by Stefan Zweig
Think no more about it — a childish command! As though overwrought nerves could ever be bridled by the will! Think no more about it — when your thoughts were chasing about like wild, stampeding horses in the narrow space between your temples. Don’t think about it — when your memory was feverishly projecting picture after picture on the screen of your brain, when your nerves were tingling and your senses were keyed up to resist the attack. Think no more about it — when those letters were still scorching your fingers with their burning words, the first letter and the second, which you picked up and put down again and re-read and compared, the first and the second, until every word was branded into your brain. Think no more about it — when you could think of only one thing — how to escape, how to resist, how to save yourself from this greedy importunity, from this unwelcome and immoderate passion.
Think no more about it — that is just what you yourself would like to be able to do, and you put out the light, because light makes all your thoughts too vivid, too real. You try to creep away, to hide yourself in the dark, you tear the clothes from your body so as to breathe more freely, you throw yourself on your bed to try and deaden all feeling. But your thoughts, they will not rest; they flutter like bats in ghostly confusion round and round the exhausted brain, they gnaw and nibble their way like rats through your leaden weariness. The more quietly you lie there, the more restless is your memory, the more agitating the flickering pictures in the dark; and so you get up and light the lamp again to scare away the ghosts. But the first thing that the lamp cruelly seizes upon is the bright square envelope of the letter, and there on the back of the chair hangs your tunic, the one stained by the tea; everything reminds and admonishes you. Think no more about it — you yourself don’t want to think about it, but it’s beyond your will to do otherwise. And so you pace up and down the room, to and fro, fling open the cupboard and the drawers in the cupboard, one after another, until you find the little glass ampoule containing a sleeping-draught and then stagger back to bed. But there is no escape. The dark thoughts, those restless rats, gnawing their way through the black shell of sleep, burrow even into your dreams, the same thoughts over and over again, and when you awake in the morning you feel as though you have been drained and sucked dry by vampires.
What a solace then is reveille, what a solace your duties, that far milder form of bondage! What a comfort to vault into the saddle and to have to trot along with all the others, to have to be unceasingly on the qui vive! You have to obey, you have to give orders. For three hours, perhaps four, you escape, ride away from yourself.
At first all went well. We had — thank God! — a very full day, carrying out various movements in preparation for the manœuvres and ending up with the ‘march past’, in which the regiment rides past the commanding officer in line of squadron column, every horse’s head, every sword-point ‘dressed’ dead straight. At such parades there is always a confounded lot to do — ten, twenty times, you have to start all over again from the beginning, to keep your eye on every single Uhlan, and such an extreme effort of attention was demanded on the part of every one of us officers that my mind was entirely concentrated on my duties, and I forgot everything else.
But when we broke off for ten minutes to let the horses have a breather, my gaze happened to wander over the horizon. Far and wide the fields, with their sheaves and harvesters, gleamed forth in the steely blue light, the flat horizon stretched away in an unbroken semi-circle against the sky. Only beyond the patch of woodland was silhouetted, slender as a toothpick, the quaint outline of tower. There it is, I thought with a start — her tower, with its terrace! The thought kept returning with all the force of a compulsion — I felt an irresistible urge to stare at it and think: it is eight o’clock now, she’s just waking up and thinking of me. Perhaps her father is at her bed-side and she is talking of me, perhaps she is pestering Ilona or Josef to tell her whether a letter has come containing the news so greedily awaited (I really ought to have written to her), or perhaps she has already gone up to the tower and, clutching at the balustrade, is peering out and staring across at me just as I am staring across at her. And no sooner did I remember that someone was yearning for me over there than I felt that familiar hot tugging and tearing, that confounded clawing at my own breast, and although we had fallen in again, although words of command were being shouted out on all sides, and the various units were carrying out the prescribed movements at the gallop, closing up, scattering and closing up again, and I myself was shouting into the hubbub, ‘Left wheel,’ ‘Right wheel,’ my thoughts were far away. In the very depths of my consciousness, in the secret places of my mind, I was thinking only of that one thing of which I did not want to think, of which I ought not to have been thinking.
‘God blast my soul, what the hell are you at! Back! Re-form, you rabble!’ It was Colonel Bubencic who, purple in the face, had come galloping up, and was bellowing right across the parade-ground. And he had every excuse. Someone must have given a wrong word of command, for two troops, which ought to have wheeled and formed squadron column, had charged down upon one another and become dangerously entangled. One or two horses shied and got completely out of hand, others reared, one Uhlan was thrown and fell beneath the horses’ hoofs; and above all the confusion the steeds could be heard screaming and whinnying. The clatter of weapons, the neighing of horses, the thundering and stamping of hoofs were as deafening as though a real battle were in progress. The officers who came charging up took some time to disentangle passably the turbulent confusion of horses and men, and at a shrill bugle-blast the squadrons once more formed line. And now ensued a ghastly silence; everyone knew that someone or other was in for a hot time. The horses, still foaming from the excitement of the mêlée, perhaps, too, feeling the restrained agitation of their riders, twitched and trembled, and a faint quiver ran down the long line of czapkas as though down a tautly stretched steel telegraph wire. The Colonel now rode forward into this dismayed silence. From the very way in which he sat in the saddle, raising himself stiffly in the stirrups, striking his top-boots restlessly with his riding-crop, we could tell that a storm was brewing. A sharp tug at the reins and his horse pulled up. Then there vibrated sharply across the whole parade-ground (as though an axe had descended): ‘Lieutenant Hofmiller!’
It was not until now that I realized what had happened. Indubitably it was I who had given the wrong word of command. My thoughts must have been wandering. I had been thinking of that terrible thing that so completely distracted me. I alone was to blame. Mine was the sole responsibility. A slight pressure of my knees, and my gelding trotted past my comrades, who looked away in acute embarrassment, towards the Colonel; he was waiting motionless some thirty paces from the regiment, and I reined in my horse at the regulation distance away from him. The rattle and clatter had now completely died down, and that final, soundless, yet deathly stillness had set in which precedes the order to fire at an execution. Everyone, even the peasant lads at the very back, knew what was in store for me.
I would rather not remember what followed. The Colonel, it is true, lowered his dry, grating voice so that the men should not hear the coarse language that he levelled at me, but, despite this, every now and then one of his juiciest expressions, such as ‘bloody stupidity’ or ‘damn-fool order’ was pitched on a high note so that it shrilled out through the silence. And in any case everyone, down to the very last man, must have noticed from the way in which, crimson in the face, he let fly at me, accompanying every staccato phrase with a resounding slap on his riding-boots, that I was getting a more ignominious dressing-down than any schoolboy. I could feel hundreds of curious, ironic glances piercing my back as the choleric old veteran poured forth his torrent of abuse on my head. For months and months no such hail-storm had descended on any of us as that which I had to face on that steely-blue radiant day, loud with the wings of blithe and carefree swallows.
As they held the reins my hands trembled with suppressed indignation. I felt like striking my hors
e on the hind-quarters and galloping off. But I had to sit there motionless, without moving a muscle of my face, while Bubencic rapped out in conclusion that he did not propose to let the whole parade be ruined by a wretched bungler like me. Tomorrow I should hear more of this; for today he did not wish to set eyes on me again. Then, giving his boots a final whack with his riding-crop, he barked out a contemptuous ‘Dismiss!’ with all the brutality and suddenness of a kick.
And I had to raise my hand respectfully to my czapka before I could turn round and ride back to the ranks. Not one of my comrades ventured an overt glance in my direction; they all kept their eyes lowered in embarrassment, so ashamed were they all on my account, or at least so it seemed to me. Fortunately a word of command cut short the agony for me. At a bugle-call the drill began anew, each squadron wheeling off in turn. And Ferencz seized the opportunity — why is it that the stupidest people are always the most good-natured? — to urge his horse forward as if by chance and to whisper to me: ‘Don’t let it get you down. A thing like that might happen to anyone.’
But he was out of luck, poor chap. ‘Will you kindly mind your own business,’ I flared up at him, and turned away abruptly. In that moment I had learned for the first time, and at first-hand, how deeply one can be wounded by tactless pity. For the first time, and too late.
To hell with it! To hell with it all! I thought to myself as we rode back to the town. Oh to get away, away, to some place where no one knew me, to be rid of everyone and everything! Oh to get away, to escape, to flee! To see no one any more, never to let oneself be idolized, be humiliated again! Away, away! — the word became part of the rhythm of my horse’s trot. Arrived at the barracks, I hastily threw the reins to an Uhlan and left the courtyard. I was determined not to go into mess today, I was determined not to let myself be jeered at, much less pitied.
But I had no idea where to go. I had no plan, no objective. My position had become impossible in both my worlds, the world of my regiment and the world of Kekesfalva. Oh to get away! my pulses hammered. Away, away! they thundered at my temples. Right away, anywhere, away from these confounded barracks, away from the town! Down the dingy main street and then on and on! But suddenly, from quite near by, a friendly voice called out, ‘Servus!’ Involuntarily I looked across the road. Who was that hailing me so familiarly? A tall man in mufti: breeches, grey coat and Glengarry bonnet. Never seen him before, can’t remember him. He was standing, this stranger, beside a car, at which two mechanics in blue overalls were busily tinkering away. Evidently quite oblivious of my confusion, he came up to me. It was Balinkay, whom I had never before seen out of uniform.
‘The damn thing’s got bladder trouble again,’ he laughed across at me, pointing at the car. ‘It happens on every trip. I fancy it’ll be another twenty years before one can really depend on these puffing billies. It was much simpler with our good old nags. At least we cavalrymen knew something about their works.’
I could not help being conscious of a strong bond of sympathy with this stranger. There was something so self-assured about the way he moved, and he had the clear, warm-hearted gaze of a devil-may-care, happy-go-lucky sort of fellow. And no sooner had his unexpected greeting fallen on my ears than the thought suddenly flashed across my mind: here’s a man you can confide in. And within the space of a second a whole chain of thoughts joined themselves on to the first with that rapidity with which the brain functions at moments of extreme tension: He’s in mufti, he’s his own master! He’s been through the same sort of thing. He helped Ferencz’s brother-in-law, he’s only too pleased to help anyone, so why shouldn’t he lend me a helping hand too? Before I had time to get my breath this fleeting, flickering chain of lightning reflections was welded into a sudden resolve. I plucked up courage and went up to Balinkay.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, astounded at my own sans gêne, ‘but I suppose you couldn’t spare me five minutes?’
He was somewhat taken aback, but his teeth gleamed out in a smile.
‘With pleasure, my dear Hoff ... Hoff ...’
‘Hofmiller,’ I said.
‘Entirely at your service. It would be a fine thing if one hadn’t time for a comrade! Shall we go into the restaurant, or would you rather come up to my room?’
‘Up to your room, if it’s all the same to you, and I really mean only five minutes. I won’t keep you.’
‘As long as you like, old chap. It’ll take half an hour in any case for the old bus to be repaired. But it’s not very comfortable up there. The landlord always wants to give me the royal suite on the first floor, but, being sort of sentimental, I always take my old room, where I once — but we won’t talk about that now.’
We went upstairs. And the room really was a damned poor one for such a rich fellow. It contained a single bed, no wardrobe, no arm-chair, nothing but two mangy wicker chairs between the window and the bed. Taking out his gold cigarette-case, Balinkay offered me a cigarette and made things delightfully easy for me by coming straight to the point himself.
‘Well, my dear Hofmiller, what can I do for you?’
No beating about the bush, I thought to myself, and so blurted out:
‘I’d like to ask your advice, Balinkay. I want to leave the service and get out of Austria. I wonder if you know of a job for me?’
Balinkay grew suddenly serious. His face straightened, and he threw away his cigarette.
‘Nonsense — a chap like you! What’s come over you?’
But I was seized with a sudden obstinacy. I could feel the resolution which had been born only during the last ten minutes hardening like steel within me.
‘My dear Balinkay,’ I said in that brusque tone which precludes all argument, ‘do me the favour of asking for no explanations. Every man knows what he wants and what he’s got to do. No one can understand from outside. Believe me, I’ve got to make a fresh start.’
Balinkay gave me a searching look. He must have realized I was serious.
‘Well, I don’t want to interfere, but believe me, Hofmiller, you’re making a mistake. You don’t know what you’re doing. You are, I fancy, somewhere about twenty-five or twenty-six, and not so far off promotion to first lieutenant. And that’s something not to be sneezed at. Here in the army you’ve got your rank, you’re somebody. But the moment you try to launch out into a new career, the dirtiest ragamuffin and lousiest counter-jumper will rate more than you, for the very reason that he hasn’t got to trail around our fool prejudices like a knapsack. Believe me, when we military chaps take off our uniform there’s not much left of what we once were, and I only beg one thing of you: don’t be deceived merely because I’ve succeeded in getting out of the mire. That was a pure chance, one in a thousand, and I wouldn’t like to think of what’s happened to all the others to whom the Lord hasn’t been so kind as He has to me.’
There was something convincing about the firm way in which he spoke. But I felt I must not give in.
‘I know,’ I agreed, ‘that it’s a downward step. But I’ve just got to go away, I’ve no choice. Don’t try to dissuade me, there’s a good chap. I’m nothing out of the ordinary, I know that, and I’ve got no particular ability, but if you’re willing to give me a recommendation I can promise not to let you down. I know I’m not the first chap you’ve helped; you found a job for Ferencz’s brother-in-law.’
‘Oh, Jonas?’ — Balinkay snapped his fingers contemptuously. ‘But I ask you, what sort of chap was he? A little provincial official. It’s easy to help a man like that. All you have to do is to move him from one stool to a better one, and he thinks he’s God Almighty. What does it matter to him whether he wears his trousers out on one stool or another, he’s never known anything better. But to wangle a job for someone who’s once had a star on his collar — why, that’s a horse of a different colour! No, my dear Hofmiller, the top floors are already occupied. Anyone who wants to make a start in civilian life must start at the bottom, right down in the cellar, and that doesn’t smell of roses, I can tell you.’
I must have spoken with extreme vehemence, for Balinkay regarded me first with a curious and then with a fixed look, as though from a great distance. Finally he drew his chair up closer and laid his hand on my arm.
‘Look here, Hofmiller, I’m not your guardian, and it’s not for me to give you a lecture. But believe a comrade who’s been through the mill. It does matter, it matters a very great deal when you go slithering in one fell swoop from top to bottom, from your officer’s horse straight into the mire ... and the man who is telling you this once sat here in this dingy little room from noon till dusk, saying exactly the same thing to himself — “it doesn’t matter a damn to me”. Just before half-past eleven I reported to the Colonel for the last time. I didn’t want to sit down with the others in the mess, nor did I want to walk through the streets in mufti in broad daylight, and so I took this little room — now you’ll understand why I always like to have the same one — and waited here until it was dark so that no one should be able to cast an eye of pity on Balinkay as he slunk off in his shabby grey coat and a bowler hat. I stood over there at the window, that very window, and took one last look at the crowd in the street. There they were, my fellow-officers, striding along in uniform, erect and free, every one of them a little tin god, and each of them knew who he was and where he belonged. It was then that I felt for the first time that I was nothing more than a speck of dust on the face of the earth; it was as though in stripping off my uniform I had stripped off my skin. Of course, you’ll be thinking it’s all nonsense, one piece of cloth is blue and another is black and another grey, and it doesn’t matter two hoots whether one carries a sword or an umbrella. But I still shudder when I remember how I crept off to the station, and how two Uhlans passed me at the corner and neither of them saluted. And how I carried my little trunk myself into a third-class carriage and sat among sweating peasant women and workmen. Oh, yes, I know it’s all stupid and all wrong and that our so-called code of honour is all my eye — but it’s in your blood after years of service and four years at the military academy. At first you feel like a man who’s lost an arm or a leg or has a boil bang in the middle of his face. God forbid that you should ever have to go through all that! I wouldn’t go through that evening again for all the money in the world — that evening when I slunk away and avoided every street lamp until I reached the station. And that was only the beginning.’
