answer? I will not answer
them--I will not say a word--they cannot compel me to talk."

The sound of voices came from the distance.

"Already?" she thought, listening in terror. The voices came from the
bridge. It could not be the men the driver was bringing with him. But
whoever it was would see the light--and they must not see it, for then
she would be discovered. She overturned the lantern with her foot,
and the light went out. She stood in utter darkness. She could see
nothing--not even him. The pile of % stones shone dimly. The voices came
nearer. She trembled from head to foot; they must not find her here.
That was the only thing of real importance in all the wide world--that
no one should find her here. She would be lost if they knew that
this--this corpse--was her lover. She clasps her hands convulsively,
praying that the people, whoever they were, might pass by on the farther
side of the road, and not see her. She listens breathless. Yes, they are
there, on the other side--women, two women, or perhaps three. What are
they talking about? They have seen the carriage, they speak of it--she
can distinguish words. "A carriage upset--" What else do they
say? She cannot understand--they walk on--they have passed
her--Ah--thanks--thanks to Heaven!--And now? What now? Oh, why isn't
she dead, as he is? He is to be envied; there is no more danger, no more
fear for him. But so much--so much for her to