The Post Office Girl

by Stefan Zweig

  Christine sets off at a vigorous pace, surprised that no one is out yet. At six in the morning the swirl of people that thronged the paths at midday yesterday must still be packed away in the great stone crates of the hotels, and the very landscape lies in a kind of gray trance. The air is soundless, the moon, so golden yesterday, is gone, the stars have vanished, the colors have faded, the misty cliffs are as drab and colorless as cold metal. Only high up, among the highest peaks, are there thick clouds moving restlessly, as if some invisible force were stretching them, pulling them. Now and then a cloud separates from the dense mass, floating up like a fat white cotton ball; it changes form as it climbs, suffused with a light from nowhere, bordered with gold. The sun must be nearby, already at work somewhere behind the peaks—not yet in sight, but warming the turbulent atmosphere. So move toward it, then, upward, higher! This trail here, perhaps, graveled, as gently winding as a garden path, it can’t be hard; and in fact it’s plain sailing. She’s not used to this sort of thing and is surprised by the joyous spring in her step. The path’s gradual turns and the buoyancy of the air draw her upward. A sprint like this warms the blood in no time. She tears off her gloves, sweater, hat: the skin should have a chance to breathe in this rousing chill, not just the lips and lungs. As she quickens her pace she becomes more confident, lighter on her feet. She should really stop (her heart is hammering in her chest, her pulse pounding in her ears, her temples throbbing), and she pauses for a moment to look down from this first bend and shake the moisture out of her hair: forest, white streets ruled straight amid the dense green, the river, curved and gleaming like a scimitar, and above it all the sun suddenly pouring through the notch. Wonderful, but her momentum won’t let her stop. The insistent drumming of her heart and the rhythm of the muscles and tendons keep urging her forward, and she presses on, spurred and intoxicated by her own excitement, with no idea how far or how high or where she’s going. After an hour, perhaps, she comes to a vantage point where the slope of the mountain is cambered like a ramp, and throws herself down on the grass: enough. Enough for today. Her head is swimming, but she’s strangely happy. Her blood is pulsing under her eyelids, her skin feels raw where it was exposed to the wind, but the almost painful sensations are a new kind of pleasure. She never knew the blood could flow so strongly, the pulse could pound so eagerly, was never as aware of her own physicality, her light-footedness and energy, as in this extravagant, narcotic exhaustion. Clouds float overhead in an undreamed-of blue and the panorama down below opens up as she lets her hands dig pleasantly into cold fragrant Alpine moss. Washed by the sun and scoured by gusty mountain winds, she lies in a pleasant daze, awake and dreaming at once, savoring the tumult within her and the driving, tempestuous movement of nature for an hour or two, until the sun begins to burn her lips. She jumps to her feet and quickly gathers a few flowers—juniper, gentian, sage—still so cold that there are ice crystals among the petals. Then she hurries down, at first maintaining the measured stride of a tourist, straight and tall, before she yields to the pull of gravity, leaping from one stone to the next with increasing speed and daring. She feels self-confident and happy as never before, could almost sing as she whirls down the hairpin turns into the valley as though carried by the wind, skirt and hair fluttering behind her.

  At nine, the appointed hour, the young German engineer is in front of the hotel in his tennis whites, waiting for his trainer to arrive for the morning match. It’s still too cold to sit on the damp bench and the wind keeps probing with deft icy fingers under his thin, open-collared linen shirt, so he paces vigorously up and down on frozen feet, spinning his racket to warm his hands. Hang it, has the trainer overslept? The engineer looks about impatiently and happens to glance up at the mountain path. There’s something strange off in the distance, something bright and colorful and in turbulent motion, bounding curiously down the path. Wait, what’s that? Wish I had my field glasses. But the hurtling brightly colored object is coming on fast: it will be clearer in a moment. The engineer shades his eyes with his hand and can make out someone speeding down the mountain path. It must be a woman or a young girl with hair blowing and arms swinging, seemingly carried by the wind. Good grief, not a good idea to take the curves at full tilt. She’s crazy, but great to look at, coming down at a speed like that. Automatically he takes a step forward for a better view. The girl looks like a goddess of dawn, a maenad, all energy and fearlessness. He can’t make out her face yet, her speed and the glare of the rising sun are making her features indistinct. But to get to the hotel she’ll have to pass the tennis court—this is where the path ends. She’s getting closer, bits of gravel are rolling into view, he can hear her steps on the curve above, and suddenly she charges up. He’s stepped in her way on purpose and she stops short to keep from running into him; her hair flies back and the damp hem of her dress is pushed against her legs. She’s an arm’s length away from him, breathing hard. She laughs with surprise, suddenly recognizing her dance partner. “Oh, it’s you,” she exclaims in relief. “Sorry—I almost ran into you!” He doesn’t reply right away, but good-humoredly, even raptly, gazes at her glowing in front of him with wind-frozen cheeks, her chest rising and falling, still full of energy. All he does is smile broadly, captivated by this vision of youth and vigor. At last he speaks. “Well done! That’s what I call a good clip. I’d like to see any professional mountain guide do that. But …” (he looks at her again, considering and smiling again with approval) “… if my neck were so young and fresh-looking, I’d look out I didn’t break it. You’re damn well not taking care of yourself! Good thing it was just me who saw you and not your aunt. And mainly, you shouldn’t be taking this kind of morning excursion by yourself. If you ever need somebody along who’s in fair-to-middling shape, yours truly is warmly recommended.” He looks at her once more and she feels herself becoming embarrassed by the surge of unexpected interest in his eyes. Never in her life has a man looked at her so admiringly; she tingles with new pleasure. She shows him the bouquet to shake off the embarrassment. “Look what I got! Fresh-picked, aren’t they wonderful?” “Yes, wonderful,” he replies in a tense voice, ignoring the flowers and looking into her eyes. These insistent, almost intrusive attentions are even more embarrassing. “Forgive me, I have to go to breakfast now,” she offers, “I’m probably late already,” and tries to move past. He bows and steps aside, but she feels instinctively that he’s following her with his eyes and tenses up unconsciously as she moves away. Her surprise that a man might feel so strongly about her, might find her beautiful and perhaps even desire her, enters her blood like the fragrance of the wildflowers and the invigorating bite in the air.

  Intoxication surges in her again as she enters the lobby. It seems stuffy here now; everything is too close, too heavy. She tosses hat, sweater, belt, whatever is confining and oppressive, into the wardrobe, and wishes she could tear the clothes off her tingling skin. The two older people at the breakfast table look up in surprise as she approaches, her step light, cheeks glow-ing, nostrils quivering, somehow taller, healthier, sleeker than yesterday. She lays the bunch of wildflowers, still moist with dew and glinting with melting ice crystals, in front of her aunt: “I picked them up on … I don’t know the name of the mountain, but I went up there, oh” (she takes a deep breath) “it was wonderful.” Her aunt looks at her with admiration. “What a glutton for punishment you are! Out of bed and straight up into the mountains without breakfast. The likes of us ought to follow your example. Better than any massage, I’m sure. Anthony, just look at her though, she’s transformed. Look what the fresh air has done to her cheeks. You’re glowing, child! But tell us where you got this.” Christine tells them, unaware how quickly and hungrily she’s eating and how much. Butter, jam, and honey vanish at a tremendous rate; the amused old gentleman beckons to the waiter, who smiles slightly as he refills the basket with croissants. She’s too carried away to notice her aunt and uncle smiling more and more broadly at her unseemly appetite, only feels the pleasant burnin
g in her cheeks as they begin to thaw. She’s relaxed now and leans back in the wicker chair, eating, talking, and laughing gaily; further encouraged by the kind faces of her aunt and uncle and ignoring the astonishment of people around them, she spreads her arms wide in the middle of her story and her elation bursts out of her: “Oh, Aunt, I never knew what it was to really breathe.”

  The floodgates have been opened. At ten she’s still at the breakfast table. The breadbasket is empty. Her appetite, stimulated by the high altitude, has cleaned it out. General Elkins appears in his stylish sportswear to remind her of the planned drive. Walking respectfully behind her, he takes her to his car, of the best British make, lacquered and gleaming with nickel plate. The bright-eyed, clean-shaven chauffeur is himself an English gentleman. General Elkins makes sure she’s comfortable, spreads blankets over her knees, then, again lifting his hat carefully, takes a seat next to her. All this respect is a little confusing; the emphatic, almost humble politeness of this man makes Christine feel like an impostor. Who am I that he treats me this way? My God, she thinks, if he ever knew what stupid, menial donkey work I do, glued to my chair at the Post Office desk! But the chauffeur spins the steering wheel and the rapid acceleration soon brings her back to the here and now. The machine can’t really stretch out in the resort’s narrow streets. She’s childishly proud to see these strangers admiring the car—luxurious even here—and many of them eyeing her, undoubtedly the owner, with slightly envious awe. General Elkins provides a running commentary on the landscape like a geography professor, getting caught up in the details like anyone with a special interest, but he seems stimulated by Christine’s evident attentiveness as she leans forward. His rather cold, dour face gradually loses its English austerity; a kind smile makes his somewhat thin and severe lips more friendly when he hears her youthful “Oh” or “Terrific” or sees her turn with interest to take in passing views. His smile is almost wistful as he glances at her lively profile; her unbridled enthusiasm is weakening his reserve. The chauffeur continues to accelerate. The road is like a carpet. The luxury car climbs smoothly and silently. There’s no hint of strain from its metallic heart, it takes the sharpest curves with ease. The rising roar of the wind is the only indication of how fast they’re moving, the feeling of safety adding to the thrill of speed. The valley darkens as the cliffs converge sharply. Finally the chauffeur stops the car at an overlook. “Maloja,” General Elkins explains and helps Christine out with the same deferential courtesy. The grand view shows the road down below, winding elaborately like a stream. The mountain, dropping off suddenly into a vast, broad valley, seems to have given out here, unable to continue on up toward the summits and glaciers. “The lowlands start down there—that’s the beginning of Italy,” Elkins tells her. “Italy,” says Christine wonderingly, “is it really so close?” Her astonishment expresses such longing that Elkins asks immediately, “You’ve never been there?” “No, never.” And her “never” is so ardent, so full of yearning, that all her secret anxiety resonates in it: I’ll never see it, never. Ashamed to hear the change in her voice, afraid he might guess her deepest thoughts, her private worry about her poverty, she tries to turn the conversation away from her, asking foolishly, “You know Italy, of course, General?” His smile is serious, almost melancholy. “Where haven’t I knocked about? I’ve been around the world three times, don’t forget I’m an old man.” “No, no,” she protests, bewildered. “How could you say such a thing!” And her bewilderment is so honest, this young girl’s protest is so real and full of feeling, that the sixty-eight-year-old man’s cheeks are suddenly warm. He may never have another chance to hear her so impassioned. His voice becomes soft. “You have young eyes, Miss van Boolen, that’s why you see everything as younger than it is. I hope you’re right. It may be that in fact I’m not yet as old and gray as my hair. But what wouldn’t I give to be able to see Italy again for the first time.” He looks at her again, now with the vague abject shyness that older men often have with young women, as though asking their indulgence for no longer being young. Christine is curiously touched and thinks suddenly of her father, the way she loved to stroke the bent old man’s white hair gently, almost reverently: he had the same look of kindhearted gratitude. Lord Elkins doesn’t say much on the way back; he seems reflective, withdrawn. When they drive up to the hotel, he jumps out with an almost pointed liveliness in order to help her out of the car before the chauffeur does. “Such a wonderful drive—thank you very much,” he says, before she can thank him, “it was the best outing I’ve been on in a long time.”

  At the table with her aunt and uncle she gives an enthusiastic account of how gracious and friendly General Elkins was. Her aunt nods sympathetically: “Good that you brightened him up a little. He’s had a lot of bad luck. His wife died young, while he was on his expedition in Tibet. He kept writing to her every day for four months because he hadn’t gotten word. When he came back he found the pile of unopened letters. And his only son was shot down by the Germans at Soissons, the same day he himself was wounded. He lives alone now in his huge castle in Nottingham. I understand why he travels so much—what he’s really doing is running away from those memories. But keep him off that, don’t talk about it, or he’ll tear up right away.” Christine is moved as she listens. It hadn’t occurred to her that there might be unhappiness up in this halcyon realm. She’d thought everyone had to be as happy as she is. She feels like going over to squeeze the hand of this old man who’s been hiding his secret sadness with such poise. On impulse she looks over toward the other end of the dining hall, where he sits alone with military erectness. He happens to look up and bows slightly as he meets her eyes. She’s touched to see him alone in the big room filled with light and luxury. You really ought be nice to someone so nice.

  But there’s so little opportunity here to think about anyone in particular, time is going by too fast, bringing too many surprises: each fleeting moment sparkles with new delights. After lunch, when her aunt and uncle have gone upstairs for a short nap, Christine thinks she’ll sit quietly in one of the soft adjustable armchairs on the terrace in order to at last bask in this metamorphosis she’s gone through, run over it in her mind. But no sooner has she leaned back, allowing the images of the crowded day to slowly, dreamily pass by, than her dance partner from yesterday, the bright-eyed German engineer, appears before her and offers his strong hand—“Get up, get up!”: would she come over to their table, his friends are asking to be introduced. Uncertainly (she’s still afraid of anything new, but conquers her anxiety for fear of seeming rude) she lets herself be led to the lively table, where there are a dozen young people sitting and chatting. To her dismay, the engineer introduces her around the table as Fräulein von Boolen. Her uncle’s Dutch name, altered to a German aristocratic one, seems to elicit special respect from everyone (she notices it in the way the men stand politely). Evidently they’re thinking of the wealthiest family in Germany, the Krupp-Bohlens. Christine feels herself blushing: Goodness, what is he saying? But she lacks the presence of mind to set them straight, you can hardly contradict these polite strangers to their faces and say: No, no, my name is not von Boolen but Hoflehner. So with an uneasy conscience she lets the unintentional deception go unchallenged, her fingers trembling nervously. All these young people, a fresh-faced, high-strung girl from Mannheim, a Viennese doctor, a French bank director’s son, a somewhat noisy American, and a few more whose names she doesn’t catch, are plainly making a fuss over her: they’re all asking questions, in fact she’s the only one they’re speaking to or trying to speak to. Christine is awkward for the first few minutes. She flinches slightly each time someone addresses her as “Fräulein von Boolen”—it gives her a twinge—but gradually she gets caught up in the friendly high spirits of the young people, is delighted over the swiftly developing camaraderie, and in the end is taking part without inhibition. Everyone’s so kind, what is there to be afraid of? Her aunt comes by, happy to see her protégée so well accepted, gives her a good-n
atured smile when she hears the others address her as Fräulein von Boolen, and finally reminds her that they had planned to take a walk while her uncle was at his inevitable afternoon gambling. Is it really the same path as yesterday, or does a broadened soul have a more joyful view of things than a cramped one? In any event the path she walked before, so to speak with clouded eyes, now seems new, more colorful, the view more magnificent, as though the mountains had become taller, the meadows a deeper or richer green, the air purer and more crystalline, and the people more beautiful, more animated, more friendly and outgoing. Everything has lost its strangeness since yesterday; she regards the massive forms of the hotel with a kind of pride now that she knows there’s none finer (and is beginning to realize how much it costs to stay there). The slim-legged, perfumed women no longer seem so unearthly, no longer seem to belong to some higher caste as they drive by in their cars, now that she’s ridden in such a luxurious one herself. She no longer feels out of place among them and unconsciously imitates the easy, bold, carefree walk of the athletic young women. They pause at a café; Christine’s aunt is again amazed by her appetite. Whether because the mountain air is tiring or because strong emotions are actually chemically consuming energy that must be replaced, no matter, she easily devours three or four brötchen with honey, along with cocoa, then chocolates and fluffy pastries: she feels she can never have enough food and talk and looking and pleasure—surrendering to brute self-indulgence is the only way to make up for years and years of terrible hunger. She occasionally feels the touch of men’s friendly and interested gazes from adjoining tables and unconsciously throws out her chest, lifts her head, returns the interest with an interested smile of her own: So you like me—who are you? And who am I?