Fräulein Else E-Book

Arthur Schnitzler

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1998

Beschreibung

Depicting the evolution of a moral dilemma in dazzling stream-of-consciousness narrative, Arthur Schnitzler's Fräulein Else is a darkly witty exploration of Viennese social mores. Fräulein Else is the story of a young woman who, while staying with her aunt at a fashionable spa, receives a telegram from her mother begging her to save her father from debtor's jail by approaching an elderly acquaintance in order to borrow money from him. Forced by the exigencies of her family into the reality of a world entirely at odds with her romantic imagination, we are brought unremittingly to the horrific consequences of Else's realisation that her world is one in which everything has a price and where the veneer of morality is as brittle and transparent as glass. Translated from the German by F.H. Lyon, Arthur Schnitzler's modernist novella Fräulein Else is published by Pushkin Press. Arthur Schnitzler (b.1862) was born in Vienna, the son of a prominent Jewish doctor, and studied medicine at the University of Vienna. In later years he devoted his life to writing and was successful as a novelist, dramatist and short story writer. Schnitzler's work shows a remarkable ability to create atmosphere and a profound understanding of human motives.

Leseprobe

ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

FRÄULEIN ELSE

Translated by F. H. Lyon

Contents

Title Page

Fräulein Else

Also Available from Pushkin Press

About the Publisher

Copyright

Fräulein Else

“Won’t you really play any more, Else?”

“No, Paul, I can’t play any more. Good-bye. Good-bye, gnädige Frau.”

“But, Else, call me Frau Cissy—or better still, just Cissy.”

“Good-bye, Frau Cissy.”

“But why are you going already, Else? There are two whole hours before dinner.”

“Please play your single with Paul, Frau Cissy. It’s really no fun playing with me today.”

“Leave her alone, gnädige Frau, she’s in one of her moods today… As a matter of fact, Else, being in a bad mood is very becoming to you. And your red jersey is still more so.”

“I hope you’ll find me better-tempered in blue, Paul.”

That was quite a good exit. I hope those two don’t think I’m jealous… I’ll swear there’s something between Cousin Paul and Cissy Mohr. Nothing in the world troubles me less… Now I’ll turn round again and wave to them. Wave and smile. Do I look gracious now? Oh Lord, they’re playing again. I really play better than Cissy Mohr, and Paul isn’t exactly a champion, but he looks nice with his open collar and that naughty boy face. If only he weren’t so affected. You needn’t worry, Aunt Emma …

What a wonderful evening! It would have been the right weather today for a trip to the Rosetta Hut. How gorgeously the Cimone towers up into the sky!… We should have started at five. Of course I should have felt miserable at first, as usual. But that wears off… There’s nothing more delightful than walking in the early morning… That one-eyed American at the Rosetta looked like a prize-fighter. Perhaps someone knocked his eye out in a fight. I’d rather like to be married in America, but not to an American. Or I’ll marry an American and we’ll live in Europe. A villa on the Riviera, with marble steps going down into the sea. I’d lie on the marble with nothing on… How long is it since we were at Menton? Seven or eight years. I was thirteen or fourteen. Ah, yes, we were better off in those days …

It really was silly to put off the trip. We’d have been back by now at any rate… At four o’clock, when I went out to play tennis, the express letter which Mother telegraphed to say she was sending still hadn’t come. I wonder if it’s come now. I could quite well have played another set… Why do these two young men take off their hats to me? I don’t know them. They’ve been staying at the hotel since yesterday and sit on the left-hand side of the room at meals, where the Dutch people used to sit. Did I bow ungraciously? Or even haughtily? I’m not really haughty. What was it Fred said on the way home from Coriolanus? High-spirited: you’re high-spirited, Else, not haughty. Nice words. He always finds nice words …

Why am I walking so slowly? Can I be afraid of Mother’s letter? Well, what there is in it can hardly be pleasant. An express letter! Perhaps I’ve got to go home. How wretched! What a life, in spite of a red silk jersey and silk stockings—three pairs! The poor relation invited by the rich aunt. I’m sure she’s sorry she asked me already. Dear Aunt, shall I put it in writing for you that I don’t think of Paul even in my dreams? I don’t think of anybody. I’m not in love. Not with anybody. I never have been in love. I wasn’t in love even with Albert, though I imagined I was for a week. I don’t think I’m capable of falling in love. That’s really curious, for I’m certainly sensual. But high-spirited and ungracious too, thank Heaven! Perhaps the only time I really was in love was when I was thirteen. With Van Dyck… and still more with the Abbé was sixteen, at the Wörthersee… No, that was nothing. Why am I reminiscing like this? I’m not writing my memoirs. I don’t even keep a diary like Bertha. I like Fred—nothing more. Perhaps, if he had a little more style. Yes, I’m a snob. Father says I am, and laughs at me. Oh, dear father, you give me a lot of worry. I wonder if he’s ever been unfaithful to Mother. I’m sure he has. Often. Mother is rather stupid. She knows nothing about me at all. No more do other people. Fred, perhaps? Well, a very little.

A heavenly evening. How splendid the hotel looks. One feels that all the people there are well-off and have no worries. I, for example. Ha, ha! It’s bad luck. I was born for a care-free life. It might have been so delightful. It’s bad luck… There’s a red glow over the Cimone. Paul would call it an Alpine glow. It’s beautiful enough to make one cry. Oh, why have I got to go back to town?

“Good evening, Fräulein Else.”

“Küss’ die Hand, gnädige Frau.”

“Been playing tennis?”

She can see I have, why does she ask?

“Yes, gnädige Frau. We’ve been playing for nearly three hours. Are you going for a walk?”

“Yes, my usual evening walk Along the Rolleweg. It’s such a pretty walk through the meadows; it’s almost too sunny in the daytime.”

“Yes, the meadows here are lovely. Especially from my window, by moonlight.”

Good evening, Fräulein Else.”

“Küss’ die Hand, gnädige Frau. Good evening, Herr von Dorsday.”

“Been playing tennis, Fräulein Else?”

“How observant you are, Herr von Dorsday!”

“Don’t make fun of me, Else.”

Why doesn’t he say ‘Fräulein Else’?

“Anyone who looks so charming with a racquet is justified in carrying it, to a certain extent, as an adornment.”

The ass! I won’t answer that at all.

“We’ve been playing all the afternoon. Unfortunately we were only three—Paul, Frau Mohr and I.”

“I used to be a very keen tennis-player.”

“And aren’t you now?”

“No, I’m too old now.”

“Old? Why, at Marienlyst there was a Swede who was sixty-five, and he played every evening from six till eight. And the year before he actually played in a tournament.”

“Well, I’m not sixty-five yet, thank Heaven, but, unfortunately, I’m not a Swede either.”

Why unfortunately? I suppose he thinks that’s funny. The best thing to do is to smile politely and go.

“Küss’ die Hand, gnädige Frau. Good-bye, Herr von Dorsday.”

How low he bows and what eyes he makes! Calf’s eyes. Perhaps I hurt his feelings by talking about the Swede of sixty-five. It doesn’t matter. Frau Winawer must have an unhappy life. She’s certainly getting on for fifty. What tear-sacks she’s got… as if she cried a lot. Oh, how awful it must be to be so old! Herr von Dorsday pays a lot of attention to her. There he is walking beside her. He’s still quite nice-looking with his pointed beard, going grey. But I don’t like him. He’s a social climber. What good does your first-class tailor do you, Herr von Dorsday? Dorsday! I’m sure your name used to be something else… Here comes that sweet little girl of Cissy’s with her Fräulein.

“Hello, Fritzi. Bon soir, Mademoiselle. Vous allez bien?”

“Merci, Mademoiselle. Et vous?”

“Why, Fritzi, you’ve got an alpenstock. Are you going up the Cimone?”

“Oh, no, I’m not allowed to go as high as that yet.”

“You’ll be allowed to next year all right. So long, Fritzi. A bientôt, Mademoiselle.”

“Bon soir, Mademoiselle.”

A pretty girl. I wonder why she’s a nurse—and Cissy’s into the bargain. A hard fate. Oh well I may come to that too. No, I’ll certainly find something better to do. Better?… What a lovely evening! ‘The air is like champagne,’ Dr Waldberg said yesterday. And the day before yesterday someone else said it… Why do people sit in the lounge in this wonderful weather? I can’t understand it. Or are they all waiting for express letters? The porter has seen me. If there’d been an express letter for me he’d have brought it to me at once. So there isn’t one. Thank Heaven! I’ll lie down for a bit before dinner. ‘Dinner’—why does Cissy use the English word? Silly affectation. They’re a good match, Cissy and Paul… Oh, I wish the letter was here. It’ll probably come during dinner. And if it doesn’t come I shall have a bad night. I slept so wretchedly last night, too. I’ll take some veronal tonight… No, my dear Fred, you mustn’t worry about me. One ought to try everything, even hashish. That young naval officer, Brandel, has brought some with him—from China, I think. Does one drink hashish or smoke it? It’s supposed to give one marvellous visions. Brandel invited me to drink—or smoke—hashish with him. A cheeky boy. But nice-looking.

“A letter for you, Fräulein.”

The porter! Now for it. I turn round quite casually. It might be a letter from Caroline, or from Bertha, or from Fred, or Miss Jackson …

“Thank you.”

Yes, it is from Mother—an express letter. Why didn’t he say it was an express letter?

“Oh, an express letter!”

I shan’t open it till I get to my room and then I’ll read it all by myself… The Marchesa. How young she looks in the half-light. I’m sure she’s forty-five. Where shall I be at forty-five? Dead, perhaps. I hope so. She smiles at me as pleasantly as she always does. I’ll let her pass with a slight nod; I mustn’t let her think I feel specially honoured by being smiled at by a Marchesa …

“Buona sera.”

She says buona sera to me. Now I must bow at any rate. Was my bow too deep? She is so much older. How splendidly she carries herself. I wonder if she’s divorced. I carry myself well, too, but—I know. That’s what makes the difference …