Beware of Pity

by Stefan Zweig

  We walked over to the house. Edith was already waiting in the salon, in her chaise-longue. Scarcely had we entered the room than she threw us a sharp, keen look out of her grey eyes, as though trying to read on our brows, to guess from our somewhat sheepish, hang-dog expressions, what we had been talking about. And since we made no sort of reference to it, she was noticeably monosyllabic and aloof for the rest of the evening.

  A ‘trifle’, I had called Kekesfalva’s request that I should inquire as casually as possible of a doctor whom I had not yet met what were the prospects of the crippled girl’s recovery; and, looked at dispassionately, it really was a small thing he was asking me to do. But I can scarcely describe how much this unexpected commission meant to me personally. There is nothing that so raises a young man’s self-esteem, that so contributes to the formation of his character, as for him to find himself unexpectedly confronted with a task which he has to accomplish entirely on his own initiative and by his own efforts. Responsibility had often come my way before, of course, but it had always been connected with the carrying out of my military duties, with tasks that I had to perform as a junior officer on the orders of my superiors and within the framework of certain narrow and circumscribed limits: duties such as commanding a troop, taking charge of a transport, buying mounts, settling quarrels amongst my men. All these orders and the execution of them were a normal part of army life. I had merely to follow certain written or printed instructions, and when in doubt to apply to an older and more experienced officer, in order to carry them out satisfactorily. Kekesfalva’s request, on the other hand, was not addressed to the officer in me, but to that ‘inner’ me who was as yet only vaguely known to myself, whose capacities and limitations I had yet to discover. The fact that in his distress an almost complete stranger had selected me, me of all people, from among all his friends — this confidence in me gratified me more than all the praise I had hitherto received from superiors or friends.

  A certain consternation, it was true, was mingled with my gratification, for I once more realized how unimaginative and passive my sympathy had been until now. How could I have been a constant visitor to this house, week in, week out, without ever having asked the most natural of all questions: is this poor girl always going to be a cripple? Cannot medical science find some cure for this condition of the limbs? It was quite disgraceful of me — not once had I inquired of Ilona, of Edith’s father, of our regimental doctor; I had accepted her infirmity quite fatalistically as a fact. Now, therefore, the anxiety that had tormented her father for years was like a knife at my heart. What if the doctor really could release this child from her sufferings? What if those poor fettered limbs should be able to stride out freely once more, if this creature whom God had forsaken should once more be able to dance, to leap, to soar, blissfully and joyfully, in the wake of her own laughter? The very thought intoxicated me; it was delightful to imagine how the two of us, the three of us, would gallop across the fields on horseback; how instead of waiting, a prisoner in her room, for my arrival, she would be at the door to greet me, and be for ever happy and carefree. Impatiently I counted the hours, more impatiently perhaps than Kekesfalva himself, until I could ply the strange doctor with questions; no decisive moment in my own life had ever been of such importance to me.

  The next day, therefore (I had specially arranged to get off duty), I turned up earlier than usual at the Kekesfalvas’. Ilona received me. The doctor from Vienna had arrived, she told me; he was with Edith now, and was apparently giving her an especially thorough examination. He had been here for two and a half hours already, and Edith would probably be too tired afterwards to come and join us, so I should have to put up with her company — that was, she added, if I had nothing better to do.

  From this remark I realized to my delight (it always bolsters up one’s vanity to know oneself to be the only one to share a secret) that Kekesfalva had kept his word and not told her of our plan. I stayed, of course. We played chess to amuse ourselves, and it was some considerable time before the sound of the footsteps that I was so impatiently awaiting was audible in the adjoining room. At last Kekesfalva and Dr Condor entered, deep in conversation, and I had some difficulty in suppressing a certain dismay, for my first impression of Dr Condor, as I stood facing him, was profoundly disappointing. It is true that whenever we have been told a great many interesting things about a person whom we have not yet met, our visual fantasy conjures up a picture of him beforehand, dipping liberally into the storehouse of our most precious and most romantic memories. In order to picture to myself a talented doctor such as Kekesfalva had described to me, I had confined my imagination to those characteristics which the average producer and theatrical wig-maker exploit to present the typical stage doctor: a spiritualized countenance, a keen and penetrating eye, an impressive bearing, a scintillating wit — again and again we fall hopelessly into the foolish error of thinking that Nature sets a special stamp on outstanding individuals so that they may be recognized at a glance. My heart sank, therefore, when, to my surprise, I found myself bowing to a stocky, plump little man, short-sighted and bald, his crumpled grey suit smothered in cigarette-ash, his tie askew; when, instead of the keen glance of the diagnostician, I encountered a listless and almost sleepy gaze behind a pair of cheap steel pince-nez. Before Kekesfalva had time to introduce us, Condor offered me a small clammy hand and promptly turned away to help himself to a cigarette. He stretched lazily.

  ‘Well, well, here we are! I may as well tell you straight away, my dear friend, that I’m ravenous. It would be splendid if we could have something to eat fairly soon. If dinner’s not yet on the way, maybe Josef could get me a snack to be going on with, a sandwich or something of the sort.’ Lowering himself expansively into an arm-chair, he went on: ‘I never can manage to remember that there’s no restaurant car on this particular afternoon express. Another instance of our true Austrian inefficiency. Ah, splendid!’ he interrupted himself, bobbing up quickly as Josef slid back the folding-doors of the dining-room. ‘One can always count on you to be punctual, Josef. And I must also give your chef his due. What with all this confounded rushing about, I didn’t manage to get a bite of lunch.’

  Thereupon, without further formality, he stumped across to the table, sat down without waiting for us, and, stuffing his table-napkin down his shirt-front, began hurriedly — and somewhat too noisily for my liking — to guzzle down his soup. Not a word did he address either to Kekesfalva or to me while thus energetically engaged. His whole attention seemed to be taken up by his food, although his short-sighted gaze rested simultaneously on the bottles of wine.

  ‘Capital! Your famous Szomorodner — and what’s more, ’97. I remember sampling that last time I was here. That alone is enough to make one come racing out here to see you. No, Josef, don’t pour it out yet, I’d rather have a glass of beer first ... that’s right ... thank you.’

  He emptied his glass at a draught and then, helping himself to an enormous portion of the dish that was quickly offered him, he fell to in leisurely and comfortable fashion. Since he appeared to be entirely oblivious of our presence, I had ample opportunity of observing this gourmand in profile. I discovered, to my great disappointment, that this man who had been so enthusiastically held up to my admiration had the most bourgeois, homely features imaginable: a full moon of a face, pitted with little holes and disfigured with pimples, a bottle nose, a nebulous chin, reddish cheeks covered with a strong stubble of beard, a short bull neck — in fact, everything that went to make up what is known in Viennese dialect as a ‘Sumper’ — a good-natured, roistering sort of fellow, without a thought above eating and drinking. As he sat there comfortably eating away, his waistcoat crumpled and half-unbuttoned, he looked the part to the life. Gradually the indefatigable gusto with which he chewed away began to get on my nerves — it may have been because I remembered the courteous and polite way in which I had been treated at this very same table by the Colonel and the factory owner, perhaps also because I felt somewha
t doubtful of ever being able to extract from this glutton, who held his glass of wine up to the light before rolling it over on his tongue, a precise answer to the kind of intimate question I had to ask.

  ‘Well, what’s the news in your part of the world? Is the harvest going to be up to scratch? Not too dry during the last week or so, not too hot? I read something about it in the papers. And the factory? Are you people in the sugar cartel going to put the prices up again?’ It was with such casual, and I might almost say idle, questions, which really needed no answer, that every now and again Condor interrupted his hurried chewing and gorging. He seemed persistently to ignore my presence, and although I had often heard of the rudeness of the typical doctor, a certain rage began to spring up within me at this good-humoured boor. Out of sheer pique I maintained an obstinate silence.

  Dr Condor, however, refused to be incommoded in the very slightest by our presence, and when we finally moved across to the salon, where our coffee was waiting for us, he threw himself with a grunt of satisfaction into Edith’s chair, which was equipped with all sorts of special gadgets, such as adjustable arms, ashtrays and so forth, and had a revolving bookcase within easy reach of it. Since anger makes one not only malign but sharp-sighted, I could not help noticing with a certain satisfaction as he lolled there how stumpy were his legs with their untidy socks, how flabby his paunch; and in order to demonstrate how little disposed I for my part was to make his closer acquaintance, I slewed my chair round so that my back was actually turned to him. Completely unruffled, however, by my ostentatious silence and by Kekesfalva’s nervous pacing up and down — the old man danced about incessantly to see that the doctor had all he wanted in the way of cigars, matches and brandy — Condor helped himself to no less than three cigars from the cabinet, placing two of them by his coffee-cup as a reserve supply; and no matter how willingly the deep armchair accommodated itself to his body, it seemed as though he could never be comfortable enough. He fussed and fidgeted about until he had found the most satisfactory position possible. When he had finally finished his second cup of coffee he gave the grunt of satisfaction of a well-fed animal. Revolting, I thought to myself, revolting! But at this point he suddenly stretched his limbs and blinked ironically across at Kekesfalva.

  ‘Well, St Lawrence on the grill, apparently you grudge me my good cigar, for you just can’t wait any longer for me to give my report! But you ought to know me by now. You know I don’t like mixing shop with food — and besides, I really was too frightfully hungry, too tired. I’ve been on the go continuously since half-past seven this morning, and I felt as though not only my stomach, but my head, were left high and dry. Well then’ — he took a long pull at his cigar and blew out a ring of blue smoke — ‘well then, my dear friend, let us get down to business. Everything is quite satisfactory — walking exercises, stretching exercises, all going very well indeed. Perhaps even a shade better than when I saw her last. As I have said, we may be very satisfied. The only thing is’ — he took another pull at his cigar — ‘her general state of mind, what one may term her psychical condition, as regards that, I found her — now don’t be alarmed, I beg you, my dear friend! — I found somewhat of a change in her today.’

  Despite his warning, Kekesfalva was terribly alarmed, and I could see the spoon he held in his hand beginning to shake.

  ‘A change ... what do you mean ... what kind of a change?’

  ‘Now come — a change is a change. I didn’t say, my dear friend, a change for the worse. Don’t attach a meaning to my words that isn’t there ... I don’t know myself for the moment what’s the matter, but something’s not quite as it should be.’

  The old man continued to hold the spoon in his hand. Apparently he had not the strength to put it down.

  ‘What ... what’s not quite as it should be?’

  Dr Condor scratched his head. ‘Ah, there you have me! If only I knew! But in any case, don’t get upset. We’re speaking quite academically and with no nonsense, and I should like to state once again, quite categorically: the change in her did not seem to me to be connected with her illness, but with herself. Something, I don’t know what, was not quite right today. I had a feeling for the first time that in some way or other she had slipped from my grasp.’ He took another pull at his cigar, then switched the gaze of his alert little eyes over to Kekesfalva. ‘It’s best, you know, for us to approach the matter quite frankly. We have no need to beat about the bush with each other and can lay all our cards on the table. Well then, my dear friend, tell me quite frankly and honestly, I beg you: have you in your eternal impatience called in another doctor? Has Edith been examined or treated by anyone else in my absence?’

  Kekesfalva flared up as though he had been accused of something monstrous. ‘Good God, Doctor, I swear to you by my child’s life! ...’

  ‘All right ... all right ... spare me your oaths!’ Condor quickly interrupted him. ‘I believe you without all that. That’s settled. Peccavi! I’ve simply gone wide of the mark, made a wrong diagnosis; that can happen, after all, to the most famous specialists. How stupid of me! ... And I could have sworn that ... oh well, it must be something else that’s wrong ... but it’s strange, very strange. May I?’ He poured himself a third cup of black coffee.

  ‘Yes, but what’s wrong with her? How has she changed? What do you mean?’ stammered the old man, dry-lipped.

  ‘My dear friend, you really make things very difficult for me. There’s absolutely no need to worry, you have my word again for it, my word of honour. If it were anything serious I wouldn’t, you may be sure ... in front of a stranger ... I beg your pardon, Herr Leutnant, I don’t mean it unkindly, I only mean ... I wouldn’t discuss it from an arm-chair, so to speak, while comfortably sipping your good brandy — by the way, it really is excellent brandy.’

  He leaned back again in his chair and for a fraction of a second closed his eyes.

  ‘Yes, off the cuff it’s difficult to explain this change in her. Very difficult, because it is something that lies on the borders of what is explicable. But if at first I supposed that another doctor had been interfering in the case — I really don’t think so any longer, Herr von Kekesfalva, I swear to you! — it was because today for the first time something between Edith and myself was not functioning properly — the usual contact was lacking ... Wait a moment ... perhaps I can put it more clearly. During the course of a long period of treatment a certain, definite contact is established between a doctor and his patient. Perhaps it is putting it too crudely to call it a contact, which, after all, in the last resort denotes something physical. In this relationship there is a strange mixture of trust and mistrust, the one works against the other, a mixture of attraction and repulsion, and of course the mixture varies from one visit to the next — we are used to that. Sometimes the patient seems to the doctor to be different, and sometimes the doctor seems to the patient to be different; sometimes they understand each other at a mere glance, at others they talk to each other at cross-purposes ... Yes, these ups and downs are very, very odd; one can’t pin them down, much less measure them. Perhaps one can best explain it by a comparison, even at the risk of its being a very crude comparison. Well then — with a patient it’s just the same as when you’ve been away for a few days and you come back and sit down at your typewriter. To all intents and purposes it works exactly as it always did, functions just as admirably as ever; but all the same, something that you can’t define tells you that someone else has been using it in your absence. Or just as you, Herr Leutnant, doubtless notice a difference in your horse when someone else has borrowed him for a couple of days. Something’s not quite right about his gait, his bearing, he has somehow got out of your control, and yet you, probably, are equally unable to define exactly where the difference lies, so infinitesimal is it ... I know these are very crude comparisons, for the relation of a doctor to his patient is, of course, a far more subtle thing. I should be hard put to it — I tell you frankly — to explain what it is about Edith that is dif
ferent since my last visit. But something — and it annoys me to think that I can’t put my finger on it — is the matter, something about her is different.’

  ‘But how ... how does it show itself?’ gasped Kekesfalva. I saw that all Condor’s adjurations had failed to reassure him, and his brow was beaded with sweat.

  ‘How does it show itself? Well, in trifling things, imponderabilia. Even while I was going through the remedial exercises with her, I noticed she was putting up resistance against me; before I could even begin to examine her, she protested that it was quite unnecessary, that everything was just the same as usual, whereas as a rule, she waits with the greatest impatience for my report. Then, when I suggested certain exercises, she made disparaging remarks, such as, “Oh, they’re no use!” or “They’re not going to do much good.” Now, such remarks are, I admit, unimportant in themselves — the outcome of ill-temper, frayed nerves — but until now, my dear friend, Edith has never said such things to me. Well, perhaps she was merely in a bad mood — that can happen to anyone.’

  ‘But ... there’s really no change for the worse, is there?’

  ‘How many more protestations must I make? If there were anything in the least wrong, I, her doctor, would be just as worried as you, her father, and I am, as you see, not worried in the slightest. On the contrary, this rebellion against me doesn’t altogether displease me. Admitted — your young daughter is more cantankerous, more headstrong, more impatient than a few weeks ago — probably she’s been giving you a few hard nuts to crack! But such a revolt points, on the other hand, to a certain strengthening of the will to live, the will to recover; the more vigorously and more normally an organism begins to function, the more forcibly will it eventually get the better of its illness. Believe me, we doctors are not so immoderately fond of “good”, submissive patients as you may think. They are the ones who least help us to help them. To us, vigorous and even frantic resistance on the part of a patient can only be welcome, for, strangely enough, these apparently unreasonable reactions sometimes have more effect than our most miraculous nostrums. I repeat, therefore — I am not in the least worried. If, for instance, one were thinking of starting her on a new course of treatment, one could now expect her to make great efforts; maybe this would be the appropriate moment to bring into play the psychical forces which in her case are so decisive. I don’t know’ — he raised his head and looked at us — ‘if you quite get my meaning.’