Authors: Stefan Zweig
Condor’s instincts had been right. We take fright only at what can’t be measured or understood—everything with a term set to it, however, everything definite is just a test of the lengths to which our endurance will go. Three days—I can do that, I felt, and the idea gave me confidence. Next morning I was impeccably correct in carrying out my military duties, which is saying something when we had to be on the parade ground an hour earlier than usual that day, carrying out manoeuvres at a speed that sent sweat running down the backs of our necks. To my own surprise, I even earned an involuntary, “Well done!” from our hard-bitten colonel. His fury today was reserved for Count Steinhübel, on whose head the storm duly broke. Enthusiastic connoisseur of horses that Steinhübel was, he had bought a new, high-stepping chestnut only a couple of days ago, a young, purebred, restive animal. Unfortunately, Steinhübel was so sure of his horsemanship that he had incautiously failed to try the horse out in advance. In the middle of the Colonel’s pep talk the ill-omened chestnut, taking fright at the shadow of a bird, had reared up, and during an assault exercise he simply shied and bolted. If Steinhübel hadn’t in fact been such a good horseman, the whole front line would have seen him thrown over his horse’s head, and only after a positively acrobatic struggle did he get the terrified animal back under control. However, the Colonel had nothing to say in praise of that considerable achievement. Once and for all, he growled, he didn’t want any circus tricks on the parade ground; if the Count didn’t know anything about horses he might at least attend the riding school and avoid acquitting himself so poorly in front of the men another time.
Steinhübel greatly resented these slurs on his horsemanship. Even riding back to barracks, and then as we ate lunch, he kept explaining again and again how unjust the Colonel had been. His new mount was too high-spirited, that was all; we’d see what a fine horse the chestnut was once he, Steinhübel, had finished breaking him in. But the more the irate Steinhübel worked himself into a fury, the more our comrades teased him. He’d let himself be conned into buying that horse, they joked, which infuriated him more than ever. The debate waxed ever more vehement.
During this stormy discussion, one of the orderlies comes up behind me. “Someone on the telephone for you, Lieutenant Hofmiller, sir.”
I jump up with dark forebodings. Over these last few weeks telephone calls, telegrams and letters have brought me nothing but bad news and ensuing distress. What does she want now? I wonder. I expect she’s sorry she gave me this afternoon off. Well, if she’s regretting it, then everything is going smoothly.
But anyway, I close the soundproofed door of the telephone kiosk behind me, as if that would cut off any contact between my military and private worlds.
It’s Ilona’s voice that I hear. “I just wanted to say,” she says down the phone (sounding rather awkward, it seems to me), “I just wanted to say it would be better if you didn’t come to see us today. Edith isn’t feeling very well …”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” I interrupt her.
“No, no … I just think we’d better let her rest today, and then … ” Here she hesitates for quite a long time. “And then … well, a day or so here or there makes no difference, not now. We must … we have to put off the trip to Switzerland.”
“Put it off?” There must have been horror in my voice, because
she quickly adds, “Yes … but we hope only for a few days. And anyway we can talk this over tomorrow, or the next day … perhaps I’ll telephone you meantime. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know … better not tomorrow and … and warm regards, and we’ll see you soon!”
“Yes, but … ” I stammer into the receiver. However, there is no answer. I listen for a few more seconds, still no answer. She has hung up. Odd—why was she in such a hurry to end the call? It was as if she were afraid of being asked more questions. That must mean something … and why put off the trip? It was all arranged down to the very day. A week hence, Condor said. A week, I have prepared my mind well for that, and now am I to … no, impossible, this is impossible. I can’t stand this constant chopping and changing … I have my own nerves to think of. I must get some rest sometime, after all.
Is it really so hot in this telephone kiosk? I fling the soundproofed door open as if I were stifling, and make my way back to my place. Apparently no one has thought anything of my absence. The others are still enjoying their needling of Steinhübel, and beside my empty chair, waiting patiently for me, is the orderly with the platter of meat. I automatically help myself to two or three slices, just to get rid of the orderly, but I do not pick up my knife and fork. There is a pounding in my temples as if a little hammer were busy chiselling the words “Put off” mercilessly into the bone of my skull. “Put off! The trip has been put off!” There must be some reason. Something must certainly have happened. Has she been taken seriously ill? Did I offend her? Why does she suddenly prefer not to go away? Condor promised me I wouldn’t have to hold out for more than a week, and I’ve already struggled through five days of it … but I can’t go on any longer … I just can’t!
“Hey, where are your wits wandering, Toni? Don’t you fancy a good plain roast? That’s what comes of your fine dining at the castle, they spoil you there! I’m always saying, it’s not good enough for him here these days!”
Ferencz again with his well-meant jovial laugh, that way he has of suggesting that I’m sponging on the grand folk at the castle.
“Oh, for God’s sake spare me your silly jokes!” I snap at him. All my pent-up fury must have been in my voice, because the two ensigns opposite stare at me in surprise. Ferencz puts his knife and fork down.
“Don’t you take that tone with me,” he says menacingly. “I suppose a man may be allowed his little witticisms! If you can eat better elsewhere, fair enough, that’s your business. But at our table here in this mess I’ll allow myself to point out that you’re turning up your nose at our midday meal.”
Our neighbours at table look at the two of us with interest. The clatter of forks on plates is suddenly subdued. Even the Major narrows his eyes and gives us a sharp look. I can see it’s time to make up for my flash of temper.
“And I suppose you’ll admit, Ferencz,” I reply, forcing a smile, “that I can have a headache once in a while and feel, well, not too good.”
“Oh, sorry, Toni,” says Ferencz at once. “How was I to know? Yes, sure enough, you
have
been looking out of sorts. These last few days it did strike me that you were under the weather. Well, don’t worry, you’ll soon pull through!”
The little incident has been smoothed over. But my anger is still feverishly working away inside me. What are they up to there at the castle? Back and forth, chopping and changing, blowing hot and cold—I’m not going to be plagued like that! I said three days, three and a half days to go and not an hour
more! So who cares if they’ve put off the trip to Switzerland or not? I’m not having my nerves torn to shreds any longer, I’m not letting my damned pity torment me. This will drive me out of my mind!
I have to exercise self-control not to show the anger that still has me in its grip. I feel like picking up the glasses and crushing them in my fingers, or banging the table with my fist—I must do something violent to relieve this tension. I can’t go on sitting there helplessly, waiting and wondering whether they are going to start writing letters and telephoning again, whether they are putting off the trip to Switzerland or not. I can’t take any more of this. I must do something.
My comrades are still deep in conversation opposite me. “And I tell you,” our lean friend Jozsi is saying, still needling Steinhübel, “that horse-dealer Neutitscheiner diddled you. I know something about horses myself, and you’ll never get the better of that frisky chestnut, no one will master him!”
“Really? I’d like to see if that’s so,” I suddenly interrupt their conversation. “I’d like to have a shot at mastering your chestnut. Tell you what, Steinhübel, any objection to my taking him out for an hour or two? I could try to finish breaking him in for you.”
I don’t know what put that idea into my head. But my need to take out my anger on someone or something, to relieve my feelings with violent action, is working so feverishly in me that it jumps at the first chance that comes to hand. Everyone looks at me in surprise.
“Best of luck!” laughs Count Steinhübel. “You’ll be doing me a favour if you feel up to it. I got cramp in my fingers today, I had to pull the brute round so hard. Good idea for him to have someone fresh put him through his paces. Let’s do it at once! Come on, quick march!”
Everyone jumps up in high spirits, looking forward to some fun. We go off to the stables to take the horse Caesar out—maybe Steinhübel was a little too hasty in giving his refractory mount the name of an invincible hero. Caesar seems to find it rather unsettling to have such a talkative company gathering around his box. He snorts and paws the ground and prances around in the confined space, he tugs at his halter, making the boards creak. Not without some difficulty, we manoeuvre the suspicious animal into the riding school.
In general I was only an average horseman, unable to come anywhere near matching that impassioned cavalry officer Steinhübel. Today, however, he could have found no one better than me to finish breaking in his horse, and the unruly Caesar could have had no more dangerous opponent. For this time anger steels my muscles; my savage desire to get the better of something, force the horse to submit to me, make it an almost sadistic pleasure to show this recalcitrant animal at least (for you can’t strike at those who are out of reach!) that there were limits to my patience. It does the bold horse no good to race around like a rocket, kick out at the walls of the riding school, rear and buck in his attempts to throw me. I am putting my heart into the struggle, and I pull mercilessly at the snaffle as if to break all Caesar’s teeth. I dig my heels into his ribs, and this rough treatment soon begins to calm him. His tough resistance provokes, entices and inspires me, and at the same time remarks of approval from the officers who were my audience—“Good God, he’s showing him a thing or two!” and “Who’d have thought it of Hofmiller?”—spur me on to greater and greater self-confidence, while as always with physical achievement, that confidence affects my temper as well. After half-an-hour of struggle, showing the horse no mercy, I sit triumphant in the
saddle, while the humiliated animal is grinding his teeth and steaming and dripping as if he has come out of a hot shower. His throat and bridle are flecked with white as he foams at the mouth, his ears droop obediently, and after another half-an-hour the refractory horse is as gentle and docile as you could wish. I don’t have to exert the pressure of my thighs now, and could easily dismount to accept the congratulations of my comrades. But there is still too much pugnacity in me for that, and I am enjoying my heightened state of physical exertion so much that I ask Steinhübel’s permission to take the horse over to the parade ground for an hour or so—at a trot, of course—so that the sweating animal can cool off.
“By all means,” says Steinhübel, smiling at me. “I can see you’ll bring him back to me safe and sound, and there’ll be no more playing up from Caesar. Well done, Toni, my compliments!”
So to the loud applause of my comrades I trot out of the riding school, and keeping the exhausted horse on a short rein I take him through the town and into the meadows. The horse’s pace is easy and relaxed now, and I feel at ease and relaxed myself. I have taken all my fury and bitterness out on the stubborn animal during that strenuous hour, Caesar trots on now like a lamb, all his fighting instinct gone, and I have to admit that Steinhübel is right, he’s a fine, high-stepping animal. No one could hope for a better, smoother, livelier gallop, and gradually my original discontent is giving way to a pleasant and almost dreamlike sense of well-being. I ride him through the countryside for a good hour, and finally, at four-thirty, it seems time to go slowly home. Both Caesar and I have had enough for one day. I ride back at a comfortable jog trot down the familiar road back to the town, feeling a little drowsy myself. Then, behind me, I hear a car horn hoot, a sharp, loud sound. The
frisky chestnut pricks up his ears and begins to tremble. But I sense the horse’s nervousness in time, pull briefly on the reins, and use the pressure of my thighs to guide him away from the middle of the road and to the roadside under a tree, so that the car can pass unimpeded.
It must have a considerate driver, who understands my careful sideways movement in good time. Slowly the noise of the engine dies to a murmur as the car passes at a very slow speed. It is almost unnecessary for me to keep such a sharp eye on the trembling horse and tense my thighs against his sides in the imminent expectation of a leap sideways or backwards, for when the car has passed us the horse stands still. I have time to look up. But as I do, I see someone waving to me from the open car, and I recognise Condor’s round bald head beside Kekesfalva’s, which is egg-shaped and sparsely covered with white hair.
I don’t know whether it is I or the horse trembling now. What does this mean? Condor here, and he didn’t let me know? He must have been to see the Kekesfalvas; the old man was beside him in the car. But why didn’t they stop for a word with me? Why did they both pass me as if we were strangers? And what brings Condor out here again? His consulting hours in Vienna are two to four—he would usually be there now. They must have summoned him for some particularly pressing reason, they must have telephoned him early this morning. Something must have happened, and it is certainly connected with Ilona’s call to me, telling me they have to put off the trip to the Engadine valley and I had better not go out there today. Yes, something definitely must have happened, and it is being kept from me! Has she done herself some kind of harm after all? Yesterday evening there was something so determined about her, the sarcastic self-assurance that only someone who
is hatching a dangerous and ill-intentioned plan can show. Yes, she must have harmed herself in some way! Ought I not to gallop straight off after the car? I might yet catch up with Condor at the station!