Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VII. Beatrice
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What unhappy instinct leads the cabman to
drive me through this via dolorosa full of
buried memories, which at this late hour of the
night rise again like ghosts? Why does he
choose just the street in which is the restaurant,
the “Black Pig,” well known as a favourite
resort of Heine and E. T. A. Hoffmann? The
restaurant keeper himself stands on the steps
under the grotesque sign-board. He looks at me
without recognition. For a second the candelabrum
within darts coloured rays through the
numerous bottles in the window, and makes
me live again a year of my life which abounded
in grief and joy, friendship and love. At the
same time, I feel keenly that it is all over, and
must be buried to make place for something new.
I spent the night in Berlin. The next morning
a deep rose-red flush in the East greeted me
over the roofs. I remember having seen this
rosy colour in Malmo on the evening of my
departure. I leave Berlin, my second home, where
I have spent my “second spring,” that is, my last.
At the Anhalt Station, full of these memories, I
give up all hope of the renewal of a spring and
a love which can never return.
After a night in Tabor, whither the rosy glow
followed me, I travel through the Bohemian
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