Close Modal

The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

Translated by Anthea Bell
Look inside
Paperback
$22.00 US
5.07"W x 7.79"H x 1.71"D   | 20 oz | 24 per carton
On sale Feb 16, 2021 | 720 Pages | 9781782276319
Collected in one volume for the first time: 22 classic short stories of love and death, betrayal and hope—from a master storyteller hailed as “the Updike of his day” (New York Observer)
 
In this magnificent collection of Stefan Zweig’s short stories, the very best and worst of human nature is captured with sharp observation, understanding, and vivid empathy. Ranging from love and death to faith restored and hope regained, these stories present a master at work, at the top of his form.

Perfectly paced and brimming with passion, these 22 tales from one of the great storytellers of the 20th century are translated by the award-winning Anthea Bell.
 
Included:
Forgotten Dreams
In the Snow
The Miracles of Life
The Star Above the Forest
A Summer Novella
The Governess
Twilight
A Story Told in Twilight
Wondrak
Compulsion
Moonbeam Alley
Amok
Fantastic Night
Letter from an Unknown Woman
The Invisible Collection
Twenty-Four Hours in the Life of a Woman
Downfall of the Heart
Incident on Lake Geneva
Mendel the Bibliophile
Leporella
Did He Do It?
The Debt Paid Late
"a comparison between Bell’s English rendering and the original German reveals that she rarely deviates from Zweig’s language—and when she does, it is in pursuit of the aesthetic and psychological spirit of the original over artless mechanical accuracy. . . Zweig is at once the literary heir of Chekhov, Conrad, and Maupassant, with something of Schopenhauer’s observational meditations on psychology thrown in. The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig is a major book of cultural and historical importance, and Pushkin Press has done the literary world a service by releasing it in such an attractive volume." — Okla Elliott, The Harvard Review Online

“What did Zweig have that brought him the fanatical devotion of millions of readers, the admiration of Herman Hesse, the invitation to give the eulogy at the funeral of Sigmund Freud? To learn that, we would have to have a biography that illuminated all aspects of his work, that read all of his books, and that challenged, rather than accepted, the apparent modesty of his statements about his life and work.” – Benjamin Moser, Bookforum
 
“Amok, a 1922 novella (recently reissued in Pushkin Press’s Collected Stories, translated by Anthea Bell). . . is quintessentially Zweig, masterful in generating suspense, operatically predictable (the woman always dies in Act Four, so the man has a story to tell in Act Five), and drenched in the implicit mores of the day, which Zweig tweaked in his modest fashion by depicting a clean abortion as a better option than a coat hanger. . . . Amok is a compelling story: for its meticulous portrait of the doctor’s emotional process, its compression, and the almost identically sharp observations of gestures, movements, the charged silences in a conversation.” – Gary Indiana, Bookforum

"For far too long, our links with Zweig, all too readily consigned to the dustbin of literary history, have been broken. Pushkin Press’s phenomenal, heartbreaking collection is a reminder that it’s time to forge them again." - Tara Burton, Los Angeles Review of Books

"With each story there is a plea for help, a flicker of hope and an ultimate betrayal." - The New York Daily News

"And thanks to Anthea Bell, who has brought us the beautiful translations of W. G. Sebald, we now have many of the books that made Zweig the Updike of his time, from the novel Beware of Pity to his memoir and now The Collected Stories, a fat, orange volume that brings together several dozen of the short works upon which Zweig’s reputation rested in his heyday." - New York Observer

"The Collected Stories of Stephan Zweig [is] 720 pages of pure surprise and I’m grateful to the Pushkin Press for bringing it out and helping me to figure out why I’ve been hearing that name for so many years, and finally delving in. You won’t regret it you do too." - Eric Alterman, The Nation

"One of the joys of recent years is the translation into English of Stefan Zweig's stories. They have an astringency of outlook and a mastery of scale that I find enormously enjoyable." - Edmund de Waal, author of The Hare with the Amber Eyes

"[T]he time has come for Zweig to enter into America’s literary conversation." - Flavorwire

"One hardly knows where to begin in praising Zweig's work." - Ali Smith

"Zweig belongs with those masters of the novella-Maupassant, Turgenev, Chekhov." -Paul Bailey

"One of the masters of the short story." - Nicholas Lezard, Guardian

"The stories are as page-turning as they are subtle... Compelling." - Guardian

"Touching and delightful. Those adjectives are not meant as faint praise. Zweig may be especially appealing now because rather than being a progenitor of big ideas, he was a serious entertainer, and an ardent and careful observer of habits, foibles, passions and mistakes." — A.O. Scott, The New York Times 

'Stefan Zweig... was a talented writer and ultimately another tragic victim of wartime despair. This rich collection... confirms how good he could be." - Eileen Battersby, Irish Times
Stefan Zweig was born in 1881 in Vienna, into a wealthy Austrian-Jewish family. He studied in Berlin and Vienna and was first known as a poet and translator, then as a biographer. Between the wars, Zweig was an international bestseller with a string of hugely popular novellas including Letter from an Unknown Woman, Amok and Fear.In 1934, with the rise of Nazism, he left Austria, and lived in London, Bath and New York—a period during which he produced his most celebrated works: his only novel,Beware of Pity, and his memoir, The World of Yesterday. He eventually settled in Brazil, where in 1942 he and his wife were found dead in an apparent double suicide. Much of his work is available from Pushkin Press. View titles by Stefan Zweig
Forgotten Dreams
 
The villa lay close to the sea.
The quiet avenues, lined with pine trees, breathed out the
rich strength of salty sea air, and a slight breeze constantly played
around the orange trees, now and then removing a colourful bloom
from flowering shrubs as if with careful fingers. The sunlit distance,
where attractive houses built on hillsides gleamed like white pearls,
a lighthouse miles away rose steeply and straight as a candle—the
whole scene shone, its contours sharp and clearly outlined, and was
set in the deep azure of the sky like a bright mosaic. The waves of
the sea, marked by only the few white specks that were the distant
sails of isolated ships, lapped against the tiered terrace on which
the villa stood; the ground then rose on and on to the green of a
broad, shady garden and merged with the rest of the park, a scene
drowsy and still, as if under some fairy-tale enchantment.
Outside the sleeping house on which the morning heat lay heavily,
a narrow gravel path ran like a white line to the cool viewing point.
The waves tossed wildly beneath it, and here and there shimmering
spray rose, sparkling in rainbow colours as brightly as diamonds
in the strong sunlight. There the shining rays of the sun broke on
the small groups of Vistulian pines standing close together, as if
in intimate conversation, they also fell on a Japanese parasol with
amusing pictures on it in bright, glaring colours, now open wide.
A woman was leaning back in a soft basket chair in the shade of
this parasol, her beautiful form comfortably lounging in the yielding
weave of the wicker. One slender hand, wearing no rings, dangled
down as if forgotten, petting the gleaming, silky coat of a dog with
gentle, pleasing movements, while the other hand held a book on
which her dark eyes, with their black lashes and the suggestion of
a smile in them, were concentrating. They were large and restless
eyes, their beauty enhanced by a dark, veiled glow. Altogether the
strong, attractive effect of the oval, sharply outlined face did not
give the natural impression of simple beauty, but expressed the
refinement of certain details tended with careful, delicate coquetry.
The apparently unruly confusion of her fragrant, shining curls
was the careful construction of an artist, and in the same way the
slight smile that hovered around her lips as she read, revealing her
white teeth, was the result of many years of practice in front of
the mirror, but had already become a firmly established part of the
whole design and could not be laid aside now.
There was a slight crunch on the sand.
She looks without changing her position, like a cat lying basking
in the dazzling torrent of warm sunlight and merely blinking
apathetically at the newcomer with phosphorescent eyes.
The steps quickly come closer, and a servant in livery stands in
front of her to hand her a small visiting card, then stands back a
little way to wait.
She reads the name with that expression of surprise on her
features that appears when you are greeted in the street with great
familiarity by someone you do not know. For a moment, small lines
appear above her sharply traced black eyebrows, showing how hard
she is thinking, and then a happy light plays over her whole face all
of a sudden, her eyes sparkle with high spirits as she thinks of the
long-ago days of her youth, almost forgotten now. The name has
aroused pleasant images in her again. Figures and dreams take on
distinct shape once more, and become as clear as reality.
“Ah, yes,” she said as she remembered, suddenly turning to the
servant, “yes, of course show the gentleman up here.”
The servant left, with a soft and obsequious tread. For a moment
there was silence except for the never-tiring wind singing softly in
the treetops, now full of the heavy golden midday light.
Then vigorous, energetic footsteps were heard on the gravel path,
a long shadow fell at her feet, and a tall man stood before her. She
had risen from her chair with a lively movement.
Their eyes met first. With a quick glance he took in the elegance
of her figure, while a slight ironic smile came into her eyes. “It’s
really good of you to have thought of me,” she began, offering him
her slender and well-tended hand, which he touched respectfully
with his lips.
“Dear lady, I will be honest with you, since this is our first
meeting for years, and also, I fear, the last for many years to come.
It is something of a coincidence that I am here; the name of the
owner of the castle about which I was enquiring because of its
magnificent position recalled you to my mind. So I am really here
under false pretences.”
“But nonetheless welcome for that, and in fact I myself could
not remember your existence at first, although it was once of some
significance to me.”
Forgotten Dreams 
In the Snow 
The Miracles of Life 
The Star Above the Forest 
A Summer Novella 
The Governess 
Twilight 
A Story Told in Twilight 
Wondrak [unfinished
Compulsion 
Moonbeam Alley 
Amok 
Fantastic Night 
Letter from an Unknown Woman 
The Invisible Collection 
Twenty-Four Hours in the Life of a Woman 
Downfall of the Heart 
Incident on Lake Geneva 
Mendel the Bibliophile 
Leporella 
Did He Do It? 
The Debt Paid Late

About

Collected in one volume for the first time: 22 classic short stories of love and death, betrayal and hope—from a master storyteller hailed as “the Updike of his day” (New York Observer)
 
In this magnificent collection of Stefan Zweig’s short stories, the very best and worst of human nature is captured with sharp observation, understanding, and vivid empathy. Ranging from love and death to faith restored and hope regained, these stories present a master at work, at the top of his form.

Perfectly paced and brimming with passion, these 22 tales from one of the great storytellers of the 20th century are translated by the award-winning Anthea Bell.
 
Included:
Forgotten Dreams
In the Snow
The Miracles of Life
The Star Above the Forest
A Summer Novella
The Governess
Twilight
A Story Told in Twilight
Wondrak
Compulsion
Moonbeam Alley
Amok
Fantastic Night
Letter from an Unknown Woman
The Invisible Collection
Twenty-Four Hours in the Life of a Woman
Downfall of the Heart
Incident on Lake Geneva
Mendel the Bibliophile
Leporella
Did He Do It?
The Debt Paid Late

Praise

"a comparison between Bell’s English rendering and the original German reveals that she rarely deviates from Zweig’s language—and when she does, it is in pursuit of the aesthetic and psychological spirit of the original over artless mechanical accuracy. . . Zweig is at once the literary heir of Chekhov, Conrad, and Maupassant, with something of Schopenhauer’s observational meditations on psychology thrown in. The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig is a major book of cultural and historical importance, and Pushkin Press has done the literary world a service by releasing it in such an attractive volume." — Okla Elliott, The Harvard Review Online

“What did Zweig have that brought him the fanatical devotion of millions of readers, the admiration of Herman Hesse, the invitation to give the eulogy at the funeral of Sigmund Freud? To learn that, we would have to have a biography that illuminated all aspects of his work, that read all of his books, and that challenged, rather than accepted, the apparent modesty of his statements about his life and work.” – Benjamin Moser, Bookforum
 
“Amok, a 1922 novella (recently reissued in Pushkin Press’s Collected Stories, translated by Anthea Bell). . . is quintessentially Zweig, masterful in generating suspense, operatically predictable (the woman always dies in Act Four, so the man has a story to tell in Act Five), and drenched in the implicit mores of the day, which Zweig tweaked in his modest fashion by depicting a clean abortion as a better option than a coat hanger. . . . Amok is a compelling story: for its meticulous portrait of the doctor’s emotional process, its compression, and the almost identically sharp observations of gestures, movements, the charged silences in a conversation.” – Gary Indiana, Bookforum

"For far too long, our links with Zweig, all too readily consigned to the dustbin of literary history, have been broken. Pushkin Press’s phenomenal, heartbreaking collection is a reminder that it’s time to forge them again." - Tara Burton, Los Angeles Review of Books

"With each story there is a plea for help, a flicker of hope and an ultimate betrayal." - The New York Daily News

"And thanks to Anthea Bell, who has brought us the beautiful translations of W. G. Sebald, we now have many of the books that made Zweig the Updike of his time, from the novel Beware of Pity to his memoir and now The Collected Stories, a fat, orange volume that brings together several dozen of the short works upon which Zweig’s reputation rested in his heyday." - New York Observer

"The Collected Stories of Stephan Zweig [is] 720 pages of pure surprise and I’m grateful to the Pushkin Press for bringing it out and helping me to figure out why I’ve been hearing that name for so many years, and finally delving in. You won’t regret it you do too." - Eric Alterman, The Nation

"One of the joys of recent years is the translation into English of Stefan Zweig's stories. They have an astringency of outlook and a mastery of scale that I find enormously enjoyable." - Edmund de Waal, author of The Hare with the Amber Eyes

"[T]he time has come for Zweig to enter into America’s literary conversation." - Flavorwire

"One hardly knows where to begin in praising Zweig's work." - Ali Smith

"Zweig belongs with those masters of the novella-Maupassant, Turgenev, Chekhov." -Paul Bailey

"One of the masters of the short story." - Nicholas Lezard, Guardian

"The stories are as page-turning as they are subtle... Compelling." - Guardian

"Touching and delightful. Those adjectives are not meant as faint praise. Zweig may be especially appealing now because rather than being a progenitor of big ideas, he was a serious entertainer, and an ardent and careful observer of habits, foibles, passions and mistakes." — A.O. Scott, The New York Times 

'Stefan Zweig... was a talented writer and ultimately another tragic victim of wartime despair. This rich collection... confirms how good he could be." - Eileen Battersby, Irish Times

Author

Stefan Zweig was born in 1881 in Vienna, into a wealthy Austrian-Jewish family. He studied in Berlin and Vienna and was first known as a poet and translator, then as a biographer. Between the wars, Zweig was an international bestseller with a string of hugely popular novellas including Letter from an Unknown Woman, Amok and Fear.In 1934, with the rise of Nazism, he left Austria, and lived in London, Bath and New York—a period during which he produced his most celebrated works: his only novel,Beware of Pity, and his memoir, The World of Yesterday. He eventually settled in Brazil, where in 1942 he and his wife were found dead in an apparent double suicide. Much of his work is available from Pushkin Press. View titles by Stefan Zweig

Excerpt

Forgotten Dreams
 
The villa lay close to the sea.
The quiet avenues, lined with pine trees, breathed out the
rich strength of salty sea air, and a slight breeze constantly played
around the orange trees, now and then removing a colourful bloom
from flowering shrubs as if with careful fingers. The sunlit distance,
where attractive houses built on hillsides gleamed like white pearls,
a lighthouse miles away rose steeply and straight as a candle—the
whole scene shone, its contours sharp and clearly outlined, and was
set in the deep azure of the sky like a bright mosaic. The waves of
the sea, marked by only the few white specks that were the distant
sails of isolated ships, lapped against the tiered terrace on which
the villa stood; the ground then rose on and on to the green of a
broad, shady garden and merged with the rest of the park, a scene
drowsy and still, as if under some fairy-tale enchantment.
Outside the sleeping house on which the morning heat lay heavily,
a narrow gravel path ran like a white line to the cool viewing point.
The waves tossed wildly beneath it, and here and there shimmering
spray rose, sparkling in rainbow colours as brightly as diamonds
in the strong sunlight. There the shining rays of the sun broke on
the small groups of Vistulian pines standing close together, as if
in intimate conversation, they also fell on a Japanese parasol with
amusing pictures on it in bright, glaring colours, now open wide.
A woman was leaning back in a soft basket chair in the shade of
this parasol, her beautiful form comfortably lounging in the yielding
weave of the wicker. One slender hand, wearing no rings, dangled
down as if forgotten, petting the gleaming, silky coat of a dog with
gentle, pleasing movements, while the other hand held a book on
which her dark eyes, with their black lashes and the suggestion of
a smile in them, were concentrating. They were large and restless
eyes, their beauty enhanced by a dark, veiled glow. Altogether the
strong, attractive effect of the oval, sharply outlined face did not
give the natural impression of simple beauty, but expressed the
refinement of certain details tended with careful, delicate coquetry.
The apparently unruly confusion of her fragrant, shining curls
was the careful construction of an artist, and in the same way the
slight smile that hovered around her lips as she read, revealing her
white teeth, was the result of many years of practice in front of
the mirror, but had already become a firmly established part of the
whole design and could not be laid aside now.
There was a slight crunch on the sand.
She looks without changing her position, like a cat lying basking
in the dazzling torrent of warm sunlight and merely blinking
apathetically at the newcomer with phosphorescent eyes.
The steps quickly come closer, and a servant in livery stands in
front of her to hand her a small visiting card, then stands back a
little way to wait.
She reads the name with that expression of surprise on her
features that appears when you are greeted in the street with great
familiarity by someone you do not know. For a moment, small lines
appear above her sharply traced black eyebrows, showing how hard
she is thinking, and then a happy light plays over her whole face all
of a sudden, her eyes sparkle with high spirits as she thinks of the
long-ago days of her youth, almost forgotten now. The name has
aroused pleasant images in her again. Figures and dreams take on
distinct shape once more, and become as clear as reality.
“Ah, yes,” she said as she remembered, suddenly turning to the
servant, “yes, of course show the gentleman up here.”
The servant left, with a soft and obsequious tread. For a moment
there was silence except for the never-tiring wind singing softly in
the treetops, now full of the heavy golden midday light.
Then vigorous, energetic footsteps were heard on the gravel path,
a long shadow fell at her feet, and a tall man stood before her. She
had risen from her chair with a lively movement.
Their eyes met first. With a quick glance he took in the elegance
of her figure, while a slight ironic smile came into her eyes. “It’s
really good of you to have thought of me,” she began, offering him
her slender and well-tended hand, which he touched respectfully
with his lips.
“Dear lady, I will be honest with you, since this is our first
meeting for years, and also, I fear, the last for many years to come.
It is something of a coincidence that I am here; the name of the
owner of the castle about which I was enquiring because of its
magnificent position recalled you to my mind. So I am really here
under false pretences.”
“But nonetheless welcome for that, and in fact I myself could
not remember your existence at first, although it was once of some
significance to me.”

Table of Contents

Forgotten Dreams 
In the Snow 
The Miracles of Life 
The Star Above the Forest 
A Summer Novella 
The Governess 
Twilight 
A Story Told in Twilight 
Wondrak [unfinished
Compulsion 
Moonbeam Alley 
Amok 
Fantastic Night 
Letter from an Unknown Woman 
The Invisible Collection 
Twenty-Four Hours in the Life of a Woman 
Downfall of the Heart 
Incident on Lake Geneva 
Mendel the Bibliophile 
Leporella 
Did He Do It? 
The Debt Paid Late