by Stefan Zweig
But now the invitation was to be passed on to the daughter. Mrs. van Boolen had only to beckon: the liveried bellhop was there like a brown ramrod. He heard and obeyed the brief request for a telegraph form and sprinted finally with the completed sheet to the post office, his cap tight over his ears. A few minutes later the symbols sprang from the clattering telegraph up to the roof and into the vibrating strand of copper, and, more quickly than the rattling trains, inexpressibly more quickly than the automobiles with their trails of swirling dust, the message flashed through a thousand kilometers of wire. In no time it had crossed the border, had passed through Vorarlberg with its thousand peaks, through cute little Liechtenstein, the many valleyed Tyrol, and already the magically transformed communication was whizzing down from the glaciers into the middle of the valley of the Danube and into a transformer in Linz. There it paused a moment; then, quicker than quick, the message shot through the rooftop circuitry in Klein-Reifling and into the startled telegraph receiver, and from there straight into a heart that was stunned, confused, and brimming with feverish curiosity.
Around the corner, up a dark creaky staircase, and Christine is home in the small-windowed attic room she shares with her mother in a narrow farmhouse. A broad projecting gable, though it helps to keep the snow away during the winter, also deprives the upper story of any ray of sun; not until evening does a weak sunbeam sometimes creep as far as the geraniums on the sill. It’s always musty and damp in this gloomy garret, it smells of decayed roofing and mildewy varnish; ancient odors permeate the wood like fungus. In ordinary times the room would probably have been used only for storage, but the severe housing shortage of the postwar period has made people accept modest living conditions. It’s a good thing only two beds, a table, and an old chest have to squeeze in. The inherited leather armchair took up too much room, so it went to a junk dealer at a low price. Later this turned out to be a serious mistake, for now whenever old Frau Hoflehner’s bloated, dropsical feet fail her, the bed is the only place left for her to rest them.
Tired and worn out before her time, she blames her sick legs, thick and swollen lumps with ominous blue veins under flannel bandages, on two years spent working as a caretaker in a basement room, with nothing between her and the cold earth, in an infirmary to which she was assigned during the war (everyone had to make a living). Since then the heavy woman has moved with a labored wheezing; any exertion or excitement makes her clutch her heart. She knows she won’t last long. It’s a good thing that, amid all the confusion after the breakup of the monarchy, her brother-in-law the privy councillor had no trouble finding the Post Office job for Christine, miserably paid though it is and in such an out-of-the-way hole. But still: a little bit of security, a roof over your head, room to breathe, just barely; might as well get used to it—after all, the casket’s an even tighter fit.
It always smells of vinegar and damp in the cramped box, of sickness and confinement to bed. The door to the tiny adjoining kitchen doesn’t close properly, so the insipid fumes of reheated food creep in like a stewing fog. Coming in now, Christine automatically flings open the window. The sudden noise awakens the old woman on the bed, and she can’t help moaning, the way a broken-down trunk might creak when anyone even approaches it: her rheumatic body knows pain is coming and dreads it, the pain that any movement causes. So first the unavoidable moan; then she lurches to her feet. “What is it?” she asks. Even asleep, she knew it couldn’t be noon yet, couldn’t be lunchtime. Something must have happened. Her daughter hands her the telegram.
The weathered hand gropes among the drugstore articles on the night table and with effort (every movement hurts) finds the steel-rimmed glasses. But once she’s made out what’s on the sheet of paper, it’s as though an electric shock goes through her heavy body. She gasps, struggles for breath, sways, and finally collapses with all her weight onto Christine. She clings fiercely to her startled daughter, quakes, laughs, wheezes, tries to speak but can’t. Finally, hands pressed to her heart, she sinks exhaustedly into the chair. She takes a deep breath and pants for a moment. But then a confused torrent of broken, half-intelligible sentences bursts from her toothless, working mouth, interspersed with floods of wild triumphant laughter. Tears roll down her cheeks and into her sagging mouth as she stammers and waves her hands, hurling the jumble of excited words at her bewildered daughter. Thank God, it’s all turned out well, now she can die in peace, a useless, sick old woman like her. That’s the only reason she made the pilgrimage last month, in June, that’s all she asked for, the only thing, that her sister Klara would come back before she died and look after Christl, poor child. So now she’s happy. See, she didn’t just send a letter, no, she spent good money on a telegram, saying that Christl should come up to her hotel, and she sent a hundred dollars two weeks ago, yes, Klara always had a heart of gold, she was always good and kind. And Christine can use that hundred dollars for more than just travel, yes, she can dress up like a princess before she goes to visit her aunt at that posh resort. Oh, she’ll get an eyeful there, she’ll see how those high-class people live it up, the people with money. For the first time she’ll have it as good as the rest, thank heavens, and by the saints she’s earned it. Because what has she ever gotten out of her life—nothing, just the job and responsibility and slaving away on top of having to take care of a useless, sick, unhappy old woman who should have been dead and buried long ago and who if she had any sense would finally just give up once and for all. It was on her account and because of the damned war that Christl’s entire girlhood was ruined, it always tore her old mother’s heart out to see her missing the best years of her life. But now she can make her fortune. She should just make sure to be polite to her aunt and uncle, always polite, always humble, and not be frightened of her aunt Klara, she always did have a heart of gold, she’s good, and she’ll certainly help her get out of this stifling hole, this one-horse town, once she herself is dead and buried. No, Christine shouldn’t think twice if her aunt ends by offering to take her along, she should just get out of this rotten country, away from these no-goods, don’t worry about her. She can always find a spot in a nursing home and when you get down to it how much time does she have left … Ah, now she can die in peace, everything will be fine now.
The bloated old woman, swathed in mufflers and petticoats, keeps getting up to labor on her massive legs over the creaking floorboards. She dabs her eyes with the big red handkerchief, overcome by happiness; she waves her arms more and more wildly, pausing amid her excited rambling to sit down, moan, blow her nose, and catch her breath for a new flood of words. She keeps thinking of something else to say, keeps talking and talking and clamoring and rejoicing and moaning and weeping all at once over the wonderful surprise. Suddenly, in a moment of exhaustion, she notices that Christine, upon whom she’s bestowing all this joy, is standing there in a daze, pale and awkward, with wondering eyes and in some perplexity, not knowing what to say. Frau Hoflehner finds this exasperating. Once more she struggles out of the chair and goes to the bewildered young woman, cheerily takes hold of her, gives her a heavy, wet kiss, pulls her close, and shakes her as if to wake her up: “Well, say something! It’s for you, silly, what’s the matter with you? You stand there like a stone with nothing to say for yourself, and what an opportunity! So be happy! Why aren’t you happy?”
Regulations strictly prohibit postal workers from leaving the premises for any length of time while the post office is open to the public, and even the most urgent private matter is subject to the Treasury’s priorities: official before personal, the letter of the law before the spirit. Thus a few minutes later the Klein-Reifling postal official is back behind her wicket, ready for work again. No one missed her. The loose forms still slumber on the table where she left them, the telegraph which not so long ago set her heart beating is turned off and silent, glinting yellow in the gloomy room. Thank goodness no one came, no one needed anything. Now the postal official can with a clear conscience think over the confusing message that
sprang off the wires—with all the excitement she still doesn’t know if it’s welcome or disturbing. Gradually her thoughts come into focus. She’s being asked to go away, away from her mother for the first time ever, for two weeks, perhaps longer, to visit strangers, no, to visit her aunt Klara, her mother’s sister, at a fancy hotel. She’s going to take a vacation, an actual, honest vacation, after so many years she’s finally going to have a break, see the world, see something new, something different. She turns it over in her mind. Actually it is good news, Mother’s right, she’s right to be so happy about it. Christine has to admit it’s the best news she’s had in years and years. To be allowed to get out of harness for the first time, to be free, to see new faces, a bit of the world, it’s a gift from heaven, isn’t it? But she hears her mother’s astonished, alarmed, almost angry question: “Why aren’t you happy?”
Mother’s right: Why is it I’m not happy? Where’s the flutter, the excitement? She keeps listening for a response inside, some reaction to this fine surprise out of the blue, but no: all she feels is confusion, fear, and mistrust. Strange, she thinks, why is it I’m not happy? A hundred times I’ve taken postcards out of the mailbag, picture-postcards showing gray Norwegian fjords, the boulevards of Paris, the bay of Sorrento, the stone monoliths of New York, and haven’t I always put them down with a sigh? When will it be me? When will it be my turn? What have I been dreaming about during these long empty mornings if not about being free someday from this meaningless grind, this deadly race against time? Relaxing for once, having some unbroken time to myself, not always in shreds, in shards so tiny you could cut your finger on them. For once getting away from this daily grind, the alarm clock, destroyer of sleep, driving you to get up, get dressed, get the furnace going, get milk, get bread, light the fire, go to work and clock in, write, make phone calls, then go straight home again to the ironing board, the stove, wash, cook, do the mending and the nursing, and at last fall asleep dead tired. A thousand times I’ve dreamed of it, tens of thousands of times, here at this very table, here in this ramshackle coop, and now it’s finally sinking in, I’m going to travel, get away from here, be free, and yet—Mother’s right—why is it I’m not happy? How come I’m not ready?
She sits with shoulders slumped, staring at the wall, waiting for an answer, waiting to feel some joy. She’s holding her breath without knowing it, listening to her body like a pregnant woman, listening, bending down deep into herself. But nothing stirs, everything is silent and empty like a forest where no birds are singing. She tries harder, this twenty-eight-year-old woman, to remember what it is to be happy, and with alarm she realizes that she no longer knows, that it’s like a foreign language she learned in childhood but has now forgotten, remembering only that she knew it once. When was the last time I was happy? She thinks hard, and two little lines are etched in her bowed forehead. Gradually it comes to her: an image as though from a dim mirror, a thin-legged blond girl, her schoolbag swinging above her short cotton skirt. A dozen other girls are swirling around her: it’s a game of rounders in a park in suburban Vienna. A surge of laughter, a bright trill of high spirits following the ball into the air, now she remembers how light, how free that laughter felt, it was never far away, it tickled under her skin, it swirled through her blood; one shake and it would spill out over her lips, it was so free, almost too free: on the school bench you had to hug yourself and bite your lip to keep from laughing at some funny remark or silliness in French class. Any little thing would set off waves of that effervescent girlish laughter. A teacher who stammered, a funny face in the mirror, a cat chasing its tail, a look from an officer on the street, any little thing, any tiny, senseless bit of nonsense, you were so full of laughter that anything could bring it out. It was always there and ready to erupt, that free, tomboyish laughter, and even when she was asleep, its high-spirited arabesque was traced on her young mouth.
And then it all went black, snuffed out like a candle. It was the first of August, 1914. That afternoon she was at the pool. In the cabin she’d seen her smooth, naked sixteen-year-old body emerge like a flash of light from her blouse, almost fully formed, sleek, white, flushed, full of health. It was marvelous to cool off, splashing and swimming, to race with her friends across the rattling boards—she can still hear the laughing and panting of the half-dozen teenage girls. Then she trotted home, quickly, quickly, her feet light, for of course she was late again. She was supposed to be helping her mother pack: in two days she’d be going over to the Kamp Valley for summer vacation. So she takes the steps three at a time and goes straight through the door, out of breath. But, strangely, her mother and father fall silent when she comes in, and they don’t look at her. She’d heard her father speaking in an unusually loud voice, but now he seems oddly interested in the newspaper; her mother must have been crying, because now she crushes her handkerchief nervously and rushes to the window. What’s happened? Did they have a fight? No, never, that can’t be it, for now her father wheels about and puts his hand on her mother’s trembling shoulder, she’s never seen him so tender. But her mother doesn’t turn, the silent caress only makes her tremble more. What’s happened? They pay no attention to her, neither of them so much as looks at her. Even now, twelve years later, she remembers how afraid she felt. Are they angry with her? Did she do something bad, perhaps? Fearfully—a child is always full of fear and guilt—she slinks into the kitchen, where she gets the news from Božena, the cook, and Geza, the officer’s servant from next door (and he’d know). He says now it’s starting, the damn Serbs are going to be goulash. Otto will have to go as a reserve lieutenant and also her sister’s husband, both of them, that’s why her parents are upset. And in fact the next morning her brother, Otto, is suddenly standing in the room in his pike-blue infantryman’s uniform, his brocade sash fastened at an angle, a gold sword knot on his saber. As a grammar-school substitute teacher he usually wears an ill-brushed black Prince Albert—a pale, thin, towering boy with stubbly hair and yolk-yellow down on his cheeks who looks almost ridiculous in solemn black. But now, pulled up straight in the close-fitting uniform, with a rigid set to his mouth, he seems entirely new and different to his sister. She looks up at him with a silly teenager’s pride and claps her hands: “My, don’t you look smart.” Then her mother, usually so gentle, gives her a shove, making her elbow hit the armoire: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, you heartless creature?”—an angry outburst relieving a hurt she can’t express. Now, nearly shrieking, she weeps openly, her mouth working and trembling, and in desperation she clings with all her strength to the young man, who resolutely looks the other way, tries to assume a manly bearing, and says something about duty and country. Her father has turned his back—he can’t look. The young man, face pale and jaw set, frees himself almost roughly from his mother’s impulsive embrace. He covers his mother’s cheeks with quick, harried kisses, hastily holds out his hand to his father (whose posture is unnaturally stiff), and darts past Christine with a quick goodbye. The saber rattles down the stairs. Her sister’s husband, a municipal official who’s been conscripted as a train sergeant, comes by that afternoon to say goodbye. This is easier; he knows he won’t be in danger. He makes himself comfortable and pretends it’ll be fun, jokes encouragingly, and leaves. But two shadows remain behind—her brother’s wife, four months pregnant, and her sister with her small child. The two of them come for dinner every evening, and each time the lamp seems to burn lower. All eyes regard Christine severely if she says anything cheerful, and in her bed at night she’s ashamed at how bad she is, how unserious, how much she’s still a child. Without meaning to she grows silent. There’s no laughter left in the rooms, no one sleeps well. If she wakes up during the night she sometimes hears a faint steady sound like a ghostly faucet drip in the next room: it’s her mother, unable to sleep, on her knees before the illuminated Virgin, praying for her brother for hours on end.
