Beware of Pity by Stefan Zweig Read Free Book Online Page A

money, but at the moment I don’t mind that, I am even glad that I shall have to pay a high price for my folly. All this time I still feel a perverse desire to punish myself severely for being a fool twice over, I want to pay dearly for my own double blunders.
    But now surely all would be well again? The finest of roses, well arranged in a basket, sure to be sent off at once! However, Frau Gurtner runs down the street after me in desperate pursuit. Where are they to go, then? The gentleman hasn’t told her who the flowers are for. Oh no, idiot that I am three times over now, in my agitation I forgot! To the Villa Kekesfalva, I say, and just in time, thanks to Ilona’s dreadful outburst, I remember my poor victim’s first name; they are for Fräulein Edith von Kekesfalva.
    “Of course, of course, the Kekesfalvas,” says Frau Gurtner proudly. “Our best customers!”
    And another question, just as I am turning to hurry off again—didn’t I want to write a word to go with them? Write a word? Ah, yes! The name of the sender! The giver of the gift! How else is she to know where the flowers come from?
    So I go back into the shop again, take out a visiting card and write on it, “A plea for forgiveness.” No—impossible! That would be a fourth mistake—why remind anyone of my folly? But what else can I put? “With genuine regret”—no, that won’t do either. She might think I was sorry for her. Better not to write anything at all.
    “Just put the card in with them, Frau Gurtner, only my card.”
    Now I feel better. I hurry back to barracks, swallow some coffee, and get through my hour’s drill as best I can, probably more nervous and distracted than usual. But in the army it’s not particularly unusual for a lieutenant to come on duty with a hangover in the morning. Think how many come back from a night on the tiles in Vienna so exhausted that they can hardly prop their eyes open, and fall asleep on a trotting horse. In fact it suits me very well to be occupied in giving commands, inspecting the men, and then riding out. To a certain extent action takes my mind off my troubles, although my uncomfortable memories are still churning away inside my head, and there’s a lump in my throat like a sponge soaked in bitter gall.
    But at midday, just as I am going over to the officers’ mess, my batman runs after me with an urgent cry of, “ Panje Lieutenant!” He is holding a letter, an oblong envelope, English notepaper, blue and delicately perfumed with a finely traced coat of arms on the back. The address is in thin, steeply angular handwriting, a lady’s hand. I swiftly tear the envelope open and read:
    Thank you so much, Lieutenant Hofmiller, for the beautiful flowers, which I really do not deserve. They have given me great pleasure, and still do. Please come to tea with us any afternoon you like. There is no need to give advance notice. I am—unfortunately!—always at home.
    Edith v K
    Delicate handwriting. I involuntarily remember the slender, childish fingers braced against the table, the pale face suddenly glowing crimson, as if claret had been poured into a glass. I read the few lines again once, twice, three times, and breathe a sigh of relief. How discreetly she glosses over my folly! How skilfully and at the same time tactfully she refers to her affliction: “I am—unfortunately!—always at home.” I could not have been more elegantly forgiven. There is no tone of offence at all in her note. A weight falls from my heart. I feel like a defendant in court who expects to be given a life sentence, but the judge rises to his feet, puts on his cap, and announces, “Not guilty.” Of course I must soon go out there to thank her. This is Thursday—so I will pay a call on Sunday. Or no, Saturday would be better!
     
    But I do not stick to my decision. I am too impatient. Under pressure from my own uneasiness, I want to know that I have atoned for my offence, I want to be rid of the discomfort of