by Stefan Zweig
“Why, if it ain’t you in person, Frau Wagner. I’m ever so glad. I got something important to say to you.” And without waiting for any answer from the terrified Irene, who was supporting herself with one trembling hand on the door handle, she marched in, put down her sunshade—a sunshade of a glaring, bright-red hue, obviously bought with the fruits of her blackmailing raids. She was moving with great assurance, as if she were in her own home, looking around with pleasure, as if with a sense of reassurance, at the handsome furnishings. She walked on, uninvited, to the door of the drawing room, which was half-open. “This way, right?” she asked with some derision, and when the alarmed Irene, still incapable of saying anything, tried to deter her, she added reassuringly: “We can get this settled good and quick if you’d like to see me out of here.”
Irene followed her without protest. The mere idea that her blackmailer was here, in her own apartment, paralysed her. It was an audacity going beyond her worst expectations. She felt as if she must be dreaming the whole thing.
“Ooh, nice place you got here, very nice,” said the woman, admiring her surroundings with obvious satisfaction as she lowered herself into a chair. “Ever so cosy, this is. Look at all them pictures, too. Well, you can see what a poor way the likes of us live. Now you got a nice life here, Frau Wagner, a real nice life.”
And now at last, as she saw the criminal female so much at ease in her own drawing room, the tormented Irene’s fury burst out.
“What do you think you’re doing, you blackmailer? Following me into my own home! But I’m not letting you torture me to death. I’m going to …!”
“Now, now, I wouldn’t speak so loud, not if I was you,” the other woman answered, with insulting familiarity. “That door’s not closed, the servants can hear. Well, that’s no skin off of my nose. I’m not denying nothing, Lord save us, no, after all, I can’t be no worse off in jail than now, not with the sort of miserable life I lead. But you, Frau Wagner, you want to go a bit more careful-like. I’ll close that door right now if you really want to let off steam. Tell you what, though, might as well tell you straight out, shouting all them bad words won’t get you nowhere with me.”
Irene’s resolve, steeled for a moment by anger, collapsed helplessly again in the face of the woman’s implacability. Like a child waiting to hear what it must do, she stood there uneasily, almost humbly.
“Well then, Frau Wagner, I won’t beat about the bush. I’m in a bad way, like I told you before, you know that by now. So I need cash down. I been in debt a long time, and there’s other stuff as well. That’s why I come here to get you to help me out with—well, let’s say four hundred crowns.”
“But I can’t,” Irene stammered, horrified by the sum of money, which indeed she did not have in the apartment in ready cash. “I really don’t have that much any more. I’ve already given you three hundred crowns this month. Where do you think I’d get the money?”
“Oh, you’ll do it and no mistake, just you think how. A rich lady like you, why, you can get all the money you want. But you got to do it, see? So think it over, Frau Wagner, why don’t you? You’ll do it all right.”
“I really don’t have it. I’d be happy to give it to you, but I truly can’t get hold of such a large sum of money. I could give you something … maybe a hundred crowns …”
“Like I said, four hundred, that’s what I need.” She spoke brusquely, as if insulted by the suggestion.
“But I just don’t have it!” cried the desperate Irene. Suppose her husband were to come in now, she thought fleetingly, he could come home at any moment. “I swear I don’t have it.”
“Then you better make sure you do.”
“I can’t.”
The woman looked her up and down as if assessing her value.
“Well, let’s see … f ’rinstance, that ring there. Suppose you was to pawn that, it’d fetch a tidy sum. Not that I know that much about joolery, never had none meself … but I reckon you’d get four hundred crowns for it.”
“My ring!” cried Irene. It was her engagement ring, the only one that she never took off, a setting of a beautiful precious stone that made it very valuable.
“Go on, why not? I’ll send you the pawnshop ticket, you can get it back any time you like. I’m not planning to redeem it and keep it, not me. What’d a poor girl like me do with a posh ring like that?”
“Why are you persecuting me? Why do you torment me? I can’t … I can’t. Surely you must understand that. I’ve done all I could, you can see I have. Oh, surely you must understand! Take pity on me!”
“Nobody never took no pity on me. I could’ve starved to death for all anyone cared. Why’d I have pity on a rich lady like you?”
Irene was about to return a forceful answer, but then—and her blood ran cold—she heard the latch of the front door fall into place. It must be her husband coming home from his chambers. Without stopping to think, she snatched the ring from her finger and handed it to the woman waiting there, who swiftly pocketed it.
“Don’t you worry, I’ll be off now,” nodded the woman, perceiving the unspeakable fear in her face and the close attention she was paying to the front hall, where a man’s footsteps were clearly audible. She opened the drawing-room door, and in passing wished good day to Irene’s husband as he came in. He glanced at her for a moment, but did not seem to pay her much attention as she left.
“A lady coming to ask about something,” explained Irene, with the last of her strength, as soon as the door had closed behind the woman. The worst moment was over. Her husband did not reply, but calmly went into the dining room, where the table was already laid for lunch.
Irene could almost feel the air burning the place on her finger that was usually enclosed by the cool circle of her ring. It was as if the bare skin were the mark of a brand that would inevitably attract all eyes. She hid her hand again and again during the meal, and as she did so she was plagued by a curious feeling, the result of nervous strain, that her husband’s glance kept going to that hand, following it in all its wanderings. With all her might, she tried to distract his attention and keep a conversation going by asking constant questions. She talked and talked, to him, to the children, to the governess, again and again she rekindled the conversation with the little flames of her inquiries, but her breath kept running out, it was stifled, it failed her. She did her best to seem in high spirits and persuade the others to be cheerful, she teased the children, egging them on to argue with each other, but they neither argued nor laughed. Even she felt that her cheerfulness must be striking a false note, and it subconsciously alienated them. The harder she tried, the less successful her efforts were. Finally she fell silent, exhausted.
The others were silent too. All she heard was the faint clatter of plates, and inside her the rising voices of her fear. Then, all of a sudden, her husband said: “Where’s your ring today, Irene?”
She started nervously. Deep inside her something said a single phrase. All over! But still she instinctively put up a defence. Summon up all your strength, she told herself. Just for one more sentence, one more word. Find one more lie, a final lie.
“I … I took it to be cleaned.”
And as if the lie itself had strengthened her, she added firmly: “I’m getting it back the day after tomorrow.” The day after tomorrow. Now she was bound to her word. The lie would surely collapse, and she with it, if she did not succeed in redeeming the ring. She had set the time limit herself, and all of a sudden a new feeling was added to her confused fears, a kind of happiness to know that the moment of decision was so close. The day after tomorrow. Now she knew how much time she had left, and she felt a curious calm born of that certainty mingling with her fear. Something rose in her, a new strength. The power to live and the power to die.
The knowledge that, at last, her decision was certainly so close began to bring unexpected clarity to her mind. As if miraculously, her nervous stress gave way to logical thought, her fear to a crystal-clear calm suddenly enabl
ing her to see everything in her life as if it were transparent, and to value it at its true worth. She weighed up her life as a whole and felt that it was still a heavy weight, but that if she could only hold on to it in the new, intensified, more elevated frame of mind that these days of fear had shown her, if she could begin it again from the beginning, pure and sure and straightforward, she was ready to do so. But to live the life of a divorced woman, an adulteress, stained by scandal—no, she was too tired for that, and too tired to continue the dangerous game of buying respite for a limited period. Resistance, she felt, was unthinkable now. The end was near; she might be given away by her husband, her children, by everything around her, and indeed by herself. Flight from an apparently omnipresent adversary was impossible. And confession, the one thing that could surely help her, was out of the question; she knew that by now. There was only one path still open to her, but it was a path from which there was no return.
Life was still alluring. Today was one of those typical spring days that sometimes break vigorously out of the bonds of winter, a day with a blue sky so high and wide that it made you feel you were breathing easily again after many dismal, wintry hours.
The children came running in, wearing clothes in pale colours for the first time this year, and she had to force herself not to shed tears in response to their happy jubilation. As soon as the sound of their laughter and its painful echo in her mind had died away, she set about carrying out her own decisions with determination. First she was going to try to recover the ring, for whatever happened to her now, she did not want any suspicion to fall on her memory. No one must have visible evidence of her guilt. No one, least of all her children, was ever to guess at the terrible secret that had torn her away from them. It must appear to be pure chance, and no one’s responsibility.
First she went to a pawnbroker’s to pledge an inherited piece of jewellery that she almost never wore, thus providing herself with enough money, if need be, to buy back the ring that could betray her from the woman who had taken it. Then, as soon as she had the cash in her bag, she went walking at random, earnestly hoping for what, until yesterday, she had most feared—to meet the blackmailer. The air was mild, the sun shone above the rooftops. Something in the wild wind chasing white clouds swiftly over the sky seemed to have infected the people walking in the street, all of them at a lighter, livelier pace than in the bleak days of winter gloom. And she herself thought she felt something of it. The idea of dying, the idea she had caught in flight yesterday and clasped firmly in her trembling hand, became a monstrosity, eluded her senses. Was it possible that a word from some dreadful woman could destroy all this, the buildings with their bright façades, the surging of her own blood? Could a word extinguish the never-ending flame with which the whole world blazed in her fast-breathing heart?
She walked and walked, but her head was not bowed now. Her eyes searched almost eagerly for the woman she expected to see. Now the prey was in search of the hunter, and just as a weakened, hunted animal, feeling that escape is no longer possible, will turn suddenly with the defiance of despair to face its pursuer, ready to fight back, she too wanted to see her tormentor face to face and fight back with the very last of the strength that the will to live gives desperate creatures. She stayed close to her home on purpose, because it was the neighbourhood where the blackmailer had usually lain in wait for her, and once she even hurried across the road when the clothes worn by another woman reminded her of the person she was after. The ring itself was not her chief anxiety—recovering it would mean only postponement, not release—but she did long for the meeting as a kind of sign from fate, sealing a life and death decision that had been made by some higher power but depended on her own determination. However, she could not see the woman anywhere. She had disappeared into the endless hurry and bustle of the great city like a rat going down its hole. Disappointed, but not yet hopeless, she went home in the middle of the day and continued her vain search immediately after lunch. She patrolled the streets again, and when she could not find the woman anywhere she felt a revival of the horror that she had almost managed to stifle. It was not the woman herself who troubled her now, nor the ring, but the mysterious aspect of all those meetings. Her reasoning mind could no longer entirely comprehend it. The woman had discovered her name and address as if by magic, she knew all about the hours she kept, she knew about her domestic life, she had always turned up at the worst, most dangerous moments, and now all of a sudden she had disappeared just when she was actually wanted. She must be somewhere in the hurry and bustle of the city, close when she wanted to be close, yet out of reach as soon as Irene wanted to find her. And the amorphous nature of the threat, the elusive proximity of the blackmailer, close to her own life and yet beyond contact, left the already exhausted Irene a helpless prey to her ever more mystifying fears. Nervously now, with a feverish step, she kept walking up and down the same streets. Walking the streets like a prostitute, she thought. But the woman was nowhere to be seen. Now darkness came down like a menace, the early spring evening cast shadows over the clear colour of the sky, and night was falling fast. Lights came on along the streets, the stream of humanity was making its way home at a faster pace, all life seemed to be swallowed up in its dark current. She went up and down a few more times, scrutinising the street once more with all that remained of her hope, and then she turned home. She was freezing cold.
Wearily, she went up to the apartment. She heard the children being put to bed, but she avoided going in to say goodnight to them, wishing them well for that one night while she herself thought of the eternal night ahead of her. Why go in to them now? To sense the unclouded happiness of their exuberant kisses, see the love in their bright faces? Why torment herself still further with a joy that was already lost? She gritted her teeth—no, she didn’t want the sensations of life any more, the kindness and laughter that linked her to so many memories, when all those links must be violently broken tomorrow. She would think only of unpleasant things, ugly and vile, her own undoing, the blackmailer, the scandal, everything that was driving her to the edge of the abyss.
Her husband’s return interrupted her dismal, lonely reflections. He was in a good mood and struck up a lively conversation, trying to come close to her, at least in words, and asking a great many questions. She thought she detected a certain nervousness in the sudden concern he showed for her, but remembering yesterday’s conversation she was not going to involve herself in another like it. Her fears kept her from letting love bind her or affection hold her back. He seemed to feel her reluctance, and be rather troubled by it. For her part, she was afraid that his concern would lead to another approach to her, and she said goodnight early. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he replied. Then she left him.
Tomorrow—how close that was, and how endlessly far away! She passed a sleepless night, monstrously long and dark. Gradually the noises of the street died away, and from the reflections falling into her room she saw that the lights there were going out. Sometimes she thought she could sense the breathing of her family in the other rooms of the apartment, the lives of her children, of her husband, of the whole world, so close and yet so far away, almost lost to her now. But at the same time she was aware of an indescribable silence that seemed to proceed not from anything natural, anything around her, but from within, from some mysteriously rushing source. She felt coffined in endless silence, and the darkness of the invisible sky weighed down on her breast. Now and then the hours chimed a number in the darkness, and then the night was black and lifeless, but for the first time she thought she could understand the meaning of that endless, empty darkness. She was not thinking about farewells or her death any longer, only of how she could go to meet it, while sparing her children and herself, as far as possible, the shame of creating any sensation. She thought of all the ways she knew that led to death, all the possible methods of doing away with herself, until with a kind of happy surprise she suddenly remembered that the doctor had prescribed morphine for her when she wa
s suffering from insomnia during a painful illness. She had taken the bitter-sweet poison in small drops out of a little bottle, and had been told at the time that its contents were enough to induce a gentle slumber. Oh, not to be hunted any more, to be able to rest, rest for ever, not to feel the hammer blows of fear on her heart any longer! The thought of that gentle slumber seemed immensely desirable to the sleepless Irene. She already thought she could taste the bitter flavour on her lips while her senses softly faded away. Quickly, she pulled herself together and put on the light. She soon found the little bottle, still half-full, but she was afraid that it might not be enough. Feverishly, she searched her chest of drawers until she finally found the prescription that would allow her to have a larger quantity made up for her. She folded the prescription, smiling, as if it were a banknote of a high denomination. Now she held death in her hands. Shivering slightly with cold, yet reassured, she was going back to bed when, as she passed the illuminated mirror, she suddenly saw herself approaching in the dark frame, ghostly, pale, hollow-eyed, and wrapped in her white nightdress as if in a shroud. Horror came over her. She put out the light, fled freezing to the bed she had left, and lay awake until day began to dawn.
In the morning she burnt her letters and put all kinds of small matters in order, but as far as she could she avoided seeing the children and everything else that was dear to her. She wanted to hold life at arm’s length now, not clutch it to her with desire and feel its enticements. It would make her decision harder to put into practice if she hesitated, and hesitation could only be in vain. Then she went out into the street once more to try her luck for the last time, hoping to see the blackmailer. Once again she walked restlessly up and down the streets, but no longer with that sense of heightened tension. Something in her was worn out, and she could not go on with the struggle. She walked and walked for two hours as if it were a duty. The woman was nowhere to be seen. That did not hurt her now. She almost stopped wishing for the encounter, she felt so powerless. She looked at the faces of people in the street, and they all seemed strange to her, all of them dead and gone. Everything was somehow far away, lost, and did not belong to her any more.