The intoxication of transformation: Stefan Zweig, The Post Office Girl

Stefan Zweig (1881-1942), The Post Office Girl. Translated from the German by William Deresiewicz. Sort Of Books paperback, 2009. First published in German, 1982

Stefan Zweig’s Beware of Pity (1938) – my post about it is HERE – relates how a principled but naïve young officer learns painful truths about himself and others as ‘an emotional abyss’ opens in front of him after a humbling social gaffe. Christine Hoflehner, the eponymous protagonist of The Post Office Girl, undergoes a similarly life-changing transformation as the result of a momentous experience. (Btw, what is it with referring to grown women – Christine is 28 when the novel opens – as ‘girls’ in novel titles?)

Zweig PO Girl coverThis novel was found among Austrian author Zweig’s literary remains after his suicide, but wasn’t published until 1982, with a title that translates as ‘The Intoxication of Transformation’. The MS was in considerable disarray, and had been tinkered with by Zweig over a number of years, raising the question whether he intended it to be published at all. The ending is abrupt, and leaves Christine facing a momentous decision that could transform her life even more dramatically than the first time. I quite like that the story is left open-ended – a firm resolution would have been too mechanical and neat.

The possibly unfinished nature of the novel is also reflected in its uneven quality and structure. Nevertheless, in Part One Zweig brilliantly portrays the stultifying, soul-destroying tedium of Christine’s job in a squalid, rural backwater village post office – and the translator does a pretty good job of rendering it all into English (although I found some of the Americanisms a little intrusive). This tone is achieved from the opening paragraph, which describes these village post offices:

… their sad look of administrative stinginess is the same everywhere…they stubbornly retain that unmistakeable odor of old Austrian officialdom, a smell of stale tobacco and dusty files.

That post-WWI bureaucracy (the novel is set in 1926), the narrative indicates, is what cripples Austria and prevents it from progressing into modernity and vitality: ‘Orderly and by the book – that’s the official way of doing things.’ In Christine’s microcosm of this bureaucratic fossil world ‘the eternal law of growth and decline is suspended at the barrier of officialdom’. Nothing ever changes, and her dreary, soul-destroying routine is governed inexorably by the unforgiving clock on the wall, and the clamour of her morning alarm-clock.

Her status as ‘civil servant’ consigns Christine to ‘a lower census class’, exacerbated by her being a woman. She’s a nobody, with no future, trapped in a world where there’s no hope of escape; everything will remain, for years to come, ‘the same, the same, the same.’ Her life is a kind of ‘waking paralysis’ in ‘a sleeping world.’ The similarities to fairy tales like Cinderella and The Sleeping Beauty become increasingly apparent when the transforming event changes her life: an invitation from her wealthy aunt Claire to come and have a holiday with her in a posh Swiss hotel.

This aunt has a guilty secret that indirectly causes Christine’s brief glimpse of glamour and opulence to come to a shattering end. When she arrived at the hotel, Christine was dowdy and nervous, ashamed of her poverty and shabby appearance. Claire facilitates the transformation by lending her expensive, fashionable clothes, sending her to a smart hairdresser and beautician, so that the ugly duckling becomes a glittering, beautiful social swan.

This first part of the novel mercilessly exposes the shallowness and hypocrisy at the heart of this bourgeois, privileged world Christine has entered. She charms the smart young set with her ingenuous excitement and spontaneity, but this also brings about her downfall, when a jealous girlfriend takes revenge on Christine for turning the boyfriend’s head. The response of the hotel guests, previously so friendly to this innocent, unaffected young woman, is a reflection of its cruelty and moral corruption. Only a kind English general, a much older widower whose grieving heart is kindled into life by Christine’s naturalness, recognises her as what Henry James would call ‘the real thing’, and he gallantly stands up for her.

But the damage is done, and Christine is sent unceremoniously packing back to her former life of squalor and drudgery. The problem is now that she’s not just spiritually paralysed: she’s angry. She now knows what an alternative life looks like. Everything around her now fills her with ‘helpless hatred’:

Because suddenly she hates everyone and everything, herself and everyone else, wealth and poverty, everything about this hard, unendurable, incomprehensible life.

I was unsure where Zweig would take her from there. That quotation comes at the end of Part One of the novel, when there are another hundred pages of Part Two to come.

I found this second part overlong, but horribly powerful. Christine’s hatred seems to find a restorative outlet, and a glimmer of hope, recognition and romance appears – but that open ending leaves the outcome unsure.

The Post Office Girl has much of the bleak, existential angst of Eliot’s The Waste Land, with its setting of a war-blasted Europe in which some have prospered but many have become destitute and without hope, lost souls, hollow men. Inequality was fixed in the social system, and the indulgence and idleness of the privileged few was flaunted in the faces of the mass who had nothing, yet toiled hopelessly to enable the status quo to be maintained.

The anger that Zweig must have felt as a member of a Jewish family that was a victim of the persecution that followed in the wake of the post-war grief and social unrest is concentrated and unleashed in the form of Christine – a kind of working-class Emma Bovary with a much more justifiable motive to feel angry and unfulfilled.

That’s maybe where the weakness of the novel lies, too. It tends to preach. It’s a lesson that needs to be propagated, but it’s not done with much subtlety. But then, why should it be? Anger is rarely subtle. Injustice and inequality won’t be transformed as a result of polite debate; the forces that reject Christine from their elite world guard their exclusivity fiercely.





10 thoughts on “The intoxication of transformation: Stefan Zweig, The Post Office Girl

  1. Really interesting post, Simon. I’ve read many of Zweig’s short stories, but never his longer works. Despite its unfinished nature, this does sound like an excellent and thought-provoking read. Such a shame he didn’t live longer. 🙁

    • Thanks, Karen. It certainly is interesting, but he doesn’t seem to sustain a longer narrative – Beware of Pity I thought also flagged at times. Both well worth reading, though. Some raw emotions and truly human/social dilemmas and conflicts.

  2. I agree there’s something about Zweig’s novels that seem a little…ragged? But I really liked this book. Maybe I identified too much with the “girl.” And, yes, women were (and still occasionally are) referred to as girls pretty much all the damn time in the last century. I love the original title. It is so much more evocative than the one settled on. Because it was as if she was intoxicated.

    My dad worked for the Post Office, and when I was a kid I spent some time behind the scenes, and this description ( a smell of stale tobacco and dusty files) is perfect. I can still conjure up that smell whenever I think of those places.

    • The descriptions of the dreary PO are really vivid. Christine’s trapped life is painful to read about – especially as she and so many others in her position came from fairly prosperous families who lost everything in the post-war collapse, while the privileged few profited enormously. Nothing much changes.

        • There’s a poignant moment when Christine in her poky post office cubicle looks at the postcards of exotic resorts visited by the rich and sent to their wealthy, leisured friends. Christine had never had a holiday until her aunt’s invitation.

  3. Enjoyed this very much Simon! I remembered you were taking a little extra time on this. Zweig seems to inspire a slow, careful, and subtle approach.

    Funny, but in his zeal to prevent effective mail-in voting in our pandemic wasteland, a desperateTrump is crashing into the U.S. Post Office’s torpid status quo, complete with a Postmaster General who, per Trump M.O., is deliberately sabotaging his very own agency. Machine time cut, OT slashed, mail piling up. Sad thing is that this is cutting into small businesses, and also the thousands of people (many disabled veterans) who suffer from severe and chronic pain, who are only allowed to renew their prescriptions for 30-day intervals to prevent, supposedly “abuse of pain killers.” UGH. Delays in the mail, I fear, and lack of their pain medicine can lead to suicide here. As an “Atlantic” writer said, in the Trump regime, “the cruelty is the point.” Ironically, with the terror and uncertainty of the moment, and being without a job of any sort, I find myself rather longing for boredom. But a balance is always best!

    Sorry for being a downer. Ahh well. At least our power is back on! Cheers to you and yours, Simon.

      • Hello again from 2021. We are still stuck with the sabotaging Postmaster General, but his time may be nearing an end as new blood is being added on the Board that are the only ones with the power to fire him!

        i am commenting here since this relates to Stefan Zweig. It occurred to me that Wes Anderson (who adapted “The Grand Budapest Hotel”) seems a very odd fit for Zweig. Anderson is so flat in affect. On the other hand, Zweig is exquisitely sensitive to the finest graduations of emotion. The movie adaptation flattened out” the novel until its tone was totally changed. What a shame.

        • Hello again, Maureen. I suppose it will take your new administration time to clean out the detritus left by its predecessor. Meanwhile I agree with your assessment of the mismatch between Anderson and Zweig. Though sometimes a film maker with a totally different perspective can do interesting things with a work of fiction (can’t think of an example off the top of my head, which kind of invalidates my point). Ridley Scott, perhaps, with his early adaptation of The Duellists, makes of a dark, subtle novella by Joseph Conrad something of a confection that still looks terrific. Superficial compared to its model, yes, but worth watching in its own right. Dickens, on the other hand, isn’t often well filmed – his fiction is just too dense, diverse and rich, and too much is lost in the abridgement and visualisation of what’s often best left just as words on the page. Let the reader do the work. Mind, I heard Hilary Mantel interviewed on a BBC radio book programme the other day, and she was full of praise for what her tv film scriptwriter did with her Wolf Hall novels. She was referring mostly to the way in which the look of the scene could be conveyed without the need for lengthy narrative description – which is perhaps missing the point about capturing the tone and flavour. Like her use of the present tense, or delving inside a character’s thoughts and feelings. Not easy to do that in a film.

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