Confusion by Stefan Zweig Page A

without knowing what I’ve done to hurt him? I flung myself on the bed in a fever, got up, buried myself under the covers again, but that ghostly picture was always in my mind’s eye: my teacher slinking up here, confused by my presence, and behind him, mysterious and strange, that monstrous shadow tumbling over the wall.
    When I woke in the morning, after a short period of brief and shallow slumber, I told myself at first that I must have been dreaming. But there were still round, yellow, congealed drops of candle wax on the chest of drawers. And in the middle of the bright, sunlit room my dreadful memory of last night’s furtive visitor returned again and again.
    I stayed in my room all morning. The thought of meeting him sapped my strength. I tried to write, to read; nothing was any use. My nerves were undermined and might fall into shattering convulsions at any moment, I might begin sobbing and howling—for I could see my own fingers trembling like leaves on a strange tree, I was unable to still them, and my knees felt as weak as if the sinews had been cut. What was I to do? What was I to do? I asked myself that question over and over again until I was exhausted; the blood was already pounding in my temples, there were blue shadows under my eyes. But I could not go out, could not go downstairs, could not suddenly face him without being certain of myself, without having some strength in my nerves again. Once again I flung myself on the bed, hungry, confused, unwashed, distressed, and once again my senses tried to penetrate the thin floorboards: where was he now, what was he doing, was he awake like me, was he as desperate as I myself ?
    Midday came, and I still lay on the fiery rack of my confusion, when I heard a step on the stairs at last. All my nerves jangled with alarm, but it was a light, carefree step running upstairs two at a time—and now a hand was knocking at the door. I jumped up without opening it. “Who’s there?” I asked. “Why don’t you come downstairs to eat?” replied his wife’s voice, in some annoyance. “Aren’t you well?” “No, no,” I stammered in confusion. “Just coming, just coming.” And now there was nothing I could do but get my clothes on and go downstairs. But my limbs were so unsteady that I had to cling to the banister.
    I went into the dining-room. My teacher’s wife was waiting in front of one of the two places that had been laid, and greeted me with a mild reproach for having to be reminded. His own place was empty. I felt the blood rise to my face. What did his unexpected absence mean? Did he fear our meeting even more than I did? Was he ashamed, or didn’t he want to share a table with me any more? Finally I made up my mind to ask whether the Professor wasn’t coming in to lunch.
    She looked up in surprise. “Don’t you know he went away this morning, then?” “Went away?” I stammered. “Where to?” Her face immediately tensed. “My husband did not see fit to tell me, but probably— well another of his usual excursions.” Then she turned towards me with a sudden sharp, questioning look. “You mean that you don’t know? He went up to see you on purpose last night—I thought it was to say goodbye … how strange, how very strange that he didn’t tell you either.”
    â€œMe!” I could utter only a scream. And to my shame and disgrace, that scream swept away everything that had been so dangerously dammed up in me during the last few hours. Suddenly it all burst out in a sobbing, howling, raging convulsion—I vomited a gurgling torrent of words and screams tumbling over one another, a great swirling mass of confused desperation, I wept— no, I shook, my trembling mouth brought up all the torment that had accumulated inside me. Fists drumming frantically on the table like a child throwing a tantrum, face covered with tears, I