A Letter from a Stranger Woman

Author: Stefan Zweig
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-05-01
Features: The Letter from an Unknown Woman is not only a shining gem in Zweig's novels but also a rare treasure in the world's literary treasury. Since its publication, generations have been captivated by this novella. Zweig's psychological analysis and lyrical touch transform this story into a tribute to sincere and pure love, celebrating the passionate self-love of a young girl. It is Zweig's most influential love novel, an immortal work that shook the world cinema, adapted from The Magic Mountain. This novella received high praise from Roman Rolland and Maxim Gorky. Gorky wrote in a letter to Zweig: "......This short story moved me deeply with its astonishingly sincere tone, the extraordinary tenderness toward women, the originality of its theme, and the extraordinary expressiveness that only a true artist possesses. Reading this novella, I was so happy that I laughed—You've written it so well! Out of sympathy for your heroine, her image, and her sorrowful melody, I was so moved that I couldn't help but cry without feeling ashamed." The handwriting of an unknown woman was extremely scribbled; it was more like a manuscript than a letter. He couldn't help but reach for the envelope again, wondering if there were any attachments left inside, but the envelope was empty. Neither the envelope nor the letter paper had the sender's address, not even a signature. He thought, "How strange," and picked up the letter again. "You, whom I have never known!" written at the top, as a salutation, as a title. He stopped in astonishment; was it referring to him, or to an imagined person? His curiosity was suddenly piqued. He began to read on: My son died yesterday—For this frail life, I fought against death for three days and nights. I sat by his bedside for forty hours straight, as the flu struck him, and he had a high fever, his poor body burning like fire. I placed cold towels on his feverish forehead, holding his small, twitching hands all day and night. By the third night, I collapsed. My eyes could no longer bear it, and without realizing it, my eyelids closed. I slept for three or four hours on a hard chair, and just then, death took him away. This gentle, poor child lies there now, in his narrow children's bed, just as he died; his eyes, those clever black eyes, are closed, his hands folded on top of his white shirt, with four candles burning high at each corner of the bed. I couldn't bear to look at the bed, not daring to move, for the flickering candlelight would cast shadows over his face and tightly closed lips, making it seem as if his facial muscles were moving. I would then think he wasn't dead, that he might wake up, that he would use his clear voice to say some childish, tender words to me. But I knew he was dead. I didn't want to look at the bed, to hope again, to be disappointed again. I knew, I knew, my son died yesterday—Now, in this world, there is only you, only you, and you know nothing of me, you are having fun, unaware, or flirting with someone else. There is only you, and you have never known me, yet I have always loved you.