Twenty Four Hours In A Woman’s Life: “There is nothing more for them to do. My wife has run away”

By Stefan Zweig

Stefan Zweig was born on the 28th November 1881 in Vienna, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and into a wealthy Jewish family with interests in banking and textiles.

He studied philosophy at the University of Vienna and achieved his degree in

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miniature Masterpieces
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781835476147

Book preview

Twenty Four Hours In A Woman’s Life by Stefan Zweig

Stefan Zweig was born on the 28th November 1881 in Vienna, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and into a wealthy Jewish family with interests in banking and textiles.

He studied philosophy at the University of Vienna and achieved his degree in 1904.

Zweig first published in 1900 and two decades later was a popular and highly regarded author in many parts of the world, although not in England.  

During the Great War he served in the Archives of the Ministry of War and supported Austria's war effort through his writings in the ‘Neue Freie Presse’.  Whilst his work praised his Country’s progress and, on occasions, its excesses and massacres, he later claimed, in his memoir, that he was a pacifist.

In 1912 he began an affair with the married, and mother or two, Friderike Maria von Winternitz, but it was only in 1920 that circumstances allowed them to marry.  She took care of much of his business interests and supported him artistically.  In this decade too many of his most famous works including the short stories; ‘Amok’, and ‘Letter from an Unknown Woman’ (filmed in 1948 by Max Ophüls), novels; ‘Confusion of Feelings’ and biographies including that on Marie Antoinette (filmed by MGM in 1938) were published.

He was also the librettist with Richard Strauss of two operas and a keen collector of autographed musical manuscripts.  His collection of over two hundred pieces was later donated to the British Library.

In 1934, Zweig, as a Jew, and finding life very difficult under his anti-Semitic government and the neighbouring Nazi’s persuaded him to leave Austria for England. 

In 1940 Zweig, now divorced and married to his second wife, and former secretary, Lotte Altmann, left London and via New York moved to Petrópolis, a German-colonized town 50 miles north of Rio de Janeiro in Brazil.  Although he continued to write he became, along with his wife, increasingly depressed about the situation in Europe and the future for humanity,

His memoir ‘The World of Yesterday’ was completed on the 22nd February 1942.

The following day the Zweig’s were found in their house dead of a barbiturate overdose, holding each other’s hand.  He was 60.

TWENTY FOUR HOURS IN A WOMAN’S LIFE

Ten years before the war, I was wintering on the Riviera, and had taken up my quarters in a small boarding-house. At our table a lively discussion was in progress. Imperceptibly, the conversation had degenerated into a fierce dispute, tending even to become a quarrel and an exchange of insults. Most people have very little imagination. They are hardly moved by anything which does not directly touch them, which does not positively hammer its message upon their senses; but even a trifle, should it happen under their very eyes, and within the immediate range of their feelings, will instantly kindle in them a disproportionate amount of passion. We may say that the rarity of their interest is compensated by an inappropriate and exaggerated vehemence when their interest is at last aroused.

It was just like this in the case of our middle-class company at table. Ordinarily they were content with innocent small talk, with little, unmeaning jokes; and they usually departed their several ways as soon as the meal was finished: the German married couple, to excursions and amateur photography; the portly Dane, to his tedious fishing; the distinguished English lady, to her books; the Italian honeymooners, to a Monte Carlo jaunt; and I myself, to lounge in a deck-chair, or to work. This time, however, we all kept our places, crowded together in our wrangle. If one or another jumped up for a moment, it was not in order to take leave of the company, but simply an expression of overheated passion, flaming up into rage.

The affair which had disturbed our little circle so much, was, indeed, a strange one. To outward seeming, the boarding-house in which we seven were staying was a detached villa, with a wonderful view from the windows upon the rocky shore. In reality, it was an inexpensive annex of the huge Palace Hotel, being connected with this hotel by the garden, so that we in the dependency associated freely with the guests in the main building. The day before, there had been a great to-do in the hotel. By the twelve-twenty train (it is necessary to be precise, since the hour has an important bearing upon what happened, and upon our angry conversation), a young Frenchman had arrived, and had engaged a front room, looking seaward. His choice of quarters was already enough to show that he must be fairly well off. He was noteworthy, not merely because he was fashionably though quietly dressed, but also because he was extraordinarily and attractively handsome. His face was narrow, and rather feminine in type. His warm and sensual mouth was surmounted by a fair, silky moustache. His hair was brown and soft, with a pleasing wave in it. His eyes had a caressive expression. Indeed his whole aspect was charming and amiable, and yet perfectly simple, free from affectation. It is true that at the first glance his appearance recalled one of those pink-and-white wax figures which arc to be seen in fashionable shop windows; those splendid young men who simper, elegant walking-cane in hand, as representatives of the ideal of manly beauty. But a closer examination counteracted this unpleasant impression, and the observer came to realize that he had to do with one of those very rare instances in which amiability is natural and inborn.

The newcomer greeted every one in a way that was at once modest and cordial. It was a real pleasure to observe the spontaneity with which he gave rein to his good nature, and how he seized every opportunity to render kindly service. He hastened to forestall any lady who went to the hall to fetch her cloak; had a friendly glance or an amusing word for the children; was obliging, without making a nuisance of himself—in a word, he was one of those fortunate beings who, having learned by experience that others took pleasure in his youth and good looks, derived additional charm from the knowledge of this. Upon the other guests, most of whom were elderly individuals, his presence acted like a tonic. With the victorious progress of youth, with his endowments of light-heartedness and overflowing vitality, he had irresistibly aroused the sympathies of all the others. Within two hours of his arrival, he was playing tennis with the two daughters of the stout and comfortable-looking Lyons manufacturer, girls of twelve and thirteen, Annette and Blanche by name. Their mother, Madame Henriette, a reserved, delicate, and refined woman, looked on smilingly at the un-self-conscious way in which the two flappers were flirting with the young stranger. In the evening he whiled away an hour with