The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig by Stefan Zweig Page A

like a dying flower. Her long, dark hair had come loose, and he gently stroked it. “Be sensible, Esther, and don’t cry. The baby has gone away, but—”
    “It’s not true, oh no, it can’t be true!” she cried.
    “It
is
true, Esther. His mother has left the country. Times are bad for foreigners and heretics here—and for the faithful and God-fearing as well. They have gone to France, or perhaps England. But why so despairing? Be sensible, Esther, wait a few days and you’ll see, you will feel better again.”
    “I can’t, I won’t,” she cried through more tears. “Why have they taken the baby away from me? He was all I had… I must have him back, I must, I must. He loved me, he was the only creature in the world who was mine, all mine… how am I to live now? Tell me where he is, oh, tell me…”
    Her mingled sobs and lamentations became confused, desperate murmuring growing softer and more meaningless, and finally turning to hopeless weeping. Ideas shot like lightning through her tormented mind, she was unable to think clearly and calm down. All she thought and felt circled crazily, restlessly and with pitiless force around the one painful thought obsessing her. The endless silent sea of her questing love surged with loud, despairing pain,and her words flowed on, hot and confused, like blood running from a wound that would not close. The old man had tried to calm her distress with gentle words, but now, in despair, he could say nothing. The elemental force and dark fire of her passion seemed to him stronger than any way he knew of pacifying her. He waited and waited. Sometimes her torrent of feeling seemed to hesitate briefly and grow a little calmer, but again and again a sob set off words that were half a scream, half weeping. Her young soul, rich with love to give, was bleeding to death in her pain.
    At last he was able to speak to Esther, but she wouldn’t listen. Her eyes were fixed on a single image, and a single thought filled her heart. She stammered it all out, as if she were seeing hallucinations. “He had such a sweet laugh… he was mine, all mine for all those lovely days, I was his mother… and now I can’t have him any more. If only I could see him again, just once… if I could only see him just once.” And again her voice died away in helpless sobs. She had slowly slipped down from her resting place against the old man’s breast, and was clinging to his knees with weary, shaking hands, crouching there surrounded by the flowing locks of her dark hair. As she stooped down, moving convulsively, her face hidden by her hair, she seemed to be crushed by pain and anger. Monotonously, her desperate mind tiring now, she babbled those words again and again. “Just to see him again… only once… if I could see him again just once!”
    The old man bent over her.
    “Esther?”
    She did not move. Her lips went on babbling the same words, without meaning or intonation. He tried to raise her. When he took her arm it was powerless and limp like a broken branch, and fell straight back again. Only her lips kept stammering, “Just to see him again… see him again, oh, see him again just once…”
    At that a strange idea came into his baffled mind as he tried to comfort her. He leant down close to her ear. “Esther? You
shall
see him again, not just once but as often as you like.”
    She started up as if woken from a dream. The words seemed to flow through all her limbs, for suddenly her body moved and straightened up. Her mind seemed to be slowly clearing. Her thoughts were not quite lucid yet, for instinctively she did not believe in so much happiness revealing itself after such pain. Uncertainly she looked up at the old man as if her senses were reeling. She did not entirely understand him, and waited for him to say more, because everything was so indistinct to her. However, he said nothing, but looked at her with a kindly promise in his eyes and nodded. Gently, he put his arm around her, as