Beware of Pity

by Stefan Zweig

  As, her eyes flashing, she leaned dangerously far over the balustrade, I jumped up in an agony of anxiety and seized her quickly by the arm. But she shrank away as though fire had seared her skin.

  ‘Go away!’ she screamed at me ... ‘How dare you touch me! Go away! I have a right to do what I wish. Let me go! Let go of me at once!’

  And since I refused to obey her, but tried to drag her away from the balustrade by force, she swung round with the upper part of her body and struck me a blow in the chest. And then a really ghastly thing happened. In striking out she lost her hold on the balustrade and with it her balance. Her knees gave completely, as though mown through by a scythe, and although I put my arms out to save her, I was too late. With a convulsive jerk she collapsed, bringing down with her the table that she had vainly endeavoured to clutch. Vase, plates and cups, spoons, all came smashing, clattering, rattling down upon us; the great bronze bell fell with a loud crash to the ground and, its clapper jangling, rolled the whole length of the terrace.

  Meanwhile, Edith lay huddled in a pitiful, defenceless heap on the ground, a quivering bundle of fury, sobbing for very anger and shame. I tried to lift the frail body, but she beat me off.

  ‘Go away ... go away!’ she sobbed. ‘You beast, you brute!’

  And she thrashed out wildly with her arms, vainly trying to struggle to her feet without my assistance. Every time I went near her to try to help her, she doubled herself up to keep me at bay and screamed at me in mad, helpless rage: ‘Go away ... don’t touch me ... get out of here!’ Never had I been through a more ghastly experience.

  At that moment there was a faint whirring noise behind us; the lift was coming up. Probably the bell had made enough noise in falling to rouse Josef, who was always on the qui vive. Discreetly lowering his startled gaze he hurried up, and, without looking at me, gently lifted up the trembling, sobbing girl — he must have acquired the knack from long practice — and carried her to the lift. In another minute it was gently whirring its way down again, and I was left alone with the overturned table, the broken cups, the objects that lay scattered about in such confusion that one might have thought a thunderbolt had suddenly fallen out of a perfectly clear sky and sent them flying in all directions.

  I do not know how long I stood there among the shattered plates and cups, utterly dumbfounded by this primitive outburst, which I was entirely at a loss to explain. What had I said that was so foolish? How had I called forth this inexplicable rage? But now I could hear, coming from below, that familiar sound as of air rushing through a vent-pipe: the lift was coming up again. Once more Josef approached, his cleanshaven features overcast by a strange look of grief. I thought he had merely come to clear away the debris, and felt embarrassed at being in his way. But with lowered eyes he made his way noiselessly towards me, stooping on the way to pick up a napkin.

  ‘Pardon me, Herr Leutnant,’ he said in his discreet hushed voice, which always seemed in itself to be a bow (ah yes, he was a manservant of the old Austrian type!). ‘Allow me to dry your clothes a little.’

  Only now, as I watched his busy fingers, did I notice that there was a great wet patch both on my tunic and on my light summer trousers. Evidently as I had bent down to break Edith’s fall, the contents of one of the tea-cups that she had brought down with her had been upset over me, for Josef was rubbing and dabbing away all round the wet patches. As he knelt there I gazed down at his good old grey head with its faithful parting, and I could not rid myself of the suspicion that the old fellow was purposely ducking his head so that I should not catch a glimpse of his dismayed face and his troubled eyes.

  ‘No, it’s no good,’ he said sadly at last, without raising his head. ‘I had better send the chauffeur to the barracks to fetch another coat for the Herr Leutnant. The Herr Leutnant cannot go out like this. But the Herr Leutnant may rest assured that everything will be dry in an hour’s time, and I shall give the trousers a good press.’

  He stated all this in what appeared to be merely the matter-of-fact tones of an attentive man-servant. But there was an undertone in his voice that betrayed his sympathy and consternation. And when I pointed out that it was not in the least necessary, and that I should prefer him to ring up for a carriage, since I was in any case going straight home, he unexpectedly cleared his throat and raised his kind, somewhat weary eyes pleadingly up to my face.

  ‘Oh please, won’t the Herr Leutnant stay just a little longer? It would be terrible if the Herr Leutnant were to go away now. I know for a fact that the gnädiges Fräulein would be dreadfully upset if the Herr Leutnant did not wait a little longer. Fräulein Ilona is with her now ... and ... has put her to bed. But Fräulein Ilona wishes me to say she will be coming almost immediately, and begs the Herr Leutnant to be sure to wait for her.’

  In spite of myself I was profoundly moved. How they all loved this invalid girl! How they all cherished her and made excuses for her! I felt an irresistible urge to say something reassuring to this good old man who, abashed at his own daring, was busily and ostentatiously dabbing away again at my tunic; and so I patted him gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Let it be, my dear Josef, it doesn’t matter! It will easily dry off in the sun, and let’s hope your tea isn’t strong enough to leave a real mark. Leave it alone, Josef, and gather up the tea-things instead. I’ll wait until Fraulein Ilona comes.’

  ‘Oh, how good that the Herr Leutnant is going to wait!’ He positively heaved a sigh of relief. ‘And Herr von Kekesfalva will soon be back too, and is sure to be delighted to see the Herr Leutnant. He desired me expressly to ...’

  But at that moment the faint creak of footsteps could be heard on the stairs. It was Ilona. She too kept her eyes lowered, just as Josef had done, as she came up to me.

  ‘Edith asks if you will come down to her bedroom for a moment. Just for a moment! She says you will be doing her a very great favour.’

  Together we descended the spiral staircase, and without a word walked through the drawing-room and the little sitting-room into a long corridor which evidently led to Edith’s bedroom. Now and again our shoulders touched in this dark narrow defile, perhaps by chance or because I was so agitated and upset. At the second door Ilona halted.

  ‘You must be nice to her now,’ she whispered urgently. ‘I don’t know what happened up there on the terrace, but I know these sudden outbursts of hers. We all know them. But you mustn’t take it amiss of her, really not. It’s impossible for healthy people like us to imagine what it means to have to lie about as she does from morning to night. She must, after all, get into a terribly pent-up state, and sometimes it all just has to come out, without her knowing it or meaning it to. Believe me, no one is unhappier afterwards than she herself, poor thing. And it is at these times when she is so racked with shame and remorse that one must be doubly kind to her.’

  I made no reply. Nor was it necessary. Ilona must have noticed how shaken and distressed I was. She now knocked cautiously on the door, and from inside came a faint, timorous ‘Come in.’

  ‘Don’t stay long. Only a moment,’ Ilona just had time to warn me.

  I pushed open the door, which yielded noiselessly to my touch. At first I could see nothing in the vast room but reddish twilight, for the orange curtains were drawn to shut out the light on the garden side; and only after a moment was I able to make out in the background the lighter rectangle of a bed, from which a familiar voice issued shyly.

  ‘Come and sit over here, please. On the stool. I’ll only keep you a moment.’

  I went up to the bed. A little face on the pillows gleamed forth wanly out of a shadowy frame of hair. The trail of embroidered flowers on the colourful bedspread crept right up to the thin, childish throat. With a certain anxiety Edith waited for me to sit down. Only then did she venture to speak.

  ‘Forgive me for receiving you here,’ she said shyly, ‘but I felt very faint ... I ought not to have lain out in the hot sun so long, it always affects my head ... I really believe I was not quite i
n my right mind when I ... but ... you’ll forget all about that, won’t you? You won’t go on being offended with me for my ... my rudeness, will you?’

  There was such an anxious pleading note in her voice that I broke in quickly: ‘What are you thinking of? It was I who was to blame. I ought not to have allowed you to stay out so long in that grilling heat.’

  ‘Then you’re really ... really not offended with me?’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  ‘And you’ll come again ... just as always?’

  ‘Just the same. But on one condition.’

  ‘What condition?’ she asked with a troubled look.

  ‘That you’ll have a little more confidence in me and stop always being afraid that you’ve annoyed or offended me. Whoever heard of such nonsense between friends! If you only knew how different you look when you let yourself go and enjoy yourself, and how happy you make us all by doing so, your father and Ilona and me and the whole household! I only wish you could have seen yourself the other day on our excursion, you were so happy and we were all so jolly together — I kept thinking about it the whole evening.’

  ‘You thought about me the whole evening?’ She gazed at me a little uncertainly. ‘Really?’

  ‘The whole evening. What a day that was! I shall never forget it. The whole trip was wonderful, wonderful.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said dreamily, ‘it was wonderful ... won-der-ful! First the drive through the countryside and then the little foals and the wedding-feast in the village ... everything was wonderful from beginning to end! Oh, I should go out more often on excursions like that! Perhaps it is only this stupid staying indoors, this idiotic imprisonment that has been getting me down. But you’re right, I am always too mistrustful ... that is, I have been since my illness began. Before that, good Lord, I can’t remember ever having been frightened of anyone! It’s only since then that I’ve been so horribly unsure of myself ... I always imagine that everyone is staring at my crutches, that everyone is pitying me. I know how silly it is, of course, that it’s just a kind of silly, childish pride. I know that it’s just cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face, it only comes back on one, I know that; it only tears one’s nerves to pieces. But how is one to help being distrustful when the whole thing drags on and on like this! Oh, if only this dreadful business would come to an end at last, so that I could stop being so wicked, so beastly and bad-tempered!’

  ‘But it’s coming to an end soon now. You must just have courage, courage and patience for a little while longer.’

  She raised herself up slightly. ‘Do you think, do you honestly think that this new treatment will really cure me? ... The day before yesterday, you see, when Papa came up to my room, I was absolutely certain. But last night, I don’t know why, I was suddenly seized with fear lest Dr Condor should have made a mistake and have told me something that wasn’t true, because I ... because I remembered something. At one time I trusted Dr Condor as though he were God. But it’s always the same. First the doctor observes the patient, but when the whole thing goes on for a long time, the patient learns to observe the doctor, and yesterday — but I wouldn’t say so to anyone else — yesterday, while he was examining me, it seemed to me once or twice that he was trying to throw dust in my eyes ... that the whole thing was a farce. He seemed to me to be so unsure of himself, so evasive, not so frank, not so sincere as usual. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling that for some reason he was ashamed in my presence. Of course I was frightfully pleased when I heard that he proposed to send me straight off to Switzerland ... and yet ... somewhere at the back of my mind ... I’m only telling you this ... an unreasonable fear kept cropping up — but don’t for heaven’s sake tell him that — that there was something not quite right about this new treatment ... that he was trying to fool me ... or perhaps merely to pacify Papa. You see, I still can’t rid myself of my horrible mistrust. But how can I help it? How can I help being suspicious of myself, suspicious of everyone, when I’ve so often been persuaded that I was reaching the end of my troubles, and then it has all dragged on as slowly, as horribly slowly, as before? No, I can’t, I can’t stand this interminable waiting any longer.’

  In her agitation she had raised herself to a sitting position, and her hands began to tremble. I went over to her quickly.

  ‘Now don’t, don’t ... upset yourself again! Remember, you promised me.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re quite right. It’s no use torturing oneself, it only tortures other people. And what can they do about it! I’m a burden enough to them in any case. But no, I didn’t mean to talk of it, I really didn’t ... I only wanted to thank you for not being offended with me for my stupid tantrums and ... for always being so kind to me, so ... touchingly kind, when I don’t deserve it ... and to think that I should have ... but let’s forget it, shall we?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t worry any more. And now you must really have a good rest.’

  I got up to shake hands. She looked so pathetic as, half fearful and half reassured, she smiled up at me from her pillows, like a child just about to go to sleep. Everything was all right, the atmosphere was cleared as is the sky after a thunderstorm. With a complete lack of embarrassment, almost gaily, I went up to her. But she gave a sudden start.

  ‘What on earth’s that? Your uniform?’

  She had noticed the great damp patch on my tunic, and must have realized with a pang of guilt that she alone could have been responsible for the mishap, which had occurred when she had brought the cups crashing down with her in her fall. Her eyes withdrew beneath their lids, and the outstretched hand was timidly withdrawn. But the very fact that she took such a foolish trifle so seriously moved me, and, in order to calm her, I took refuge in a playful tone.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ I said teasingly, ‘nothing of any consequence. A naughty child upset some tea over me.’

  Her eyes were still troubled. But she gratefully jumped at the opportunity of turning the whole thing into a joke.

  ‘And did you give the naughty child a good whacking?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, keeping the ball rolling. ‘It wasn’t necessary. The child has been good again for a long time now.’

  ‘And you’re really not angry with her any more?’

  ‘Not a bit. You should have heard how prettily she asked to be forgiven.’

  ‘You won’t bear her any grudge?’

  ‘No, it’s all forgiven and forgotten. But she must go on being a good girl and do as she’s told.’

  ‘And what is the child to do?’

  ‘To be always patient, always friendly, and always merry. Not to sit in the sun too long, to go out for lots of drives and obey the doctor’s orders to the letter. And now the child must go to sleep and not talk or worry her head any more. Good night.’

  I gave her my hand. She looked enchantingly pretty as she lay there, her gleaming, starry eyes laughing happily up at me.

  Then I turned to go, my heart light within me. My hand was on the door-handle when a laugh came rippling after me.

  ‘Has the child been good this time?’

  ‘Perfectly. She shall have full marks. But now she must sleep, sleep, sleep, and not think about any more unpleasant things!’

  I had half opened the door, when her laugh once more came trilling after me, childish and coaxing.

  ‘Have you forgotten,’ came the voice again from the pillows, ‘what a good child gets before going to sleep?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A good child gets a goodnight kiss.’

  Somehow or other I did not feel altogether comfortable. There was a teasing note flickering and flaring up in her voice that I did not care for; I had already fancied that there had been a too-feverish sparkle in her eyes as she had looked at me. But I did not want to risk putting her in a bad humour.

  ‘Ah yes, of course!’ I said with apparent nonchalance. ‘I had nearly forgotten that.’

  As I walked the few paces back to her bedside I could tell from the sudden silence that she wa
s holding her breath. Her eyes were fixed steadily on me as I moved towards her, her head was motionless on the pillows. She did not move a hand, a finger, but her eyes followed me and would not leave me.