Stefan Zweig - The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

Her younger sister still shrinks from such a bold statement. “But we don’t know what she did,” she stammers plaintively.

“It can’t have been anything bad. Fräulein can’t have done anything bad. Mama doesn’t know what she’s really like.”

“And the way she cried—it scared me.”

“Yes, it was terrible. So was the way Mama shouted at her. It was wrong of Mama, I tell you it was wrong.”

She stamps her foot. Her eyes are blurred with tears. Then the governess comes in, looking very tired.

“Children, there are things I have to do this afternoon. You can be left on your own, can’t you? I’m sure I can rely on you, and then I’ll see you this evening.”

She goes out without noticing how upset the children are.

“Did you see her eyes? They were all red with crying. I can’t understand how Mama could treat her like that.”

“Oh, poor Fräulein!”

That deep, tearful sigh of sympathy again. The children are standing there in distress when their mother comes in to ask if they would like to go for a walk with her. The girls are evasive. They are afraid of their mother. In addition they are indignant; no one has said a word to them about their governess’s departure. They would rather be on their own. Like two swallows in a small cage they swoop back and forth, upset by this atmosphere of lies and silence. They wonder whether to go and see Fräulein in her room and ask her questions, talk to her about it all, tell her they want her to stay and Mama is wrong. But they are afraid of hurting her feelings. And they are also ashamed of themselves for having found out all they know on the sly, by dint of eavesdropping. They must pretend to be stupid, as stupid as they were two or three weeks ago. So they spend the long, endless afternoon on their own, brooding over what they have heard and crying, always with those terrible voices ringing in their ears, their mother’s vicious, heartless fury and the desperate sobs of their governess.

Fräulein looks in on them fleetingly that evening and says goodnight. The children tremble when they see her going out; they would like to say something to her. But when Fräulein reaches the door she turns back suddenly, as if their silent wish has brought her back once more of her own accord. Something is gleaming in her eyes; they are moist and clouded. She hugs both children, who begin sobbing wildly, kisses them once again, and then quickly goes out.

The children are in tears. They sense that she was saying goodbye.

“We won’t see her any more!” wails one of the girls.

“No, when we get back from school at mid-day tomorrow she’s sure to have gone.”

“Maybe we can go and visit her later. And then I’m sure she’ll show us her baby.”

“Oh yes, she’s so nice.”

“Oh, poor Fräulein!” It is a sigh for their own loss again.

“Can you imagine what it will be like now without her?”

“I’ll never be able to take to another governess.”

“Nor me.”

“No one else will be so kind to us. And then…”

She dares not say it. But an unconscious sense of femininity has made them revere Fräulein even more since they found out about her baby. They both keep thinking about it, and no longer with mere childish curiosity, but deeply moved and sympathetic.

“Listen,” says one of the girls. “I know what!”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to do something nice for Fräulein before she goes. So that she’ll know we love her and we’re not like Mama. What about you?”

“How can you ask?”

“What I thought was, she’s always liked white roses so much. Suppose we go out to buy her some first thing tomorrow, before we go to school, and then we can put them in her room.”

“But when?”

“At mid-day when we come home.”

“She’ll be gone by then. I tell you what, suppose I run out very early and buy them before anyone notices I’m gone? And then we can take them to her in her room before we go to school.”

“Yes, and we’ll get up really early.”

They fetch their money boxes, shake out the contents and put all their money together. They feel happier now they know that they can still give Fräulein proof of their silent, devoted love.

They get up very early in the morning. They stand outside the governess’s door holding the beautiful double white roses—their hands tremble slightly—but when they knock there is no answer. They think Fräulein must be asleep, and cautiously slip into the room. But it is empty, and the bed has not been slept in. Everything lies scattered around in disorder. A couple of letters in white envelopes lie on the dark tabletop.

The two children take fright. What has happened?

“I’m going to see Mama,” says the elder girl with determination. And defiantly, her eyes sombre and entirely fearless, she faces her mother head on and asks, “Where is our Fräulein?”

“She’ll be in her room,” says her mother, surprised.

“Her room’s empty and she hasn’t slept in her bed. She must have gone away yesterday evening. Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

Her mother doesn’t even notice the harsh, challenging tone of the girl’s voice. She has turned pale, and goes to see her husband, who quickly disappears into the governess’s room.

He stays there for a long time. The child watches her mother, who seems to be upset, with a steady angry gaze that the mother’s eyes dare not meet.

Then her father comes back. He is very pale in the face, and is carrying a letter. He goes into the sitting room with her mother and talks to her quietly. The children stand outside, not venturing to listen at the door any more. They are afraid of their father’s wrath. Just now he looked as they have never seen him before.

Their mother comes out of the sitting room, her eyes red with tears and appearing distressed. Instinctively, as if attracted to her fear, the children go to meet her, wanting to ask questions. But she says brusquely, “Off you go to school. You’re late already.”

And the children have to go. As if in a dream they sit there for four or five hours among all the other girls, hearing not a word. They rush home when lessons are over.

Home would be the same as usual except that everyone seems to be in the grip of a terrible idea. No one says anything, but they all, even the servants, look so strange. The children’s mother comes to meet them. She seems to have prepared something to tell them. She begins, “Girls, your Fräulein will not be coming back, she has…”

But she does not venture to finish what she was going to say. As her children’s eyes meet hers, they flash with such dangerous menace that she dares not tell them a lie. She turns and leaves them, taking refuge in her room.

Otto suddenly turns up that afternoon. He has been summoned; one of the letters left was for him. He too is pale and stands around looking upset. No one speaks to him. They all avoid him. Then he sees the two children huddled together in a corner and goes over to say hello.

“Don’t you touch me!” says one of the girls, shuddering with disgust. Her sister actually spits on the floor in front of him. He wanders around for a little longer, looking confused and embarrassed. Then he disappears.

No one talks to the children. They themselves do not exchange a word with anyone. They pace around like caged animals, pale-faced, restless and agitated; they keep coming together, meeting one another’s tear-stained gaze, but saying nothing. They know all about it now. They know that they have been told lies, all human beings can be bad and despicable. They do not love their parents any more, they don’t believe in them. They know that they can never trust anyone, the whole monstrous weight of life will weigh down on their slender shoulders. They have been cast out of the cheerful comfort of their childhood, as if into an abyss. They cannot quite grasp the terrible nature of what has happened, but the thought of it makes them choke and threatens to stifle them. Their cheeks burn feverishly, and they have an angry, agitated look in their eyes. As if freezing in their isolation, they wander up and down. No one, not even their parents, dares speak to them, they look at everyone with such ill will, and their constant pacing back and forth reflects the agitation working inside them. Although the two girls do not talk to each other about it, they have something dreadful in common. Their impenetrable, unquestioning silence and viciously self-contained pain makes them seem strange and dangerous to everyone. No one comes close to them; access to their minds has been cut off, perhaps for many years to come. Everyone around them feels that they are enemies, and determined enemies at that who will not easily forgive again. For yesterday their childhood came to an end.