Beware of Pity

by Stefan Zweig

  ‘Why, of course.’

  ‘That your feeling of horror was not aroused by the fact itself, but the thought of the consequences ... I mean, that it is not so much that you are appalled at this poor child’s falling in love with you as that you’re afraid that other people may hear of it and sneer ... In my opinion your exaggerated distress is nothing but a kind of fear — if I may say so — of appearing ridiculous in the eyes of others, of your fellow-officers.’

  I felt as though Condor had stabbed me to the heart with one of his fine, sharp needles. For I had long since subconsciously felt what he was now saying, but had not allowed myself to think it. From the very first I had been afraid lest my fellow-officers might jeer at my strange relationship with the crippled girl, and indulge in that good-humoured and yet devastating badinage for which Austrians are famous. I knew only too well how they ridiculed anyone whom they had once come upon in the company of ugly and unpresentable women. It was for that reason alone that I had instinctively drawn a dividing line in my life between the one world and the other, that of the regiment and that of the Kekesfalvas. Condor had conjectured aright; the moment I had become aware of her passion, I had felt ashamed chiefly on account of what other people would think — her father, Ilona, Josef, my fellow-officers — had even felt ashamed before myself of my disastrous feelings of pity.

  At this point I felt Condor’s magnetic touch on my knee.

  ‘No, don’t be ashamed. If anyone can understand a man’s fear of his fellow-men the moment their preconceived ideas are flouted, I can. You’ve seen my wife, haven’t you? No one could understand why I married her. Everything in life that deviates from the straight and, so to speak, normal line makes people first curious and then indignant. It immediately got about among my colleagues that I had bungled my treatment of her and had only married her out of panic. My so-called friends, on the other hand, spread it abroad that she had a lot of money or was expecting a legacy. My mother, my own mother, refused for two years to receive her, for she had had another match in mind for me, a marriage to the daughter of a professor — one of the most famous specialists of the day — and had I married her, I should within three weeks have got a lectureship in the university, have become a professor, and have sat pretty for the rest of my life. But I knew that my wife would go under completely if I left her in the lurch. She believed in me, me alone, and had I taken her faith from her, she would have been incapable of going on living. I may as well confess to you that I have never regretted my choice, for, believe me, a doctor, of all people, seldom has a clear conscience. One knows how little one can really do to help; as an individual one can’t cope with the infinite wretchedness that exists all around us in the world. One merely bales a few drops out of the unfathomable ocean of misery with a thimble, and those whom one imagines one has cured today have a new malady tomorrow. One always has a feeling of having been remiss, negligent, and then there are the mistakes, the professional mistakes, that one inevitably makes — and so it’s always good to know that one has saved at least one person, kept faith with one person, made a good job of one thing. One must know, after all, whether one has lived a dull, useless existence, or lived to some purpose. Believe me’ — and I was suddenly conscious of the warmth and tenderness that seemed to emanate from him — ‘it’s worth while taking a hard task upon oneself if thereby one makes life easier for another person.’

  The deep, vibrant tone in his voice moved me. I felt a faint burning in my breast, that familiar pressure, as though the heart were expanding or being distended; I could feel the pity welling up within me once more at the thought of the desperate plight of the unfortunate child. In a moment, I knew, that turbulent emotion against which I was powerless would surge up within me. But — don’t give in, I said to myself. Don’t let yourself be caught up in it, be dragged back into it again. And so I looked up resolutely.

  ‘Herr Doktor, every man knows to some extent the limits of his own strength. I must therefore warn you not to count on me. It rests with you and not with me to help Edith now. I have already gone much further in this matter than I originally intended, and I tell you frankly — I am not so ... so good, so self-sacrificing as you think. I have reached the end of my strength. I cannot stand being adored, being idolized, cannot endure having to behave as though I desired or tolerated it. It’s better that you should understand the situation now than be disappointed later on. I give you my word of honour as a soldier that I am absolutely sincere when I warn you not to count on me, not to over-estimate me.’

  I must have expressed myself very firmly, for Condor gave me a somewhat baffled look.

  ‘That sounds almost as though you had made up your mind to some definite course of action.’

  He suddenly got up.

  ‘The whole truth, if you please, and not half of it! Have you already taken some ... irrevocable step?’

  I too stood up.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, pulling my resignation from my pocket. ‘Here. Please read it for yourself.’

  Hesitatingly Condor took the document, throwing me an uneasy look before going over to the tiny circle of lamplight. He read it slowly, and in silence. Then he folded it up and said quite calmly, in perfectly matter-of-fact tones:

  ‘I take it that after what I have said to you you are fully aware of the consequences. We have just decided that the effect on the child of your running away would be murder — or would lead to suicide ... and you are, I assume, quite clear as to the fact that your ... your flight involves not only your resignation but a sentence of death on the poor child.’

  I did not answer.

  ‘I have addressed a question to you, Herr Leutnant. And I repeat that question: Are you aware of the inevitable consequences? Will you take full responsibility upon your conscience?’

  Again I was silent. He came nearer, the folded document in his hand, and handed it back to me.

  ‘There you are. I wash my hands of the whole thing. There — take it!’

  But my arm was paralysed. I had not the strength to lift it, and I had not the courage to withstand his searching gaze.

  ‘Then you do not propose ... to proceed with this death-sentence?’

  I turned away, and put my hands behind my back. He understood.

  ‘Then I may tear it up?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘please do.’

  He went back to the desk. Without looking up, I could hear the paper being torn sharply across, once, twice, a third time, could hear the rustle as the torn fragments fell into the wastepaper basket. In some strange way I felt a sense of relief. Again — for the second time on this fateful day — a decision had been taken on my behalf. I had not had to take it myself.

  Condor came up to me and urged me gently back into the arm-chair.

  ‘There — I think we have prevented a great tragedy ... a very great tragedy. And now to business. I have, I hope, to some extent learned to know you over this affair — no, don’t protest. I don’t over-estimate you, or by any means look upon you as a “wonderful and good person”, as Kekesfalva so eulogistically refers to you, but as one who, because of the instability of his emotions, because of a certain impatience of the heart, is a thoroughly unreliable colleague. Glad as I am to have put a stop to your senseless project, I am not at all pleased by the hasty way in which you take decisions and are then deflected from your purpose. People who are so much at the mercy of their moods should never be given serious responsibilities. You would be the last person to whom I should entrust a task that required perseverance and unwavering resolution.

  ‘So listen, I’m not going to ask much of you. Merely the most essential, the absolutely essential thing. We have persuaded Edith to try a new treatment — or rather one that she thinks is new. For your sake she has decided to go away, to go away for months, and, as you know, they’re leaving in a week’s time. Well, for that one week I need your help, and to relieve your mind I’ll tell you straight away, for that one week only. I ask no more of you than that you sh
ould promise me not to do anything precipitate during this week before their departure, not to betray by word or gesture that the poor child’s infatuation is a nuisance to you. For the moment I shall ask nothing more of you, and I think it is the very least one can ask: one week of self-control when the life of a human being is at stake.’

  ‘Yes ... but what about afterwards?’

  ‘We won’t think of that for the moment. When I have to perform an operation for the removal of a tumour, I daren’t waste time in asking whether it will not come back in a month or two. When I am called in to help, there is only one thing it is my duty to do: to act, without hesitation. That’s the only right course in every case, because it’s the only humane course. Everything else is in the hands of Providence or, as more pious people would put it, of God. Anything can happen in the space of a few months. Perhaps her condition really will improve more rapidly than I thought, perhaps her passion for you will die down — I can’t foresee all the possibilities, nor must you try to do so. Concentrate all your energy on not betraying to her during this decisive period that you find her love for you so irksome. Keep on saying to yourself: a week, six days, five days, and I shall save a human being; I will not wound, offend, upset, discourage that human being. A week of bearing up manfully and resolutely — do you really think you can’t manage that?’

  ‘Oh yes, I could,’ I said spontaneously. And added even more resolutely: ‘Certainly! Certainly I could!’ From the moment I knew that there was a limit to what was expected of me I felt a kind of fresh strength.

  I heard Condor breathing heavily.

  ‘Thank God for that! Now I can tell you how worried I was. Believe me, Edith would never have got over it if, in reply to her confession of love, you had taken to your heels. It is the next few days that are so important. The rest will work itself out later. Let us give the child a few days’ happiness to start with — a week of unsuspecting happiness. You’ll vouch for this one week, won’t you?’

  For reply I held out my hand.

  ‘Well, then, I think everything’s settled, and we can now join my wife.’

  But he did not get up. I could tell that he was troubled by a doubt.

  ‘One more thing,’ he added in a low voice. ‘We doctors are compelled to bear in mind even the unforeseen, we must be prepared for all eventualities. If by any chance — I am stating a hypothetical case — something should occur in the meantime — I mean, should your strength give out or Edith’s suspicions lead to some crisis, you must let me know at once. Not at any price must anything irrevocable happen during this short but critical period; on no account must she have a sudden shock. The slightest thing might be fatal. If you should not feel equal to your task, or if during this week you unwittingly give yourself away, don’t be ashamed — for heaven’s sake don’t be ashamed to tell me! I’ve seen enough naked bodies and broken spirits. You can call on me or ring me up at any time of the day or night; I shall always be ready to come to your aid, for I know what’s at stake. And now’ — the chair beside me creaked and I realized that Condor was getting up — ‘we’d better go across to the other room. We have been talking for rather a long time, and my wife easily gets disquieted. Even I, after all these years, have still to be on my guard against upsetting her. Those whom Fate has dealt hard knocks remain vulnerable for ever afterwards.’

  Again he strode across to the switch, and the light blazed forth. As he now turned to me his face looked different; perhaps it was only the glare that made its contours stand out, but at any rate I noticed for the first time the deep furrows on his forehead, realized from the whole bearing of the man how tired, how exhausted he was. He is always giving of himself to other people, I thought. All at once my desire to run away the moment I came up against disagreeable realities seemed to me despicable, and I looked at him with grateful emotion.

  He seemed to notice it, and he smiled.

  ‘How splendid,’ he said, patting me on the shoulder, ‘that you came to me and we have been able to talk the matter over! Just think what would have happened had you simply run away from the problem without reflecting! It would have been on your mind for the rest of your life, for one can run away from anything except oneself. And now let us go into the other room. Come — my dear friend.’

  The warmth in his voice as he called me ‘my dear friend’ moved me profoundly. He knew how weak, how cowardly I had been, and yet he did not despise me. He was an older man, a man of experience, I a mere youngster, a blundering beginner, and with those words he gave me back my confidence. A load fell from my mind, and I followed him with a light heart.

  We crossed the waiting-room, and Condor opened the door leading to the room beyond. His wife sat knitting at the table, which had not yet been cleared. Nothing would have led one to suspect as she worked away busily that the hands which plied the needles so nimbly were those of a blind woman; the little basket containing her wool and the scissors were arranged neatly by her side. Only when she raised her vacant pupils to us, and the electric lamp was reflected in miniature in their smooth orbs, did their sightlessness become obvious.

  ‘Well, Klara, we’ve kept our word, haven’t we?’ said Condor, going up to her affectionately, and speaking in that soft vibrant tone that came into his voice whenever he addressed her. ‘We weren’t long, were we? And if you only knew how glad I am that the Herr Leutnant looked me up. I ought to tell you, by the way — but sit down for a moment, my friend — that he is garrisoned in the town where the Kekesfalvas live — you remember my little patient, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, you mean that poor lame child?’

  ‘Yes. And, you see, I hear from time to time from the Herr Leutnant how she’s getting along, instead of having to go there myself. He goes there almost every day to cheer the poor child up, and to sit with her for a while.’

  The blind woman turned her head in what she guessed was my direction. A sudden gentleness seemed to smooth out her harsh features.

  ‘How good of you, Herr Leutnant! I can just imagine what a comfort that must be to her,’ she said, nodding at me, and impulsively reaching out her hand to me across the table.

  ‘Yes, and good for me too,’ Condor went on. ‘Otherwise I should have to go there far more often myself, to keep up her spirits. It’s a great relief to me to know that Lieutenant Hofmiller is going to keep an eye on her during this last week before she goes off to Switzerland. She’s not always easy to deal with, but he’s amazingly clever with her, and I know he won’t let me down. I can rely on him more than on all my assistants and colleagues.’

  I realized that, by exacting a promise from me in the presence of this other helpless woman, Condor was trying to bind me more firmly than ever. But I gave the promise willingly.

  ‘Of course you can depend on me, Herr Doktor. I shall go to see her every day of this last week and shall ring you up if the slightest thing happens. But I’m pretty certain’ — I gave him a meaning look over the head of the blind woman — ‘that nothing at all will happen, and that there will be no difficulty.’

  ‘So am I,’ he agreed with a faint smile. We understood each other perfectly. But his wife’s mouth began to work. It was plain that she had something on her mind.

  ‘I have not yet made my apologies to you, Herr Leutnant. I am afraid I was a little ... a little unfriendly to you just now. But that stupid girl didn’t tell me anyone was there; I had no idea who was in the waiting room, and Emmerich has never mentioned you to me. And so I thought it must be some complete stranger who wanted to buttonhole him, and he’s always dead-tired, you know, when he gets home.’

  ‘You were quite right, gnädige Frau, and you should be even firmer. I am afraid — forgive my presumption — that your husband gives out far too much of himself.’

  ‘He gives everything,’ she broke in vehemently, eagerly drawing her chair up nearer to mine. ‘Everything, I tell you — his time, his nerves, his money. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep on account of his patients. Everyone takes advantage
of him, and I, with my blind eyes, cannot relieve him of any of his responsibilities, cannot lighten his burdens. If you only knew how I worry about him! The whole day I keep thinking: he’s not had anything to eat yet, now he’s in the train again, or in the tram, and in the middle of the night they’ll be waking him up again. He has time for everyone except himself. And, who thanks him for it, I should like to know? No one, no one!’

  ‘Really no one?’ he said, bending over her with a smile.

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ she replied with a blush. ‘But I’m unable to do anything for him. When he comes home from his work, I’m always in an agony of anxiety. Oh, if only you could have some influence over him! He needs someone to restrain him a little. One simply can’t help the whole world ...’

  ‘But one must try,’ he said, with a glance at me. ‘That’s what one lives for. For that alone.’ The shot went home, but since I had now made up my mind I was able to meet his eye. I rose. At this moment I had taken a vow.

  No sooner did the blind woman hear my chair being pushed back than she raised her eyes.

  ‘Must you really go?’ she asked with genuine regret. ‘What a pity, what a pity! But you’ll come again soon, won’t you?’

  I felt very strange. What is there about me, I wondered to myself, that everyone should have confidence in me, that this blind woman should raise her sightless eyes so joyfully to me, that this man, who is practically a stranger to me, should put a friendly arm round my shoulder? And as I went down the stairs I could no longer understand what it was that had brought me here an hour before. Why had I wanted to run away? Because a cross-grained old colonel had given me a dressing-down? Because a poor crippled creature had fallen in love with me? Because a human being wanted to cling to me, to get consolation from me? Was it not the most wonderful thing on earth to be able to help one’s fellow-creatures? I now knew that it was the only thing that was really worth while. And this realization was driving me to do of my own free will what I had yesterday regarded as an intolerable sacrifice: to show my gratitude to a sick girl for her great, her burning love for me.