by Stefan Zweig
But why were his hands so impatient, why did he beam at me so? Why did he rush on ahead so officiously? What was the matter with him? I could not help wondering as I began to climb the spiral staircase that led up to the terrace. What was up with old Josef today? He was burning with impatience to get me to the top as quickly as possible. Whatever was the matter with the honest fellow?
But it was good to feel happy, good, too, on this brilliant June day, to climb up the winding stairs on fresh young legs, and from the mullioned windows to see, now to the north, now to the south, now to the east, now to the west, the summery landscape stretching out into infinity. At length, when I had only ten or eleven steps more to climb to reach the terrace, something unexpected gave me pause. For, strange — there suddenly came floating down the dark well of the winding staircase the faint, far-off strains of a lively dance-tune, lilted by shrill violins, echoed by deep-throated ’cellos, and warbled by sparkling female sopranos. I was surprised. Whence came this music, at once so near and yet so far, so eerie and yet so earthly, a popular musical air wafted down to me as it were from heaven? Was there an orchestra playing somewhere in a near-by inn, and was the wind carrying the faint dying notes of the melody across to me? But the next moment I realized that the strains of this airy orchestra were coming from the terrace and proceeded from a simple gramophone. How stupid of me, I thought, to detect magic, to expect miracles everywhere today! It would be impossible to install a whole orchestra on so narrow a terrace. But a few steps farther and I once more grew uncertain. Without a doubt it was a gramophone that was being played up there, but the voices, those voices, were too free and too genuine to come from a little whirring box. They really were young girls’ voices, vibrating with youthful exuberance.
I paused and listened more intently. The rich soprano, that was Ilona’s voice, lovely, full, voluptuous, soft as her arms. But the other voice, to whom did that belong? It was one I did not know. Evidently Edith had invited a friend to tea, a saucy, sparkling young thing, and I was extremely curious to see this twittering swallow that had so unexpectedly alighted on our tower. Hence I was all the more startled to find when I set foot on the terrace that there was no one there but the two girls, and that it was Edith who was laughing and warbling away in an entirely new voice, a free, rapturous, silvery voice. I was taken aback, for this transformation from one day to another somehow seemed to me unnatural. Only a healthy, self-assured person could sing so blithely, out of sheer high spirits. On the other hand, it was quite out of the question that the invalid should have been restored to health unless a veritable miracle had occurred between evening and morning. What — I wondered in astonishment — had so intoxicated her, had so gone to her head, that these blissfully confident notes could suddenly burst forth from her throat, from her soul? I can only with difficulty explain my first emotion; it was a feeling of discomfort such as I might have felt had I surprised the girls in a state of nudity, for either Edith had hitherto concealed her true nature from me or — but why and wherefore? — a new being had blossomed forth within her overnight.
To my amazement, however, neither of the two girls was in the least confused when they caught sight of me.
‘Come along,’ Edith called out to me. ‘Turn off the gramophone, quickly,’ she ordered Ilona, and then beckoned me to come nearer.
‘At last, at last! I’ve been waiting ages for you. Now be quick, tell me everything, everything, mind, every word. Papa got everything so mixed up that I didn’t know where I was. You know what he’s like when he’s excited, he can never tell a straightforward story. Just think, he came up to my room in the middle of the night! I couldn’t sleep in that terrible storm, I was absolutely freezing, there was an awful draught coming from the window and I hadn’t the strength to get up and shut it. I kept wishing to myself the whole night that someone would wake up and come to me, and then suddenly I heard steps coming nearer and nearer. At first I was frightened, for it was two or three o’clock in the morning, and in my first gasp of astonishment I didn’t recognize Papa, he looked so different. He came straight over to me and was beside himself with joy ... You should have seen him, he laughed and sobbed ... why, just fancy Papa actually laughing, laughing loudly and gaily, and dancing first on one foot then another like a great big schoolboy! And then, when he began to tell me the whole story, I was so flabbergasted that I couldn’t take it in at first. I thought that either Papa had been dreaming or I was dreaming myself. But then Ilona came up too, and we chattered and laughed until morning. But now you must tell us everything ... tell us ... what this new cure is.’
Just as when a strong wave hurls itself upon you and you stagger and try in vain to keep your feet, so now did I vainly attempt to struggle against the boundless dismay that overwhelmed me. Those last words had enlightened me in a flash. It was I, I alone, who had inspired her with this disastrous faith in a cure. Kekesfalva must have told her what Condor had confided to me. But what was it that Condor had actually told me? And what was it that I had passed on? Condor, after all, had expressed himself in the most cautious terms, and I, what could it have been that I, foolish slave of my pity, had read into his words that a whole household was made merry, that an old man was made young again, that a sick girl believed herself to be hale and hearty? What could it have been?
‘Well, what’s the matter ... why are you hesitating?’ said Edith in persistent tones. ‘You must know how important every word is to me. Well — what did Condor say to you?’
‘What did he say?’ I echoed, so as to gain time. ‘Er ... you know already ... he was very optimistic ... Dr Condor hopes in time to get the best possible results. He proposes, if I’m not mistaken, to try a new treatment and is already making inquiries about it ... a most efficacious treatment ... if ... if I understood him rightly ... of course I don’t understand anything about it, but in any case you can depend on him if he ... I believe, in fact, I’m quite sure, he’ll put everything right.’
Either she had not noticed my evasiveness or her impatience would brook no contradiction.
‘I always said we wouldn’t get any advance with the present treatment. After all, one knows oneself best ... Do you remember my telling you that it was all a lot of clap-trap, all this business of massage and electrical treatment and surgical appliances? It’s all much too slow; how can one go on waiting for ever? I took off those silly appliances this very morning, I tell you, without asking him ... you can’t imagine what a relief it was. I was able to walk far better ... I believe it is only those confounded weights that have so handicapped me. No, you’ve got to attack the whole business quite differently — I’ve felt that for a long time. But ... but tell me quickly, what is this French professor’s treatment? Shall I really have to go away to have it? Can’t it be done here? Oh, how I hate, how I loathe those sanatoriums! And what’s more, I just can’t bear the sight of invalids. I’ve got quite enough to put up with from myself ... Well, tell me all about it ... Out with it! How long is it supposed to take? Is it really as quick as all that? Papa said that this professor had cured his patient in four months and that he can now walk up and down stairs and move about quite freely. That ... that would be incredible ... Well, don’t sit there like a stuffed dummy, do tell me the whole story. When is he going to start, and how long is it supposed to take?’
Pull her up, I said to myself. Don’t let her get caught up in this crazy illusion that everything is quite sure and certain. And so I adopted cautious tactics.
‘No doctor can say beforehand how long it will take. I don’t think it’s possible to say anything definite for the moment ... and then ... Dr Condor only talked of the treatment in general terms. It’s supposed to have achieved excellent results, he said, but whether it’s absolutely reliable ... I mean, it can only be tried out in each individual case ... in any case, we shall have to wait until he ...’
But in her burning enthusiasm she swept aside all my feeble defences.
‘My dear boy, you simply don’t know
him! One can never get anything definite out of him. He’s so terribly overcautious. But once he makes even a half-promise, you can bank on his keeping it. One can depend on him, and you don’t know how much I need to be done once and for all with the whole business, or at least to have some definite prospect of being done with it. Patience, they keep on telling me, patience! But one simply must know how long one has got to go on being patient. If I were told it would take another six months or a year — good, I should say, I’ll see it through, and would do what was expected of me. But thank God we’ve at least got to this stage! You can’t think how light-hearted I have felt since yesterday. I feel as though I had only now really begun to live. This morning we drove into town — yes, you may well be astonished! — but now that I’ve got the worst behind me I don’t care what people say or think, or whether they do stare after me and pity me ... I shall go for a drive every day now, just to show myself that I’m coming to the end of all this wretched waiting and holding myself in patience. And for tomorrow, Sunday — you’ll be free of course — we’ve arranged a special treat. Papa has promised me that we’ll drive out to the studfarm. I haven’t been there for years, four or five years at least. I never wanted to go outside the house again. But tomorrow we’ll drive out there, and of course you’ll come too. You’ll be surprised. Ilona and I have thought out a big surprise for you.’ She turned with a laugh to Ilona. ‘Shall I give away the big secret here and now?’
‘Yes,’ laughed Ilona, ‘let’s have no more secrets.’
‘Well, listen, my dear friend. Papa wanted us to drive out in the car. But that’s over too quickly, and besides, it’s boring. Then I remembered that Josef had told us about that old fool of a Princess, the woman you know, to whom the Schloss used to belong, a horrid person — and how she always drove out in a coach-and-four, in the big travelling-coach, the gaily painted one in the coach-house. Just to show everyone that she was the Princess, she would always have it harnessed even for the short drive to the station. No one else for miles around would have dared to drive out in such style ... Just think what fun it would be to drive out for once like the late lamented Princess! The old coachman is still here — oh, you’ve never seen the old boy, he’s long since been pensioned off, ever since we’ve had the car. But you should have seen his face when we told him we were going to drive out in the coach-and-four — he staggered up on to his wobbly legs, and wept for sheer joy to think that such a thing should happen to him once again in his life. It’s all arranged, we’re leaving at eight o’clock. We’ll all get up very early, and you of course will stay the night here. You simply can’t refuse. We’ll give you a nice room downstairs, and Piszta will get you anything you want from the barracks — by the way, he’s going to be dressed as a lackey tomorrow, as he used to be in the Princess’s time ... No, no objections. You simply must give us the pleasure, we won’t let you off ...’
And so on and on it went like a spring that has been released. I listened in a daze, still utterly bewildered by this incomprehensible transformation in Edith. Her voice was changed, her speech, usually so jerky, was fluent and easy, the face I knew so well seemed to be transfigured, the sickly, pallid flush had given place to a fresh, a more healthy glow, and there was now no trace of angularity in her gestures. It was a slightly intoxicated young girl who was sitting before me, with sparkling eyes and smiling, vivacious mouth. Willy-nilly, I too was infected by this feverish ecstasy, which, like any other form of intoxication, sapped my inner resistance. Perhaps, I deluded myself, it is true, or will be true. Perhaps I haven’t deceived her at all, perhaps she really will be cured as quickly as all that. After all, I have not lied outright, or at least not very much. Condor really has read something about an amazing cure, so why should it not be effective in the case of this radiant and pathetically credulous child, this sensitive being who is made so happy, so rapturous, by the mere mention of recovery? Why seek to dispel this exuberance which so lights up her whole being, why torture her with one’s doubts? After all, the poor child has tormented herself long enough. And just as a speaker finds himself genuinely carried away by the enthusiasm aroused by his own hollow phrases, so now did the confidence which was born solely of my own exaggeration take firmer and firmer root in my own mind. And when at length Kekesfalva appeared, he found us all in the most light-hearted of moods, chattering away and making plans just as though Edith were already restored to health. Where could she learn to ride again? she asked; and would we officers of the regiment supervise her lessons and help her? Yes, and would not her father now give the priest the money which he had promised him for the new church roof? And as she made all these reckless proposals, which took for granted her ultimate restoration to normal health, she laughed and joked away so gaily and irresponsibly that my opposition was completely silenced. And it was only when I found myself alone in my room that night that I heard a faint warning knock on the wall of my heart: were not her hopes a trifle exaggerated? Ought I not to prick the bubble of this dangerous optimism? But I refused to admit the thought to my consciousness. Why worry as to whether I had said too much or too little? Even if I had gone further than in all honesty I should have done, my lies, those lies born of pity, had made her happy; and to make a person happy could never be a crime.
The great day of our expedition was ushered in at a very early hour with a little fanfare of hilarity. The first thing I heard on awakening in my cosy room, into which the morning sun was pouring its bright rays, was the sound of merry laughter. I went to the window and saw the whole staff standing about in the courtyard, gaping at the old Princess’s vast travelling-coach, which had obviously been taken out of the coach-house during the night. It was a marvellous museum piece, built in Vienna for an ancestor of Prince Orosvár a hundred or perhaps even a hundred and fifty years previously by the coach-maker to the Imperial Court. The actual body of the coach, which was protected by artistically designed springs against the jolting of the mighty wheels, was painted with the Arcadian and classical scenes to be found in old tapestries; no doubt the colours, which were somewhat crude, had originally been more vivid and had now faded. The inside of the silk-upholstered coach — and we had ample opportunity during our drive of exploring it in detail — contained all kinds of cunning contraptions, such as little collapsible tables, mirrors and scent-bottles. At first, of course, this vast plaything of a bygone century struck one as being somewhat unreal, a stage property out of a masquerade, but it was for this very reason that footmen and servants threw themselves so merrily and in such carnival spirit into the task of safely launching the ponderous vessel on wheels. The mechanic from the sugar-factory was oiling the wheels with particular zest and testing the metal frame with his hammer. Meanwhile, the four horses, decked out as though for a wedding with garlands of flowers, were being harnessed — an operation that gave Jonak, the old coachman, ample opportunity for airing his superior knowledge. Dressed in the faded princely livery, and displaying surprising agility despite his gouty legs, he was initiating into the tricks of his trade the younger members of the staff, who, although they might be able to ride bicycles and if need be cope with the mechanism of a motor-car, had not the vaguest idea how to drive a four-in-hand. It was he, too, who the night before had pointed out to the cook that when the princely household indulged in fêtes-champêtres its honour absolutely demanded that even in the most remote corners of the woods and meadows the refreshments should be served as lavishly and punctiliously as in the dining-room of the Schloss. Under his supervision, therefore, the footman was stowing away damask table-cloths, napkins and silver in cases bearing the Orosvár coat of arms. Not until this was done to his satisfaction was the cook, a white linen trencher-cap crowning his beaming features, allowed to bring along the actual provisions: roast chickens and hams and pies, freshly baked bread and whole batteries of bottles, all packed in straw so that they might withstand the perils of the bumpy roads and arrive unbroken. A young lad was sent along as the cook’s representative to serve the
viands, and was assigned the place on the box where, in the Princess’s time, a princely lackey had stood side by side with a liveried servant in a hat with a cockade.
What with all this pomp and ceremony the preparations were by now taking on an air of theatrical gaiety, and the news of our strange excursion having quickly spread throughout the district, there was no lack of spectators to witness the diverting spectacle. Peasants in gaily coloured Sunday costumes had come from neighbouring villages, wrinkled old women and grey-haired manikins with their inevitable clay-pipes from the nearby almshouses. But above all it was the bare-legged children from far and near who, bewitched and enraptured, let their gaze wander from the garlanded horses up to the driver on the box, into whose withered and yet firm hand ran the mysterious tangle of reins. No less entranced were they by the sight of Piszta, whom they saw as a rule only in his chauffeur’s blue uniform and who now, dressed in princely livery, was holding the bright silver hunting-horn in his hand in expectant readiness to give the signal for departure. When having breakfasted, we at length approached the gaudy vehicle, we could not help noticing with amusement that we presented a considerably less festive sight than the ostentatious coach and the glittering lackeys. Kekesfalva looked a little comical as, dressed in his inevitable black frockcoat, he climbed stiffly, like a black stork, into this coach that bore another family’s coat of arms. One could have wished to see the young girls in costumes of the rococo period, with powdered hair and patches and gaily coloured fans, and I myself would doubtless have cut a more dashing figure in the dazzling white riding costume of Maria Theresa’s time than in my blue Uhlan’s uniform. Yet even in the absence of period fancy-dress the whole thing seemed quite festive enough as at length we seated ourselves in the great ponderous casket. Piszta raised the hunting-horn to his lips, and its shrill note sounded out above the excited bows and greetings of the assembled staff; whereupon the coachman cracked his whip dexterously in the air with a terrific flourish and a sound like a pistol-shot. As it moved off, the huge equipage gave a mighty lurch, which threw us laughing into each other’s laps, but the valiant driver steered his four horses skilfully through the gateway, which suddenly seemed to us, from our seats in the wide-bellied coach, to be perilously narrow, and we landed safely on the high-road.
