автордың кітабын онлайн тегін оқу A Summer Novella
Stefan Zweig
A Summer Novella
Bored at a half-deserted Italian hotel, the narrator of this short story spends his days observing the other inhabitants. His routine changes, however, once he finally finds a companion: a mysterious elderly gentleman willing to share an idea for a captivating novella...
Stefan Zweig was born into an affluent Jewish family in Vienna, in 1881. He lived in Austria, England, and, in 1940, moved to Brazil. Throughout his career as a writer, he demonstrated a keen interest in psychology and, in particular, in the work of Sigmund Freud. This fascination with human nature prompted Zweig to create complex portraits of his characters, and, consequently, produce works that continue to captivate readers for generations.
I spent last August in Cadenabbia, one of those little places at the Lake Como’s shore that are hidden among white villas and dark trees. Even during the noisiest days, when crowds of tourists from Bellagio and Menagio fill the narrow belt of the shore, peace and serenity reign in the town; now, in August heat, there was the quietness itself, sunny and fragrant. The hotel was almost empty; those few of its inhabitants who remained inside glanced at each other with bewilderment, struggling to understand how one could possibly choose this deserted corner as a place of recess, and, when meeting each morning, marveled at the fact that no one has yet left. I was puzzled by one particularly stately and elegant elderly man who resembled both an English lord and a Parisian dandy. He did not engage in water sports and spent entire days idling in the same spot, wistfully bidding farewell to a strain of smoke coming from his cigarette or scrolling through his book. Two unbearably boring rainy days and the gentleman’s apparent friendliness colored our encounter with a tint of cordiality, which was hardly blurred by our age gap. A Liflandian raised in France and then in England, the man has never had either stable interests or, for many years, a stable place of residence; in a higher sense, he did not know his motherland, similarly to all the knights and pirates of beauty, who race through the cities of the world, greedily absorbing every marvelous thing they encounter on their way. He had an amateur knowledge of the arts, but what overshadowed his love for the art was his unwillingness to serve it. He took a thousand of pleasurable hours from the art, yet did not grant it a mere sparkle of creativity in return. Lives of such people appear futile, as no bonds tie them to the society, and all the amassed treasures, comprised of a thousand of precious impressions-yet dedicated to no one-dissolve with their last sigh.
One evening, when we were sitting in front of our hotel and watching the bright lake gradually turn darker, I opened a conversation about this matter. He smiled.
“Maybe you are not so wrong after all. Oh well, I do not cherish memories. Every experience is outlived the second it escapes us. Poetry? Does not it also die, in twenty, fifty, or a hundred years? But today I will share something with you; in my opinion, this would make a decent plot for a novella. Let’s take a walk. It is better to discuss such things on the go.”
We walked along a wonderful path down the shore. Ancient cypress and chestnut trees enriched it, and the lake shimmered restlessly in the space opened by the tree branches. Slightly tinged with the elusive colors of the already vanished sun, Bellagio resembled a cloud from a distance, and, high above a dark hill, in the last seconds of the sunset, the roof of Villa Serbelloni shone like a diamond. Slightly stiffing warmth did not bother us; like a gentle hand of a woman, it embraced the shadow, filling the air with an odor of invisible flowers.
My companion broke the silence.
“I’ll start with a confession. Until now, I have been concealing the fact that I have stayed here-right here, in Cadenabbia, at this particular hotel-before, during the same time of
the year. My confession will most likely surprise you, especially after I had told you that all my life I have been deliberately avoiding any repetitions. So, listen to me. Obviously, last year it was just as empty here as it is now. The same sir from Milan spent his days fishing and, later in the evening, releasing the fish back in the water in order to catch it again the next morning. Then there were two elderly English women, whose quiet existence was not acknowledged by anyone. There was a young man with a sweet pale young woman; I still do not believe they were married, for they seemed to love each other too strongly. Finally, there was a German family that certainly came from the north of the country: it introduced an old broad-shouldered woman with a hay-colored hair, ungraceful and coarse movements, sharp-
steel eyes and narrow-as if it had been carved out with a knife-foul mouth. She was
accompanied by her sister who had the same features, only hers were blurry and bulgy. They would spend an entire day together, yet instead of talking to each other, they would silently
engage in needlework, weaving all of their thoughtlessness into the fabric-relentless parks filled with boredom and narrow-mindedness. They were accompanied by a young girl who seemed to be about sixteen years old; she was the daughter of one of the women, though I did not know exactly which woman it was. The awkward contours of her face and body had already begun to transform into feminine outlines. In effect, she could not have been deemed
“beautiful”, for she was too slender, too crude, and, of course, tasteless in style. Yet there was something moving in her yearning. Brimming with a dark fire, her large eyes hid timidly from any gaze yet continued to sparkle. She, too, carried her needlework around, but, with her hands lingering and her fingers freezing, she would sit quietly and fix her wandering gaze at the lake. I do not know why I was so affected by this. Perhaps, it was a common yet inescapable idea that one eventually gets at the sight of a mother succumbing to decay with a
daughter in her prime-a woman and her shadow-the idea that each face of youth has a few
wrinkles and each dream conceals a hint of disappointment. Perhaps, I was merely attracted by this unrecognized yet overflowing yearning that distinguishes the wonderful period in a girl’s life when her sight voraciously pursuits everything, for there has not yet appeared that one thing to which she will cling as a seaweed clings to a piece of wood. Without a shadow of weariness, I could watch her dreamy gaze, the impulsivity with which she caressed every being whether it was a cat or a dog, the uneasiness which forced her to take a group of tasks upon herself at the same time, and the feverish haste with which she devoured shabby little books from the hotel’s library or scrolled through two worn-out collections of poetry by Goethe and Baumbach…Why are you smiling?”
I apologized and explained myself.
“I just find this combination of Goethe and Baumbach amusing, that is all.”
“Ah, that’s what it is! Well, it is quite funny. On the other hand, though, it is not. Believe me, young girls at this age do not care at all what kind of poetry they read-good or
bad, sincere or artificial. Poetry is a mere vessel for the wine, and they do not care about the sort of the wine, for they are drunk before they even open the bottle. This girl, likewise, was filled with that hazy yearning which revealed itself through the sparkling eyes, trembling hands, and timid but springy step. It was apparent that she longed to talk to someone, to share her abundance of emotions, yet there was no one-only loneliness accompanied by the birds’ chirring and cold, passionless looks cast by the elderly women. I was filled with sympathy for her, yet I did not dare approach her. To begin with, what would a young girl her age think of an old man like me? Secondly, the insurmountable horror that awoke inside me with any family gatherings-especially those involving elderly philistine women-obstructed any chance of our interaction. I had a strange thought then: here is a young, inexperienced, unseduced girl; for the first time in her life she discovers Italy, which, because of Shakespeare’s works, is perceived in Germany as the land of romantic love, the home of Romeo, mysterious adventures, dropped fans, glittering knives, masks, and heartfelt letters. Of course, she dreams of love; ah, who even can understand a young girl’s dreams, those ethereal clouds that aimlessly drift through azure, and, like all clouds, kindle as the evening comes. Nothing will appear unlikely or impossible to her. This is why I endeavored to create a mysterious admirer for her.
Over the course of that very evening, I comprised a letter addressed to that young girl and filled with nothing but the humblest tenderness…and I left it anonymous. It was as if the letter was taken out of a romantic love poem: it neither promised nor demanded, and it was passionate yet modest. Aware of the fact that, spurred by her uneasiness, she always came the earliest to the breakfast table, I hid the letter inside her napkin. Then came morning. I watched her from the garden, noticing her surprise, momentary fright, and the blush that instantly spread across her pale face and neck; she looked around helplessly, then, in a thief’s manner, covertly hid the letter away sat, baffled, leaving her food untouched, then jumped out of the table and raced somewhere far away, to a deserted alley to read the mysterious message…Were you going to say something?”
Apparently, I have involuntarily made a gesture, which I now had to account for. “Wasn’t it too perilous? Have you considered the fact that she could have tried to investigate the matter, or, simply, ask the servant if he knew how the letter appeared in her napkin? Has it occurred to you that she could have asked her mother?”
“Of course, I have considered it. Yet had you the chance to see the girl, that sweet frightful creature, who would fearfully look around whenever she would raise her voice a mere pitch, you would have absolutely no concerns about such an outcome. There are girls who are so bashful that one could try anything with them, for they are utterly helpless; they
would endure anything yet not confide in anyone. Content with the outcome of my mischief, I continued to observe her with a smile plastered on my face. The girl had returned, and I could feel the blood flowing through my temples. It was a different girl who had a different walk. She walked in a disoriented manner, her face blushed, and her charming bashfulness obstructed her every step. This has gone on for an entire day. She aimed her look at every window, as if each of them contained the key to her enigma. Her eyes followed every person who passed by, and, when once they caught me, I escaped them, afraid of exposing myself by merely moving an eyelid. Yet during that fleeting moment I was the target of a question of such intensity that I felt almost frightened, and, again after many years, I understood that there is nothing as strong, tempting and pernicious as igniting a fire in a young girl’s eyes. I observed her sitting between her mother and her aunt, watched her numb fingers, and noticed
how, occasionally, she clutched her hand to her chest-undoubtedly, this was where she hid
the letter. In the evening I comprised another letter, and spent the days that followed doing the same. I took a peculiar kind of pleasure in expressing a young man’s emotions in my writings. It turned into a sport of sorts; I imagine this is the very feeling shared by hunters as they set their traps or lure their prey in for a fatal shot. My success has exceeded my expectations and even frightened me. I was about to end my game, but the temptation has become too strong. Her walk has acquired a hint of impulsivity, as if she was dancing. Her face was ignited with a unique kind if beauty. Nighttime gave way to more anticipation rather than sleep, as one could tell by looking at the newly formed dark circles under her restless eyes. She even began to pay attention to her appearance by embedding flowers into her hair. An infinite wave of affection flowed from her hands, while her eyes still posed that same question; the myriad of details and observations she found in the letters allowed her to assume that their author was somewhere nearby-an invisible Ariel who fills the world with music, floats around her, knows her deepest secret, yet refuses to show himself. Even her dumbfounded companions have noticed her excitement: frequently they would examine her newly-discovered agility and blossomed cheeks, cast glances at each other and exchange a few light-hearted giggles. Her voice has become deeper, higher, louder, bolder, and her throat trembled, as deep inside there was a song, yearning to be released like a jubilant trill, like a… I see you are smiling again.”
“Oh, please, continue. It is just that I find you a great storyteller. I am sorry, but what you have is a gift, and you could express it just as good as any of our writers could.”
“Apparently, what you trying to delicately hint at, is that my manner of storytelling echoes that of the German writers: pompous, sentimental and dull. Well, you are right. I will try to be more concise. The puppet kept dancing, and I kept pulling the strings. Since I had noticed that, occasionally, she would cast an inquisitive look in my direction, I dispelled her suspicion by leading her to believe that the author of the letters came not from this hotel, but, rather, from one at a nearby resort, and that he came to the hotel every day by means of either a boat or a ship. After that, it would take a mere sound of the bell to force her flee the table under any excuse, hide under a secluded corner next to the pier and examine the arriving passengers.
Once-it was a gloomy day and, consumed by boredom, I was watching the young girl
again-something unexpected occurred. Among the rest of the passengers who had descended the ship came a handsome young man, whose clothes reflected an elegance characteristic of young Italians; he looked around, and, suddenly, his eyes caught the desperate, yearning
glance of the girl. A bright wave of shame replaced the shy smile on her face. After stopping to take a look at the girl-a sensible decision one can make when he is greeted with a look filled with such passion and an array of unrevealed confessions-he started to walk towards her with a smile. Fully certain that he was the one she has been waiting for, she ran, then slowed down, then run fast again, occasionally looking back; this was the perpetual battle between desire and fear, between passion and shame, a battle always won by one’s weak heart rather than by one’s willpower. Though he was surprised, he raced after her in a bold manner-fearfully, I began to envision the wild chaos that was about to sweep everyone on its way-yet suddenly her mother and aunt appeared on the horizon. Like a startled bird, the girl bolted towards them, and, though the young man has slowed down, he exchanged glances with her when she looked back at him. Though this accident almost forced me to quit the game, I could not resist the temptation to continue and found a way to make use of the situation: when the evening came, I sent a new letter, which was meant to confirm the young girl’s suspicions. The perspective of bringing a second puppet into the play amused me.
In the morning I found myself frightened, for the girl’s features expressed an utter confusion. Gleeful excitement was overshadowed by worry, her eyes were red from tears, and some mysterious pain was torturing her. Her silence resembled a suppressed cry for help, her forehead frowned in silence, and her look reflected an apparent desperation though today I expected to see nothing but sheer delight. I was overcome with fear. For the first time, an outside force found its way into my game, and my puppet refused to obey, dancing differently from what I had expected her to. The game began to scare me, and, to avoid the reproach in the girl’s eyes, I decided to withdraw for the entire day. As I returned to the hotel, it all became clear to me: their table was not set up because they have gone away. She had to leave, without saying a word to him. She could neither confess to the two women nor beg them to stay for another day or even another hour; she was torn away from sweet daydreams and taken to a wretched hinterland instead. I did not think this through. Up to this day I am
haunted by her last glance, that burst of rage, agony, and the sharpest of pains, which I-
perhaps, for a long time ahead-have imbued her life with.”
He ceased talking. The night has been following us, and, almost lost among the clouds, the moon emitted a peculiar shimmering light. It appeared as if the stars, the distant lights, and the lake’s pale smooth surface hanged among the trees. Quietly, we walked along. My companion finally broke the silence.
“This is it. Isn’t this a novella?”
“I don’t know what to tell you. In any case, this is an interesting story, and I will treasure it among many others. I am grateful to you for telling this. But could you actually call it a novella? This is merely a splendid introduction that would likely urge me to continue with the rest of the story. These people, after all, only get a chance to touch upon each other.
Their personalities are not yet formed; they are but sheer premises of fate-they are not yet destinies themselves. Their portraits have to be finished.”
“I see what you have in mind: the young girl’s life after the story, her return to her provincial town, and the tragedy of the days of wretched existence.”
“No, not even that. I am no longer interested in the girl as a heroine. Though they perceive themselves as unique, girls her age are hardly fascinating: all of their troubles are far-fetched, and, thus, dull. At some point, she will marry a respectable philistine man, and this whole incident will become the brightest page in the book of her memories. No, I am not interested in her.”
“It is strange. Well I can’t see why you find the young man interesting. Each young person gets a chance to experience those brief fiery glances full of passion; for the majority,
they remain unnoticed, for others-fleeting. One has to be old to understand that, perhaps, that
youth’s sacred right is life’s purest, most wonderful gift.” “I am not interested in the young man at all.” “Who is it, then?”
“I would change that old man, the author of the letters, and I would finish his portrait. I believe that, regardless of one’s age, it should be forbidden to compose passionate love letters and to be engrossed in fictitious love without getting punished at the end. I would attempt to depict his game becoming reality along with his persistent belief that he rules that game, in spite of the fact that it had been long since the game begun to rule over him…Though it seems to him that the young girl’s beauty is something he observes from a distance, it actually absorbs and carries him away. And the second he loses everything, he is consumed by the yearning for the abruptly ended game and for…the toy.
What I would be fascinated about this feeling is what makes the old man’s passion so alike that of the young boy, since neither of them deems himself worthy of love; I would make the old man languish and deprive him of his peace of mind; he would follow the girl just to take a look at her again, and, at the last minute, refrain from showing himself. Begging the fate to grant him another favorable opportunity and hoping to encounter the girl again, he would return to that old spot the next year. Yet the fate would remain inexorable. This is how I imagine this novella. It would be…”
“Unnatural, preposterous, implausible!”
Caught by surprise, I flinched. His voice has interrupted me harshly and with a hint of threat. I had never seen my companion so agitated. Suddenly it happened: I saw the wound I had accidentally touched. He stopped abruptly, and I was able to see the silver of his gray hair.
Though I wanted to quickly switch the topic, the man resumed talking, now softly and cordially. His voice, smooth and serene, betrayed a hint of melancholy.
“Perhaps, you are right. This could have been more interesting. ‘L'amour coute cher
aux vieillards’, I believe this is the beginning of one of Balzac’s most poignant stories, and it would be of use to many others. Yet old men, who seem to know better, prefer to recount their victories rather than their weaknesses. They are afraid of seeming ridiculous, though it would be nothing but a mere movement of the pendulum of fate. Take the stories revolving around Casanova’s senility and his transformation from a seducer to a cuckold, from a deceiver to a deceived one: do you truly believe they were lost due to ‘an accident’? Perhaps, he simply did not dare write about it.”
He extended his hand to me and said, in a voice that was again smooth, calm, and devoid of passion:
“Good night! It appears to me that there is danger in sharing these stories with young men, especially during summer nights. It instills in them foolish thoughts and futile dreams. Good night.”
He turned and went away prancing, although his walk gave away a stamp of his age. It was late. The languor, which would ordinarily defeat me early in the heat of the night, did not emerge today due to the excitement one experiences after coming to face-to-face with something unusual or after even a moment of living someone else’s life as if it were one’s own.
I walked down a dark and quiet path, reached Villa Carlotta, whose marble staircase descended almost into the water, and sat down on the cold stairs. It was a wonderful night. Bellagio’s lights, which used to sparkle like fireflies between the trees, now seemed distant, and, one by one, plunged into the thick darkness. Glistening like a diamond rimmed in coastal lights, the lake remained quiet. With a mild roar, the waves splashed and brushed against the stairs-like pale hands running across the ivory keys. Adorned by a myriad of stars, the faint sky appeared bottomless; the stars shined in a solemn silence, and only occasionally one of them would swiftly escape their scintillant roundelay and plummet into the summer night, into the darkness, into the valleys, into the canyons, into the distant deep waters. It plummeted in an unknown directi
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