by Stefan Zweig
The Baron brushed quickly past him. “No, no, we’ll wait for you.”
Edgar ran to the post office. He had to wait, because a gentleman in front of him had a dozen tedious questions. At last he was able to perform his errand, he ran straight back with the receipts—and arrived just in time to see his mother and the Baron driving away in the cab.
He was rigid with anger. He almost bent down to pick up a stone and throw it after them. So they’d got away from him after all, by means of a lie as mean as it was vile. He had known since yesterday that his mother told lies, but the idea that she could be shameless enough to break a downright promise destroyed the very last of his trust in her. He didn’t understand anything at all about life, not now he knew that the words which he’d thought had reality behind them were just bright bubbles, swelling with air and then bursting, leaving nothing behind. What kind of terrible secret was it that drove grown-up people so far as to lie to him, a child, stealing away from him like thieves? In the books that he had read, people murdered and deceived each other to get their hands on money, or power, or kingdoms. But what was the reason here, what did those two want, why were they hiding from him, what were they trying to hide behind all their lies? He racked his brains. Dimly he felt that the secret was the bolt on the door of childhood, and once he had shot back the bolt and conquered the secret it would mean he was grown up, a man at long last. Oh, if he only knew the secret! But he couldn’t think clearly any more. His burning, corrosive anger at knowing they had got away from him blurred the clarity of his vision.
He went out into the woods, and was just able to get safely into the shadows where no one would see him before bursting into storms of hot tears. “You liars, you cheats, traitors, rotters!” He had to shout the names he was calling them aloud or he would have choked. His rage and impatience, his anger, curiosity, helplessness, and the betrayal of the last few days, all repressed in his childish struggle to live up to his delusion of being an adult, now burst out and found relief in floods of weeping. It was the last fit of weeping in his childhood, the last and wildest, the last time he weakly gave himself up, like a girl, to the luxury of tears. In that hour of bafflement and rage he wept everything out of him: trust, love, belief, respect—his entire childhood.
It was a different boy who went back to the hotel. He was cool, he acted with deliberation. First he went to his room and carefully washed his face and eyes, so as not to give the pair of them the triumph of seeing his tearstains. Then he drew up his reckoning—and waited patiently, without any restlessness now.
The lobby was full when the carriage with the two runaways drew up outside. A few gentlemen were playing chess, others were reading the paper, the ladies were talking. The child had been sitting perfectly still among them, rather pale, darting glances here and there. Now, when his mother and the Baron came through the doorway, rather embarrassed to see him so suddenly, already about to stammer the excuse they had prepared in advance, he went up to them, perfectly calm and holding himself very upright, and said challengingly, “Baron, there’s something I want to say to you.”
The Baron was ill at ease. He felt as if he had been caught in some guilty act. “Yes, yes, later, in a moment!”
But Edgar raised his voice and said, loud and clear, so that everyone around could hear him, “I want to talk to you now. You have acted very badly. You lied to me. You knew my Mama was waiting for me, and you … ”
“Edgar!” cried his mother, seeing all eyes turn her way, and she moved towards him.
But now, seeing that she was going to drown out what he said, the child suddenly raised his voice to a high pitch and almost screeched, “I’m going to tell you again in front of everyone. You told the most dreadful lies, it’s mean, it’s a horrid thing to do.”
The Baron stood there looking pale, people stared, some of them smiled.
His mother took hold of the child, who was trembling with agitation. “Go up to your room at once, or I’ll slap you here in front of all these people,” she said hoarsely.
But Edgar had calmed down again. He was sorry he had sounded so passionate. He was not pleased with himself, for he had really meant to challenge the Baron in cool tones, but his rage had overcome his intentions. Calmly now, without haste, he turned to the stairs.
“Baron, please forgive his naughty behaviour. As you know, he’s a nervous child,” she stammered, cast into confusion by the slightly malicious glances of the people staring at them. She hated nothing in the world more than scandal, and she knew she must preserve her composure now. So instead of taking flight at once, she first went to the receptionist, asked about any letters and other indifferent matters, and then went upstairs as if nothing had happened. But she left in her wake soft whispering and suppressed laughter.
On her way, she slowed her pace. She had always felt helpless in a difficult situation, and was genuinely afraid of this confrontation. She couldn’t deny that it was her own fault, and then again she was afraid of the look in the child’s eyes, that new, strange, peculiar look that paralysed and unsettled her. In her fear she decided to try the soft approach. For in a struggle, she knew, this angry child would now be stronger than she was.
Softly she opened the door. There sat the boy, calm and collected. There was no fear in the eyes he raised to her, they did not even betray curiosity. He seemed very sure of himself.
“Edgar,” she began in as maternal a tone as possible, “what on earth came over you? I was ashamed of you. How can anyone be so bad-mannered—how can a child in particular speak to an adult like that? You will apologize to the Baron at once.”
Edgar looked out of the window. When he said, “No,” he might have been talking to the trees.
His self-confidence was beginning to disturb her.
“Edgar, what’s the matter with you? You’re not yourself at all. I can’t make you out. You’ve always been such a good, clever boy, anyone could talk to you. And suddenly you act as if the devil had got into you. What do you have against the Baron? You seemed to like him very much, and he’s been so kind to you.”
“Yes, because he wanted to get to know you.”
She felt uneasy. “Nonsense! What are you thinking of? How can you imagine any such thing?”
But at that the child flared up.
“He’s a liar, he’s only pretending. He does it out of mean, horrid calculation. He wanted to get to know you, that’s why he was nice to me and promised me a dog. I don’t know what he promised you or why he’s making up to you, but he wants something from you too, Mama, you can be sure he does. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so friendly and polite. He’s a bad man. He tells lies. Just look at him some time, you’ll see how he’s always pretending. I hate him, he’s a miserable liar, he’s no good … ”
“Oh, Edgar, how can you say such a thing?” She was bewildered, and hardly knew what to say in reply. Something inside her said that the child was right.
“He’s no good, and you won’t make me think anything else. You must see it for yourself. Why is he afraid of me? Why does he keep out of my way? Because he knows I see through him, I know he’s a bad man, I know what he’s like!”
“How can you say such a thing, how can you say it?” Her brain seemed to have dried up, and only her bloodless lips kept stammering those phrases. Suddenly she began to feel terribly afraid, and did not know whether she feared the Baron or her child.
Edgar saw that his protestations had taken effect. He was tempted to go over to her side, to have a companion in the hatred and animosity he felt for the Baron. He went gently to his mother, hugged her, and his voice was emotional and cajoling
“Mama,” he said, “you must have noticed that he doesn’t have anything good in mind. He’s made you quite different. You’re the one who’s changed, not me. He’s turned you against me just so as to have you all to himself. I’m sure he’ll let you down. I don’t know what promise he’s given you, I only know he won’t keep it. You ought to beware of him. Anyone who tells lies
to one person will tell lies to another too. He’s a bad man, he’s not to be trusted.”
That voice, low and almost tearful, could have come from her own heart. Since yesterday she had had an uncomfortable feeling telling her the same, more and more urgently. But she was ashamed to admit that her own child was in the right. Like many people in such a situation, she extricated herself from the awkwardness of an overwhelming emotion by speaking roughly. She straightened her back.
“Children don’t understand these things. You have no business meddling in them. You must behave better, and that’s all there is to it.”
Edgar’s face froze again. “Just as you like,” he said harshly. “I’ve warned you.”
“So you refuse to apologize?”
“Yes.”
They were standing close together, face to face. She felt that her authority was at stake.
“Then you will eat your meals up here. By yourself. And don’t come down to our table again until you have apologized. I’ll teach you good manners yet. You will not leave this room until I let you, is that understood?”
Edgar smiled. That sly smile seemed to have become a part of his lips. Privately, he was angry with himself. How foolish of him to have let his heart run away with him again, trying to warn her when she was a liar herself!
His mother walked out, skirts rustling, without looking at him again. She feared the cutting look in those eyes. She had felt uncomfortable with the child since sensing that he had his eyes wide open and was telling her exactly what she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to hear. It was terrible to her to find an inner voice, the voice of her own conscience, separated from herself and disguised as a child, going around masquerading as her own child, warning and deriding her. Until now her child had been a part of her life, an ornament, a toy, something dear and familiar, perhaps a nuisance now and then, but always going the same way as she did, keeping to the same rhythm as the current of her life. Today, for the first time, he was rebelling and defying her will. And now something like dislike would always be part of her memory of her son.
None the less, as she went down the stairs feeling rather weary, that childish voice spoke from her own heart. “You ought to beware of him.” The warning would not be silenced. As she passed, she saw the glint of a mirror, and looked inquiringly into it, more and more closely, until the lips of her reflection opened in a slight smile and rounded as if to utter a dangerous word. She still heard the voice inside her, but she straightened her shoulders, as if shaking off all those invisible reservations, gave her reflection in the mirror a clear look, picked up her skirts and went downstairs with the determined mien of a gambler about to let her last gold coin roll over the gaming table, ringing as it went.
10
TRACKS IN THE MOONLIGHT
THE WAITER who had brought Edgar supper in his room closed the door. The lock clicked behind him. The child jumped up, furious. It was obviously by his mother’s orders that he was being locked in like a wild animal. Dark thoughts made their way out of him.
What’s happening downstairs while I’m locked in here? What are those two talking about now? Is the secret going to come out at last, and I’ll miss hearing it? Oh, that secret, I feel it all the time, everywhere, when I’m with grown-ups, they close their doors on it at night, they talk about it under their breath if I unexpectedly come into the room, that great secret, it’s been so close to me for days now, right in front of me, and I still can’t lay hands on it! I’ve done all I can to find out about it! I’ve stolen books out of Papa’s desk drawer in the past and read them, and there were all those strange things in them, except that I didn’t understand them. There must be a seal somewhere, and you just have to break the seal to find out what the secret is, perhaps it’s in me or perhaps it’s in other people. I asked the maid, I wanted her to explain those bits in the books, but she only laughed at me. It’s horrible being a child, there’s so much you want to know but you’re not allowed to ask anyone, you always look so silly in front of grown-ups, as if you were stupid or useless. But I will find out the secret, I will, I feel I’ll soon know it. There’s part of it in my hands already, and I won’t give up until I have it all!
He strained his ears to listen for anyone coming. A slight breeze was blowing through the trees outside, breaking the still reflection of moonlight among the branches into hundreds of swaying splinters.
They can’t be planning anything good, or they wouldn’t have thought up such miserable lies to keep me away. I’m sure they’re laughing at me now, oh, I hate them, they’re glad to be rid of me, but I’ll have the last laugh. How stupid of me to let myself be shut up here and give them a moment’s freedom, instead of sticking close and following all their movements. I know grownups are always careless, and they’ll give themselves away. They always think we children are still little and we just go straight to sleep in the evenings, they forget that you can always pretend to be asleep and keep your ears open, you can make out you’re stupid and be very clever all the same. When my aunt had that baby not so long ago they knew about it long before it came, it was only in front of me they acted all surprised, as if they hadn’t guessed it was coming. But I knew about it too, because I’d heard them talking weeks before, in the evening when they thought I was asleep. And I’ll surprise that horrible pair this time. Oh, if only I could see through doors and watch them while they think they’re safe. Suppose I rang the bell now, would that be a good idea? Then the chambermaid would come and ask what I wanted. Or I could make a lot of noise, I could break some china, and then they’d open the door too. And I could slip out at that moment and go and eavesdrop. Or no—no, I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone to know how badly they treat me. I’m too proud for that. I’ll pay them back tomorrow.
Downstairs a woman laughed. Edgar jumped; that could be his mother. It was all very well for her to laugh and make fun of him, he was just a helpless little boy to be locked in if he was in the way, thrown into a corner like a bundle of wet clothes. Cautiously, he leaned out of the window. No, it wasn’t her, it was some high-spirited girls teasing a young man.
Then, at that moment, he saw how close his window really was to the ground below. And almost before he knew it he was thinking of jumping out, now, when they thought they were secure, and going to eavesdrop on them. He felt quite feverish with delight at this decision. It was as if he held the great, the sparkling secret that was kept from children in his hands. Go on, out, out, said an urgent voice in him. It wasn’t dangerous. There were no passers by below him, and he jumped. The gravel crunched slightly, but no one heard the faint sound.
During these last two days, stealing about and lying in wait had become his great pleasure in life. And he felt pleasure now, mingled with a slight frisson of alarm, as he tiptoed around the hotel, carefully avoiding the strong illumination of the lights. First, pressing his cheek cautiously to the pane, he looked through the dining-room window. Their usual table was empty. He went on spying in, moving from window to window. He dared not go into the hotel itself, for fear of unexpectedly meeting them somewhere in the corridors. They were nowhere to be seen. He was about to give up in despair when he saw two shadows in the doorway, and—he shrank back, ducking into the cover of darkness—his mother and her now inseparable companion came out. So he’d come at just the right moment. What were they talking about? He couldn’t hear. They were speaking in low voices, and the wind was rustling in the trees. However, now he clearly heard a laugh, his mother’s. It was a laugh that he had never heard from her before, a strangely high-pitched, nervous laugh, as if someone had tickled her. It was new and alarming to him. She was laughing, so it couldn’t be anything dangerous they were hiding from him, nothing really huge and powerful. Edgar was slightly disappointed.
Why were they leaving the hotel, though? Where were they going by night, all by themselves? High above, the winds must be racing past on huge wings, for the sky, only a little while ago clear and moonlit, was dark now. Black scarves flung
by invisible hands covered the moon from time to time, and then the night was so impenetrable that you could hardly see where you were going. Next moment, when the moon fought free, it was bright and clear again, and cool silver flowed over the landscape. This play of light and shade was mysterious, as intriguing as the game of revelation and concealment played by a woman. At this moment the landscape was stripping itself naked again. Edgar saw the two silhouettes on the other side of the path, or rather one silhouette, for they were as close as if some inner fear had merged them together. But where were the two of them going now? The pine trees were groaning in the wind, there was mysterious activity in the woods, as if the Wild Hunt were racing through them. I’ll follow, thought Edgar, they can’t hear my footsteps, not with all the noise the wind and the trees are making. And as the two figures went along the broad, well-lit road, he stayed in the undergrowth of the bank above it, hurrying quietly from tree to tree, from shadow to shadow. He followed them tenaciously and implacably, blessing the wind for drowning out his footsteps and then cursing it because it kept carrying the couple’s words away from him. Just once, when he managed to catch their conversation, he felt sure he was about to discover the secret.
Down below him, the two of them walked along suspecting nothing. They felt happily alone in this wide, bewildering darkness, lost in their growing excitement. No premonition warned them that someone up among the dark bushes was following every step they took, two eyes were fixed on them with all the force of hatred and curiosity. Suddenly they stopped. Edgar immediately stopped as well, pressing close to a tree. He felt a thrill of anxiety. Suppose they turned now and reached the hotel ahead of him, suppose he couldn’t get safely back to his room and his mother found it empty? Then all would be lost, they’d know he had been secretly watching them, and he could never hope to get that secret out of them. But they hesitated; there was obviously some difference of opinion. Luckily the moon was shining again, and he could see everything clearly. The Baron was pointing to a dark, narrow path going off to one side and down into the valley, where the moonlight did not fall in a broad stream as it did on the road here, but merely filtered through the undergrowth in droplets with a few direct rays of light. Why, Edgar wondered, does he want to go down there? His mother seemed to be saying no, but he, the Baron, was talking to her. Edgar could tell, from his gestures, how urgently he was pressing her to do something. The child felt afraid. What did the Baron want from his mother? Why was that bad man trying to drag her off into the darkness? Suddenly memories came to him from his books, which were the whole world to him, memories of murders and kidnappings, of dark crimes. Yes, that was it, the Baron wanted to murder her, and that was why he had kept Edgar away and lured her here on her own. Should he call for help? Cry murder? The words were already in his mouth, but his lips were dry and couldn’t utter a sound. His nerves were on edge with agitation, he could hardly stand upright, he reached in his fright for something to cling to—and a twig cracked in his hands.