Amok and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Stefan Zweig
force behind it that I … yes, I could have sunk to the ground and kissed her feet. It lasted only a second … it was like lightning, and it had set my whole body on fire. Then she turned and went quickly to the door. I instinctively moved to follow her … to apologise, to beg her … well, my strength was entirely broken. She turned once more and said … no, ordered , ‘Don’t dare to follow me or try to track me down. You would regret it.’
And the door slammed shut behind her.”
Another hesitation. Another silence … again, there was only the faint rushing sound, as if of moonlight pouring down. Then, at last, the voice spoke again.
“The door slammed, but I stood there motionless on the spot, as if hypnotized by her order. I heard her go downstairs, open the front door … I heard it all, and my whole will urged me to follow her … to … oh, I don’t know what, to call her back, strike her, strangle her, but to follow her … to follow. Yet I couldn’t. My limbs were crippled as if by an electric shock … I had been cut to the quick by the imperious gleam of those eyes. I know there’s no explaining it, it can’t be described … it may sound ridiculous, but I just stood there, and it was several minutes, perhaps five, perhaps ten, before I could raise a foot from the floor …
But no sooner had I moved that foot than I instantly, swiftly, feverishly hurried down the stairs. She could only have gone along the road back to civilisation … I hurry to the shed for my bicycle, I find I have forgotten the door key, I wrench the lock off, splitting and breaking the bamboo of the shed door… and next moment I am on my bicycle and hurrying after her … I have to reach her, I must, before she gets back to her car. I must speak to her. The road rushes past me … only now do I realise how long I must have stood there motionless. Then, where the road through the forest bends just before reaching the buildings of the district station, I see her hurrying along, stepping firmly, walking straight ahead accompanied by her boy … but she must have seen me too, for now she speaks to the boy, who stays behind while she goes on alone. What is she doing? Why does she want to be on her own? Does she want to speak to me out of his hearing ? I pedal fast and furiously … then something suddenly springs into my path. It’s the boy … I am only just in time to swerve and fall. I rise, cursing … involuntarily I raise my fist to hit the fool, but he leaps aside. I pick up my bicycle to remount it, but then the scoundrel lunges forward, takes hold of the bicycle, and says in his pitiful English, ‘You not go on.’
You haven’t lived in the tropics … you don’t know how unheard-of it is for a yellow bastard like that to seize the bicycle of a white ‘master’ and tell him, the master, to stay where he is. Instead of answering I strike him in the face with my fist. He staggers, but keeps hold of the bicycle … his eyes, his narrow, frightened eyes are wide open in slavish fear, but he holds the handlebars infernally tight. ‘You not go on,’ he stammers again. It’s lucky I don’t have my revolver with me, or I’d shoot him down. ‘Out of the way, scum!’ is all I say. He cringes and stares at me, but he does not let go of the handlebars. At this rage comes over me … I see that she is well away, she may have escaped me entirely … and I hit him under the chin with a boxer’s punch and send him flying. Now I have my bicycle back, but as I jump on it the mechanism jams. A spoke has bent in our tussle. I try to straighten it with trembling hands. I can’t, so I fling the bicycle across the road at the scoundrel, who gets up, bleeding, and flinches aside. And then—no, you won’t understand how ridiculous it looks to everyone there for a European … well, anyway, I didn’t know what I was doing any more. I had only one thought in my mind: to go after her, to reach her. And so I ran , ran like a
And the door slammed shut behind her.”
Another hesitation. Another silence … again, there was only the faint rushing sound, as if of moonlight pouring down. Then, at last, the voice spoke again.
“The door slammed, but I stood there motionless on the spot, as if hypnotized by her order. I heard her go downstairs, open the front door … I heard it all, and my whole will urged me to follow her … to … oh, I don’t know what, to call her back, strike her, strangle her, but to follow her … to follow. Yet I couldn’t. My limbs were crippled as if by an electric shock … I had been cut to the quick by the imperious gleam of those eyes. I know there’s no explaining it, it can’t be described … it may sound ridiculous, but I just stood there, and it was several minutes, perhaps five, perhaps ten, before I could raise a foot from the floor …
But no sooner had I moved that foot than I instantly, swiftly, feverishly hurried down the stairs. She could only have gone along the road back to civilisation … I hurry to the shed for my bicycle, I find I have forgotten the door key, I wrench the lock off, splitting and breaking the bamboo of the shed door… and next moment I am on my bicycle and hurrying after her … I have to reach her, I must, before she gets back to her car. I must speak to her. The road rushes past me … only now do I realise how long I must have stood there motionless. Then, where the road through the forest bends just before reaching the buildings of the district station, I see her hurrying along, stepping firmly, walking straight ahead accompanied by her boy … but she must have seen me too, for now she speaks to the boy, who stays behind while she goes on alone. What is she doing? Why does she want to be on her own? Does she want to speak to me out of his hearing ? I pedal fast and furiously … then something suddenly springs into my path. It’s the boy … I am only just in time to swerve and fall. I rise, cursing … involuntarily I raise my fist to hit the fool, but he leaps aside. I pick up my bicycle to remount it, but then the scoundrel lunges forward, takes hold of the bicycle, and says in his pitiful English, ‘You not go on.’
You haven’t lived in the tropics … you don’t know how unheard-of it is for a yellow bastard like that to seize the bicycle of a white ‘master’ and tell him, the master, to stay where he is. Instead of answering I strike him in the face with my fist. He staggers, but keeps hold of the bicycle … his eyes, his narrow, frightened eyes are wide open in slavish fear, but he holds the handlebars infernally tight. ‘You not go on,’ he stammers again. It’s lucky I don’t have my revolver with me, or I’d shoot him down. ‘Out of the way, scum!’ is all I say. He cringes and stares at me, but he does not let go of the handlebars. At this rage comes over me … I see that she is well away, she may have escaped me entirely … and I hit him under the chin with a boxer’s punch and send him flying. Now I have my bicycle back, but as I jump on it the mechanism jams. A spoke has bent in our tussle. I try to straighten it with trembling hands. I can’t, so I fling the bicycle across the road at the scoundrel, who gets up, bleeding, and flinches aside. And then—no, you won’t understand how ridiculous it looks to everyone there for a European … well, anyway, I didn’t know what I was doing any more. I had only one thought in my mind: to go after her, to reach her. And so I ran , ran like a