The Governess and Other Stories

by Stefan Zweig

  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.

  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 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.

  That afternoon they grow many years older. And only when they are alone in the darkness of their room in the evening do childish fears surface in them, the fear of loneliness, of images of dead people, as well as a presentiment of indistinct terrors. In the general agitation of the house, no one has remembered to heat the rooms. So they get into one bed together, freezing, holding each other tightly in their thin childish arms, pressing their slender bodies, not yet in the full bloom of youth, close to each other as if seeking help in their fear. They still dare not talk freely. But now the younger girl at last bursts into tears, and her elder sister joins her, sobbing wildly. They weep, closely entwined, warm tears rolling down their faces hesitantly at first, then falling faster, hugging one another breast to breast, shaking as they share their sobs. They are united in pain, a single weeping body in the darkness. They are not crying for the governess now, or for the parents who are lost to them; they are shaken by a sudden horror and fear of the unknown world lying ahead of them, after the first terrifying glimpse that they had of it today. They are afraid of the life ahead of them into which they will now pass, dark and menacing like a gloomy forest through which they must go. Their confused fears become dimmer, almost dreamlike, their sobbing is softer and softer. Their breath mingles gently now, as their tears mingled before. And so at last they fall asleep.

  TRANSLATOR’S AFTERWORD

  This selection of four novellas by Stefan Zweig contains stories from different periods in his career. The first in the book, Did He Do It?, is clearly the last to have been written, although the precise details of its publishing history seem to be uncertain. It is first recorded as appearing in book form in 1987, as part of the collected works of Zweig published by S Fischer, in a volume of several Zweig stories under the general title of Praterfrühling——Prater Spring. Internal evidence, however, clearly suggests that this late story must have been written when Zweig was living in Bath just before the outbreak of the Second World War
. He had left Austria in 1934, and although he went back for a brief visit later, when the annexation of the country by Nazi Germany was imminent, he did not go to his house in Salzburg, where his first wife and stepdaughters were still living. What seems to have been a fairly amicable divorce followed. Zweig came to live in exile in England, first in London and then in Bath with Lotte Altmann, who was to be his second wife. In his memoir The World of Yesterday he describes, with great affection, the city of Bath and the countryside around it in the summer of 1939, when war was brewing. “Such madness,” he wrote, “seemed incredible in the face of those meadows flowering on in luxuriant bloom, the peace that the valleys around Bath breathed as if enjoying it themselves.” But in early September of that year war came, and Zweig and Lotte, fearing internment as enemy aliens even though he had become a British citizen, swiftly left the country—first for the United States and then for Brazil, where they committed suicide together in February 1942.

  The setting of the story in and near Bath, then, places Did He Do It? among Zweig’s last works, probably postdated only by the completion of his memoir The World of Yesterday, which he had been writing on and off for some time, and his last novella, the famous Schachnovelle, often known in English versions as The Royal Game, probably written in the autumn of 1941 and published, like the memoir, after his suicide.