The Post Office Girl

by Stefan Zweig

  He offers his arm in the Biedermeier manner, she takes it and chatters and laughs and doubles over and laughs, her aunt looks on with amusement, the music roars, the room glitters, full of bright colors, other guests watch with friendly curiosity, waiters move a table back, everything’s friendly, happy, and welcoming, it doesn’t take much courage to push off into the colorful swirl. Uncle Anthony is not in fact a brilliant dancer. The paunch that he’s put on heaves with every step; he leads clumsily and uncertainly. But the diabolical music drives everything along, strongly syncopated, lurid, lively and spirited and yet rhythmically precise, with a pleasantly slashing ride cymbal, a soothing fiddle, and a jarring, kneading, pummeling beat, hard and propulsive. The musicians are tawny Argentineans in brown jackets with gold buttons, and they play like fiends, in fact they look like fiends, like liveried and festooned demons, and every one of them seemingly out of his head. The thin saxophonist with glittering spectacles gurgles and squeals drunkenly on his instrument. The fat curly-haired pianist next to him, even more frantic, seems to be hitting keys at random with a practiced zeal, while his neighbor the drummer pounds furiously, mouth open. All of them are jumping up and down as though electrified, or bitten by something, ferally, fiercely laying about them with their instruments like maniacs. But this demonic noise factory is actually as precise as a sewing machine (Christine realizes this); all the extravagant behavior, the grinning, the fluffed notes, the gesticulations, the showy fingering, the shouts and jokes as the musicians urge one another on, it’s all been practiced down to the last detail in front of the mirror and the music stand, the entire frenzy is totally put on. The leggy, narrow-waisted, pale, powdered women seem to know it too, for they’re not visibly distracted or excited by this simulated fervor (which is repeated every evening). With their fixed, lipsticked smiles, their rouged fluttering hands, they lean slackly on their partners’ arms, their cool far-off gazes seeming to indicate that they’re thinking of something else, or (most likely) of nothing. She’s the only one who has to hide her excitement and lower her eyes, her blood stirred by this wickedly thrilling, brashly gripping music with its pose of passion. And when it abruptly stops she takes a deep breath, as though out of danger. Her uncle is breathing hard too, wheezing heavily and with dignity. At last he can mop his forehead and catch his breath.

  He leads Christine back to the table in triumph, and, a nice surprise, her aunt has ordered sorbets for both of them. Just now Christine was feeling in the mood for something cool, even if she hadn’t quite realized it, and here’s a frosty silver dish without her having to ask. What a fantastic world, where unspoken wishes are granted. How could anyone be anything but happy here?

  All the world’s sweetness might be in this one thin straw of scalding ice. Heart thumping, fingers trembling avidly, she looks about for someone or something to receive her overflowing gratitude. There’s her uncle, that fine old fellow, in the deep chair next to her, looking a little done in, still puffing and gasping and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. He tried hard to please her, maybe too hard. Of course she appreciates it, and she gently strokes the heavy, lined hand resting on the back of his chair. This gesture of a shy young creature so recently come to life makes the old man brighten; he takes a fatherly pleasure in the look of gratitude in her eyes. But isn’t it unfair to thank him alone and not her aunt too? It was her aunt who brought her here, took her under her wing, dressed her in style, and gave her a measure of blessed protection in this rich, intoxicating atmosphere. So she reaches for her aunt’s hand too and sits between the two of them, her eyes shining in the light-filled room, like a child under the Christmas tree.

  The music starts up again, on a darker note, more romantic and quieter, black and silky: a tango. Her uncle makes a helpless face and excuses himself—his sixty-seven-year-old legs are not up to this slinky dance. “No, Uncle, I’m a thousand times happier to sit here with the two of you,” she says and really means it, continuing to hold their hands on both sides. She feels good with these people, her blood relations, completely protected by them. But now a shadow looms: a tall, broad-shouldered man is bowing before her, his clean-shaven hawk-like face tanned like a climber’s above the snowy expanse of his smoking jacket. He clicks his heels in the Prussian manner and in a pure Northern German scrupulously asks her aunt’s permission. “Of course,” smiles her aunt, proud of her protégée’s rapid success. Christine gets to her feet awkwardly, a little weak in the knees. To be chosen by some unknown elegant man from among all these beautiful, smart women—it’s a bit of a shock. She takes a deep breath, then puts a trembling hand on the man’s shoulder. From the first step she feels herself being gently but authoritatively led by this impeccable dancer. All she has to do is yield to the barely perceptible pressure and her body fits itself to his movements; once she submits to the insistent, coaxing rhythm, her feet magically know where to go. Dancing was never so easy. It’s no effort to follow her partner’s will; it’s as if she has a new body under the new dress, or has learned and practiced the caressing movements in a forgotten dream. A dreamy confidence has descended upon her; her head leans back as though pillowed, her eyes are half closed, she’s entirely detached, no longer part of herself, and to her own amazement she feels she’s floating weightless through the room. As she’s being borne along she occasionally glances up at the hard-eyed face close to hers and thinks she sees a glimmer of a pleased and approving smile; then it seems to her she’s grasping the leading hand with a more intimate pressure. A small, tingly, almost voluptuous worry flickers within her: How would she protect herself if hard masculine hands like these grasped her more firmly, if this strange man with the hard, arrogant face suddenly grabbed her and pulled her close? Wouldn’t she give in completely, submit the way she’s doing now? The sensuality of these half-conscious thoughts begins to spread throughout her increasingly relaxed and yielding limbs. People in the crowd have begun to notice this perfect couple. Again she has the strong, intoxicating feeling of being watched and admired. Responding to the will of her partner, she’s increasingly sure of herself, moving and breathing with him; and this new physical pleasure, entering through her skin, mounts within her—she’s never felt like this before.

  When the dance is over, the tall blond man (he’s introduced himself as an engineer from Gladbach) politely escorts her back to her uncle’s table. The faint warmth of his touch vanishes and now she feels weaker and diminished, as though the loss of contact has caused some of her new strength to ebb away. As she sits down, still a little flustered, she smiles weakly and happily at her amiable uncle, not noticing someone else at their table: General Elkins. He stands politely and bows. He’s come to ask her aunt to introduce him to this “charming girl”: he’s standing before her as though she were a fine lady, his back straight, his serious face bent forward respectfully. Christine tries to collect herself. My God, what can I say to such a terribly distinguished and famous man, whose picture (as she’s learned from her aunt) has been in all the papers and who’s even been in films? But there’s no getting around it, General Elkins is asking her to forgive his poor German. He did study at Heidelberg, he says, but that was more than forty years ago, sad as it is to have to own up to a number like that, and a magnificent dancer like her will have to show some forbearance if he ventures to ask her for the next dance: he still has a piece of shrapnel in his left leg from Ypres. But in the end one needs forbearance to get by in this world. Christine is too embarrassed to reply, but when she dances with him, slowly and carefully, she’s surprised to find that conversation comes easily. Who am I, anyway, she thinks with a chill, what’s come over me? How can I be doing this? I was always so stiff and clumsy, the dance teacher said so, yet now I’m leading him instead of the reverse. And how easily I’m talking, perhaps even with some intelligence, because he’s listening so graciously, this eminent man. Has this new dress, this new world made me so different? Or was this inside me all along, and I was just too fainthearted, too
timid? That’s what Mother always said. Maybe everything’s not so hard, maybe life is so much easier than I thought, you just need courage, you just need to have a sense of yourself, then you’ll discover your hidden resources.

  When the dance is over, General Elkins guides her back through the room at a leisurely pace. She walks proudly on his arm, feeling her neck straighten as she looks ahead confidently, sensing that this makes her look younger and more beautiful. She told General Elkins straight out that this was her first time here and that she didn’t know the real Engadine (Maloja, Sils-Maria), but this revelation hasn’t made him any less respectful. Instead he seems pleased: Won’t she permit him to drive her to Maloja tomorrow morning? “Of course,” she says, awed and happy, and presses the distinguished old man’s hand with a kind of comradely gratitude (where is she getting the nerve?). In this room, so unfriendly even that morning, she feels increasingly at home and sure of herself now that all these people are practically fighting each other off to please her, now that she sees how a little contact can create an easy sociability, while down in her own narrow little world people envy each other the butter on their bread and the rings on their fingers. She gives her uncle and aunt an enraptured report of the general’s gracious invitation. But she’s not allowed much time for conversation: the German engineer crosses the room for the next dance. Through him she meets a French doctor, also an American friend of her uncle’s, and a parade of other people whose names she’s too excited and happy to catch. In the last ten years she hasn’t met as many gracious, polite, elegant people as she has in these two hours. She’s being asked to dance, offered cigarettes and liqueurs, invited on drives and a climbing expedition: everyone seems curious to meet her and everyone treats her with a respect that apparently comes naturally to all of them. “You’re a sensation, child,” her aunt whispers, pleased by the stir her charge is creating. Her uncle stifles a tired yawn. He denies the obvious out of vanity but gives in finally. “Yes, perhaps that’s the best thing, we’ll all have a good rest. Not too much at once. Tomorrow’s another day and we’ll make a good job of it.” Christine takes a last look at the enchanting room, luminous with candelabras and electric lights, pulsating with music and dancing. She feels she’s stepped out of a bath, renewed and refreshed, every nerve quivering. She takes the old man’s arm and impulsively bends to kiss his hand in gratitude.

  Then she’s alone in her room, stunned, confused, overwhelmed by her own self, by the sudden silence all around. Her skin burns under the loose dress, she’s tense with excitement. Now the room seems confining. She pushes the balcony door open. Snow showers onto her bare shoulders. She goes out onto the balcony, where, shivering happily and breathing easily now, she looks out, full to bursting, over the empty landscape, her small heart beating under the great dome of night. There’s silence here too, but a bigger, more elemental silence than the one inside, a soothing silence instead of an oppressive one. The mountains that were glittering earlier are now in their own shadow, crouched like massive black cats, with glinting snowy eyes. The air is thin under the almost full moon like an irregular yellow pearl amid a spray of brilliant stars, its wan, cool light faintly illuminating the misty contours of the valley. An inhuman landscape, divinely silent, gently overwhelming, unlike anything she knows, but her excitement seems to flow out into the bottomless calm as she gradually loses herself in the silence. Suddenly a bronze mass of sound rolls through the frozen air: it’s the church bell down in the valley, echoing off rock faces to the left and right. Christine gives a start, as though she were the bell being struck. She listens to the bronze notes rumbling into the sea of mist. With bated breath she counts: nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Midnight! Is it possible? Only midnight? Only twelve hours since she arrived, shy, inhibited, and panicky, with a dried-up, paltry little soul, really just one day, half a day? In this instant, shaken to her very depths, this ecstatic human being has a first inkling that the soul is made of stuff so mysteriously elastic that a single event can make it big enough to contain the infinite.

  In this new world even sleep is different: blacker, denser, more drugged, you’re completely submerged in yourself. As she awakens Christine hauls her drowned senses out of these new depths, slowly, laboriously, bit by bit, as though from a bottomless well. First she has an uncertain sense of the time. Through her eyelids she sees brightness; the room must be light, it must be day. It’s a vague, muffled feeling, followed by an anxious thought (even while she’s still sleep): Don’t forget about work! Don’t be late! The train of thought she’s known for the last ten years begins automatically: The alarm clock will ring now … Don’t go back to sleep … Responsibility, responsibility, responsibility … Get up now, work starts at eight, and before that I’ll have to get the heat started, make coffee, get the milk, the rolls, tidy up, change mother’s bandages, prepare for lunch, and what else? There’s something else I have to do today … Right, pay the grocer lady, she reminded me yesterday … No, don’t doze off, stay alert, get up when the alarm goes off … But what’s the problem today … What’s keeping it … Is the alarm clock broken, did I forget to wind it … Where’s the alarm, it’s light in the room … Goodness, maybe I’ve overslept and it’s already seven or eight or nine and people are cursing at the wicket they way they did that time when I wasn’t feeling well, right away they wanted to complain to the head office … And so many employees are being let go these days … Dear God, I can’t be late, I can’t oversleep … The long-buried fear of being late is like a mole tunneling under the black soil of sleep. Abruptly the last of it falls away.

  Where am I? Her eyes grope upward. What has happened to me? Instead of the slanting, smoke-stained, cobweb-gray attic ceiling with the brown wooden beams, a blue-white ceiling, clean and rectilinear with gilt molding, floats above her. And where’s all this light coming from? A new window must have appeared overnight. Where am I? She looks at her hands, which are lying not on the brown, patched old camelhair blanket but on a light, fluffy, blue one embroidered with reddish flowers. The first shock: this isn’t my bed. And not my room—that’s the second. And the third and greatest: now fully awake, she looks around and remembers everything—vacation, holiday, freedom, Switzerland, her aunt, her uncle, the magnificent hotel! No worries, no responsibilities, no work, no time, no alarm clock! No stove, no one waiting, no pressure from anyone: the terrible mill of hardship that’s been crushing her life for ten years has ground to a halt for the first time. You can lie in your soft warm bed, aware of the blood flowing in your veins, the light waiting behind the delicately gathered curtains, the soft warmth on your skin. You don’t have to worry about letting your eyes close again, you deserve to be lazy, you can dream and stretch and spread out, you belong to yourself. You can even (she remembers now, her aunt told her) press this button at the head of the bed, on which a bellboy is represented at postage-stamp scale: all you have to do is reach over, and, by magic, two minutes later the door opens, the bellboy knocks and enters politely, pushing a cute little cart on little rubber wheels (she marveled at one of them in her aunt’s room), with coffee, tea, or cocoa the way you like them in fine dishes and with white damask napkins. Breakfast is there all by itself, you don’t have to grind the coffee, light the fire, toil at the stove with your feet in slippers in the cold, no, no, it’s all been done, white rolls and golden honey and delicacies like the ones yesterday come riding in, a magic sleigh floating up to the soft white bed without your having to lift a finger. Or you can press the other button, marked with a picture of a girl in a little white bonnet, and in she scurries after a gentle knock, wearing a bright apron and a black dress, asking what madam wishes, whether she should open the shutters or pull the curtains open or closed or draw a bath. You can make a hundred thousand wishes in this enchanting world and they’ll all be granted just like that. You can want or do anything here, but you don’t have to. You can ring or not, you can get up or not, you can go back to sleep or lie in bed, whatever you want, your eyes open or closed, and
bask in a flood of fine carefree notions. Or you can think about nothing at all and just laze mindlessly, time belongs to you, not the reverse. You’re not driven onward by that frantic mill wheel of hours and seconds, you glide through time, eyes closed, as though in a rowboat with oars pulled in. Christine lies there, enjoying this new feeling, her blood pulsing pleasantly in her ears like faraway Sunday church bells.

  But no (she sits up energetically)—this is no time for daydreaming. Don’t waste any of this time, this time that brings more wonders every second. At home you can dream for months, years on end, in the creaky, broken-down wooden bed with the hard mattress at night, and at the ink-spotted worktable while the peasants are off in the fields, the clock on the wall like a sentinel, ticking inexorably and punctiliously. There, dreaming is better than being awake; here in this celestial world, sleep is a waste of time. She’s out of bed with a final decisive movement and splashes some cold water on her face and neck; now, refreshed, into the new clothes. Overnight her skin has forgotten their soft rustle and shimmer. The clinging caress of the luxurious fabric is a new pleasure. But don’t linger on these small delights, don’t waste time. Time to leave now, get out of this room, go somewhere, anywhere; sharpen this feeling of happiness and freedom, stretch your limbs, fill your eyes, be awake, wider awake, vividly awake in every sense and every pore. She pulls on her sweater, jams on her hat, and dashes downstairs.

  The corridors are still gray and empty in the cold morning light, but in the lounge downstairs shirtsleeved hotel workers are cleaning the runners with electric carpet sweepers. The puffy-eyed night clerk shows ill-humored surprise at the sight of this excessively early guest, but sleepily doffs his cap. Poor fellow, so here too there’s hard work, unseen labor, ill-paid drudgery, there’s such a thing as having to get up and be on time. But let’s not think about that. What’s it to me? I don’t want to be aware of anyone but me, me, me. Go on, go on by. Outside the cold air pounces, scrubs eyelids, lips, and cheeks like an icy cloth. This mountain air does chill you, down to the bone. The only thing for that is to run, that’ll get the blood circulating. This path must go somewhere. It doesn’t matter where. Up here anywhere is as magical and new as anywhere else.