by Stefan Zweig
He was right, good old Josef. I had actually never been up to the terrace at the top of the tower, although the curious and somewhat mysterious building had frequently aroused my interest. Originally, as I have said, the turret of a Schloss that had long since fallen into ruins or been pulled down (even the girls did not know its exact history), the ponderous square tower had stood empty for years and now served as a store-room. As a child Edith had often, to the consternation of her parents, clambered up the somewhat rickety ladders to the attic at the top, where bats flapped sleepily about amongst piles of old lumber and one’s every step on the old mouldering floor-boards sent dust and dirt flying up in thick clouds. But it was because of its very mysteriousness, its uselessness, that the odd, imaginative child had specially selected this abandoned loft, the grimy windows of which offered an uninterrupted view of the distant countryside, as a hiding-place and play-room. When, however, she had been struck down by illness and could no longer hope ever again to climb up to the romantic lumber-rooms — her legs at first being completely paralysed — she had felt as though she had been robbed of some precious treasure. And her father would often see her gazing up at that beloved and now suddenly lost paradise of her childhood.
In order to give her a surprise, Kekesfalva took advantage of the three months which Edith spent at a German sanatorium to commission a Viennese architect to reconstruct the old tower and to build a spacious terrace at the top; and by the autumn, when she was brought back because there had been no marked improvement in her condition, the lofty tower had been provided with a lift which was as roomy as that in a sanatorium, and enabled the child to be taken up to her beloved watch-tower in her invalid chair whenever she liked. Thus the world of her childhood was unexpectedly restored to her.
The architect, it is true, who had had to carry out the work in a hurry, had paid less attention to purity of style than to technical convenience; the bare cubic structure which he had clapped on to the rugged square tower, would, with its straight, geometrical lines, have been more in keeping with a harbour or a power-station than with the comfortable florid Baroque curves of the little Schloss, which must surely have dated back to the time of Maria Theresa. But in essence it fulfilled Kekesfalva’s hopes. Edith, it transpired, was completely entranced by the terrace, which in such unhoped-for fashion delivered her from the confinement and monotony of her sick-room. From this, her very own, tower she could survey through her binoculars the vast expanse of flat countryside, watch all that went on in the neighbourhood, sowing and reaping, work and play. After her long period of seclusion she was once more linked with the world; she would gaze out hour after hour from her tower at the toy of a railway which, with its little wisps of smoke, wound its way through the countryside; no vehicle on the high-road escaped her idle curiosity, and, as I learned later on, she had followed many of our rides, manœuvres and parades with her telescope. Out of a curious feeling of jealousy, however, she kept this remote belvedere of hers, her private world, hidden from the eyes of all visitors to the house, and I realized from the impulsive enthusiasm of the faithful Josef that he considered the invitation to visit this usually inaccessible retreat a mark of special favour.
He suggested taking me up in the lift, and I could see how proud he was at being entrusted with the sole control of this expensive conveyance. But when he told me that a spiral staircase, lit on every floor by stone windows, also led up to the terrace, I refused his offer, picturing to myself how delightful it must be to see, as one climbed from landing to landing, wider and wider stretches of countryside opening out before one’s eyes. And each of the small unglazed apertures did indeed offer a fresh and ever more enchanting view. A wind-still, transparently hot day hung like a golden web over the summery countryside. The smoke curled above the chimney-tops of the scattered houses and farmsteads in almost motionless rings; I could see — every contour seemed to be cut out of the steel-blue sky as though with a sharp knife — the peasants’ thatched cottages with the inevitable storks’ nest on the eaves, and the duck-ponds in front of the barns, which gleamed like polished metal. And in amongst it all, in the wax-coloured fields, tiny Lilliputian figures, dappled cows grazing, women weeding and washing, lumbering ox-drawn wagons, and little carts scurrying hither and thither among the neat checker-board of fields. When, after climbing the ninety-odd steps, I reached the top, my eyes were able to roam at will over the whole vast sweep of the Hungarian plain to where a thin streak, probably the Carpathians, gleamed blue on the far-off, hazy horizon, and to my left shone out, neat and compact, our little town with its globular church tower. With the naked eye I could recognize our barracks, the town hall, the school, the paradeground; and for the first time since my transfer to this garrison I became aware of the unassuming charm of this out-of-the-way corner of the world.
But it was impossible for me to yield myself up in tranquillity to this friendly vista, for the moment I reached the flat terrace I had to prepare myself to confront the invalid. At first I could see no trace of her; the wicker chaise-longue in which she was resting had its broad back turned towards me, and like some brightly coloured shell, completely concealed the slender form. The table beside it, on which stood a pile of books and an open gramophone, was all that revealed her presence. I hesitated to approach her from behind; if she were resting or dreaming she might perhaps be startled. I therefore walked right round the terrace so as to come upon her face to face. But as I crept circumspectly round to the front I noticed that she was asleep. Her slender body had been carefully tucked up, a soft rug wrapped round her feet, and on a white pillow rested, a little to one side, and framed in light auburn hair, her childish, oval face, to which the now sinking sun lent an amber-golden glow of health.
Involuntarily I paused and utilized this moment of hesitancy to survey the sleeping girl as though she were a picture. During all the time we had spent together I had never actually had an opportunity of looking straight at her, for, like all sensitive and hyper-sensitive people, she put up an unconscious resistance to letting herself be observed. Even if, when one was talking to her, one’s gaze rested on her merely by accident, the little angry furrow would appear between her brows, her eyelids would flutter, her lips twitch; not for an instant was it possible to catch a glimpse of her profile in repose. But now, as she lay there with closed eyes, I could scrutinize at my leisure (and I felt as though I were committing an impropriety, a rape almost) the somewhat angular and, so to speak, as yet unfinished features, in which the childish was mingled in the most fascinating way with the womanly and the frail. The lips, slightly parted as though she were thirsty, breathed gently, but even this tiny effort caused her thin, childish breast to rise and fall, and, as though exhausted, drained of blood, the pale face, nestling in the auburn hair, sank back on the pillow. I stole cautiously nearer. The shadows under the eyes, the blue veins on the temples, the reddish transparency of the nostrils, revealed what a thin and colourless outer shell it was that protected the alabaster-pale flesh from the outside world. How sensitive must one be, I thought to myself, for one’s nerves to throb so close beneath the surface, to be so exposed; how immeasurably must one suffer if one had such an airily light, elfin body, which seemed made to soar, to dance, to float, and were yet cruelly chained to the heavy, solid earth! Poor, fettered creature! Once again I felt that hot welling up of emotion within me, that painful, exhausting and yet wildly exciting gush of pity which overwhelmed me whenever I thought of the unfortunate creature. My hand trembled and I yearned to stroke her arm tenderly, to bend over her and to pluck a smile, so to speak, from her lips the moment she awoke and recognized me. A craving to display tenderness, an emotion that was inevitably mingled with my pity whenever I thought of her or looked at her, urged me to draw nearer to her. But I must not disturb this sleep, which kept her from herself, from the dread reality of her existence! It is a most wonderful thing to be close, to be near to the sick during their sleep, when all their feverish thoughts are held captive, when they a
re so completely oblivious of their infirmity that sometimes a smile lights upon their parted lips as a butterfly upon a delicate leaf, a smile foreign to them, a smile which does not belong to them, and which, moreover, is scared away on the very moment of awaking. What a mercy, I thought, that the crippled, the maimed, those whom Fate has cheated, at least in sleep have no knowledge of the shapeliness or unshapeliness of their bodies, that there at least that kindly deceiver, the dream, reveals their form to them as a thing of beauty and symmetry, that at least in the nebulous world of slumber the sufferer can escape the curse to which he is physically chained! What moved me most at this moment, however, were the hands which lay crossed on the coverlet, the dimly-veined, outstretched hands with their fragile, slender knuckles and tapering bluish nails — tender, bloodless, powerless hands, just strong enough, perhaps, to stroke little creatures, such as doves and rabbits, but too weak to clutch, to grasp anything. How is it possible, I thought with dismay, to beat off suffering with such feeble hands? How struggle against, seize, hold anything? And it almost repelled me to think of my own hands, those firm, heavy, muscular, strong hands which could control the most refractory horse with a tug at the reins. Involuntarily I found my gaze now resting on the rug, which lay, shaggy and heavy, far too heavy for this airy, insubstantial creature, across the thin knees. Beneath this opaque covering the impotent legs — I did not know whether they were smashed, crippled or merely atrophied, and I had never had the courage to ask — lay lifeless, stretched taut in that steel or leather contraption. I remembered how at each step the cruel apparatus hung like a dead weight on the crippled limbs, how she was condemned to drag the repulsive, clattering, grinding things for ever along with her — she so tender, so delicate, she of all people, she to whom one felt that floating and leaping and soaring aloft would come more naturally even than walking.
I could not suppress a shudder at the thought, and so violent was the tremor that ran through my frame that my spurs jingled. It must have been an infinitesimally small, scarcely audible sound, this silvery jingle, but it seemed to penetrate the thin veil of her sleep.
She still did not open her eyes as she drew a long, uneasy breath, but her hands began to stir; gradually they unclasped, the fingers stretched, tautened themselves, as though awaking with a yawn. Then her lids fluttered tentatively and her eyes groped about her in surprise.
Suddenly her gaze fell upon me and became set in a fixed stare; the message had not yet been transmitted from the purely optical field to the sphere of conscious thought and memory. But then with a start she was wide awake, she had recognized me, and the blood gushed crimson to her cheeks. Once again it was as though red wine had been poured into a crystal glass.
‘How stupid of me!’ she said with a frown. She clutched nervously at the rug which had fallen off her knees, and drew it closer to her as though I had surprised her in a state of nudity. ‘How stupid of me! I must have dozed off for a moment.’ And her nostrils began — how well I knew the signs of the oncoming storm! — to twitch. She looked at me challengingly.
‘Why didn’t you wake me straight away?’ she asked. ‘You shouldn’t stare at a person who’s asleep. It’s not done. People always look ridiculous when they’re asleep.’
Thoroughly upset at having annoyed her by my considerateness, I tried to save the situation by making a feeble joke. ‘Better to be ridiculous when asleep,’ I said, ‘than ridiculous when awake.’
But by now she had levered herself up by both elbows. The furrows between her brows deepened, and her lips began to quiver and tremble ominously. She gave me a sharp, searching look.
‘Why didn’t you come yesterday?’
This attack was too sudden for me to be ready with an answer, and before I had time to reply she went on inquisitorially:
‘Surely you must have had some special reason for letting us sit and wait for you? Otherwise you would at least have rung up.’
Idiot that I was not to have foreseen this question and had my answer pat! I fidgeted from one foot to the other and stammered out the hoary old excuse about our having suddenly had an inspection of remounts. I had hoped to slip away by five o’clock, but unfortunately the Colonel had wanted to put one more horse through its paces, and so on and so on.
Her gaze, grey, severe and sharp, rested on me. The more I beat about the bush, the more impatient she became. I could see her fingers drumming on the arm of the chair.
‘I see,’ she finally said in cold, hard tones. ‘And how did this touching story of the inspection end? Did the Colonel buy the horse after all?’
I realized that I had got myself into a deuce of a hole. She hit the table once, twice, thrice with her glove as though to work off the nervous tension in her fingers. Then she looked up menacingly.
‘Let’s have an end of all these ridiculous lies! Not a word of what you’ve been telling me is true. How dare you try and fob me off with a lot of nonsense!’
The glove beat more and more violently on the table. Then she hurled it resolutely away from her in a wide arc.
‘It’s all a lot of twaddle! All of it! You were not in the riding-school, there was no inspection of remounts. At half-past four you were sitting in the café, and to the best of my knowledge that’s not the sort of place where horses are broken in. Don’t try to fool me. Our chauffeur happened to see you playing cards on the stroke of six.’
I was still tongue-tied. But she was suddenly off on a new tack.
‘And incidentally, what need is there for me to beat about the bush with you, either? Am I, simply because you tell me an untruth, to play hide-and-seek with you? I’m not afraid to tell the truth. Well, then, you may as well know — it was not by chance that our chauffeur saw you in the café; I sent him into town on purpose to inquire what had become of you. I thought perhaps you were ill or that something had happened to you, because you didn’t even telephone and ... oh, for all I care you’re at liberty to think I’m hysterical!... I can’t stand being kept waiting... I simply can’t stand it... and that’s why I sent our chauffeur. But they told him at the barracks that the Herr Leutnant was perfectly all right and was enjoying a game of tarock at the café, and then I asked Ilona to go and find out why you were treating us with such scant courtesy ... to find out whether I had offended you yesterday ... I sometimes let myself go in a really quite irresponsible way... There, you see — I’m not ashamed to admit all this to you... whereas you trot out all these piffling excuses! Don’t you feel yourself how paltry it is to tell such wretched lies?’
I was about to answer — I believe I should even have had the courage to tell her the whole wretched story of Ferencz and Jozsi — but she went on impetuously:
‘No more trumped-up stories, please — no fresh lies, I can’t do with any more. I’m stuffed up with lies till I’m absolutely sick. They’re dished up to me from morning to night. “How well you’re looking today, how splendidly you’re walking today ... really you’re much, much better!” — that’s how they try and drug me day in, day out, and no one seems to realize that I’m being suffocated. Why don’t you tell me straight out that you had no time to come yesterday, and no inclination either? We haven’t taken out a subscription in your company, and nothing would have pleased me better than if you had rung up and left a message to say you were not coming, but were going out on the spree somewhere with your friends. Do you think I’m so silly that I can’t understand your sometimes getting fed up with playing the Good Samaritan here day after day, can’t realize that a grown man would rather go for a ride or take his sound legs for a walk than sit about by an invalid’s chair? There’s only one thing that disgusts me, one thing I can’t stand, and that is excuses, humbug, lies — I’m fed to the teeth with them. I’m not so stupid as you all think, and I can stand quite a lot of frankness. A few days ago we engaged a new charwoman in place of the old one who had died, and the very first day she was here, before she had talked to anyone — she saw me being helped across to an arm-chair on my crutches.
She dropped her scrubbing brush in horror and screamed out: “Lord Jesus, such a rich, distinguished young lady ... being a cripple!” Ilona went for the poor, honest creature like a wild thing; she was going to dismiss her and throw her out on the spot. But I, I liked it, the woman’s horror did me good, because, after all, it is honest, it is human, to be horrified at seeing such a sight all of a sudden. I promptly gave her ten crowns and she went off to the church to pray for me. The whole day I felt glad, yes, positively glad, at knowing at last what others really feel when they see me for the first time ... But you, all of you, you always think you’ve got to spare my feelings with your false sense of delicacy, and you fancy you’re being kind to me with your beastly consideration ... But do you think I haven’t eyes in my head? Do you think I can’t detect behind your chatter, your stuttering and stammering, the same horror and discomfiture as was felt by that good woman, that one honest person? Do you imagine I don’t see your embarrassed, dismayed looks when I pick up my crutches, don’t see how you hurriedly make conversation so that I shan’t notice? Just as though I didn’t know you all through and through, you and your Valerian drops and sugar, sugar and Valerian drops, that utterly disgusting muck! I know perfectly well that you heave a sigh of relief when you’ve shut the door behind you and left me lying there like a corpse ... I know perfectly well how you turn up your eyes and sigh, “The poor child!” And all the time you’re so jolly pleased with yourselves for having given up one or two hours to cosseting the “poor invalid”. But I don’t want your sacrifices. I don’t want you to feel you have to dole out your daily dose of pity — I don’t care two straws for you all and your precious pity — once and for all, I tell you, I can do without your pity. If you want to come here, then for heaven’s sake come, and if you don’t, well then don’t, but for God’s sake be frank and let us have no more of your stories about remounts and trying out new horses! I cannot ... I cannot stand these lies and your revolting indulgence any longer.’
