Authors: Stefan Zweig
“No,” I said spontaneously. And I added even more firmly, “Of course I can do it, of course!” Now that I knew there was a term set to my task I felt a new strength.
I heard Condor breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thank God. Thank God! Now I can tell you how afraid I was. Believe me, Edith really wouldn’t have got over it if you had simply run away in response to her confession of love in that letter. These next few days in particular are crucial. We’ll see how at all develops later. For now let us leave the poor child a little happiness—a week of unsuspecting happiness. You can guarantee to manage that single week, can’t you?”
Instead of speaking, I gave him my hand.
“Then I think everything is all right again, and we can rejoin my wife with our minds at ease.”
But he did not get to his feet. I sensed a little hesitation in him.
“Just one more thing,” he added quietly. “We doctors always have to think of the unforeseen; we must be prepared for anything to happen. Should there be some kind of development—I don’t have anything definite in mind, but should your resolve fail you, and should distrust of you then plunge Edith into a crisis, you must let me know at once. On no account must anything irrevocable be done during this short but dangerous phase. If you don’t feel up to your task, or you inadvertently give yourself away within that one week, then don’t be ashamed—for God’s sake don’t be ashamed to tell me so! I’ve seen enough naked bodies and damaged souls in my time. You can visit me or telephone me at any time of day or night, and I shall be ready to come to your aid, because I know what’s at stake. And now,” he said, and I heard the chair beside mine creak, which told me that Condor was rising to his feet, “now we had better go over to the living room. We’ve talked for quite a long time,
and my wife easily gets anxious. Even after years I have to be on my guard against putting a strain on her nerves. Someone once wounded by Fate remains vulnerable for ever.”
He took the couple of steps to the light switch again, and the electric bulbs came on. When he turned to me, his face looked different. Perhaps it was just the bright light that showed its contours so sharply, because I noticed the deep lines on his forehead for the first time, and I saw from his whole bearing how tired, how truly exhausted the man was. He always has to think of other people, I reflected. And suddenly my wish to take flight from the first real setback I had known seemed to me pitiful, and I looked at him with deep gratitude.
He seemed to notice that, and smiled.
“How good,” he said, clapping my shoulder, “that you came to see me and we were able to discuss all this. Suppose you had simply gone away without stopping to think. The memory of it would have weighed on you all your life, because you can run away from everything else, but not yourself. And now let’s join my wife. Come along, my dear friend.”
I was moved to hear him call me his friend at that moment. He knew how weak and cowardly I had been, and yet he did not despise me. With that one word he was giving me confidence again, as an older man speaking to a younger one, a man of experience to an uncertain beginner. I followed him, feeling light at heart and with my mind at rest.
We went through the waiting room, and Condor opened the door to the room beyond it. His wife was sitting at the dining table, which had not yet been cleared, doing some knitting.
Nothing about her busy activity would have led anyone to think that it was a blind woman’s hands so skilfully and confidently clicking the needles, with a little basket containing wool and scissors ready to hand. Her head was bent, and only when she raised the empty pupils of her eyes to us, and the lamplight was reflected in them, did you realise that she was indeed blind.
“Well, Klara, have we kept our promise?” said Condor affectionately as he went over to her, speaking in the soft, gentle voice that he always used to her. “It didn’t take long, did it? And I wish you knew how glad I am that Lieutenant Hofmiller came to see me! I should tell you—but sit down for a moment, my dear friend,” he said to me, “I should tell you that he is in the garrison stationed in the town close to the Kekesfalvas’ house. You’ll remember my little patient.”
“Oh yes, the poor lame girl, of course!”
“And now Lieutenant Hofmiller has brought me news from them without any need for me to go there specially myself. He visits them almost every day to amuse the poor girl a little and keep her company.”
The blind woman turned her head in the direction where she assumed I must be sitting, and for the first time I saw a soft expression smoothing out her harsh features.
“How kind of you, Lieutenant! I can imagine how much good that must do her.” And her hand as it lay on the table instinctively moved closer to me.
“Yes, and he’s kind to me as well,” Condor went on. “Otherwise, considering the state of her nerves, I’d have to go out there much more often to cheer her up. It takes a weight off my mind to know that in this last week before she goes to convalesce in Switzerland, Lieutenant Hofmiller will keep an
eye on her. She doesn’t always give other people an easy time, but he’s really wonderful with the poor girl, and I know he won’t let me down. I can rely on him more than I do on any medical assistant or colleague.”
I realised at once that by pledging me to keep my promise in front of this other helpless woman, Condor was binding me to it yet more firmly, but I willingly undertook to give that pledge.
“Of course you can rely on me, doctor. I’ll be sure to go out there every day this week, and I’d phone with the news if anything should happen, however slight. However,” I said, looking at him over the blind woman’s head with a wealth of meaning, “however, I’m sure there won’t be anything of that kind, there’ll be no difficulties. I’m as good as certain of it.”
“And so am I,” he assured me, with a little smile. We understood one another entirely. But then I saw his wife’s mouth begin to work nervously. You could tell that she had something on her mind.
“I haven’t apologised to you yet, Lieutenant. I’m afraid I was a little … a little brusque to you just now. But that silly girl the maid didn’t tell me anyone had called, I had no idea who was in the waiting room, and Emmerich has never mentioned you to me before. So I thought it was some stranger intruding on his time, and he’s always so tired when he gets home.”
“You were perfectly right, ma’am, and indeed you should have spoken to me more sternly. I’m afraid—forgive me for speaking frankly—I’m afraid your husband gives too much of himself to his patients.”
“Everything!” she interrupted me forcefully, moving her chair closer in her emotion. “I can tell you, he gives them everything—his time, his peace of mind, his money. He forgets to eat and sleep for thinking of his patients. Everyone exploits him, and
blind as I am there’s nothing I can do to help, I can’t take any of the burden off his shoulders. All day long I keep thinking—I’m sure he hasn’t had anything to eat yet, he’ll be on the train or in a tram again, and then they’ll wake him up in the middle of the night. He has time for everyone but himself—and my God, who thanks him for that? No one! No one!”
“Really no one?” he said playfully, smiling down at the agitated woman.
“Well, of course I do!” she said, blushing. “But there’s no way that I can help him! I’m always quite sick with anxiety by the time he gets home from work. Oh, I wish you could bring a little influence to bear on him! He could do with someone to make him rest a bit. We can’t help everyone in the world!”
“No, but we must try,” he said, looking at me as he spoke. “That’s what we’re here for. That and nothing else.” I felt the full force of his warning. But I could hold his gaze now that I knew I had made up my mind.
I got to my feet. At that moment I had made a vow. As soon as the blind woman heard my chair scraping on the floor she raised her eyes.
“Must you really go already?” she asked with genuine regret. “What a pity, what a pity! But you will call on us again, won’t you?”
I was feeling very odd. What is it about me, I asked myself, that makes everyone trust me, makes this blind woman seem to look up at me with a radiant expression, makes this man, not much more than a stranger to me, put his arm around my shoulders in such a friendly fashion? As I went down the stairs I could no longer understand what had driven me here an hour ago. Why had I really wanted to run away? Because a poor, disabled girl was in love with me? Because someone
wanted to help herself by clinging to me? Helping someone else was wonderful, the only thing truly worthwhile. And that realisation now made me do something of my own free will that only yesterday had seemed to me an intolerable sacrifice—I felt grateful for the overwhelming, burning love of another human being.
A week! Now that Condor had set a time limit to my task, I felt certain of myself again. Only one hour still filled me with alarm, or rather, only that first moment in that hour when I must meet Edith again for the first time since she had confessed her love. I knew it would be impossible for us to be entirely unselfconscious after such heartfelt intimacies—her first glance after that burning kiss she had given me was bound to ask—have you forgiven me? And perhaps the more dangerous question—will you put up with my love, will you return it? I had a very clear idea that her first blushing glance, her concealed and yet inevitable impatience, might be the most perilous and at the same time the crucial moment. A single clumsy word, an insincere gesture, and the secret I must not tell would be cruelly given away. That would lead me to adopt the brusque and wounding manner against which Condor had so urgently warned me. But once that moment was over I would be safe, and I might also have saved her.
However, as soon as I entered the Kekesfalva house next day I realised that the same fears had made Edith perceptive, and she had made sure that we did not meet on our own. Even from the front hall I heard the chatter of female voices. At a time when guests never usually disturbed our meeting she had
invited acquaintances to visit her, protection to help her through the first difficult moment.
Even before I entered the salon Ilona—either on Edith’s instructions or on her own initiative—came to meet me with an unusually impetuous welcome, took me in and introduced me to the local chief district officer’s wife and daughter, the latter a pale-faced, freckled, sharp-tongued girl, of whom I knew nothing except that Edith didn’t like her. So the awkwardness of our first sight of each other was, so to speak, glossed over while Ilona was getting me to sit down at the table. We drank tea and talked. I made assiduous conversation to the pert, freckled provincial girl, while Edith talked to her mother. This division of labour, deliberate and not a matter of chance, meant that our unspoken self-consciousness was diverted into different channels, and we had got over that first critical moment. I could avoid looking at Edith, although I could feel her glance sometimes resting uneasily on me. And even when the two ladies had finally risen to say goodbye, clever Ilona swiftly and neatly ensured that the situation would go smoothly.
“I’ll just show these ladies out, and meanwhile perhaps you two could begin a game of chess. I have a few preparations to make for our trip to Switzerland, but I’ll be back with you in an hour’s time.”
I could now ask Edith, “Would you care for a game of chess?” and as the other three left the room she replied, lowering her eyes, “Yes, that would be delightful.”
She kept her gaze on her lap as I set up the board and, with much ceremony to gain time, put the chessmen in place. To decide who would make the first attacking and the first defensive moves, we generally followed the usual chess custom whereby you hold one white and one black piece behind your
back, hidden in your closed fists. But the choice, demanding a spoken “Right” or “Left”, would still mean that we must speak to each other directly, and by common consent we both avoided even that. I just set up the pieces without further comment. We didn’t want to talk, we wanted to confine our thoughts to that board of sixty-four squares, look only at the chessmen, not even at the other player’s fingers moving. And so we played chess, pretending to be as absorbed in our tactics as the most experienced grandmasters, who forget all else around them and concentrate their attention exclusively on the game.
But soon the game itself showed that we were deceiving ourselves. In our third match Edith’s chess-playing skill failed her. She made wrong moves, and I could tell from the nervous fidgeting of her fingers that she couldn’t preserve this improbable silence much longer. In the middle of the game she pushed the board away.
“Oh, that’s enough! Give me a cigarette!”
I took one out of the chased silver box and carefully struck a match for her. As the light flared up, I could not avoid meeting her eyes. They were staring, unmoving, turned neither on me or in any other particular direction, as if frozen in icy anger. They had a strange, fixed look, but her raised eyebrows were arched tremulously above them. I recognised the storm signals that always heralded one of her nervous outbursts.
“No!” I cried, genuinely alarmed. “Please don’t!”
However, she flung herself back in her chair. I saw the trembling pass into her whole body, while her fingers dug deeper and deeper into the upholstered chair arms.
“Don’t, don’t!” I begged her again. I couldn’t think of anything to say but that one imploring word. However, the tears she had been holding back were already breaking through. It
was not loud, wild sobbing but, even more terrible, a quiet, deeply distressing flood of tears with her mouth kept grimly closed. She was ashamed of her tears herself, and yet it was beyond her power to control them.
“Oh, don’t—I do beg you, don’t!” I said, and leaning closer I placed my hand on her arm to soothe her. At once a tremor like an electric shock ran through her shoulders and then right through her convulsed body.
Suddenly the trembling stopped. She was still again, unmoving. It was as if her whole body were waiting, were listening, trying to work out what that touch of mine meant. Was it affection, or love, or just sympathy? The way she waited with bated breath was terrifying; as she sat there, her entire motionless body was straining to understand. I could not pluck up the courage to remove my hand now that it had so abruptly calmed her rising storm of tears. But nor could I find the strength to force my fingers to make the tender gesture that Edith’s body, her burning skin—I could feel it—yearned for so much. I left my hand where it was, as if it were not a part of me, and I felt as if all her blood, warm and pulsating, were running towards that one place on her arm.