by Stefan Zweig
Her aunt finally appears. “Excellent,” she pronounces to the salonist with the air of a connoisseur. Before they leave for their walk she requests that they pack up some additional packets, pencils, and bottles. Christine avoids the mirror as she gets up, only touching the nape of her neck lightly. From time to time as they walk along she looks down surreptitiously at the taut skirt, the brightly patterned stockings, the shiny elegant shoes, and senses that her step is surer. Pressed close to her aunt, she allows everything to announce itself: the landscape with its vivid green and the panoramic sweep of the peaks, the hotels like castles of luxury at challenging vantages high on the slopes, the expensive stores with their provocative, extravagant window displays, furs, jewelry, watches, antiques, all of it strange and foreign next to the vast desolate majesty of the glacier. The horses in their fine harnesses, the dogs, the people are marvelous too, their own clothes as bright as Alpine flowers; the entire atmosphere of sunshiny insouciance, a world without work or poverty whose existence she never dreamed of. Her aunt tells her the names of the mountains, the hotels, points out prominent hotel guests as they pass by; she listens and looks up at them in awe. It seems more and more marvelous that she can be walking here, that it’s permitted, and she feels more and more uncertain that she is the one experiencing this. At last her aunt looks at her watch. “We have to go back. It’s time to get dressed. We only have an hour till dinner. And lateness is the only thing that can make Anthony angry.”
Christine finds her room already tinged by dusk. The early infiltration of dusk is making everything in it seem vague and silent. The sharp oblong of sky behind the open balcony door is still a deep, saturated blue, but the colors inside are beginning to dim at the edges, fading into the velvety shadows. Christine goes out onto the balcony, facing the immense landscape with its swiftly unfurling play of colors. First the clouds lose their radiant white, gradually reddening, subtly at the beginning, then more and more deeply, as if provoked despite themselves by the quickening sunset. Then shadows well up from the mountainsides, shadows that were weak and isolated during the day, lurking behind the trees, but now they’re massing together, becoming dense and bold, as though a black pool from the valley were rushing up to the peaks, and for a moment it seems possible that darkness might inundate the mountaintops too and the whole vast sweep turn suddenly black and void—in fact there’s already a slight breath of frost, an invisible wave of it rising out of the valleys. But now the peaks are glowing in a colder, paler light: the moon has appeared in the blue that’s far from gone. It floats like a streetlight, high and round, over the space between two of the mightiest peaks, and what was just now a real scene with colors and details is becoming a silhouette, a solid black-and-white cutout, sprinkled with small, uncertainly flickering stars.
Unaccustomed to this dramatic transition, this vast unfolding palette, Christine gazes at it numbly. She’s like someone used to nothing more than fiddle and pipes hearing the roar of a full orchestra for the first time: the sudden revelation of natural majesty is too much for her senses. She clutches the rail in awe, gazing with such concentration and losing herself so much in the view that she forgets herself, forgets the time. But luckily the ever-considerate hotel has a timekeeper, the relentless gong that reminds the guests of their responsibility to ready themselves for their extravagant meals. The first metallic swell gives Christine a start. Her aunt was quite clear that she was to be on time for dinner.
But which of these splendid new dresses should she choose? She lays them out again side by side on the bed, glistening like dragonflies. The dark one glints seductively from the shadows. Finally she decides on the ivory-colored one for today, on the grounds that it’s the most modest of the three. She picks it up carefully, amazed at how light it is in her hand, no heavier than a handkerchief or a glove. She quickly strips off the sweater, the heavy Russia leather shoes, the thick socks, everything stiff and heavy, impatient for the new lightness. It’s all so delicate, so soft and weightless. Just handling these sumptuous new underthings makes her fingers tremble, the feel of them is wonderful. Quickly she takes off the stiff old linen underthings; the yielding new fabric is a warm, delicate froth on her skin. She has an impulse to turn on the light to look at herself, but then takes her hand from the switch; better to put off the pleasure. Perhaps this luxuriously sheer fabric only feels so filmy, so delicate in the dark, under the light its spell will evaporate. After the underthings, the stockings, then the dress. Carefully (it’s her aunt’s, after all) she puts on the smooth silk, and it’s marvelous, streaming freely down from her shoulders like a glittering cascade of warm water and clinging to her obediently, you can’t feel it on you, it’s like being dressed in the breeze. But go on, go on, don’t get lost in delectation too soon, finish quickly so you can see! The shoes now, a few quick movements, a couple of steps: done, thank goodness! And now—her heart thumps—the first look in the mirror.
Her hand flips the switch and the bulb lights up. The room that had faded away is again dazzlingly bright; the flowered wallpaper, the carefully polished furniture is there again, the elegant new world is back. She’s too nervous to bring herself within range of the mirror right away. A sidelong peek from a sharp angle shows only a strip of landscape beyond the balcony and a little of the room. She lacks the final bit of courage for the real test. Won’t she look even more ridiculous in the borrowed dress, won’t everyone, won’t she herself see the fraud for what it is? She edges toward the mirror as though humility might make the judge more lenient. She’s close now, eyes still downcast, still afraid to look. Again the sound of the gong comes from downstairs: no more time to waste! She holds her breath with sudden courage like someone about to take a leap, then determinedly lifts her eyes. Lifts her eyes and is startled, even falls back a step. Who is that? Who is that slender, elegant woman, her upper body bent backward, her mouth open, her eyes searching, looking at her with an unmistakable expression of frank surprise? Is that her? Impossible! She doesn’t say it, doesn’t pronounce the word consciously, but it has made her lips move. And, amazingly, the lips of the reflected figure move too.
She catches her breath in surprise. Not even in a dream has she ever dared to imagine herself as so lovely, so young, so smart. The red, sharply defined mouth, the finely drawn eyebrows, the bare and gleaming neck beneath the golden, curving helmet of hair are new, her own bare skin as framed by the glittering dress is completely new. She moves closer to the mirror, trying to recognize the woman that she knows is herself, but her temples throb with fear that the exhilarating image might not last, might vanish if she came any closer or made some sudden movement. It can’t be real, she thinks. A person can’t suddenly change like that. Because if it’s real, then I’m…She pauses, not daring to think the word. But the woman in the mirror, guessing the thought, begins to smile to herself, at first slightly, then more and more broadly. Now the eyes are quite openly and proudly laughing at her, and the parted red lips seem to acknowledge with amusement: “Yes, I am beautiful.”
It’s a strange and wonderful feeling to admire her own body, the breasts unconstrained beneath the close-fitting silk, the slender yet rounded forms under the colors of the dress, the relaxed bare shoulders. Curious to see this slim new body in motion, she slowly turns to one side as she watches the effect: again her eyes meet those of her reflection, proud and pleased. Bolder now, she takes three steps back: again the quick movement is lovely. She ventures a rapid pirouette, making her skirts twirl, and again the mirror smiles: “Excellent! How slender, how graceful you are!” She has a restless, experimental feeling in her limbs, she feels like dancing. She races to the middle of the room, then comes back toward the mirror; the image smiles, and it’s her own smile. She tests and inspects the image from all sides, caressing it with her eyes, smitten with herself, unable to have enough of this alluring new self that smiles as it approaches from the mirror, beautifully dressed, young, and remade. She feels like throwing her arms around this new person that i
s herself. She moves so close that the eyes almost touch, the real ones and those of the reflection, and her lips are so near their counterparts that for a moment her breath makes them disappear. She strikes more poses to get different views of her new self. Then the sound of the gong downstairs comes for a third time. She gives a start. My God, I can’t keep my aunt waiting, she must be angry already. Quickly, on with the jacket, the evening jacket, light, colorful, trimmed with exquisite fur. Then, before her hand touches the switch to turn out the light, an eager parting glance at the beneficent mirror, one last look. Again the shining eyes, again the happy smile that’s her own, yet not her own. “Excellent, excellent,” the mirror smiles at her. She hurries down the hallway to her aunt’s room; the cool silky fluttering of the dress makes the quick movement a pleasure. She feels borne along, carried by the wind. She was a child the last time she flew like this. This is the beginning of the delirium of transformation.
“It fits you very well! Like a glove,” says her aunt. “It doesn’t take a lot of tricks when you’re young. The dressmaker doesn’t have problems unless the dress has to hide rather than reveal. But, seriously, it’s a perfect fit, you’re hardly the same person. It’s clear now what a good figure you have. But you’ve got to hold your head up too, don’t be mad at me for saying it but you’re always so unsure of yourself, so hunched over when you walk, you cringe like a cat in the rain. You’ve still got to learn how to walk the way Americans do, free and easy, chest out like a ship in the wind. Lord, I wish I were as young as you are.” Christine blushes. So she’s really not betraying anything, she’s not ridiculous, not provincial. Meanwhile her aunt has continued the inspection, looking her over appreciatively from head to toe. “Perfect! But your neck needs something.” She rummages in her chest. “Here, put these pearls on! No, silly, don’t worry, get hold of yourself, they’re not real. The real ones are in a safe back home, honestly we wouldn’t bring them to Europe for your pickpockets to take.” The pearls feel cool and strange as they roll on her bare skin, making her shiver a little. Then her aunt is back for a last once-over: “Perfect! It all looks fine. It would make a man happy to buy you clothes. But let’s go! We can’t let Anthony wait any longer. Will he be surprised!”
They go together. Negotiating the stairs in the revealing new dress is strange. Christine feels as light as if she were naked. She’s floating, not walking, and the steps seem to glide up toward her. On the second landing they pass a gentleman in a smoking jacket, an older man with a razor-sharp part in his smooth white hair. He greets Christine’s aunt respectfully, pauses to let the two of them go by, and in that moment Christine senses a special attention, a masculine look of admiration and something close to awe. She feels herself blushing: never in her life has a man of means, a real gentleman, acknowledged her presence with such respectful distance and yet such knowing appreciation. “General Elkins (I’m sure you know the name from the war), president of the London Geographical Society,” her aunt announces. “He made great discoveries in Tibet in between his years of service. A famous man. I’ll have to introduce you. The cream of the cream. He mixes with royalty.” Her blood roars happily in her ears. A genteel, traveled man like that, and he didn’t spot her right away as a gate-crasher or a pretender and turn up his nose: no, he bowed as though she were an aristocrat too, an equal.
And then reinforcement from her uncle, who gives a start as she approaches the table. “Oh, this is a surprise. Look what’s happened to you! You look damn good—sorry, you look splendid.” Again Christine feels herself blushing with pleasure, and a delicious shiver runs down her spine. “I guess you’re trying to make a compliment,” she tries to joke. “Am I ever,” he says with a laugh, puffing himself up unconsciously. The creased dickey suddenly tautens, the avuncular stolidity is gone, and there’s an interested, almost greedy light in the small red-rimmed eyes nestled in flesh. The unexpected pleasure of this lovely girl’s presence puts him in an unusually merry and eloquent mood. He delivers himself of so many thoughtful, expert opinions on her appearance, getting perhaps a little too analytical and personal, that Christine’s aunt good-naturedly reins in his enthusiasm, telling him not to let her turn his head, younger men know how to do it better and more tactfully too. Meanwhile the waiters have approached and are standing respectfully by the table like ministrants beside the altar, awaiting a nod. Strange, Christine thinks, how could I have been so afraid of them at lunch, these polite, discreet, wonderfully noiseless men who seem to want nothing but to be inconspicuous? She boldly helps herself. Her fear is gone now, and she’s starting to be ravenous after her long journey. The light truffled pâtés, the roast meats artfully arranged on beds of vegetables, the delicate, frothy desserts brought to her plate by silver serving knives as if anticipating her wishes all seem fantastically delicious. Nothing requires any effort, any thought, and in fact she’s no longer even surprised. It’s all wonderful, and the most wonderful thing of all is that she’s allowed to be here, here in this bright, crowded, yet hushed room full of exquisitely adorned and probably very important people who … but no, don’t think about that, stop thinking about that, as long as you’re allowed to be here. But the best thing is the wine. It must be made of golden grapes ripened in the southern sun, it must come from some happy, faraway land; it gives off a transparent, amber glow and goes down unctuously like sweet chilled cream. At first Christine takes shy, reverent sips; but then, tempted by the constant kindnesses of her uncle, who’s enjoying her obvious pleasure, she allows him to refill her glass repeatedly. Unconsciously she’s becoming talkative. Effervescent laughter is suddenly pouring from her throat like uncorked champagne; she herself is amazed at the carefree bubbly swirl of it between her words. It’s as though a bulwark of anxiety has burst. And why would anyone be anxious here? They’re all so nice, her aunt, her uncle, these refined, grand people around her everywhere are so fancy and good-looking, the world is beautiful, life itself is beautiful.
Sitting across from her, broad, comfortable, and complacent, her uncle is thoroughly enjoying her sudden high spirits. Ah, he’s thinking, to be young again and have a vivacious, glowing girl like that. He feels exhilarated, stimulated, lively, almost reckless. Normally he’s phlegmatic and on the grumpy side, but now he’s dredging up drolleries, even suggestive ones, unconsciously trying to stoke the fire that’s doing his old bones so much good. He’s purring like a tomcat, feeling hot in his dinner jacket, and there’s a suspiciously high color on his cheeks: he looks like Jordaens’s Bean King, flushed with drink and good cheer. He toasts her repeatedly and is about to order champagne when his amused warden, Christine’s aunt, lays a warning hand on his arm and reminds him of the doctor’s orders.
Meanwhile a rhythmic rumble of dance music has started up in the adjoining lounge. Christine’s uncle sets down the butt of his Brazilian cigar in the ashtray and twinkles at her: “So? I can see it in your eyes, you’d like to dance, wouldn’t you?”
“Only with you, Uncle,” she says, gaily laying it on thick (my God, I’ve gotten a little tipsy, haven’t I). She’s close to laughing, there’s such a funny tickling in her throat, she can’t keep the happy trill out of her voice. “Don’t kid me,” growls her uncle. “These goddamn strapping boys here, three of them put together wouldn’t be as old as I am, and they all dance seven times better than a gouty gray rhinoceros like me. But it’s on your head. If you’re brave enough, by all means.”