by Joseph Roth
He waited. He was inspected, in accordance with etiquette, by a Gentleman of the Household. His coat, his gloves, his trousers, his boots were impeccable. It would have been impossible to detect a flaw in Herr von Trotta. He waited. He waited in the large antechamber outside His Majesty’s study; the six huge arched windows, still curtained against the morning sun but already open, admitted all the wealth of early summer, all the sweet scents, all the wild voices of the birds of Schönbrunn. But the district captain seemed to hear nothing. Nor did he seem to notice the gentleman whose discreet task it was to inspect the Kaiser’s visitors and inform them of the rules of deportment. However, when faced with the district captain’s unapproachable and silvery dignity, the gentleman fell silent, neglecting his duty.
The high white gilt-edged double door was flanked by two giant sentries, like dead statues. The brownish-yellow parquet floor, with only its center covered by a strip of red carpeting, hazily mirrored the lower part of Herr von Trotta’s body: the black trousers, the gilt tip of the scabbard, and also the billowing shadow of the coattails. Herr von Trotta rose. He walked across the carpet with timid, soundless steps. His heart pounded. But his soul was tranquil. At this moment, five minutes before his audience with his Kaiser, Herr von Trotta felt as if he had been frequenting this place for years, as if he were accustomed to reporting to His Majesty Kaiser Franz Joseph I every morning and supplying his personal account of all the previous day’s incidents in the Moravian district of W. The Herr District Captain felt thoroughly at home in his Kaiser’s palace. At most he was bothered by the thought that he might need to run his fingers once more through his whiskers but had no time to pull off his white gloves. No minister of the Kaiser’s, not even the Comptroller himself, could have felt more at home here than Herr von Trotta. From time to time the wind billowed the sunny yellow curtains on the high arched windows, and a touch of summery green stole into the district captain’s field of vision. The birds kept warbling louder and louder. A few heavy flies were buzzing in the foolish and premature belief that it was already noon, and the summer heat was gradually becoming palpable.
The district captain halted in the middle of the room, his cocked hat on his right hip, his left hand, dazzling white, on the gold hilt of the sword, his face rigidly set toward the door of the room where the Kaiser was sitting. Thus he stood for perhaps two minutes. The golden strokes of clocks on distant turrets came wafting through the open windows.
All at once, the double door split apart. Stretching his head and walking cautiously, noiselessly, yet with a firm tread, the district captain stepped forward. He executed a low bow, remaining in that position for several seconds, his face toward the parquet, his mind blank. By the time he straightened up, the door had closed behind him. In front of him, behind the desk, stood Kaiser Franz Joseph, and the district captain felt as if his older brother were standing behind the desk. Yes, Franz Joseph’s whiskers were somewhat yellowish, especially around the mouth, but otherwise they were as white as Herr von Trotta’s whiskers. The Kaiser wore a general’s uniform, and Herr von Trotta a district captain’s uniform. And they were like two brothers, one of whom had become a Kaiser, the other a district captain.
As human as the rest of the audience (which was never recorded in the archives) was the Kaiser’s gesture at this very moment: fearing that a drop might be dangling from his nose, he drew his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his moustache. Then he glanced at the file. Aha, Trotta! he thought. Yesterday the need for this sudden audience had been explained to him, but he had not listened carefully. The Trottas had not stopped haunting him for months now. He recalled speaking to the youngest offspring of this family at the maneuvers. That had been a lieutenant, a strangely pale lieutenant. This man had to be his father. The Kaiser had already forgotten whether it was the lieutenant’s grandfather or father who had saved his life at the Battle of Solferino. Had the Hero of Solferino suddenly become a district captain? Or was he the son of the Hero of Solferino? The Emperor propped his hands on the desk.
“Well, my dear Trotta?” he asked. For it was his imperial duty to stun his visitors by knowing their names.
“Your Majesty!” said the district captain and bowed deeply once again. “I beg for clemency for my son!”
“What kind of a son do you have?” asked the Kaiser, to gain time and avoid letting on that he was not versed in the background of the Trotta family.
“My son is a lieutenant with the riflemen in B,” said Herr von Trotta.
“Ah, I see, I see!” said the Kaiser. “That’s the young man I saw at the most recent maneuvers. A fine fellow!” And because his thoughts were slightly scrambled, he added, “He nearly saved my life. Or was that you?”
“Your Majesty, it was my father, the Hero of Solferino!” the district captain remarked, bowing yet again.
“How old is he now?” asked the Kaiser. “The Battle of Solferino. That was the man with the primer, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Your Majesty!” said the district captain.
And all at once the Kaiser clearly recalled the strange captain’s audience. And just as he done when the bizarre captain had appeared in this study, Franz Joseph I came out from behind the desk, walked several steps toward the visitor, and said, “Come closer!”
The district captain came closer. The Kaiser stretched out his thin, trembling hand, an old man’s hand with tiny blue veins and with nodules on the knuckles. The district captain took the Kaiser’s hand and bowed. He wanted to kiss it. He did not know whether he should venture to hold it or to place his own hand in the Kaiser’s so that the sovereign could withdraw it at any time. “Your Majesty!” the district captain said a second time. “I beg for clemency for my son!”
They were like two brothers. A stranger seeing them at this moment could have easily mistaken them for two brothers. Their white whiskers, their narrow, sloping shoulders, their equal physical size made each of them feel he was facing his own reflection. And one thought he had changed into a district captain. And the other thought he had changed into the Kaiser. To the Kaiser’s left and Herr von Trotta’s right, the two huge windows of the room were open, but likewise still shrouded by sunny yellow curtains.
“Nice weather today!” Franz Joseph suddenly said.
“Wonderful weather today!” the district captain said.
And while the Kaiser pointed his left hand at the window, the district captain stretched his right hand in the same direction. And the Kaiser felt he was standing in front of his own mirror image.
All at once the Kaiser realized he still had a lot to do before leaving for Ischl. So he said, “Fine! It’ll all be taken care of! What’s he done anyway, gotten in debt? It’ll be taken care of! My best to your papá!”
“My father is dead, Your Majesty,” said the district captain.
“I see, dead,” said the Kaiser. “Too bad, too bad!” Lost in memories of the Battle of Solferino, he returned to his desk, sat down, pressed the buzzer, and did not see the district captain leaving, with his head bowed, the sword hilt on his left hip, the cocked hat on his right hip.
The morning birdsong flooded the room. Much as the Kaiser valued birds as creatures privileged by God, so to speak, he nevertheless fairly distrusted them from the bottom of his heart, just as he distrusted artists. And during the past few years, experience had taught him that the twittering birds were always to blame for his minor lapses of memory. That was why he quickly jotted Trotta Affair on the file.
Then he waited for his comptroller’s daily visit. The clock was already striking nine. Now he came.
Chapter 19
LIEUTENANT TROTTA’S AWKWARD problem was buried in solicitous silence. Major Zoglauer said only, “Your affair has been settled on the highest level. Your papá has sent the money. There’s nothing more to say about it.”
Trotta thereupon wrote to his father. He reported that the threat to his honor had been averted on the highest level. He begged forgiveness for maintaining a blas
phemously long silence and not answering the district captain’s letters. He was touched and moved. And he tried to describe how touched he was. But he found no words for regret, melancholy, and longing in his meager vocabulary. It was a bitter drudgery. After he signed the letter, a sentence crossed his mind: “I am planning to apply for a furlough soon so I can ask your forgiveness in person.” For formal reasons this felicitous sentence could not be added as a postscript. So the lieutenant set about rewriting the entire letter. One hour later he was done. The style had only improved in the new final draft. And thus he felt that everything was taken care of—the whole disgusting business.
He himself marveled at his “phenomenal luck.” The grandson of the Hero of Solferino could count on the old Kaiser, come what may. No less delightful was the demonstrated fact that Carl Joseph’s father had money. Now that the threat of dishonorable discharge had been sidestepped, he could, if he liked, resign voluntarily, live with Frau von Taussig in Vienna, perhaps get a government job, and wear civvies. He hadn’t been in Vienna for a long time. He hadn’t heard from the woman. He missed her. He drank a 180 Proof and missed her even more—and he reached that beneficial degree of longing which permits a little weeping. Recently his tears had flowed quite readily. Lieutenant Trotta had another pleasurable look at the letter, his successful handiwork; then he slipped it into an envelope and cheerfully scrawled the address. To reward himself he ordered a double 180 Proof.
Herr Brodnitzer personally brought the drink and said, “Kapturak is gone!”
A happy day, no doubt about it. The little man who could have always reminded the lieutenant of one of his worst times had likewise been eliminated.
“How come?”
“He was simply deported!”
Yes, that was how far Franz Joseph’s arm reached—the arm of the old man who had spoken to Lieutenant Trotta with a glistening drop on the imperial nose. And that was how far their memory of the Hero of Solferino reached.
Within a week after the district captain’s audience, Kapturak had been gotten rid of. Upon receiving an august hint, the local civil authorities also closed down Brodnitzer’s casino. No further mention was made of Captain Jedlicek. He submerged into that mute and enigmatic oblivion from which a man could no more return than from the beyond. He vanished inside the military remand prisons of the old monarchy, the “lead chambers” of Austria. If ever his name drifted into an officer’s mind, he instantly shooed it away. Most of them succeeded in doing so, thanks to their natural ability to forget everything.
A new captain arrived—his name was Lorenz—a plump, stocky, good-natured man who tended to be uncontrollably casual in matters of dress and bearing, always ready to take off his tunic, although it was prohibited, and play a round of pool. The shirtsleeves he revealed at such times were short, patched, and a bit sweaty. He was the father of three children and the husband of a careworn woman. He quickly felt at home here. People got used to him at once. All three children, as alike as triplets, would call for him at the café.
Gradually the various dancing nightingales disappeared—the ones from Olomouc, Hernals, and Mariahilf. Now the café band performed only twice a week. But it lacked verve and fire; for want of dancers it turned classical and seemed to grieve for bygone days rather than play music. The officers grew bored again if they weren’t drinking. But when they drank they wallowed in melancholy and in profound self-pity.
The summer was very sultry. During morning drills, the soldiers had two breaks. Troops and rifles sweated. The notes emerging from the bugles were dull and lifeless as they struck the heavy air. A thin fog evenly covered the sky—a veil of silvery lead. It also clung to the swamps, dampening even the ever-cheery croaking of the frogs. The willows never stirred. Everyone waited for a wind. But all winds were asleep.
This year Chojnicki hadn’t returned home. Everyone resented this, as though he were an entertainer who had broken his perennial summer contract with the army. So in order to lend new glamour to life in this godforsaken garrison, Rittmaster Count Zschoch of the dragoons hit on the brilliant idea of mounting a huge summer festival. This idea was brilliant simply because the festival could be a dry run for the regiment’s great centennial celebration. The hundredth birthday of the dragoon regiment was a year away, but the dragoons seemed unable to contain themselves for a whole ninety-nine years without some kind of merrymaking.
Everyone agreed that the idea was brilliant. Colonel Festetics said so too and even fancied that he alone had come up with it. After all, several weeks earlier he had also begun preparing for the great centennial celebration. Every day, he spent his spare time in the regimental office, dictating the humble invitation that was to be dispatched six months later to the honorary commander of the regiment, a minor German prince from an, alas, neglected collateral branch. The mere stylistics of this courtly missive occupied two men, Colonel Festetics and Rittmaster Zschoch. Sometimes they got into violent arguments about stylistic niceties. For instance, the colonel found the phrase “And the Regiment most humbly takes the liberty” acceptable, while the rittmaster was of the opinion that the “And” was inappropriate and the “most humbly” not quite comme il faut. They had decided to indite two sentences a day, and they succeeded in doing so. Each of them dictated to a secretary: the rittmaster to a corporal, the colonel to a platoon leader. Then they compared the results. They gushed over each other. The colonel thereupon locked away these two drafts in the regiment office’s large cabinet, to which he alone had the key. He added them to the plans he had already made regarding the grand review and the gymnastic displays of officers and troops. The plans were all stored next to the huge, mysterious, sealed envelopes containing the secret orders in the event of mobilization.
So after Rittmaster Zschoch announced his brilliant idea, they interrupted the composition of the letter to the prince and set about dispatching identical invitations to the four corners of the world. Since these plain texts demanded less literary effort, they were completed within days. The few discussions focused on questions of precedence for, unlike Colonel Festetics, Count Zschoch was of the opinion that the invitations had to be sent in the proper sequence, first to the most noble, then to the less noble.
“All at the same time!” said the colonel. “That’s an order!”
And although the Festetics family was one of the best in Hungary, Count Zschoch believed that the colonel’s order implied a democratic leaning inspired by his Hungarian blood. He wrinkled his nose and dispatched the invitations all at the same time.
The superintendent was called in. He had the addresses of each and every reserve officer and retired officer. All were invited. So were the close relatives and friends of the dragoon officers. This, they were informed, was a dress rehearsal for the centennial celebration. It was a way of letting them know that they might personally meet the honorary commander, the German prince from an, alas, not very respectable collateral branch. Some of the invitees were of older stock than the honorary corporal. Nevertheless they placed some value on contact with a mediatized prince.
The organizers decided that since it was to be a summer festival they would try to use Count Chojnicki’s Little Forest. The Little Forest differed from his other forests in that it seemed destined by nature and by its owner to serve as a site for parties. The Little Forest was young. Consisting as it did of jolly little pine saplings, it offered shade and coolness, leveled paths, and a few small clearings that plainly were fit for nothing but being converted into dance floors. So the Little Forest was rented. On this occasion, they again regretted Chojnicki’s absence. But they invited him all the same, hoping he would be unable to resist an invitation to the dragoon festival and might even “bring along a few charming people,” as Festetics put it.
They also invited the Hulins and the Kinskys, the Podstatzkis and the Schönborns, the family of Albert Tassilo Larisch, the Kirchbergs, the Weissenhorns, and the Babenhausens, the Sennyis, the Benkyös, the Zuschers, and the Dietrichsteins. Each of
them had some connection with this dragoon regiment. When Rittmaster Zschoch checked through the guest list once again, he said, “Well, I’ll be damned and double damned!” And he repeated this original remark several times. It was unfortunate but unavoidable that they also had to invite the ordinary officers of the rifle battalion to this grand festival. We’ll keep them in their places! thought Colonel Festetics. Rittmaster Zschoch had the very same thought. While formulating the invitations for the officers of the rifle battalion, dictating them respectively to the corporal and the platoon leader, they exchanged grim looks. And each of them made the other responsible for inviting the rifle battalion. However, their faces brightened at the mention of the name of Baron von Trotta und Sipolje.
“Battle of Solferino,” the colonel casually tossed in.
“Ah!” said Rittmaster Zschoch. He was convinced that the Battle of Solferino had taken place in the sixteenth century.
All the regimental clerks made garlands out of green and red paper. The orderlies clung to the slender trunks in the Little Forest, hanging wires from pine to pine. Three days a week the dragoons did not drill. Instead they attended “school” in the barracks. Here they were instructed in the fine art of how to behave in the presence of illustrious guests. Half a squadron was temporarily assigned to KP. Here the peasants learned how to polish kettles, serve on trays, hold wineglasses, and turn a spit. Every morning Colonel Festetics rigorously inspected kitchen, cellar, and mess hall. White cotton gloves had been issued to every single private who had even the slightest prospect of coming into any sort of contact with the guests. Every morning these dragoons had to hold out their white-clad hands, splaying all their fingers, for the colonel’s perusal—a harsh distinction they owed to a whim of the master-at-arms. The colonel inspected the fit and cleanliness of the gloves and the sturdiness of their seams. He was in high spirits, radiant with a special hidden inner sun. He admired his own energy, praised it, and demanded admiration. He developed an unwonted imagination. Every day it gifted him with at least ten ideas, whereas earlier he had gotten along quite nicely on just one a week. And these flashes of insight pertained not only to the celebration but also to the great issues of life: say, the rules of drilling, proper attire, and even military tactics. During these days it became clear to Colonel Festetics that he could make general—as easy as pie.
