Stefan Zweig - The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

He acted out this scene in his mind three times, pacing up and down. He liked the whole structure, the entire tone of it, he was waiting impatiently for the moment to come like an actor waiting for his cue. There was just one passage that still didn’t seem quite right to him. “I have no intention of failing in my duty to the Fatherland.” There absolutely had to be some kind of sop to patriotic values in the conversation, it was necessary to show that he was not being purposely obstructive, but he wasn’t ready to go either. He would acknowledge the necessity of showing patriotism, for their ears only, of course, not for himself. However, that “duty to the Fatherland”—the phrase was too literary, it came too pat. He thought it over again. Perhaps: “I know that the Fatherland needs me.” No, that was even more ridiculous. Or better: “I have no intention of shirking my responsibility to answer the call of the Fatherland.” Yes, that was an improvement. But he still didn’t like this part of the scene; it was too servile. He was bowing just a little too low. He thought yet again. He had better keep it perfectly simple. “I know my duty”—yes, that was it, you could turn the phrase this way and that, understand or misunderstand it. And it sounded clear and brief. You could say it in a masterful tone—“I know my duty”—almost like a threat. Now it was all perfect. Yet he glanced nervously at his watch again. Time refused to go forward. It was only eight o’clock.

People jostled him in the street, he didn’t know which way to turn. He went into a café and tried to read the papers. But he felt the words disturbing him; they were all about duty and the Fatherland here too, and the phrases left him confused. He drank a cognac and then another, to get rid of the bitter taste in his throat. Frantically, he wondered how he could get the better of time, and kept reassembling the pieces of his imaginary conversation in his head. Suddenly he put a hand to his cheek—“Unshaved! I haven’t shaved!” He hurried to a barber’s, where he also had his hair cut and washed. That disposed of half-an-hour of waiting. And then, it occurred to him, he ought to look elegant. That was important in such offices. They took an arrogant tone only with the riffraff, they’d snap at people like that, but if you appeared looking elegant, a man of the world, at ease, they’d soon change their tune. The idea went to his head. He had his coat brushed and went to buy a pair of gloves, taking a long time over his choice. Yellow gloves somehow seemed too striking, something a gigolo might wear; a discreet pearl-grey pair would be better. Then he went up and down the street again, looked at himself in a tailor’s mirror, adjusted his tie. His hand felt too empty—a walking-stick, it occurred to him, a walking-stick would impart a sense of occasion, a touch of worldliness to his visit. He quickly went into the shop and bought one. When he came out again the clock in the tower was striking quarter-to-ten. He recited his lines to himself once more. The new version, with the words, “I know my duty,” was now the strongest part of it. Very sure of himself, very firmly he strode out and ran up the stairs to the Consulate, as light on his feet as a boy.

A minute later, as soon as the servant opened the door, a sudden presentiment that his calculations might be all wrong descended on him. And indeed, nothing went as he had expected. When he asked to see the attaché he was told that His Honour the Secretary was with a visitor, and he must wait. A not particularly civil gesture showed him to a chair in the middle of a row where three men of downcast appearance were already sitting. Reluctantly, he sat down, feeling with annoyance that his was just an ordinary affair here, he was a case, something to be dealt with. The men beside him were exchanging their own little stories; one of them was saying, in plaintive and depressed tones, that he had been interned in France for two years and now the people here wouldn’t give him the money for his fare home; another complained that no one would help him to find a job, even though he had three children. Privately, Ferdinand was quivering with fury; they had left him on a bench with common petitioners, yet he noticed that somehow he was also irritated by the petty, fault-finding tone of these ordinary people. He wanted to rehearse his conversation once more, but their fatuous remarks put him off his stroke. He felt like shouting at them, “Be quiet, you fools!” or bringing money out of his pocket and sending them home, but his will was crippled and he just sat there with them, hat in hand like his companions. The constant coming and going of people opening and closing doors also confused him; all the time he was afraid that someone he knew might see him here with the petitioners, and yet whenever a door opened he was ready to leap up, only to sit back again disappointed. Once he pulled himself together and told the servant, who was standing beside them like a sentry on duty, “I can always come back tomorrow, you know.” But the man reassured him—“His Honour the Secretary will be able to see you soon”—and his knees gave way again. He was trapped here; there was nothing he could do about it.

At last a lady came out, skirts rustling, smiling and preening, passed the waiting petitioners with an air of superiority, and the servant called, “His Honour the Secretary can see you now.”

Ferdinand stood up. Only when it was too late did he realize that he had left his walking-stick and gloves on the window-sill, but he couldn’t go back for them now, the door was already open. Half looking back, confused by these random thoughts, he went in. The attaché sat at his desk reading. Now he looked up, nodded to Ferdinand, and gave him a courteous but cold smile, without asking him to sit down. “Ah, our magister artium . Just a minute.” He rose and called to someone in the next room. “The Ferdinand R file, please, you remember, the one that came the day before yesterday, his call-up papers were sent on here.” Sitting down again, he said, “So you’re another one who’s leaving us again! Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here in Switzerland. You’re looking very well,” and then he was leafing through the file that a clerk brought him. “Report to M… yes… yes, that’s right… all in order. I’ve had the papers made out… I don’t suppose you want to claim travel expenses, do you?”

Ferdinand stood up and heard his own voice stammering, “No… no.”

The attaché signed the call-up order and handed it to him. “You’re really supposed to leave tomorrow, but I don’t suppose it’s all that urgent. Let the paint dry on your latest masterpiece. If you need another day or so to put your affairs in order, I’ll take the responsibility for that. A couple of days won’t matter to the Fatherland.”

Ferdinand sensed that this was a joke, and he ought to smile. To his private horror, he actually did feel his lips stretching in a polite grimace. Say something, he told himself, I must say something now, not just stand around like a dolt. And at last he managed to get out, “Is the call-up letter enough… I don’t need anything else… some kind of special pass?”

“No, no,” smiled the attaché. “They won’t make any trouble for you at the border. They’ll be expecting you anyway. Well, bon voyage .” And he offered his hand.

Ferdinand felt that he had been dismissed. Everything went dark before his eyes as he quickly made his way to the door. Nausea rose in his throat.

“The door on the right, please, the one on the right,” said the voice behind him. He had tried the wrong door, and now—with a slight smile, as he thought he saw in the dim light of his bewildered senses—the attaché was holding the correct door open for him.