The Collected Novellas of Stefan Zweig by Stefan Zweig

Author:Stefan Zweig [Stefan Zweig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781782272021
Publisher: Steerforth Press
Published: 2015-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Her wish was to be granted sooner than she guessed. The struggle had been going on for fourteen days now, and Irene felt she had exhausted her strength. It was four days since she had heard from the woman, and fear had lodged so deep in her body, was so much at one with her blood, that she started up abruptly whenever the doorbell rang so that she would be in time to intercept the next blackmail letter herself. There was impatience, almost even longing in her avid expectation, for with every payment she bought an evening of peace, a few hours with the children, a walk. For an evening, for a day she could breathe easily, go out into the street, visit friends. Although to be sure sleep, in its wisdom, would not let such a poor sort of comfort blind her deceitfully to certain knowledge of the danger always close at hand. Her sleep brought dreams of fear to consume her by night.

Once again, she had run to answer the door when the bell rang, even though she realised that her restless desire to get there ahead of the servants was bound to be noticed, and could easily arouse hostile suspicions. But while sober circumspection might put up little acts of resistance, it weakened when, at the sound of the telephone ringing, a step in the street behind her, or the summons of the doorbell her whole body was on the alert, as if it had felt the lash of a whip. And now the sound of the bell had brought her out of her room and running to the door again. She opened it only to find herself looking in surprise, for a moment, at a strange lady. Then, retreating in alarm, she recognised the hated face of the blackmailer, who was wearing a new outfit and an elegant hat.

“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,

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