Stefan Zweig - The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

Neither my husband nor I could bear to watch the outrageous behaviour of the tyrannical dog any longer. Clever as he was, Ponto soon noticed our lack of respect for him, and took care to show us his disapproval in the most obvious way. There was no denying that he was a dog of character. After the day when our maid turned him out of the garden in short order when he had left his unmistakable visiting card in one of our rose beds, he never again slipped through the thick hedge that formed the boundary between our two properties, and despite Limpley’s pleas and persuasions could not be induced to set foot inside our house. We were glad to dispense with his visits; more awkward was the fact that when we met Limpley in his company walking down the road or outside our house, and that good-natured, talkative man fell into friendly conversation, the tyrannical animal’s provocative behaviour made it impossible for us to talk at any length. After two minutes Ponto would begin to howl angrily, or growl and butt Limpley’s leg, clearly meaning, “Stop it! Don’t talk to these unpleasant people!” And I am sorry to say that Limpley always caved in. First he would try to soothe the disobedient animal. “Just a minute, and then we’ll go on.” But there was no fobbing off the tyrant, and his unfortunate servant—rather ashamed and confused—would say goodbye to us. Then the haughty animal trotted off, hindquarters proudly raised, visibly triumphant after demonstrating his unlimited power. I am not a violent woman, but my hand always itched to give the spoilt creature a smart blow with a dog whip, just once.

By these means Ponto, a perfectly ordinary dog, had managed to cool our previously friendly relations with our neighbours to a considerable extent. It obviously annoyed Limpley that he could no longer drop in on us every five minutes as he used to; his wife, for her part, was upset because she could see how ridiculous her husband’s servile devotion to the dog made him in everyone else’s eyes. And so another year passed in little skirmishes of this kind, while the dog became, if possible, even bolder and more demanding, and above all more ingenious in humiliating Limpley, until one day there was a change that surprised all concerned equally. Some of us, indeed, were glad of it, but it was a tragedy for the one most affected.

I had been unable to avoid telling my husband that for the last two or three weeks Mrs Limpley had been curiously shy, avoiding a conversation of any length with me. As good neighbours we lent each other this or that household item from time to time, and these encounters always led to a comfortable chat. I really liked that quiet, modest woman very much. Recently, however, I had noticed that she seemed embarrassed to approach me, and would rather send round her housemaid when she wanted to ask a favour. If I spoke to her, she seemed obviously self-conscious and wouldn’t let me look her in the eye. My husband, who had a special liking for her, persuaded me just to go over to her house and ask straight out if we had done something to offend her without knowing it. “One shouldn’t let a little coolness of that kind come between neighbours. And maybe it’s just the opposite of what you fear. Maybe—and I do think so—she wants to ask you a favour and can’t summon up the courage.”

I took his advice to heart. I went round to the Limpleys’ house and found her sitting in a chair in the garden, so lost in reverie that she didn’t even hear me coming. I put a hand on her shoulder and said, speaking frankly, “Mrs Limpley, I’m an old woman and you needn’t be shy with me. Let me speak first. If you are annoyed with us about something, do tell me what the matter is.”

The poor little woman was startled. How could I think such a thing, she asked? She had kept from visiting me only because… And here she blushed instead of going on, and began to sob, but her sobs were, if I may say so, happy and glad. Finally she told me all about it. After nine years of marriage she had long ago given up all hope of being a mother, and even when her suspicion that the unexpected might have happened had grown stronger in the last few weeks, she said she hadn’t felt brave enough to believe in it. The day before yesterday, however, she had secretly gone to see the doctor, and now she was certain. But she hadn’t yet brought herself to tell her husband. I knew what he was like, she said, she was almost afraid of his extreme joy. Might it be best—and she hadn’t been able to summon up the courage to ask us—might we be kind enough to prepare him for the news?

I said we’d be happy to do so. My husband in particular liked the idea, and he set about it with great amusement. He left a note for Limpley asking him to come round to us as soon as he got home from the office. And of course the good man came racing round, anxious to oblige, without even stopping to take his coat off. He was obviously afraid that something was wrong in our house, but on the other hand delighted to let off steam by showing how friendly and willing to oblige us he was. He stood there, breathless. My husband asked him to sit down at the table. This unusual ceremony alarmed him, and he hardly knew what to do with his large, heavy, freckled hands.

“Limpley,” my husband began, “I thought of you yesterday evening when I read a maxim in an old book saying that no one should wish for too much, we should wish for only a single thing. And I thought to myself—what would our good neighbour, for instance, wish for if an angel or a good fairy or some other kindly being were to ask him—Limpley, what do you really want in life? I will grant you just one wish.”

Limpley looked baffled. He was enjoying the joke, but he did not take it seriously. He still had an uneasy feeling that there was something ominous behind this solemn opening.

“Come along, Limpley, think of me as your good fairy,” said my husband reassuringly, seeing him so much at a loss. “Don’t you have anything to wish for at all?”

Half-in-earnest, half-laughing, Limpley scratched his short red hair.

“Well, not really,” he finally confessed. “I have everything I could want, my house, my wife, my good safe job, my…” I noticed that he was going to say ‘my dog’, but at the last moment he felt it was out of place. “Yes, I really have all I could wish for.”

“So there’s nothing for the angel or the fairy to grant you?”

Limpley was getting more cheerful by the minute. He was delighted to be offered the chance to tell us, straight out, how extremely happy he was. “No… not really.”

“What a pity,” said my husband. “What a pity you can’t think of anything.” And he fell silent.

Limpley was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable under my husband’s searching gaze. He clearly thought he ought to apologise.

“Well, one can always do with a little more money, of course… maybe a promotion at work… but as I said, I’m content… I really don’t know what else I could wish for.”

“So the poor angel,” said my husband, pretending to shake his head sadly, “has to leave his mission unaccomplished because Mr Limpley has nothing to wish for. Well, fortunately the kind angel didn’t go straight away again, but had a word with Mrs Limpley first, and he seems to have had better luck with her.”

Limpley was taken aback. The poor man looked almost simple-minded, sitting there with his watery eyes staring and his mouth half-open. But he pulled himself together and said with slight irritation, for he didn’t see how anyone who belonged to him not be perfectly happy, “My wife? What can she have to wish for?”

“Well—perhaps something better than a dog to look after.”

Now Limpley understood. He was thunderstruck. Instinctively he opened his eyes so wide in happy surprise that you could see the whites instead of the pupils. All at once he jumped up and ran out, forgetting his coat and without a word of apology to us, storming off to his wife’s room like a man demented.