Stefan Zweig - The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

The children are very interested to hear this. They guess there is a secret connection with yesterday’s conversation, and alert as their instincts now are they pick up the scent of cowardice and flight. When Otto comes to say goodbye to them, they sulk and turn their backs. But they watch surreptitiously as he faces their governess. Her lips are trembling, but she offers him her hand calmly, without a word.

The children have changed a great deal over the last few days. They have lost their playfulness and laughter, the old happy, carefree light has left their eyes. They are full of uneasiness and uncertainty, deeply suspicious of everyone around them. They no longer believe what they are told, they think they detect deliberate lies behind every word. They keep their eyes and ears open all day long, watching every movement, picking up any sudden start of surprise or tone of voice. They haunt the place like shadows in search of clues, listening at doors to overhear anything of interest, possessed by a passionate desire to shake the dark net of secrets off their reluctant shoulders, or at least see through some gap in it and get a glimpse of the real world outside. They have lost their childish trustfulness, their blindly carefree merriment. Moreover, they guess that the tense, sultry atmosphere resulting from recent events will discharge itself in some unexpected way, and they don’t want to miss it. Ever since discovering that the people around them are liars they have become persistent and watchful; they are sly and deceitful themselves. With their parents, they take refuge in pretended childishness flaring up into hectic activity. They are a prey to nervous restlessness; their eyes, once shining with a soft, gentle glow, now look deeper and are more likely to flash. In all this constant watching and spying, they feel so helpless that their love for each other is stronger. Sometimes they hug stormily, abandoning themselves to a need for affection suddenly welling up in them, sometimes they burst into tears. All at once, and for no apparent reason, life seems to be in a state of crisis.

Among the many emotional injuries that they now realise they have suffered, there is one that they feel particularly deeply. Seeing how sad Fräulein is these days, they have set out silently, without a word, to please her as much as they possibly can. They do their school exercises carefully and industriously, they help each other, they are quiet and uncomplaining, they try to anticipate her every wish. But Fräulein doesn’t even notice, and that hurts them badly. She is entirely different these days. Sometimes, when one of the girls speaks to her, she starts as if woken from sleep. And then her gaze, at first searching, returns from some distant horizon. She will often sit for hours looking dreamily into space, and then the girls go about on tiptoe so as not to disturb her. They have a vague, mysterious idea that she is thinking about her baby who is somewhere far away. And out of the depths of their own awakening femininity they love Fräulein more and more. She is so kind and gentle, her once brisk, high-spirited manner is more thoughtful now, her movements more careful, and the children guess at a secret sadness in all this. They have never seen her shed tears, but her eyelids are often red. They realise that Fräulein is trying to keep her pain secret from them, and are in despair to think that they cannot help her.

And once, when Fräulein has turned to the window and is dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, the younger girl suddenly plucks up her courage, takes the governess’s hand gently, and says, “Fräulein, you’re so sad these days. It isn’t our fault, is it?”

Much moved, the governess looks at her and caresses her soft hair. “No, my dear, no,” she says. “It certainly is not your fault.” And she gently kisses the girl’s forehead.

*

It is at this time, when they are keeping watch, letting nothing that moves within their field of vision pass unnoticed, that one of them picks up a remark when she suddenly enters a room. It is only a few words, because the girls’ parents break off their conversation at once, but anything they hear now can make them suspicious. “I thought I’d noticed something of that sort myself,” their mother was saying. “Well, I’ll question her.” The child thinks at first that this means her, and almost anxiously runs to her sister for advice and help. But at mid-day they realise that their parents’ eyes are resting enquiringly on the governess’s dreamy, abstracted face, and then their mother and father look at each other.

After lunch their mother says casually to Fräulein, “Will you come to my room, please? I want to speak to you.” Fräulein bows her head slightly. The girls are trembling violently. They can feel that something is brewing.

As soon as the governess goes into their mother’s room they hurry after her. This eavesdropping, rummaging about in nooks and crannies, listening and lying in wait has become second nature to them. They are no longer even aware that their conduct is improperly bold and sly, they have just one idea in their heads—to get possession of all the secrets being kept from them. They listen. But all they hear is whispered words, and a soft but angry tone of voice. Their bodies tremble nervously. They are afraid of failing to catch something important.

Then one of the voices inside the room rises higher. It is their mother’s. She sounds angry and cantankerous.

“Did you really think everyone’s blind, and no one would notice anything? I can well imagine how you’ve carried out your duties with such ideas in your head, and with morals like that! And it is to such a woman that I have entrusted the upbringing of my children, my daughters, a task that God knows you have neglected…”

Fräulein seems to be saying something in reply, but too quietly for the children to make out what it is.

“Excuses, excuses! Every promiscuous girl will offer that excuse! She’ll blame the first man who comes to mind and think nothing of it, hoping the good Lord will come to her aid. And a woman like that claims to be a governess and fit to educate girls. It’s outrageous. You surely don’t imagine that, in your condition, I shall keep you in my household any longer?”

The children listen intently outside the door. Shivers run through them. They don’t understand what their mother is saying, but it is terrible to hear her voice raised in such anger—and the only answer is their governess’s quiet, uncontrollable sobbing. Tears come to their own eyes. But the sobbing only seems to make their mother angrier.

“So all you can do now is burst into tears! You don’t touch my heart like that. I have no sympathy for such females. What becomes of you now is none of my business. You’ll know where to turn, I’m sure, I’m not asking you for the details. All I know is that I shall not tolerate the presence of someone who has so shamefully neglected her duty in my house a day longer.”

Only sobs answered her, desperate, wild, animal sobs that shake the children outside the door like a fever. They have never heard anyone cry so hard. And they feel, vaguely, that someone crying like that can’t be in the wrong. Their mother is silent now, waiting. Then she says suddenly, brusquely, “Very well, that’s all I wanted to say to you. Pack your bags today and come to collect your wages first thing tomorrow. Goodbye.”

The children scurry away from the door, and take refuge in their room. What was all that about? They feel as if a bolt of lightning has struck them. Standing there pale and shuddering, for the first time they somehow guess the truth. For the first time, too, they dare to feel hostile to their parents.

“It was wrong of Mama to speak to her like that,” says the elder girl, biting her lower lip.