Beware of Pity

by Stefan Zweig

  At length, because he thought he was hungry, he went into a café, and ordered something to eat. But every bite revolted him. I shall sell Kekesfalva, he brooded, sell it again straight away. What am I to do with an estate, I’m not a farmer? Am I, alone as I am, to live in a house of eighteen rooms and haggle with a lot of scoundrelly tenants? It was utterly stupid, I should have bought it for the mortgage bank, and not in my own name ... Suppose she finds out, after all, that I was the purchaser? And besides, I shan’t make a great deal out of it. If she’s willing, I’ll give it back to her, keeping only twenty or even ten per cent for myself. She can have it back any time she likes, if she repents of having sold it.

  This idea took a weight off his mind. I’ll write to her tomorrow, he thought, or, as far as that goes, I can even tell her tomorrow morning before she leaves. Yes, that was the right thing: to give her of his own free will an option on the repurchase. And now he thought he would be able to sleep in peace. But despite the two ghastly nights he had already had, Kanitz slept fitfully and uneasily on this night also. The cadence of that ‘very’, that ‘thank you very much’, kept ringing in his ears; North German, outlandish as were her accents, they were yet so vibrant with sincerity that his very nerves tingled at the thought of them. No transaction in the last twenty-five years had occasioned our friend so much worry as this, the greatest, the luckiest, the most unscrupulous coup of his career.

  By half-past seven Kanitz was already up and out in the street. He knew that the express via Passau left at nine-twenty, and he wanted to be in time to buy Fräulein Dietzenhof some chocolates or a box of bonbons. He felt impelled to make some gesture of recognition, and perhaps, too, he yearned to hear once again those words, so novel to him, ‘thank you very much’, uttered in those moving, outlandish accents. He bought a huge box of chocolates, the finest, the most expensive he could find. Even this did not seem to him fine enough as a parting present, and so he bought some flowers as well in the next shop — a great cluster of glowing red blooms. Both hands laden with his parcels, he returned to the hotel, and asked the porter to send them straight up to Fräulein Dietzenhof’s room. But the porter, immediately ennobling him, as is the Viennese way, answered obsequiously: ‘Bittschön, bittsehr, Herr von Kanitz, the gnädiges Fräulein is already in the breakfast-room.’

  Kanitz reflected for a moment. His leave-taking of Fräulein Dietzenhof yesterday had been such a moving experience that he was afraid lest a fresh meeting might destroy his pleasant memory of it. At length he made up his mind, and, the box of chocolates in one hand and the flowers in the other, he entered the breakfast-room.

  She was sitting with her back to him. Even though he could not see her face, there was something so touching about the unassuming, quiet way in which she sat there that in spite of himself he was deeply moved. Shyly he went up to her and hurriedly put down the flowers and the box of chocolates. ‘A little something for the journey,’ he said.

  She started and flushed scarlet. It was the first time anyone had given her flowers. That is to say, one of the legacy-hunters had, it is true, once sent a few wispy roses up to her room in the hope of winning her over as an ally, but that rampant monster the Princess had immediately ordered her to send them back. And now here was someone bringing her flowers, and there was no one to forbid her to accept them!

  ‘Oh, no,’ she stammered, ‘why should you do this? They’re far ... far too lovely for me.’

  She nevertheless gazed up at him gratefully. Was it the reflection of the flowers or the blood surging to her cheeks? — at any rate a pink glow once more suffused her embarrassed features, and she looked almost lovely at this moment, this girl who had left the first bloom of youth behind.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said in her confusion, and Kanitz sat down awkwardly opposite her.

  ‘So you’re really going away?’ he said, and in spite of himself his voice quivered with a note of genuine regret.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, lowering her head. There was no joy in this ‘Yes’, but no distress either. No hope and no disappointment. It was uttered in a tone of quiet resignation, without any particular emphasis.

  In his embarrassment, and out of a desire to be of service to her, Kanitz inquired whether she had sent a telegram to announce her arrival. No, oh no, that would only frighten her people, they never got a telegram from one year’s end to another. But surely they were near relatives? asked Kanitz. Near relatives — no, by no means. A kind of niece, the daughter of her late step-sister; the husband she did not know at all. They had a small farm, with an apiary, and they had written very kindly to say she could have a room there and stay as long as it suited her.

  ‘But whatever are you going to do there, in that little out-of-the-way place?’ asked Kanitz.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered with lowered eyes.

  Our friend was gradually becoming agitated. There was such an air of emptiness and forlornness about this little creature, and she viewed herself and her future with such bewildered apathy, that he was reminded of himself, of his own unsettled, homeless existence. Her aimlessness brought home to him his own.

  ‘But there’s no point in that,’ he said almost vehemently. ‘One ought not to live with relatives, it’s never a good thing. And then there’s no need now for you to bury yourself in a little hole like that.’

  She threw him a look at once grateful and sad. ‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘I’m a little frightened of it myself. But what am I to do?’

  She spoke into empty space and then raised her blue eyes as though expecting him to give her some advice — those were the kind of eyes one ought to have, Kanitz had told himself the day before, and suddenly — he did not know how it happened — an idea, a wish, forced its way to his lips.

  ‘Then why not stay here?’ he said. And involuntarily he added in a low voice: ‘Stay with me?’

  She gave a start and stared at him. Only now did he realize that he had said something that he had not consciously wanted to say. The words had slipped out without his having, as usual, weighed them, thought them out, tested them. A wish that he himself had neither elucidated nor admitted to himself had suddenly been transmuted into speech, vibrant with meaning. It was only from the deep flush on her cheeks that he realized what he had said, and he was afraid that she might misunderstand him. As my mistress, she probably thinks. And so that she should not think for a moment that he meant to insult her, he added hastily:

  ‘I mean — as my wife.’

  She started abruptly. Her lips twitched, and he could not tell whether she was on the verge of sobbing or flying into a rage. Then she jumped up suddenly and ran out of the room.

  This was the most terrible moment in our friend’s life. It was only now that he realized the folly he had committed. He had slighted, offended, humiliated, a really kind person, the only person who had ever placed any trust in him, for how could he, already middle-aged, a Jew, shabby, ill-favoured, a huckster, a money-grubber, offer his hand to so inherently a distinguished, so refined a being! He was bound to admit that she was right to run away in such disgust. Good, he said grimly to himself. That serves me right. At last she has realized what I am, at last she has shown the contempt which is my due. It’s better she should do that than thank me for my scoundrelly tricks. Kanitz was not in the least offended by her flight; on the contrary, he was — he admitted to me himself — positively glad at that moment. He felt that he had received his just punishment; it was only fair that she should from now on think of him with the contempt that he felt for himself.

  But in a moment she reappeared in the doorway, her eyes wet with tears. She was in a state of terrible agitation; her hands trembled. She came up to the table. She had to hold on to the back of the chair with both hands before sitting down again. Then she sighed gently without raising her eyes.

  ‘Forgive ... forgive my rudeness,’ she said, ‘in jumping up so suddenly. But I was so taken aback ... how can you? You don’t know me ... you don’t know me at all.’


  Kanitz was too upset to find words. He only realized, in his shattered state, that she felt no vestige of anger, but only fear. That she was as taken aback by the absurdity of his sudden proposal as he himself. Neither of them had the courage to speak to the other, neither of them had the courage to look at the other. But she did not leave Vienna that morning. They stayed together from early morning till late at night. Three days later he repeated his proposal, and in two months they were married.’

  Dr Condor paused. ‘Well, let’s have one last drink. I’ve nearly come to the end of my story. I should only like to repeat — it is rumoured hereabouts that our friend cunningly made up to the heiress and trapped her into marrying him so that he could get the estate. But I must repeat that that is quite untrue. Kanitz, as you now know, had already made sure of the estate, there was no need for him to marry her, and his proposal was not dictated by the slightest trace of self-interest. The little agent would never have summoned up the courage to propose to this refined, blue-eyed young woman to further his own ends; he was, rather, in spite of himself, taken unawares by an emotion that was genuine, and, strangely enough, remained genuine.

  For of this absurd courtship was born an unusually happy marriage.

  The union of opposites, in so far as they are really complementary, always results in the most perfect harmony; and the seemingly incongruous is often the most natural. The first reaction of this couple, so suddenly united, was, of course, to be afraid of each other. Kanitz trembled lest somebody should carry tales to her of his shady business deals and lest at the eleventh hour she might reject him with contumely. He therefore set to work with almost incredible energy to cover up all traces of his past. He gave up all his dubious practices, returned notes of hand at a loss to himself, and steered clear of his former cronies. He had himself baptized, chose an influential godfather, and managed, by putting down considerable sums of money, to purchase the privilege of substituting for the name ‘Kanitz’ the more aristocratic and euphonious one of ‘von Kekesfalva’. And, as is usual in such cases, once the change was effected, the original name soon vanished without a trace from his visiting-card. But right up to the very day of the wedding he lived in a state of constant fear that today, tomorrow, or the day after, she might, in horror, withdraw her confidence from him. Whereas she, for her part, who day in, day out, for twelve years, had been accused of incompetence, stupidity, malice and narrow-mindedness, by that old monster her former mistress, whose devilish tyranny had shattered what self-confidence she had ever had, expected to be stormed at incessantly, sneered at, scolded, humiliated by her new lord and master. From the very outset she resigned herself to a life of slavery, as though to an inevitable fate. But lo and behold! Everything she now did was right; the man into whose keeping she had given her life thanked her every day afresh, treated her always with the same shy reverence. The young woman was astounded; she could not comprehend so much tenderness.

  Gradually the girl who had already been, so to speak, half-withered, blossomed out. She grew pretty, developed graceful curves. It was a whole year, two years, before she ventured really to believe that even she, the despised, the downtrodden, the oppressed, could be respected, loved like other women. And it was only when the child was born that real happiness began for the two of them.

  During these years Kekesfalva threw himself into his work with renewed enthusiasm. The little agent had long since been left behind, and he began to cut a dash in the business world. He modernized the sugar-factory, acquired an interest in a rolling-mill near Wiener Neustadt, and pulled off that brilliant coup in connection with the alcohol combine which made such a stir at the time. The fact that he became rich, really rich now, made no difference to the couple’s secluded, thrifty mode of life. They seemed to be anxious not to remind people too insistently of their existence, so seldom did they invite guests to the house, and the house that you now know seemed then incomparably simpler and more provincial — and, God knows, a much happier house than it is today!

  Then came his first trial. For a long time his wife had suffered from internal pains. She went off her food, lost weight, and dragged herself about, looking more and more weary and exhausted. But, for fear of causing her overworked husband anxiety with regard to her own insignificant self, she pressed her lips tightly together whenever she had an attack and hid her pain. When, eventually, it proved impossible to conceal it any longer, it was too late. She was taken to Vienna in an ambulance to be operated on for what the doctors said was a gastric ulcer — actually it turned out to be cancer. It was at that time that I got to know Kanitz, and I have never seen a man in a more frenzied, more desperate state. He could not, would not, realize that the doctors were powerless now to save his wife; it seemed to him that it was only out of indolence, indifference, incompetence on the part of us doctors that we did nothing further, could do nothing further. He offered the specialist fifty thousand, a hundred thousand, crowns if he cured her. The day before the operation he wired for the leading specialists from Budapest, Munich and Berlin, in the vain hope of finding one who would say that she could be saved from the surgeon’s knife. And I shall never in all my life forget the mad look in his eyes as he screamed at us, when the poor woman, as was only to be expected, died during the operation, that we were a pack of murderers.

  That was his Damascus. From that day on a permanent change took place in this ascetic of the business world. A god whom he had served from childhood had ceased to exist for him — the god of money. Now only one thing on earth existed for him — his child. He engaged governesses and servants, had the house restored; no luxury was too much for the once-so-thrifty man. He trailed the nine-year-old, ten-year-old, child off to Nice, Paris, Vienna, pampered and cosseted her in the most ridiculous fashion, and, just as in the past he had thrown himself wildly into the pursuit of money, so he now threw money about with a kind of contempt. You were not so far wrong, perhaps, to call him aristocratic and generous-hearted, since for years now he has been inspired by a quite unusual indifference towards profit and loss; ever since he discovered that all his millions could not bring him back his wife, he has learned to despise money.

  I shall not, for it is getting late, describe to you in detail the way in which Kanitz idolized his child. It was, after all, understandable, for she was growing up into an enchanting little person, a positively elfin creature, delicate, slender, light as thistle-down, with grey eyes that looked out on the world with bright, friendly gaze. From her mother she had inherited her shy sweetness, from her father her keen intelligence. Serene and lovable, she blossomed out in all that wonderful naturalness that is peculiar to only children whom Life has never treated with hostility or harshness. And only someone who knew the delight of the ageing man, who had never dared to hope that such a joyous, open-hearted creature could spring from his melancholy, sombre loins, could possibly gauge the extent of his despair when the second tragedy befell him. He could not, would not, believe — nor can he to this day — that this child of all children, his child, was to be permanently afflicted, maimed, and I shrink from disclosing all the mad and foolish things that he did in his wild desperation. I shall not go on to tell you how he drove all the doctors in the world crazy with his insistence, how he tried to bribe us all with the most fabulous sums to effect an immediate cure, how he rang me up every other day, for no reason but to pander to his own tearing impatience. A colleague of mine told me recently, in confidence, that the old man goes every week to the University Library, and sits there amongst the students, pathetically copying all sorts of foreign words out of the encyclopaedia, and then ploughing for hours on end through the medical textbooks in the wild hope that he may be able to find something that we doctors have overlooked or forgotten. I have heard, again, from other sources — you may laugh, but it is always madness that first gives one an insight into the intensity of a passion — that he has promised vast sums in the way of donations both to the synagogue and to the parish priest in the event of his ch
ild’s recovery. Uncertain to which God to turn, the forsaken God of his fathers or the new one, and pursued by the dread fear of getting on the wrong side of either, he has pledged himself to both.

  You realize, don’t you, that it is not by any means out of a love of gossip that I am telling you all these somewhat ridiculous details, but in order that you may understand what it means to this afflicted, distracted, broken-down man to find someone who will listen to him at all, someone whom he can feel really understands his grief, or at least tries to understand it. I know he makes things difficult for one with his obstinacy, his egocentric obsession, which makes him behave as though his child’s misfortune were the only misfortune in this world of ours, which is, after all, brimful of tragedies. But it is precisely at this moment, when his frenzy of despair is beginning to make him ill, that he must not be left in the lurch, and you are really — really, my dear Lieutenant — doing a good deed by bringing a little of your youth, your vitality, your light-heartedness into that tragic house. It is only for fear lest you may be put off by other people that I have told you more of his private affairs, perhaps, than is actually fair to him; but I think I can rely on you to regard everything I have told you as strictly between ourselves.’