Beware of Pity

by Stefan Zweig

  He stood there before me, his head bowed as though beneath an invisible yoke. His bony egg-shaped skull with its scanty hair gleamed in the darkness. The completely uncalled-for servility of his bearing began to exasperate me. I had an uneasy feeling — and I knew I was not mistaken — that behind all this hum-ing and ha-ing there was some quite definite purpose. An old man with a weak heart did not climb three storeys merely in order to convey someone else’s compliments. He could just as easily have rung up or saved his breath until tomorrow. Be careful, I told myself. This old man wants something of you. Once before he appeared like this out of the darkness; he starts off humbly like a beggar and ends by forcing his will upon you like the djinn, the Old Man of the Sea in your dream. Don’t yield! Don’t let yourself be trapped! Don’t ask, don’t inquire about anything, but get rid of him, get out of his clutches, as quickly as possible.

  But the man who stood before me was an old man, and his head was meekly bowed. I could see the parting in the thin white hair, and it conjured up a vision of my grandmother bending over her knitting and telling us youngsters fairy-stories. One could not turn away an old, sick man without a kindly word. And so, as though all my experience had taught me nothing, I motioned him to a chair.

  ‘Most kind of you, Herr von Kekesfalva, to take all this trouble! Really most charming of you! Won’t you take a seat?’

  Kekesfalva made no reply. Probably he did not hear me distinctly, but at least he had understood my gesture. Timorously he perched himself on the extreme edge of the chair I had offered him. He must have sat down just so timidly in his youth, I thought in a flash, when eating the bread of charity in the homes of strangers. And there he sat now, the millionaire, in my shabby, worn-out cane-bottomed armchair. Deliberately he removed his spectacles and, foraging in his pocket for his handkerchief, began to polish the lenses. Aha, my friend! I thought, I’ve learned a thing or two, I know what that polishing means, I know your tricks! I know you’re only polishing your spectacles to gain time. You want me to begin the conversation, want me to ask all the questions, and I know, moreover, what you want to be asked — whether Edith is really ill and why your trip is being postponed. But I’m going to be on my guard. If you have anything to say to me, you can begin. I won’t go a step to meet you. No, I refuse to be dragged into the whole thing again — there must be an end of this accursed pity, an end of this eternal cry for more and yet more! An end of all this secretiveness and disingenuousness! If you want anything of me, then ask me straight out, but don’t sit there meekly polishing your glasses. I’m not going to walk into your trap again, I’m fed up to the teeth with all this pity.

  At length, as though he had heard the unuttered words behind my closed lips, the old man put down the now shining spectacles on the table in front of him. He evidently realized that I was not going to help him and that he would have to open the conversation himself. Keeping his head obstinately lowered, he began to speak, without looking across at me, and addressing his words to the table as though he hoped to wring more pity from the hard, cracked wood than from me.

  ‘I know, Herr Leutnant,’ he said with a gulp, ‘that I have no right, no right whatever, to take up your time. But what am I to do? What are we to do? I can’t go on any longer, we none of us can ... God knows what’s come over her! One can’t talk to her, she won’t listen to anyone now ... And yet I know she doesn’t mean it ... she’s simply unhappy, desperately unhappy. She is only doing this to us in desperation ... believe me, in desperation.’

  I waited. What did he mean? What was she doing to them? What? Out with it! Why was he talking in riddles? Why didn’t he say straight out what was the matter?

  But the old man was staring vacantly at the table. ‘And everything had been settled, all the arrangements had been made — the berths in the sleeping-car booked, the best rooms engaged ... and only yesterday afternoon she was still looking forward impatiently to going away. She had looked out the books she wanted to take with her, tried on all the new clothes and the fur coat that I had sent for from Vienna; and then suddenly, yesterday evening after dinner, this came over her — I don’t understand it. You remember what a state she was in. Ilona doesn’t understand, nor anyone else, what it’s all about. But she screams and vows that she won’t go away on any account, and that nothing on earth will make her. She will stay, stay, stay, she says, even if the house is burned over her head. She’s not going to lend herself to all this humbug, she’s not going to be duped, she says. This treatment is simply an excuse to get rid of her, to get her away. But we are all making a mistake, she says. She flatly refuses to go away, she’s going to stay, stay, stay!’

  I felt a cold shudder run down my spine. So that was what had been behind her angry laughter yesterday. Had she realized that I was at the end of my tether, or was she merely staging all this to get me to promise to follow her to Switzerland?

  Don’t let yourself be drawn into it, I said to myself. Don’t let the old man see that the news agitates you. Don’t let him see that the thought of her remaining is agony to you. And so I deliberately feigned obtuseness.

  ‘Oh, that’ll soon pass,’ I said with some indifference. ‘You should know by now how capricious she is. And Ilona told me over the telephone that it was only a matter of postponing your departure for a day or two.’

  A hollow sigh escaped from the old man; it was as though the last ounce of strength were being torn from his breast.

  ‘Oh God, if only that were so! But the dreadful thing is that I’m afraid ... we’re all afraid ... that she’ll never go away at all now ... I don’t know, I can’t understand it — but suddenly she’s lost all interest in the new treatment, in whether she gets well or not. “I’m not going to put up with this torture any longer, I won’t allow myself to be experimented on — it’s all a lot of nonsense!” That’s the sort of thing she says, says it in such a way that one’s heart stands still. “You can’t deceive me any longer!” she screams and sobs. “I see through it all, I see through it all, all of it!’”

  I quickly reflected. Good heavens, had she noticed anything? Had I given myself away? Had Condor been imprudent? Could some heedless remark have made her suspect that there was something fishy about this new treatment in Switzerland? Had she with her intuition, her terribly acute intuition, realized that we were sending her away to no purpose?

  ‘I can’t understand that,’ I said guardedly. ‘Your daughter until now has had such absolute confidence in Dr Condor, and if he has recommended this new treatment so emphatically ... well, I simply don’t understand it.’

  ‘That’s just it! That’s the crazy part of it all; she refuses to have any more treatment at all, she refuses to be cured. Do you know what she said? “I’m not going away on any account,” she said. “I’m tired of all these lies! I’d rather be the cripple that I am and stay here ... I don’t want to be cured now, there’s no point in it now.’”

  ‘No point?’ I repeated in utter bewilderment.

  But now the old man bowed his head still lower. I could see his swimming eyes, but could no longer see his spectacles. Only by the fluttering of his thin white hair did I realize that he had begun to tremble violently. Then he murmured almost inaudibly:

  ‘‘‘There’s no point in my being cured now,” she says, and bursts into sobs, “for he ... he ...’”

  The old man drew a deep breath as though preparing for some great effort. Then at last he jerked out: “‘For he ... he ... all he feels for me is pity.’”

  An icy shiver ran through me as Kekesfalva uttered that word ‘he’. It was the first time that he had made any allusion to his daughter’s feelings. It had long struck me that of late he had been avoiding me more and more, that he scarcely ventured to approach me nowadays, whereas formerly he had fluttered around me so persistently. But I knew that it was shame that kept him away from me; it must, after all, have been dreadful for the poor old man to see his daughter throwing herself at a man who shunned her attentions. Her secret confes
sions must have been agony to him, her unconcealed desire must have caused him infinite embarrassment. He, like myself, was no longer free of constraint. A man who has something to hide loses the candour of his gaze.

  But now it had all come out, and the blow had struck with equal force at both our hearts. After this revelation we both sat there mute, avoiding each other’s gaze. Silence hovered in the motionless air, in the narrow space above the table that divided us. But gradually this silence expanded, surged like black vapour up to the ceiling and filled the whole room; from above, from below, from all sides this emptiness pressed down and thrust itself upon us, and I could tell from Kekesfalva’s laboured, convulsive breathing that the silence was almost suffocating him. Another moment and this pressure would choke us both unless one of us started up and shattered it with a word — this oppressive, murderous emptiness. Then something happened: I only saw at first that he was making a movement, a curiously clumsy and awkward movement. And then I saw the old man drop from his chair in an inert, flaccid heap. The chair fell with a loud crash after him.

  A fit, was my first thought, a stroke. Condor had told me he had a weak heart. Horror-struck, I rushed to lift him up and lay him on the sofa. But as I did so I realized that the old man had not really fallen from his chair, he had thrown himself down. He had deliberately sunk to his knees — in my first start of dismay I had failed to notice this. As I now went to raise him up, he shuffled nearer to me, and seized my hands.

  ‘You must help her!’ he implored. ‘You are the only one who can help her ... even Condor says so — you and no one else ... I beseech you, have pity on her! Things can’t go on like this ... She’ll do something desperate, she’ll do away with herself!’

  Violently as my hands trembled, I dragged the old man to his feet. But he seized my arms, and his fingers dug desperately like claws into my flesh — the Old Man of the Sea, the djinn of my dream, who ensnared the young man who took pity on him.

  ‘Help her,’ he panted, ‘for God’s sake help her! She can’t be left in the state she’s in now ... I swear to you, it’s a matter of life and death! You can’t conceive what wild things she says in her despair ... She will have to make an end of herself, put herself out of the way, she sobs, so that you may be left in peace and we shall all be rid of her ... And it’s not just idle talk, she’s in deadly earnest ... She’s made two attempts already — once she severed the arteries in her wrists and another time she tried a sleeping draught. If she makes up her mind to a thing, no one can shake her, no one ... Only you can save her now, only you ... no one but you, I swear it.’

  ‘Why, of course, Herr von Kekesfalva ... Please calm yourself ... Of course I’ll do everything that’s in my power. If you like we’ll drive out to your place straight away, and I’ll try to talk her round. I’ll come with you now. Just tell me what I’m to say to her, what I’m to do.’

  He suddenly let go of my arm and stared at me. ‘What you’re to do? Do you really not understand, or do you not want to? Hasn’t she opened her heart to you, offered herself to you? And the poor child is tormenting herself to death for having done so. She wrote to you, and you didn’t answer, and now she’s tortured day and night by the thought that you’re having her sent away, trying to get rid of her because you despise her ... she’s quite frantic with fear that she’s repugnant to you ... because she ... because she ... Don’t you realize that it means death to a proud, passionate creature like this child to be left in suspense? Why don’t you give some hope? Why is it that you don’t say a word to her, why are you so cruel, so heartless to her? Why do you torture the poor, innocent child so horribly?’

  ‘But I’ve done everything I could to calm her ... After all, I’ve told her ...’

  ‘You’ve told her nothing! You must surely realize yourself that you are driving her mad by your visits, by your silence, when she’s waiting only for one thing ... for that one word that every woman awaits from the man she loves ... After all, she would never have dared to hope so long as she had no prospect of being cured ... But now that she’s definitely going to be well, quite well like other people, in a few weeks’ time, why shouldn’t she expect the same as any other young girl? Why not? She has shown you, hasn’t she — told you, that she is only waiting for a word from you? She can’t do more than she has done ... She can’t humble herself any more ... And you, you don’t say a word, don’t say the one thing that can make her happy ... Is the thought really so abhorrent to you? After all, you’d have everything a human being could wish for on this earth. I’m an old man, a sick man. All that I possess I should leave to you both, the Schloss and the estate and the six or seven millions I’ve made in the course of forty years. It would all be yours ... You can have it tomorrow, any time you like, I no longer want anything for myself ... All I want is someone to look after my child when I’m gone. And I know that you’re a good man, a decent man, you’ll look after her, you’ll be good to her.’

  His breath failed him. Impotent, helpless, he slumped back into his chair. But I too had come to the end of my strength, and I sank into the other chair. And there we sat opposite each other just as we had sat before, speechless, avoiding each other’s gaze, for I know not how long. Only sometimes I could feel the table which he was gripping being gently rocked by the spasms that ran through his body. Then I heard — once more an eternity had passed — a dry sound like the falling of some hard object on another hard object. His bowed head had sunk down on to the table. I could feel how this man was suffering, and a boundless desire to comfort him sprang up within me.

  ‘Herr von Kekesfalva,’ I said, bending over him, ‘do have confidence in me. We’ll think the whole thing over, think it over calmly ... I repeat, I am entirely at your disposal ... I will do everything that lies in my power. Only the thing ... the thing you hinted at just now ... that’s impossible ... utterly impossible!’

  He shuddered faintly like a mortally wounded animal at the final death-blow. Slobbering slightly in his agitation, his lips began to move, but I gave him no time to speak.

  ‘It’s impossible, Herr von Kekesfalva, so please don’t let’s discuss the matter any further ... Think it out for yourself ... Who am I? A mere subaltern, who lives on his pay and a small monthly allowance ... One can’t undertake responsibilities with such restricted means, they’re not enough for two people to live on.’

  He tried to interrupt me, but in vain.

  ‘Oh yes, I know what you’re going to say, Herr von Kekesfalva — that money doesn’t come into it, that all that will be arranged. And I know, too, that you’re rich, and ... that I could have all I wanted from you. But it’s just because you are so rich and I am nothing, a nobody ... that it’s out of the question. Everyone would say that I had married for money, that I had ... And Edith herself, believe me, would never rid herself her whole life long of the suspicion that I had accepted her only because of her money and in spite of ... in spite of the special circumstances ... Believe me, Herr von Kekesfalva, it’s impossible, genuinely and honestly as I esteem and ... and ... and like your daughter ... But surely you can understand?’

  The old man remained motionless. At first I thought he had not taken in what I had said, but gradually his frail body stirred. With an effort he raised his head and stared before him into space. Then he gripped the edge of the table with both hands, and I realized that he was trying to lever up his feeble body, that he was trying to get up, but could not. Twice, thrice his strength gave out. At length he struggled to his feet and stood there, still swaying from the effort, a dark shadow in the darkness, his pupils fixed and rigid, like black glass. Then he said to himself in a far-away, dreadfully casual tone, as though his own, his human voice, had left him:

  ‘Then ... then in that case it’s all over.’

  It was terrible, this tone, this utter resignation. Still staring fixedly into empty space, he groped along the table-top, without looking down for his spectacles. But he did not place them before his stony eyes — what was the poi
nt of seeing any more, of living any more? — he thrust them clumsily into his pocket. Once again his bluish fingers (in which Condor had perceived the signs of death) strayed round the edge of the table until at last they found his battered black hat. Then he turned to go and murmured, without looking at me:

  ‘Forgive me for disturbing you.’

  He rammed his hat down askew on his head; his legs refused to obey him, they shuffled and tottered feebly. He staggered like a sleep-walker towards the door. Then, as though remembering something, he took off his hat, bowed and repeated: ‘Forgive me for disturbing you.’

  He bowed to me, the broken old man, and it was this gesture of politeness in the midst of his utter despair that was my undoing. Suddenly I felt that warm stream of compassion welling up within me, bringing the burning tears to my eyes, could feel my heart melting, my will weakening; once more I was at the mercy of my pity. I couldn’t let him go away like this, this old man who had come to offer me his child, the only thing he held dear on earth. I could not deliver him up to despair, to death. I could not tear the very life out of his body. I must say something further to him, something comforting, calming, reassuring. And so I rushed after him.

  ‘Herr von Kekesfalva, please, please don’t misunderstand me. You mustn’t go away like this and tell her ... that would really be terrible for her at this moment and ... and ... it wouldn’t be true either.’

  I grew more and more agitated, for I saw that the old man was not listening to me. Despair had turned him to a pillar of salt; he stood there rooted to the spot, a shadow in the shadow, a living corpse. The impulse to comfort him became more and more urgent.

  ‘It really wouldn’t be true, Herr von Kekesfalva, I swear to you ... and nothing would distress me more than to insult your daughter Edith or ... or to let her think that I was not genuinely fond of her ... No one has warmer feelings for her than I have, I swear to you, no one could have more affection for her than I have. It’s really a delusion on her part to think that ... she means nothing to me ... On the contrary ... on the contrary ... I only meant that there would be no point in my ... in my saying anything now ... The only thing that matters at the moment is that she should take care of herself ... that she should really be cured.’