by Stefan Zweig
It all began with that sudden pull at the reins, which was, so to speak, the first symptom of the strange poisoning of my spirit by pity. At first I felt only dimly — just as one does when one is ill and wakes up light-headed — that something had happened, or was happening, to me. Hitherto, in my circumscribed life, I had simply lived for the day. I had bothered only about what my friends, my superiors, found amusing or important, but I had never taken a personal interest in anything, nor had anyone in me. Never yet had anything actually moved me profoundly. My family affairs were settled for me, my profession, my career was mapped out and defined, and this freedom from responsibility — only now did I realize it — had, without my knowing it, been very agreeable. And now suddenly something had happened in me, to me — nothing that was apparent on the surface, nothing that had any appearance of being real. And yet that one angry look, that moment when I had perceived in the eyes of a crippled girl hitherto undreamed-of depths of human suffering, had rent something asunder within me, and I now felt a sudden warmth streaming through my being, precipitating that mysterious fever that was, and continued to be, as inexplicable to me as an illness always is to the sufferer. I realized that I had stepped outside the fixed circle of the conventions within which I had hitherto lived securely and had entered a new sphere, which, like all that is novel, was at once exciting and disquieting: for the first time I saw an emotional abyss opening out before me, to survey which, to hurl myself down into which, seemed in some inexplicable way alluring. But at the same time an instinct warned me against yielding to such wanton curiosity, and said, ‘Enough! You have made your apologies. You have cleared up the whole silly business.’ But, ‘Go and see her once more,’ another voice whispered within me. ‘Feel that shudder run down your spine once more, that trickle of fear and expectation.’ And, ‘Keep away,’ came the warning again. ‘Don’t force your company on her, don’t intrude on her. These extravagant emotions will be too much for you, simpleton that you are, and you’ll make an even worse fool of yourself than the first time.’
Surprisingly enough, the decision was taken from me, for three days later I found a letter from Kekesfalva lying on my table, asking me whether I would care to dine with them on Sunday. Only men were to be present this time, among them Lieutenant-Colonel von F. from the War Ministry, of whom he had spoken to me, and, of course, his daughter and Ilona would be particularly pleased to see me. I am not ashamed to admit that this invitation made me, if anything a shy and retiring young man, very proud. They had not forgotten me, then, and the remark that Lieutenant-Colonel von F. was coming seemed, moreover, to indicate that Kekesfalva (I realized at once that it was out of a feeling of gratitude) was discreetly trying to secure influential friends for me.
And indeed I had no need to repent of having instantly accepted the invitation. The evening turned out to be a really pleasant one, and I, a mere subaltern, about whom nobody in the regiment bothered very much, was conscious of encountering quite unusual cordiality on the part of these elderly and distinguished gentlemen; evidently Kekesfalva had gone out of his way to draw their attention to me. For the first time in my life I was treated by a superior officer of high rank without any trace of condescension. Lieutenant-Colonel von F. inquired whether I was happy in my regiment and what were my prospects of promotion. He told me not to hesitate to call on him if I went to Vienna or needed his help at any time. The notary, a bald-headed, cheerful man with a good-natured, beaming moon of a face, invited me to his house; the director of the sugar-factory repeatedly addressed his conversation to me — and what different conversation it was from that in our mess, where I was obliged to endorse every opinion expressed by a superior officer with a ‘Just so, sir!’ Far sooner than I had expected an agreeable feeling of self-assurance stole over me, and in half an hour’s time I was joining without constraint in the conversation.
Once again dishes were served that I had known hitherto only from hearsay or the boasting of well-to-do fellow-officers: caviare, icy-cold and delicious, which I tasted for the first time, venison pasty and pheasant, and, one after another, those wines that so pleasantly titillated the senses. I know it is stupid to let oneself be impressed by such things. But — why deny it? — it was with positively childish vanity that I, an insignificant young greenhorn, enjoyed dining in such Lucullan fashion with these eminent elderly gentlemen. Good lord, I kept thinking, good lord, Vavrushka should be here to see all this, and that lousy fellow who’s always been bragging to us about the princely meals he and his friends have had at Sacher’s in Vienna! They should jolly well come to a house like this for once, and then they’d open their eyes and mouths wide! Yes, if only they could see me sitting here so cheerily, the beastly dogs in the manger, could see the Lieutenant-Colonel from the War Ministry drinking my health, could see me deep in a friendly discussion with the director of the sugar-factory, and could hear him remark quite seriously, ‘I say, how well-informed you are!’
Black coffee was served in the drawing room, brandy made its bow in huge, big-bellied ice-cold glasses, accompanied by a whole kaleidoscope of liqueurs, and those marvellous fat cigars, of course, with the imposing bands. In the midst of the conversation Kekesfalva bent over me to ask whether I would prefer to join the gentlemen at cards or to stay and chat with the ladies. The latter, of course, I declared with alacrity, for I should not have felt altogether easy at risking a rubber with a Lieutenant-Colonel from the War Ministry. If I won, I might perhaps annoy him; if I lost, then goodbye to my month’s allowance. And then, too, I remembered that I had only twenty crowns on me.
And so, while the card-table was being put out in the adjoining room, I sat down by the two girls, and oddly enough — was it the wine or my own good spirits that cast a glamour over everything? — they both of them seemed to me today to be looking uncommonly pretty. Edith did not look so pale, so sallow, so sickly as when I had last seen her. Had she put on some rouge in honour of her guests, or was it really the general animation that had brought a flush to her cheeks? At any rate, there was no sign of the drawn, tremulous line round her lips or the petulant twitching of her brows. There she sat in a long pink gown; no rug, no coverlet concealed her infirmity, and yet I and the rest of the company were in too good a mood to think of ‘it’. As for Ilona, I even had a faint suspicion that she was slightly tipsy, so brightly did her eyes twinkle, and when, with a smile, she threw back her lovely rounded shoulders, I positively had to draw back to withstand the temptation of touching her bare arms as though by accident.
After so excellent a dinner, with a brandy at the back of my throat sending glorious warmth throughout my body, a fat cigar in my mouth, its smoke tickling my nose deliciously, and two pretty, vivacious girls beside me, I should have been the dullest of clods had I found any difficulty in chatting away gaily. I know that I am usually a good conversationalist, except when inhibited by my confounded shyness. But this time I was somehow or other in tip-top form, and I chattered away with real animation. Of course, they were only silly little stories that I regaled them with: the latest happenings in barracks, the story, for instance, of how, the week before, the Colonel, wishing to send off an express letter in time to catch the mail to Vienna, had sent for an Uhlan, a regular Ruthenian peasant lad, and impressed on him that the letter must go off to Vienna at once, whereupon the dolt had dashed off post-haste to the stables, saddled his horse and galloped off along the high-road to Vienna! If we hadn’t rung up the next garrison and let them know, the silly ass would actually have done the whole eighteen hours’ ride to Vienna. Lord knows I didn’t bore them and myself with a lot of profound and clever stuff, I really only retailed the most humdrum stories, barrack-room yarns and so forth, but to my infinite astonishment, I amused the two girls no end, and they never stopped laughing for a moment. Edith’s laugh sounded particularly exuberant with its high, silvery note and occasional shrill treble, but her gaiety must quite genuinely have come from within, for the skin of her thin cheeks, transparent and delicate as po
rcelain, took on a warmer and warmer hue; a flush of health, of positive prettiness, lit up her face, and her grey eyes, as a rule somewhat steely and hard, sparkled with childish delight. It was good to look at her when she forgot her fettered body, for at such moments her movements became more and more relaxed, her gestures more natural; she leaned back at her ease, she laughed, drank, drew Ilona down to her and put her arm round her shoulders. There was no denying that they both enjoyed my sallies famously. It is always encouraging for a talker to find that he is being a success, and a whole string of stories that I had long since forgotten came back to me. Usually shy and embarrassed, I now discovered in myself a boldness quite new to me; I made them laugh and laughed with them. The three of us giggled together in the corner like school-children.
And yet, whilst I was joking and laughing away like this, seemingly entirely absorbed in our jolly little group, I was all the time half unconsciously, half consciously, aware that I was being watched by a pair of eyes. A pair of eyes that was gazing at me from over a pair of spectacles, from the card-table, and the look in those eyes was a warm happy look which increased my own feeling of happiness. Stealthily, for I imagine he felt ashamed in the presence of the others, the old man peered across at us from time to time over his cards, and once, when I caught his eye, he gave me an intimate, friendly nod. At that moment his face shone with the radiant intentness of one listening to music.
And so it went on, with never a pause in our chatter, until nearly midnight, when further delectable refreshments were served, drinks and heavenly sandwiches. And, strange to say, I was not the only one who fell to with a will. The two girls also helped themselves liberally, they too drank freely of the lovely, heavy, dark, old English port. But at last the time came to say farewell. Edith and Ilona shook me by the hand as though I were an old friend, a dear, trusted comrade. Of course I had to promise them to come again soon, the next day or the day after. We were all to be taken home in the car, and I went out into the hall with the three men. The butler was helping the Lieutenant-Colonel on with his things, and I was getting my own coat, when suddenly I felt someone trying to assist me into it. It was Herr von Kekesfalva, and in my bewilderment (for how could I, a mere youngster, let myself be waited on by the old gentleman!), I mutely protested. ‘Herr Leutnant,’ he whispered in shy, urgent tones in my ear. ‘Oh, Herr Leutnant! You don’t know, you can’t imagine, how happy it has made me to hear the child really laugh again. She gets so little pleasure in life. And today she was just as she used to be before ...’
At this moment the Lieutenant-Colonel joined us. ‘Well, are we going?’ he smiled at me kindly. Of course Kekesfalva did not venture to go on talking in front of him, but suddenly I could feel the old man stroking my sleeve, very, very gently and shyly, as one might caress a child or a woman. There was infinite tenderness, infinite gratitude in the very reserve and reticence of his shy gesture. I felt that it conveyed so much happiness and so much despair that once again I was quite overcome, and as, with respectful bearing befitting a subaltern, I walked down the three steps to the car with the Lieutenant-Colonel, I had to pull myself together so that no one should remark my emotion.
I could not go to sleep at once that night; I was too agitated. Insignificant as the reason for this might appear objectively, for all that had happened, after all, was that an old man had tenderly stroked my sleeve, that one restrained gesture of heart-felt gratitude had sufficed to cause some emotional spring deep down within me to well up and overflow. There had been in that tentative caress a tenderness of such chaste and passionate ardour as I had never yet encountered even in a woman. For the first time in my life I had received an assurance that I had been of use to someone on this earth, and my astonishment at the thought that I, a commonplace, unsophisticated young officer, should really have the power to make someone else so happy knew no bounds. I ought perhaps, in order to explain the intoxication that lay for me in this sudden discovery, to stress the fact that nothing had so weighed on me from childhood up as the conviction that I was an utterly superfluous individual, uninteresting to other people and at most an object of indifference. As a cadet at the military academy I had never been more than an average, a completely unimpressive scholar, I had never been one of the specially popular, specially favoured ones, and it had been just the same later on in the regiment. I was profoundly convinced that were I suddenly to disappear, to fall from my horse, let us say, and break my neck, my fellow-officers would no doubt remark ‘Pity about him,’ or ‘Poor Hofmiller!’ but in a month’s time no one would really miss me. Another man would be put in my place, would be given my mount, and that others would perform my duties just as well or just as badly as I myself. And just as I had fared with my fellow-officers, so had I fared with the few girls with whom I had had liaisons in the two garrison towns in which I had been stationed: at Jaroslav a dentist’s receptionist, at Wiener Neustadt a little sempstress. Anna and I had gone out together; I had taken her to my room on her free day, and given her a little coral necklace on her birthday; we had exchanged the usual tender phrases, and no doubt been sincere. Nevertheless, when I had been transferred, we had both rapidly found consolation elsewhere. For the first three months we had exchanged the usual letters and then had both formed fresh attachments; the only difference in her case being that in moments of tenderness she had called the other man ‘Ferdl’ instead of ‘Toni’. All over and done with, forgotten, but never hitherto had I, a young man of twenty-five, been carried away by an intense, passionate emotion, and I myself had expected and demanded no more of life than to be able to perform my duties decently and correctly and in no way to create a bad impression.
But now, however, the unexpected had happened, and I surveyed myself with amazement and startled curiosity. What was this? Could it be that an ordinary young fellow like me had power over other people? That I, who had not fifty crowns to call my own, was able to give a rich man more happiness than all his friends? That I, Lieutenant Hofmiller, could be of help to someone, a comfort to someone? That if I went and spent an afternoon chatting to a lame, tormented girl, her eyes brightened, new life came into her cheeks, and a household that was overcast with gloom was flooded with light because of my presence?
In my excitement I walked so rapidly through the dark streets that I grew quite warm. My heart swelled so within me that I felt like tearing open my coat. For a fresh, a second surprise, emerging out of the first, forced itself on my consciousness: the surprising discovery, which was even more intoxicating, that it had been so easy, so incredibly easy, to gain friendship of these strangers. What was it I had done, after all? I had merely shown a little sympathy, had spent two evenings, two delightful, jolly, exhilarating evenings, at the house — and that had been enough! How stupid, then, to idle away one’s leisure time day after day at the café, playing boring games of cards with dull-witted companions, or strolling up and down the promenade! No, from now on no more of this torpid existence, this beastly lounging about! And so, as I strode more and more rapidly through the soft night, I, a young man suddenly awakened to life, resolved with real fervour that from now on I would change my way of life. I would go less often to the café, would give up playing billiards and that wretched tarock, would have done once and for all with all those efforts to kill time that were of no earthly use to anyone and only blunted my own intelligence. Instead, I said to myself, I shall go often to see that poor sick girl, shall even take the trouble to see that I always have something diverting or agreeable to tell the two of them; we’ll play chess together or pass the time in some other pleasant way. The very resolve to help and from now on to be of use to others inspired me with a kind of enthusiasm. In my elation I felt like singing, like doing something quite crazy. It is never until one realizes that one means something to others that one feels there is any point or purpose in one’s own existence.
This was how it came about that during the next few weeks I spent the latter part of the afternoons, and as a rule the evenings as we
ll, at the Kekesfalvas’. Very soon these friendly chats became a habit and, what is more, a form of indulgence that was not without its dangers. What a temptation for a young man who from childhood up had been buffeted about from one military institution to another unexpectedly to find a home, a home after his heart, instead of bleak barrack-rooms and smoke-filled mess-rooms! When, at half-past four or five, my duties finished, I strolled out there, my hand would no sooner lift the knocker than Josef would delightedly throw open the door as though he had seen me coming through a magic spy-hole. In all sorts of delightful, obvious ways I was made to realize that I was regarded as one of the family. Every one of my little weaknesses and predilections was anticipated and encouraged; my favourite brand of cigarettes was always laid out ready for me, the book that on my last visit I had happened to say I should like to read I would find lying, as though by chance, the pages carefully cut, on the little stool; one particular arm-chair opposite Edith’s chaise-longue was regarded incontestably as ‘my’ chair — trifles, mere nothings, all these, to be sure, but such things as imperceptibly cast a homely warmth over a strange room and, without one’s being aware of it, cheer and lighten the spirit. There I would sit, feeling more at ease than ever I did among my comrades, chatting and joking away as the mood took me, realizing for the first time that any form of constraint fetters the true forces of the spirit and that the real measure of a man is only revealed when he feels entirely at his ease.
