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Authors: Stefan Zweig
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how sweetly her aunt tries to help, veils her handouts, goes out of her way not to hurt her.
“But how could I wear your dresses, Aunt?” she stammers. “They’re certainly much too fancy for me.”
“Nonsense, they suit you better than they do me. Anthony complains that I’m dressing too young anyway. He’d like to see me looking like his great-aunts in Zaandam, heavy black silk up to the neck, buttoned up like a Protestant, and a starched white housewife’s bonnet on my head. On you he’d like these things a thousand times better. So tell us now which one you want for this evening.”
In a flash she’s taken one of the filmy garments and held it skillfully against her own (suddenly with the casual, graceful movements of the long-forgotten dress model). It’s ivory-colored , with floral edging in a Japanese style; it seems to glow in contrast to the next one, a midnight-black silk dress with flickering red flames. The third is pond-green with veins of silver, and all three seem so fantastic to Christine that she doesn’t dare to think they could be hers. How could she ever wear such splendid and fragile treasures without constantly worrying? How do you walk, how do you move in such a mist of color and light? Don’t you have to learn how to wear clothes like these? She gazes humbly at the exquisite garments.
But she’s too much a woman not to yearn too. Her nostrils flare, and her hands have begun trembling strangely because they’d like to finger the material. Christine struggles to master herself. Her aunt, from her experience as a model long ago, knows this hungry expression, this almost sensual excitement which grips women when they see luxury. She can’t helpsmiling at the sudden light in this quiet blond girl’s eyes as they flicker restlessly and indecisively from one garment to another. She knows which garment Christine is going to choose, knows too she’ll regret not taking the others. Her aunt finds it amusing to overwhelm her still more. “There’s no rush, I’ll leave all three here for you. You can choose the one you like best for today and tomorrow you can try on something else. I’ve also brought stockings and underthings—all you need now is something fresh-looking and attractive to put a little color in your cheeks. If you don’t mind we’ll go right over to the shops and buy everything you need for the Engadine.”
“But Aunt,” Christine whispers, startled and shaken. “What did I do to deserve this…You shouldn’t be spending so much on me. And this room is much too expensive for me, really, a plain one would have been fine.” But her aunt just smiles and looks at her appraisingly. “And then, child,” she declares dictatorially, “I’ll take you to our beautician, she’ll make you more or less presentable. Nobody but one of our Indians back home would have a hank of hair like that. You’ll see how much freer your head will be without that mop hanging down your neck. No, no argument, I know what’s best, leave it to me and don’t worry. And now get yourself together. We have lots of time, Anthony is at his afternoon poker game. We want to have you all fixed up to present to him this evening. Come, child.”
Soon boxes are flying off the shelves in the big sports shop. They choose a sweater in a checkerboard plaid, a chamois belt that cinches the waist, a pair of fawn walking shoes with a pungent new smell, a cap, snug colorful sport stockings, and all sorts of odds and ends. In the fitting room Christine peels off the hated blouse like a dirty rind: the poverty she brought with her is packed out of sight in a cardboard box. She feels oddly relieved as the horrid things disappear, as though her fears were being hidden away forever. In another shop a pair of dress shoes, a flowing silk scarf, and yet more wonders. Christinehas no experience of this kind of shopping and is agog at this new marvel, this buying with no concern for cost, without the eternal fear of the
“But how could I wear your dresses, Aunt?” she stammers. “They’re certainly much too fancy for me.”
“Nonsense, they suit you better than they do me. Anthony complains that I’m dressing too young anyway. He’d like to see me looking like his great-aunts in Zaandam, heavy black silk up to the neck, buttoned up like a Protestant, and a starched white housewife’s bonnet on my head. On you he’d like these things a thousand times better. So tell us now which one you want for this evening.”
In a flash she’s taken one of the filmy garments and held it skillfully against her own (suddenly with the casual, graceful movements of the long-forgotten dress model). It’s ivory-colored , with floral edging in a Japanese style; it seems to glow in contrast to the next one, a midnight-black silk dress with flickering red flames. The third is pond-green with veins of silver, and all three seem so fantastic to Christine that she doesn’t dare to think they could be hers. How could she ever wear such splendid and fragile treasures without constantly worrying? How do you walk, how do you move in such a mist of color and light? Don’t you have to learn how to wear clothes like these? She gazes humbly at the exquisite garments.
But she’s too much a woman not to yearn too. Her nostrils flare, and her hands have begun trembling strangely because they’d like to finger the material. Christine struggles to master herself. Her aunt, from her experience as a model long ago, knows this hungry expression, this almost sensual excitement which grips women when they see luxury. She can’t helpsmiling at the sudden light in this quiet blond girl’s eyes as they flicker restlessly and indecisively from one garment to another. She knows which garment Christine is going to choose, knows too she’ll regret not taking the others. Her aunt finds it amusing to overwhelm her still more. “There’s no rush, I’ll leave all three here for you. You can choose the one you like best for today and tomorrow you can try on something else. I’ve also brought stockings and underthings—all you need now is something fresh-looking and attractive to put a little color in your cheeks. If you don’t mind we’ll go right over to the shops and buy everything you need for the Engadine.”
“But Aunt,” Christine whispers, startled and shaken. “What did I do to deserve this…You shouldn’t be spending so much on me. And this room is much too expensive for me, really, a plain one would have been fine.” But her aunt just smiles and looks at her appraisingly. “And then, child,” she declares dictatorially, “I’ll take you to our beautician, she’ll make you more or less presentable. Nobody but one of our Indians back home would have a hank of hair like that. You’ll see how much freer your head will be without that mop hanging down your neck. No, no argument, I know what’s best, leave it to me and don’t worry. And now get yourself together. We have lots of time, Anthony is at his afternoon poker game. We want to have you all fixed up to present to him this evening. Come, child.”
Soon boxes are flying off the shelves in the big sports shop. They choose a sweater in a checkerboard plaid, a chamois belt that cinches the waist, a pair of fawn walking shoes with a pungent new smell, a cap, snug colorful sport stockings, and all sorts of odds and ends. In the fitting room Christine peels off the hated blouse like a dirty rind: the poverty she brought with her is packed out of sight in a cardboard box. She feels oddly relieved as the horrid things disappear, as though her fears were being hidden away forever. In another shop a pair of dress shoes, a flowing silk scarf, and yet more wonders. Christinehas no experience of this kind of shopping and is agog at this new marvel, this buying with no concern for cost, without the eternal fear of the
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