The Post Office Girl

by Stefan Zweig

  At six, after another shopping trip, they’re back at the hotel. Christine’s friendly benefactress has discovered all sorts of new fripperies that she needs. Now her aunt, who has been continually delighted to see Christine’s amazing passage from down in the dumps to high spirits, pats her hand gently: “So now you can do something for me, something hard! Are you brave?” Christine laughs. What could be hard here? Everything’s fun up here in this blissful world. “No, don’t think it’ll be that easy! You’re going to go into the lion’s den and carefully pry Anthony loose from his game. I repeat, carefully, because he can really snarl if anyone bothers him there. But I can’t let him be, doctor’s orders are that he has to take his pills at least an hour before meals, and gambling from four to six in a stifling room is more than enough anyway. Number 112 on the first floor, the suite of Mr. Vornemann of the great Petroleum Trust. Knock on the door and just tell Anthony I sent you—he’ll understand. He might growl—no, he wouldn’t growl at you! Toward you he’s still respectful.”

  Christine accepts the assignment without much enthusiasm. If her uncle likes to gamble, why should she be the one to nag him! But she doesn’t dare to argue. She knocks lightly. The gentlemen all look up from their table, a long rectangle with strange diamonds and numerals on its green cloth. It seems young women don’t intrude here very often. Her uncle, taken aback at first, laughs out loud. “Ah, Claire put you up to it! She’s taking advantage of you! Gentlemen, this is my niece! My wife sent her to break it up. I propose” (he pulls out his watch) “exactly ten more minutes. You’ll permit that?” Christine smiles uncertainly. “Well, I’ll take full responsibility,” Anthony says, proud to show off his authority in front of the gentlemen. “Hush now! Sit here next to me and bring me luck, I need it today.” Christine sits down timidly behind him. She understands nothing of what’s going on. Someone’s holding a long thing like a shovel, or a toboggan, and deals out cards with it; someone says something and then celluloid disks, white, red, green, slide here and there; a rake gathers them up. It’s actually boring, Christine thinks, it’s funny that such rich, distinguished men would be playing for these round things. But in some way she’s still proud to be sitting here in her uncle’s broad shadow, close to men who undoubtedly have influence in the world, you can tell from their big diamond rings, their gold pencils, their hard, emphatic features, even their fists, which could probably pound the table like hammers during meetings. Christine glances respectfully from one to another, paying no attention to the game she doesn’t understand, and looks rather foolishly taken aback when suddenly her uncle turns to her and asks, “Should I take it?” Christine has grasped at least that one of them is the banker and is fending everyone off, so he’s playing a difficult game. Should she say yes? She’d prefer to whisper “For God’s sake, no!” so as not to have any responsibility. But she doesn’t want to seem fainthearted, so she stammers an uncertain “Yes.” “Good,” her uncle teases, “it’s on your shoulders. We’ll go fifty-fifty.” The incomprehensible cartomancy starts up again. She understands none of it, but thinks she can tell that her uncle is winning. His movements are becoming quicker, he’s making strange gurgling sounds in his throat, he seems to be enjoying himself thoroughly. Finally, passing the toboggan on to someone else, he turns to her: “You did great work. And since we’re sharing equally, here’s your half.” He pulls some chips out of his pile—two yellow ones, three red ones, a white one. Christine takes them with a laugh, not thinking anything. “Another five minutes,” he reminds her (he has his watch in front of him). “Come on, come on, tiredness is no excuse.” The five minutes pass quickly. They all get to their feet, gather up their chips, and cash them in. Christine is waiting diffidently at the door; her chips are on the table. Her uncle calls out: “Well, what about your chips?” Christine steps closer, not understanding. “Cash them in.” Christine still doesn’t understand; he takes her to one of the men, who looks briefly, says, “Two hundred fifty-five,” and puts down two hundred-franc bills, a fifty-franc bill, and one of those heavy silver coins. Christine gazes with surprise at the foreign money on the green table, then looks at her uncle uncertainly. “Just take it,” he says, almost annoyed, “that’s your share! And now let’s go, we have to be on time.”

  Christine clutches the three bills and the silver coin in bewilderment, still incredulous. Back in her room, she examines over and over the three rectangular rainbow-hued slips of paper that have come her way. Two hundred fifty-five francs. She does the conversion quickly—about three hundred fifty schillings. To make this much money at home, she’d have to work for four months, a third of a year, sitting at the office from eight until noon, from two until six precisely, and here it just flies into your hand in ten minutes. Can it be true, was there some mistake? Incredible! But the bills rustle in her fingers just like real money, and they’re hers, her uncle said, they belong to her, to her new self, this new, unfathomable other person. These crackling banknotes—she’s never had so much money at one time. As she anxiously and reverentially hides the bills like loot in her suitcase, shivers of dread and pleasure run down her spine. Her conscience can’t grasp this contradiction: at home money has to be saved so patiently, coin by dark heavy coin, while here it casually flutters into your hand. A violent, fearful shudder runs through her entire being—as though she’d been witness to a crime. Something in her would like to understand this, but there’s no time, she has to get dressed, choose a dress, one of the three exquisite dresses, has to go back downstairs to feel things, experience things, to enter the trance, to dive down into the wonderful fiery current of extravagance.

  Names have a mysterious transforming power. Like a ring on a finger, a name may at first seem merely accidental, committing you to nothing; but before you realize its magical power, it’s gotten under your skin, become part of you and your destiny. During the first few days Christine heard the new name von Boolen with secret glee. (Oh, they don’t know who I am! If they only did!) She wore it thoughtlessly, like a mask at a costume ball. But soon she forgets the unintentional deception and begins to deceive herself, becoming what she feigns to be. If at first it was embarrassing to be addressed as a rich aristocratic stranger, a day later it’s a thrill, and after two or three days it seems the most natural thing in the world. When she was asked her first name by one of the gentlemen, “Christine” (she goes by “Christl” at home) didn’t seem impressive enough for the borrowed title; “Christiane,” she answered daringly, and thus she’s now known at every table as Christiane von Boolen. She’s introduced and addressed as Christiane von Boolen and has had no trouble getting used to the name, just as she’s gotten used to the room with the soft colors and polished furniture, the luxury and comfort of the hotel, the unquestioning matter-of-fact attitude toward money, and all the intoxication of desire, felt in so many ways. If someone who was in on it all suddenly addressed her as Fräulein Hoflehner, she’d wake up like a sleepwalker and tumble off the roof of her dream, so completely has the new name become a part of her, so passionately is she convinced that she’s another person, that other person.

  But haven’t these few days in fact already turned her into another person? Hasn’t the Alpine air actually pumped new blood into her veins, hasn’t the more plentiful and more luxurious food stirred it, fortified it? Undeniably Christiane von Boolen looks different now, younger, fresher than Postal Official Hoflehner, as different as Cinderella from her ugly stepsisters. The mountain sun has tanned her once-pale, slightly sallow skin as brown as an Indian’s; the muscles of her neck are tauter; her new clothes have given her a new walk, more casual, an easy stride with a sensual swing to the hips and a surge of self-confidence in every step. Frolicking about outside has done wonders to revitalize her, dancing has toned her, and her newly discovered vigor, the youth she’d forgotten was there, pushes her again and again to test her powers: her heart beats harder, she’s constantly aware of an effervescence, a ferment expanding and contracting inside her, an electric thrill sh
e senses to the tips of her fingers—a strange, strong, new pleasure. Suddenly it’s hard to sit still; she always has to be outside frisking about. She’s like a gusting wind, always busy, always driven by curiosity, now here, now there, indoors, outdoors, upstairs and downstairs. She never takes the stairs one step at a time, but always three at once, as though she might be missing something, always impelled by inner excitement. Her urge to play, her need to express affection and gratitude is so strong that her hands are always grabbing someone or something. Sometimes she has to spread her arms and look off into the distance to keep from laughing or crying out. Her youthful energy is a force field around her: anyone near her is immediately caught in the whirlpool of high spirits in which she moves. Conversations brighten when she takes part, always sunny and lighthearted, and not only her aunt and uncle but total strangers observe her uninhibited enthusiasm with pleasure. She hurtles into the hotel lobby like a stone through the window, the revolving door whirling behind her; she gives the little bellhop tugging at her sleeve a cheerful slap on the shoulder with her glove. Off with the hat and the sweater, it’s all oppressive and constraining. She carelessly fixes herself up at the mirror: the dress smoothed down, the tousled hair shaken back, and that’s it: still disheveled, her cheeks pink from the wind, she heads straight for one of the tables (she knows everyone now) to report on what she’s been doing. She always has something to report, she’s always just experienced something, it was always terrific, wonderful, indescribable, everything fills her with ardent enthusiasm; even a perfect stranger feels that here is a person full to bursting who can endure her excess of gratitude only by passing it along to someone else. She can’t see a dog without patting it, she lifts every child onto her lap to kiss its cheeks, she has a friendly word for every maid and waiter. If someone is grumpy or apathetic, she soon lifts his spirits with good-natured kidding; she admires every dress, every ring, every camera, every cigarette case, she picks up everything and gazes at it enthusiastically. She laughs at every joke, is enchanted by everything she eats, likes everyone she meets, finds every conversation amusing; everything, everything is wonderful in this singular, lofty realm. Her passionate goodwill is irresistible, everyone around her feels her ardor; the grouchy privy councillor in her armchair looks cheerful behind her lorgnette when she sees her, the desk clerk greets her with special friendliness, the starchy waiters adjust her chair attentively, and even the sterner older people are gladdened by so much joy and responsiveness. There’s some shaking of heads when she’s naïve or gushy, as she can be at times, but she encounters warm and welcoming faces on every side, and after three or four days everyone from Lord Elkins down to the last bellhop and elevator boy has decided that this Fräulein von Boolen is an enchanting creature, “a charming girl.” And she feels their looks of approbation and takes pleasure in being looked at, feels it as an intensification of her own existence and her daring to exist, and the affection that surrounds her makes her happier still.

  The man in the hotel who most clearly demonstrates a personal interest, a romantic inclination, is, unexpectedly, General Elkins. With the diffidence of age, the delicate and touching uncertainty of a man long past the perilous fifty-year mark, he’s been trying to find inconspicuous opportunities to get near her. Even Christine’s aunt notices that he’s dressing more brightly, more youthfully, is choosing more colorful ties. She may be wrong, but she even thinks his temples have become less white, evidently by artificial means. He’s been coming to Christine’s aunt’s table with noticeable frequency, finding all sorts of pretexts; every day he sends flowers to both women’s rooms (so as not to be too obvious); he’s been bringing Christine books, German ones bought specially for her, mostly about climbing the Matterhorn (just because she once happened to ask who was the first to brave it) and about Sven Hedin’s Tibetan expedition. One morning when a sudden cloudburst has kept everyone indoors, he sits with Christine in a corner of the lounge, showing her photographs—his house, his garden, his dogs. He lives in an odd tall castle, dating perhaps to Norman times, the round ivied towers making it look like a fort. The pictures of the inside show great halls with old-fashioned fireplaces, framed family portraits, model ships, and heavy atlases. It must be dreary living there alone during the winter, she thinks, and as if he’s guessed her thoughts, he says, pointing to a pair of hunting dogs in the photos, “If not for them I’d be completely alone.” This is his first allusion to the death of his wife and son. She shivers slightly as his eyes avoid hers self-consciously (he goes back to the photos immediately): Why is he telling me all this, showing me all this, why does he ask with such strange solicitude if I could be comfortable in an English house like that, is he trying to tell me, a rich, distinguished man like him … She doesn’t dare to finish the thought. She’s too inexperienced to realize that this lord, this general, who seems remote, far above her world, is waiting, with the faintheartedness of an older man who isn’t sure he’s still in the running and is terrified that he’s about to make a fool of himself in courtship, for any tiny sign, for some encouraging word. She’s afraid to believe in herself, so how could she understand? His hints both please and disturb her; she feels them as tokens of special sympathy but doesn’t dare to put too much stock in them, while he for his part struggles to find the right interpretation of her noncommittal embarrassment. She comes away quite moved from any time spent with him. Sometimes she thinks she sees romantic intentions in his shy sidelong glances, but then his brusque formality muddles things again (the old man has retreated abruptly, though she doesn’t realize that). This needs to be pondered. What does he want from me, can it be what it seems? This needs attention—calm consideration and clear thinking.

  But how could she think, when would she think? She has no time to herself. No sooner does she appear in the lounge than someone from the merry band is there to drag her along somewhere—on a drive or a photo excursion, to play games, chat, dance; there’s always a shout of welcome, and then it’s bedlam. The pageant of idle busyness goes on all day. There’s no end of games played, things to smoke, nibble on, laugh at, and she falls into the whirl without resistance when any of the young fellows shouts for Fräulein von Boolen, for how can she say no, and why would she, they’re all so warm, these fresh-faced guys and gals, young people of a sort she’s never known, always boisterous and carefree, always nicely dressed in new ways, always joking, always with money to spend, always thinking of new things to do; as soon as you sit down with them the gramophone starts up with music for dancing, or the car is there and five or six of them squeeze in and streak sixty, eighty, a hundred kilometers, so fast it pulls your hair. Or you loll in the bar with your legs crossed, nurse a cold drink, a cigarette in your mouth, casually, indolently lounging about without lifting a finger while listening to all sorts of delightful, funny stories, it’s all so easy to get used to and so wonderfully relaxing, and she drinks in this tonic air as if with new lungs. Sometimes it seems like sheet lightning in her blood, especially in the evening when she’s dancing or when one of the lithe young men presses close in the dark. Behind the companionship they have romance on their minds too, but it’s different, more open, bolder, more physical, a pursuit that sometimes frightens the inexperienced Christine when she feels a firm hand on her knee in a dark car or when strolls arm in arm take a more affectionate turn. But the other young women, the American and the Mannheim girl, good-humoredly put up with all of it, not bothering themselves beyond discouraging excessively daring fingers with a friendly slap. Why be prissy—yet it’s always well to keep in mind how the engineer starts up a little more relentlessly every time or the little American fellow tries to lure you gently toward the woods on hikes. She doesn’t go, but she feels a small new pride, aware of being desired, knowing now that her body, bare, warm, and untouched beneath her dress, is something men would like to breathe in, feel, stroke, enjoy. She senses some subtle narcotic within her, compounded of unknown alluring substances. Constantly courted by so many charming and elega
nt strange men, dizzy from being the center of such an intense circle of admirers, she shakes herself awake for a moment and wonders in bewilderment, “Who am I? Who am I really?”

  “Who am I? And what do they all see in me?” Day after day she asks herself this question, continually astonished. New and different attentions make themselves felt every day. The moment she wakes up, the maid comes into her room with flowers from Lord Elkins. Yesterday her aunt gave her a leather handbag and a charming little gold wristwatch. The newcomers, the Trenkwitzes from Silesia, have invited her to their estate; the little American quietly slipped a small gold pocket lighter that she’d admired into her leather handbag. The little Mannheim girl is warmer than her own sister, bringing chocolates up to her room in the evening and chatting with her until midnight. Christine is almost the only one the engineer dances with, and every day there’s a swirl of new people, all of them pleasant and respectful and warm. The minute she comes down or comes in, someone’s there to ask her on a drive, to the bar, to go dancing, on some escapade, she’s never alone for a moment, never has a boring empty hour. And continually she asks herself in bewilderment, “Who am I? For years people on the street walked past without a glance, for years I’ve been sitting there in the village and no one gave me anything or bothered about me. Is it because the people there are all so poor, their poverty makes them tired and mistrustful, or is there suddenly something in me that was always there and yet not there, something that just couldn’t get out? Can it be that I was actually prettier than I dared to be, and smarter and more attractive, but didn’t have the courage to believe it? Who am I, who am I really?” She asks herself this question in the brief moments when they leave her alone, and something strange happens that she herself is unable to understand: confidence turns into insecurity again. In the first few days she was just bewildered and surprised that all these distinguished, elegant, charming strangers had accepted her as one of their own. But now that she feels she’s been particularly well received, now that, more than the others, more than the strawberry blond American who’s so fabulously dressed, more than the amusing, high-spirited, sparklingly clever Mannheim girl, she is exciting the interest, the curiosity, the eagerness of all these men, she’s troubled again. “What do they want from me?” she asks herself, and in their presence becomes even more troubled. It’s so strange with these young men. At home she never paid any attention to men and never felt troubled in their presence; among those provincials, with a stolidity that only beer could take the edge off, with their gross clumsy hands, their crude jokes rapidly turning vulgar, and their blatant forwardness, sensual thoughts never crossed her mind. When one of them, lurching out of the tavern, made a suggestive noise, or someone at work would try to sweet-talk her, she felt nothing but disgust: they were animals. But these young men here, their hands manicured, always meticulously shaven, so suave that the most risqué remarks seem casual and amusing, who can put a caress into even the most fleeting touch, they sometimes arouse her interest, yet trouble her in a way that’s quite new. Her own laughter sounds strange to her—she realizes she’s backing off anxiously. She feels somehow uneasy in this company; it seems so friendly, yet she has a feeling of danger. Particularly with someone like the engineer, who is unabashedly putting himself forward and making a play for her, sometimes the atmosphere of sensuality makes her feel slightly dizzy.