The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

by Stefan Zweig

Genres: Classics; Short Stories

Synopsis

In this magnificent collection of Stefan Zweig's short stories the very best and worst of human nature are captured with sharp observation, understanding and vivid empathy. Ranging from love and death to faith restored and hope regained, these stories present a master at work, at the top of his form. Perfectly paced and brimming with passion, these twenty-two tales from a master storyteller of the Twentieth Century are translated by the award-winning Anthea Bell.

Deluxe, clothbound edition.

Release date: November 5, 2013

Publisher: Pushkin Press

Print pages: 720

Sample

Forgotten Dreams
 
The villa lay close to the sea.
The quiet avenues, lined with pine trees, breathed out the
rich strength of salty sea air, and a slight breeze constantly played
around the orange trees, now and then removing a colourful bloom
from flowering shrubs as if with careful fingers. The sunlit distance,
where attractive houses built on hillsides gleamed like white pearls,
a lighthouse miles away rose steeply and straight as a candle—the
whole scene shone, its contours sharp and clearly outlined, and was
set in the deep azure of the sky like a bright mosaic. The waves of
the sea, marked by only the few white specks that were the distant
sails of isolated ships, lapped against the tiered terrace on which
the villa stood; the ground then rose on and on to the green of a
broad, shady garden and merged with the rest of the park, a scene
drowsy and still, as if under some fairy-tale enchantment.
Outside the sleeping house on which the morning heat lay heavily,
a narrow gravel path ran like a white line to the cool viewing point.
The waves tossed wildly beneath it, and here and there shimmering
spray rose, sparkling in rainbow colours as brightly as diamonds
in the strong sunlight. There the shining rays of the sun broke on
the small groups of Vistulian pines standing close together, as if
in intimate conversation, they also fell on a Japanese parasol with
amusing pictures on it in bright, glaring colours, now open wide.
A woman was leaning back in a soft basket chair in the shade of
this parasol, her beautiful form comfortably lounging in the yielding
weave of the wicker. One slender hand, wearing no rings, dangled
down as if forgotten, petting the gleaming, silky coat of a dog with
gentle, pleasing movements, while the other hand held a book on
which her dark eyes, with their black lashes and the suggestion of
a smile in them, were concentrating. They were large and restless
eyes, their beauty enhanced by a dark, veiled glow. Altogether the
strong, attractive effect of the oval, sharply outlined face did not
give the natural impression of simple beauty, but expressed the
refinement of certain details tended with careful, delicate coquetry.
The apparently unruly confusion of her fragrant, shining curls
was the careful construction of an artist, and in the same way the
slight smile that hovered around her lips as she read, revealing her
white teeth, was the result of many years of practice in front of
the mirror, but had already become a firmly established part of the
whole design and could not be laid aside now.
There was a slight crunch on the sand.
She looks without changing her position, like a cat lying basking
in the dazzling torrent of warm sunlight and merely blinking
apathetically at the newcomer with phosphorescent eyes.
The steps quickly come closer, and a servant in livery stands in
front of her to hand her a small visiting card, then stands back a
little way to wait.
She reads the name with that expression of surprise on her
features that appears when you are greeted in the street with great
familiarity by someone you do not know. For a moment, small lines
appear above her sharply traced black eyebrows, showing how hard
she is thinking, and then a happy light plays over her whole face all
of a sudden, her eyes sparkle with high spirits as she thinks of the
long-ago days of her youth, almost forgotten now. The name has
aroused pleasant images in her again. Figures and dreams take on
distinct shape once more, and become as clear as reality.
“Ah, yes,” she said as she remembered, suddenly turning to the
servant, “yes, of course show the gentleman up here.”
The servant left, with a soft and obsequious tread. For a moment
there was silence except for the never-tiring wind singing softly in
the treetops, now full of the heavy golden midday light.
Then vigorous, energetic footsteps were heard on the gravel path,
a long shadow fell at her feet, and a tall man stood before her. She
had risen from her chair with a lively movement.
Their eyes met first. With a quick glance he took in the elegance
of her figure, while a slight ironic smile came into her eyes. “It’s
really good of you to have thought of me,” she began, offering him
her slender and well-tended hand, which he touched respectfully
with his lips.
“Dear lady, I will be honest with you, since this is our first
meeting for years, and also, I fear, the last for many years to come.
It is something of a coincidence that I am here; the name of the
owner of the castle about which I was enquiring because of its
magnificent position recalled you to my mind. So I am really here
under false pretences.”
“But nonetheless welcome for that, and in fact I myself could
not remember your existence at first, although it was once of some
significance to me.”