‘There,’ whispered the nurse. ‘I shall leave the door open an inch and you may sit here, on this couch, for a minute.’
She lit a small blue-shaded lamp and left me alone. I had a stupid impulse to draw my cigarette case out of my pocket. My hands still shook, but I felt happy. He was alive. He was peacefully asleep. So it was his heart – was it? – that had let him down…. The same as his mother. He was better, there was hope. I would get all the heart specialists in the world to have him saved. His presence in the next room, the faint sound of breathing, gave me a sense of security, of peace, of wonderful relaxation. And as I sat there and listened, and clasped my hands, I thought of all the years that had passed, of our short, rare meetings and I knew that now, as soon as he could listen to me, I should tell him that whether he liked it or not I would never be far from him any more. The strange dream I had had, the belief in some momentous truth he would impart to me before dying – now seemed vague, abstract, as if it had been drowned in some warm flow of simpler, more human emotion, in the wave of love I felt for the man who was sleeping beyond that half-opened door. How had we managed to drift apart? Why had I always been so silly and sullen, and shy during our short interviews in Paris? I would go away presently and spend the night in the hotel, or perhaps they could give me a room at the hospital – just until I could see him? For a moment it seemed to me that the faint rhythm of the sleeper’s breath had been suspended, that he had awaked and made a light clamping sound, before sinking again into sleep: now the rhythm continued, so low that I could hardly distinguish it from my own breath, as I sat and listened. Oh, I would tell him thousands of things – I would talk to him about The Prismatic Bezel and Success, and The Funny Mountain, and Albinos in Black, and The Back of the Moon, and Lost Property, and The Doubtful Asphodel – all these books that I knew as well as if I had written them myself. And he would talk, too. How little I knew of his life I But now I was learning something every instant. That door standing slightly ajar was the best link imaginable. That gentle breathing was telling me more of Sebastian than I had ever known before. If I could have smoked, my happiness would have been perfect. A spring clanked in the couch as I shifted my position slightly, and I was afraid that it might have disturbed his sleep. But no: the soft sound was there, following a thin trail which seemed to skirt time itself, now dipping into a hollow, now appearing again – steadily travelling across a landscape formed of the symbols of silence – darkness, and curtains, and a glow of blue light at my elbow.
Presently I got up and tiptoed out into the corridor.
‘I hope,’ the nurse said, ‘you did not disturb him? It is good that he sleeps.’
‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘when does Doctor Starov come?’
‘Doctor who?’ she said. ‘Oh, the Russian doctor. Non, c’est le docteur Guinet qui le soigne. You’ll find him here tomorrow morning.’
‘You see,’ I said, ‘I’d like to spend the night somewhere here. Do you think that perhaps….’
‘You could see Doctor Guinet even now,’ continued the nurse in her quiet pleasant voice. ‘He lives next door. So you are the brother, are you? And tomorrow his mother is coming from England, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘his mother died years ago. And tell me, how is he during the day, does he talk? does he suffer?’
She frowned and looked at me queerly.
‘But…’ she said. ‘I don’t understand…. What is your name, please?’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I haven’t explained. We are half-brothers, really. My name is [I mentioned my name].’
‘Oh-la-la!’ she exclaimed getting very red in the face, ‘Mon Dieu! The Russian gentleman died yesterday, and you’ve been visiting Monsieur Kegan….
So I did not see Sebastian after all, or at least I did not see him alive. But those few minutes I spent listening to what I thought was his breathing changed my life as completely as it would have been changed, had Sebastian spoken to me before dying. Whatever his secret was, I have learnt one secret too, and namely: that the soul is but a manner of being – not a constant state – that any soul may be yours, if you find and follow its undulations. The hereafter may be the full ability of consciously living in any chosen soul, in any number of souls, all of them unconscious of their interchangeable burden. Thus – I am Sebastian Knight. I feel as if I were impersonating him on a lighted stage, with the people he knew coming and going – the dim figures of the few friends he had, the scholar, and the poet, and the painter – smoothly and noiselessly paying their graceful tribute; and here is Goodman, the flat-footed buffoon, with his dicky hanging out of his waistcoat; and there – the pale radiance of Clare’s inclined head, as she is led away weeping by a friendly maiden. They moved round Sebastian – round me who am acting Sebastian – and the old conjuror waits in the wings with his hidden rabbit: and Nina sits on a table in the brightest corner of the stage, with a wineglass of fuchsined water, under a painted palm. And then the masquerade draws to a close. The bald little prompter shuts his book, as the light fades gently. The end, the end. They all go back to their everyday life (and Clare goes back to her grave) – but the hero remains, for, try as I may, I cannot get out of my part: Sebastian’s mask clings to my face, the likeness will not be washed off. I am Sebastian, or Sebastian is I, or perhaps we both are someone whom neither of us knows.
