by Stefan Zweig
I hesitated. This was not why I had come. I had not been trying to find a way out. Bubencic noticed my hesitation.
‘Understand?’ he repeated almost threateningly.
‘Very good, Herr Oberst,’ I answered in cool, military tones. Let the old fool say what he likes, I said to myself inwardly. I shall do what I’ve got to do.
‘There — that’s that. In the morning, then, at half-past five.’
I stood to attention. He came up to me.
‘To think that you of all my officers should get yourself into such a blasted mess! I’m very reluctant to let those chaps at Czaslau have you. You’ve always been my favourite among the young fellows.’
I could tell that he was considering whether to offer me his hand. His gaze had softened.
‘Anything else you want? If I can be of any help to you, don’t fail to come to me, I’ll be glad to do what I can. I shouldn’t like people to think you’re in disgrace or anything like that. Is there anything you want?’
‘No, thank you, Herr Oberst.’
‘So much the better. Adieu. In the morning, then, at half-past five.’
‘Very good, Herr Oberst.’
I looked at him as one looks at a person for the last time. I knew that he was the last person I was to speak to on this earth. Tomorrow he would be the only one to know the whole truth. Clicking my heels smartly and squaring my shoulders, I marched out of the room.
But even the obtuse old buffer must have noticed something. There must have been something suspicious in my gaze or in my walk, for, ‘About turn, Hofmiller!’ he ordered sharply.
I wheeled round. Raising his eyebrows, he looked me up and down keenly, and then murmured at once acidly and kindly:
‘I don’t much like the look of you, young fellow. Something’s the matter with you. It seems to me you’re going to make a fool of me, you’re planning some mischief. But I won’t have you doing anything silly over such a — business ... with a revolver ... or anything else ... I won’t have it ... d’you understand?’
‘Very good, Herr Oberst.’
‘Oh, cut that out! You can’t deceive me. I wasn’t born yesterday.’ His voice softened. ‘Give me your hand.’
I held it out to him. He gripped it firmly.
‘And now’ — he looked me keenly in the eyes — ‘your word of honour, Hofmiller, that you won’t do anything silly tonight! Your word of honour that you’ll report here at half-past five and leave for Czaslau.’
‘My word of honour, Herr Oberst.’
‘That’s all right then. You know, I was a bit afraid that in the heat of the moment you’d go and do something silly. One never knows with you impetuous young fellows ... you’re always in a hurry to finish matters, even if it means a revolver ... Later on you’ll get some sense into your head. One gets over these things. You’ll see, Hofmiller, nothing will come of the whole affair, nothing at all. I’ll smooth it out to the very last crease, and you won’t make a fool of yourself like that a second time. Well — you can go now — it would have been a pity, a fine young chap like you.’
Our decisions are to a much greater extent dependent on our desire to conform to the standards of our class and environment than we are inclined to admit. A considerable proportion of our reasoning is merely an automatic function, so to speak, of influences and impressions which have become part of us, and anyone who has been brought up from childhood in the stern school of military discipline is particularly apt to succumb to the hypnotic and compulsive force exercised by an order or word of command; a force which is logically entirely incomprehensible and which irresistibly undermines his will. In the strait-jacket of a uniform, an officer will carry out his instructions, even though fully aware of their absurdity, like a sleep-walker, unresistingly and almost unconsciously.
I too, who, out of a lifetime of twenty-five years, had spent the really formative fifteen years first at a military academy and then in the army, ceased, from the moment I heard the Colonel’s order, to think or to act independently. I no longer reflected. I simply obeyed. My brain only registered one thing — that I had to report, ready to march, at half-past five, and by that time to make all my preparations without fail. Waking my batman, I informed him briefly that we had received urgent orders to leave for Czaslau in the morning, and helped him to pack up all my belongings. With some difficulty we managed to be ready in time, and on the stroke of half-past five I was duly standing in the Colonel’s room, waiting to receive the relevant official documents. In accordance with his orders, I left the barracks without being observed.
This hypnotic paralysis of the will, it is true, only lasted as long as I was still within the four walls of the barracks and I had not completely carried out my instructions. With the first jolt of the train, I threw off the stupor that had come over me, and started up like a man who, after having been hurled to the ground by a violent explosion, staggers to his feet and finds to his surprise that he is unhurt.
My first shock of surprise was to find that I was still alive; my second that I was sitting in a moving train, snatched out of my ordinary daily existence. And no sooner had I begun to remember the events of the night before than everything rushed at feverish speed through my mind. I had been about to make an end of things, and someone had knocked the revolver out of my hand. The Colonel had said he would put everything right. But only, as I realized to my consternation, in so far as the regiment and my so-called ‘reputation’ as an officer were concerned. At this very moment, perhaps, my fellow-officers would be standing before him, and it went without saying that they would all swear on their honour not to breathe a word about the incident. But no order could affect their inward thoughts, they would all be bound to realize that I had slunk off like a coward. The apothecary would, no doubt, let himself be talked round at first — but what of Edith, Kekesfalva and the others? Who was going to let them know, to explain the whole thing to them? Seven o’clock: she would just be waking up, and her first thought would be of me. Perhaps she was already on the terrace — ah, that terrace, why did I always shudder every time I thought of the balustrade? — gazing out through her binoculars at the parade-ground, watching our regiment trotting along, not knowing, not suspecting, that someone was missing. But in the afternoon she would begin to wait, and I should not come, and no one would have told her anything. I had not written her a line. She would telephone, would be informed that I had been transferred, and she would not understand, would not take it in. Or more terrible still: she would understand, understand straight away, and then ... Suddenly I could see Condor’s eyes gazing out menacingly from behind his gleaming pince-nez. Once more I could hear him shouting at me: ‘It would be a crime, a murder!’ And immediately another picture was superimposed upon the first; a picture of Edith as she had levered herself up out of her chaise-longue and hurled herself against the balustrade — suicide, the abyss, mirrored in her eyes.
I must do something, do something at once! I must send a wire to her from the station, send her some message. I must at all costs prevent her doing something rash, irrevocable, in her despair. No, it was I who must not do anything rash, anything irrevocable, Condor had said, and if anything dreadful happened I was to let him know at once. I had promised him faithfully, and my word was my bond. Thank God, I should have two hours in Vienna to put this right, for my train did not leave until midday. Perhaps I should find Condor at home. I must see him.
On arrival I handed over all my luggage to my batman, telling him to go straight to the North-West Station and to wait for me there. Then I rushed off in a cab to Condor and kept praying (I am not as a rule religious): ‘O God, let him be in, let him be at home! He’s the only person I can explain things to, the only one who can understand, who can help.’
But the maid came shuffling towards me, a gaily coloured handkerchief tied round her head. The Herr Doktor was not at home, she said. Could I wait for him? ‘’E no come till midday.’ Did she know where he was? ‘No, don’ know. ’E go many pla
ces.’ Might I perhaps speak to the Frau Doktor? ‘I go ask,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders.
I waited. The same room, the same long wait as before, and then, thank God, the same soft shuffling step in the next room!
The door was opened, timidly, uncertainly. As on the previous occasion, it was as though a puff of wind had blown it open, but this time the voice greeted me kindly and cordially.
‘Oh, is it you, Herr Leutnant?’
‘Yes,’ I said, bowing to the blind woman (foolish as ever).
‘Oh, my husband will be sorry. I know he’ll be terribly sorry not to have been at home. But I do hope you can wait. He’ll be back in an hour at the latest.’
‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I can’t wait. But ... it’s a very important matter ... do you think I could get him on the telephone at the house of one of his patients?’
‘No, I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t know where he is ... and then, you see ... the people he likes treating most are not on the telephone. But perhaps you could ...’
She came nearer, and a shy expression flitted over her face. She wanted to say something, but I could see she felt embarrassed.
‘I ... I can tell,’ she managed to say at length, ‘I can tell that the matter must be very urgent ... and if there were any possibility, I should ... should, of course, tell you how to get hold of him. But ... but ... perhaps I could give him a message the moment he gets back ... I suppose it’s about that poor girl out there, to whom you’ve been so kind ... If you like, I’ll gladly undertake to do so ...’
And now an absurd thing happened to me: I did not venture to look this blind woman straight in the face. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling that she knew everything, had guessed everything. I felt ashamed, and could only stammer out:
‘It’s very kind of you, gnädige Frau, but ... I don’t want to trouble you. If you will allow me, I can leave a note for him. But it’s quite certain he’ll be back before two, isn’t it? For the train goes just before two, and he must go out there, I mean ... it’s absolutely essential, believe me, that he should go out there. I’m really not exaggerating.’
I could feel that she believed me implicitly. She came nearer still, and I could see her involuntarily raising her hand as though to comfort and reassure me.
‘Of course I believe it, if you say so. And don’t worry. He’ll do what he can.’
‘And may I write him a note?’
‘Yes, do ... Over there, please.’
She walked ahead with the remarkable assurance of one who knew every object in the room. A dozen times a day her nimble fingers must have tidied up his desk, for with the precision of one who could see she took three or four sheets of paper out of the left-hand drawer and laid them out quite straight on the blotter. ‘You’ll find pen and ink there,’ she said, again pointing to the exact spot.
I dashed off five pages. I entreated Condor to go out to Kekesfalva at once, at once — I underlined the words three times. I told him everything as briefly and frankly as possible. I had not held out, I had repudiated my engagement in the presence of my fellow-officers. He had correctly surmised from the very beginning that my weakness had been due to my fear of what other people would think, my wretched fear of gossip. I did not conceal from him the fact that I had intended to commit suicide and that the Colonel had saved me against my will. But up to this moment, I said, I had thought only of myself; only now did I realize that I was bringing tragedy upon another, an innocent, person. He must go out there at once — once more I underlined the ‘at once’ — he would, I knew, understand how urgent it was, and tell them the truth, the whole truth. He must not gloss over anything. He must not represent me as better than I was, as innocent. If, despite my weakness, she would forgive me, I should regard the engagement as more sacred than ever. Only now had it become really sacred to me, and, if she would allow me, I would go with her to Switzerland straight away, I would leave the service, I would stay with her no matter whether she got well sooner or later or not at all. I would do everything possible to atone for my cowardice, my lies; the only point of my life now was to prove to her that it was not she whom I had betrayed, but only the others. He was to tell her all this quite frankly, the whole truth, for only now did I realize how much I was bound to her, far more than to my comrades, to the service. She alone must judge me, pardon me. The decision as to whether she could forgive me was now in her hands, and would he please — it was a matter of life and death — leave everything and go out there by the midday train. He must be there by half-past four without fail, not a moment later, at the time when I was usually expected. It was my last request to him. This was the last time I should ever ask him to help me, and he must go out there at once — four times I underlined the scrawled ‘at once’ — or all would be lost.
It was not until I put down my pen that I felt that I had made an honest decision for the first time. It was only while writing that I had realized what was the right thing to do. For the first time I felt grateful to the Colonel for saving me. I knew that from now on I was bound for life to one person alone, to the woman who loved me.
Not until this moment did I realize that the blind woman had been standing motionless at my side. A feeling, an absurd feeling, came over me that she had read every word of my letter and knew everything about me.
‘Please forgive my rudeness,’ I said, springing to my feet, ‘I had entirely forgotten ... but ... but ... it was so important to me to let your husband know at once ...’
She smiled at me.
‘Oh, it doesn’t hurt me to stand for a little while. The other thing was all that mattered. My husband is sure to do whatever you ask him ... I felt at once ... you see, I know every tone in his voice ... that he is fond of you, particularly fond ... And don’t torment yourself’ — her voice grew warmer and warmer — ‘don’t torment yourself, I beg you ... everything’s sure to be all right.’
‘God grant it!’ I said, full of genuine hope, for had it not been said of the blind that they had second sight?
I bent down and kissed her hand. When I looked up, I could not understand how this woman with the grey hair, the harsh mouth, and that bitter look in her blind eyes had at first seemed ugly to me. For her countenance now shone with love and human sympathy. I felt as though those eyes that mirrored nothing but eternal darkness knew more of the reality of life than all those that gazed out, clear and radiant, upon the world.
Like a man cured of an illness I took my leave. The fact that at this moment I had pledged myself anew and for ever to another helpless outcast no longer seemed to me to entail a sacrifice. No, it was not the healthy, the confident, the proud, the joyous, the happy that one must love — they had no need of one’s love! Arrogant and indifferent, they accepted love only as homage that was theirs to command, as their due. The devotion of another was to them a mere embellishment, an ornament for the hair, a bracelet on the arm, not the whole meaning and bliss of their lives. Only those with whom life had dealt hardly, the wretched, the slighted, the uncertain, the unlovely, the humiliated, could really be helped by love. He who devoted his life to them atoned to them for what life had taken from them. They alone knew how to love and be loved as one should love and be loved — gratefully and humbly.
My batman was waiting faithfully at the station. ‘Come along!’ I smiled at him. All of a sudden I felt remarkably light-hearted. I knew with a feeling of relief such as I had never known before that I had done the right thing. I had saved myself, I had saved someone else. And I no longer regretted my senseless cowardice of the night before. On the contrary, I told myself, it was better so. It was better that it should have happened thus, that those who had faith in me should now know that I was no hero, no saint, no God who had graciously deigned to raise up a poor sick creature to sit beside Him in the clouds. If I now accepted her love, there was no longer any question of sacrifice. No, it was now for me to beg forgiveness, for her to grant it. It was better so.
&
nbsp; Never before had I felt so sure of myself. Only once did a fleeting shadow of fear touch me, and that was in Lundenburg, when a fat man threw himself into the compartment, sank into a seat, and panted: ‘Thank the Lord I’ve caught it! If it hadn’t been six minutes late I should have missed it.’
Anxiety surged up within me for a moment. What if Condor had not returned home at midday after all? Or if he had come too late to catch the midday train? In that case, all would have been in vain! She would wait and wait. Once more there flashed through my mind that horrible scene on the terrace when she had clung to the balustrade and stared down into the depths below. Oh God, she must be told in time how much I rued my treachery! In good time, before she was plunged into despair, before the worst happened! Perhaps it would be best if I sent her a telegram at the next stop, just a few words to set her mind at rest in case Condor should not have given her my message.
