The Radetzky March (41 page)

He was an old man from an old era. The old men from the era before the Great War may have been more foolish than the young men of today. But in the moments that preceded those horrible ones and that in our time might be shrugged off with a casual joke, the old decent men maintained heroic equanimity. Nowadays the concepts of honor—professional, familial, and personal—that Herr von Trotta lived by seem like relics of implausible and juvenile legends. But in those days an Austrian district captain like Herr von Trotta would have been less shaken by the news of the sudden death of his only child than by the news of even a seemingly dishonorable action of that only child.
That lost era, which was virtually buried under the fresh grave mounds of the fallen, was ruled by very different notions. If someone offended the honor of an officer of the Imperial and Royal Army, and that officer failed to kill the man apparently because he owed him money, then that officer was a misfortune and worse than a misfortune: he was a disgrace to his progenitor, to the army, and to the monarchy.

At first it was to some extent Herr von Trotta’s official heart that was stirred and not his paternal heart. And he said to himself, resign immediately. Take early retirement. You have no further business serving your Emperor! But a moment later the father’s heart yelled, it’s the fault of the times we live in! It’s the fault of the border garrison! It’s your own fault! Your son is honest and noble, but unfortunately he’s weak and you have to help him.

He had to help him! He had to make sure that the Trotta name would not be sullied and dishonored. And on this point both of Herr von Trotta’s hearts, the official one and the paternal one, were in agreement. So the most important thing was to get money—seven thousand two hundred fifty crowns. The five thousand florins with which the Kaiser had once gifted the son of the Hero of Solferino was long gone, as was the father’s inheritance. The money had run through the district captain’s fingers for one thing or another: for the household, for the military academy in Hranice, for Moser the painter, for the horse, for charitable purposes. Herr von Trotta had always made a point of appearing richer than he was. He had the instincts of a true gentleman. And in those days (and perhaps in our day too) no instincts were more expensive than those. People favored with such curses do not know how much they possess or how much they spend. They draw from an invisible source. They never keep accounts. They assume that their wealth cannot lag behind their generosity.

For the first time in his very long life, Herr von Trotta was confronted with the impossible task of coming up with a relatively large sum of money on the spot. He had no friends, aside from those old schoolmates and fellow students who now sat in government offices as he did but whom he hadn’t seen in
years. Most of them were poor. He was acquainted with the richest man in this district seat, old Herr von Winternigg. And the baron slowly began adjusting to the hideous thought of going to Herr von Winternigg, tomorrow, the day after, or even today, and asking for a loan. Herr von Trotta did not have much of an imagination. Nevertheless he managed to picture that terrible step in all its torturous clarity. And for the first time in his very long life he realized how hard it is to be helpless yet maintain one’s dignity. This insight struck him like a lightning bolt, shattering the pride that he had so carefully nurtured and fostered for such a long time, that he had inherited and was determined to pass down. He already felt humiliated, like a man who has been petitioning people in vain for many years. Earlier, pride had been the staunch companion of his youth, then his support in middle age. Now he was robbed of all pride—the poor old district captain!

He decided to write to Herr von Winternigg immediately. But no sooner had he set pen to paper than he knew he was not even up to announcing a visit that should really be termed a plea. Old Trotta felt he would be committing a kind of fraud unless he stated the reason for his visit right off the bat, but he found it impossible to come up with any suitable wording for his intention. And so he sat there on and on, pen in hand, mulling and polishing and rejecting every sentence.

He could, of course, ring up Herr von Winternigg. But since the installation of a telephone in the district captain’s headquarters—and that had been no longer than two years ago—he had used it only for official calls. He could not see himself stepping up to the large, brown, slightly eerie box, twisting the handle, and starting a conversation with Herr von Winternigg after hearing that dreadful “Hello!” which almost offended Herr von Trotta, sounding as it did like the childish watchword of an inappropriate bravura with which certain people tackle a discussion of serious matters.

Meanwhile the district captain remembered that his son was waiting for a response, perhaps a telegram. And what could the district captain wire? Perhaps “Will try everything. Details later”? Or “Wait patiently for news”? Or “Trying other means,
impossible here”? Impossible! This word triggered a long and dreadful echo. What was impossible, saving the honor of the Trottas? It had to be possible. It could not be impossible! Up and down, up and down; the district captain paced up and down his office as on those Sunday mornings when he had tested little Carl Joseph. One hand was on his back, the cuff rattled on the other. Then he went down to the courtyard, driven by the insane notion that dead Jacques might be sitting there, in the shade of the beams. The courtyard was empty. The window of the tiny cottage where Jacques had lived was open, and the canary was still alive. It perched on the windowsill, chirping for all it was worth.

The district captain went back, took his hat and cane, and left the house. He had decided to do something extraordinary—namely, go and see Dr. Skowronnek at his home. He crossed the small marketplace, turned into Lenaugasse, and scrutinized the signs on the house doors, for he didn’t know the doctor’s number. Eventually he had to ask a storekeeper for Skowronnek’s address, although he viewed it as indiscreet to bother a stranger for information. But Herr von Trotta got through this ordeal with self-confidence and strength of mind, and he entered the house that had been pointed out to him. Dr. Skowronnek, book in hand, was sitting under a gigantic sunshade in the small back garden.

“Good God!” cried Skowronnek. For he knew very well that something unusual must have occurred to make the district captain come to his home.

Herr von Trotta reeled off a whole set of involved apologies before he began. Then he told him the story, sitting on the bench in the small garden, his head drooping, his cane poking the colored gravel on the narrow path. He handed his son’s letter to Skowronnek. Then he fell silent, quelling a sigh as he took a deep breath.

“My savings,” said Skowronnek, “add up to two thousand crowns, and they are yours for the asking, Herr District Commissioner, if that’s all right with you.” He raced through that sentence as if afraid the district captain might break in. In his embarrassment, the doctor took hold of Herr von Trotta’s cane
and began poking around in the gravel himself, for he could not sit around with idle hands after uttering that sentence.

Herr von Trotta said, “Thank you, Herr Doctor, I’ll take it. I’ll give you an IOU. I’ll pay you back in installments, if that’s all right with you.”

“That’s out of the question,” said Skowronnek.

“Good!” said the district captain. He suddenly found it impossible to say a lot of useless words, such as he had employed throughout his life out of politeness to strangers. All at once, time was breathing down his neck. The few days at his disposal suddenly melted, becoming nothing.

“As for the rest,” Skowronnek went on, “you could get it only from Herr von Winternigg. Do you know him?”

“Casually.”

“You have no choice, Herr District Captain! But I believe I know what sort of man he is. I once treated his daughter-in-law. He appears to be a monster, as they say. And it may be, it may be, Herr District Captain, that he will refuse your request.”

Hereupon, Skowronnek fell silent. The district captain took back his cane. And there was a deep hush. The only sound was the scraping of the cane in the gravel.

“Refuse,” whispered the district captain. “I’m not afraid,” he said aloud. “But then what?”

“Then,” said Skowronnek, “there is only one alternative, a very strange one. It keeps going through my mind, but it strikes even me as too fantastic. I mean, in your case it may not be so improbable. If I were you, I would go there straight, straight to the Old Man—I mean, the Emperor. For it’s not just a question of money. There’s always the danger, forgive me for speaking so bluntly, that your son may—”

Skowronnek wanted to say “be thrown out,” but he said, “Your son may have to leave the army!”

Upon uttering those words, Skowronnek felt ashamed. And he added, “Perhaps it’s just a childish idea. And even while saying it, I feel as if we were two schoolboys mulling over impossible things. Yes, that’s how old we’ve gotten, and we’re burdened with care, and yet there’s some bravado in my idea. Forgive me!”

But to Herr von Trotta’s simple soul Dr. Skowronnek’s idea did not seem the least bit childish. With every document he drew up or signed, with the most trifling instruction he gave to his assistant or even just Constable Sergeant Slama, the baron was directly under the Kaiser’s outstretched scepter. And there was nothing odd about the fact that the Kaiser had once spoken to Carl Joseph. The Hero of Solferino had shed his blood for the Emperor and so had Carl Joseph, in a sense, by fighting against the turbulent and suspicious “individuals” and “elements.” In Herr von Trotta’s simple terms, it was no abuse of the Kaiser’s grace if His Majesty’s servant approached Franz Joseph trustfully, the way a child in trouble approaches his father.

A startled Dr. Skowronnek began to doubt the district captain’s sanity when the old man exclaimed, “An excellent idea, Herr Doctor—the simplest thing in the world!”

“It’s not that simple,” said Skowronnek. “You don’t have much time. A private audience can’t be whipped up on two days’ notice.”

The district captain agreed. And they decided he should first try Winternigg.

“Even at the risk of a refusal,” said the district captain.

“Even at the risk of a refusal,” repeated Dr. Skowronnek.

The district captain started out immediately. He took a fiacre. It was noontime. He hadn’t eaten. He stopped at the café and drank a brandy.

He realized he was doing something highly inappropriate. He’d be barging in during old Winternigg’s lunch. But he has no time. The matter must be settled by this afternoon. The day after tomorrow he’ll see the Kaiser. And he tells the cabby to stop once again. He gets off at the post office and, in a firm hand, writes out a telegram to Carl Joseph:
BEING TAKEN CARE OF. BEST, FATHER
. He is quite certain that everything will work out. For while it may be impossible to dig up the money, it is even more impossible to jeopardize the Trotta honor. Yes indeed, the district captain imagines that the ghost of his father, the Hero of Solferino, is guarding and escorting him. And the brandy warms his old heart. It beats a little faster. But he is quite calm.

He pays the cabby at the entrance to Winternigg’s villa and benevolently salutes him with one finger, just as he always salutes little people. He also smiles benevolently at the butler. Clutching his hat and his cane, he waits.

Herr von Winternigg emerged, tiny and yellow. He held his shriveled little hand out toward the district captain and sank into a wide armchair, almost vanishing in the green upholstery. His colorless eyes focused on the large windows. No gaze lived in his eyes, or else they concealed his gaze; they were old, dim, small mirrors, and all that the district captain saw in them was his own small image.

He began, more fluently than he would have expected, with well-spoken apologies, explaining why it had been impossible for him to give advance notice of his visit. Then he said, “Herr von Winternigg, I am an old man.” He hadn’t meant to say that. Winternigg’s wrinkly, yellow lids blinked a few times, and the district captain felt he was talking to an old, shriveled bird that did not understand human speech.

“Highly regrettable!” Herr von Winternigg said all the same. He spoke very softly. His voice had no timbre, just as his eyes had no gaze. He breathed when he spoke, baring a set of surprisingly robust teeth—broad, yellowish, a powerful barrier guarding his words. “Highly regrettable!” Herr von Winternigg said once again. “But I have no ready cash.”

The district captain instantly rose. Winternigg likewise bounced up. He stood, tiny and yellow, in front of the district captain, beardless in front of silvery whiskers, and Herr von Trotta seemed to grow and felt he was growing. Was his pride broken? Not at all! Was he humiliated? By no means! He had to save the honor of the Hero of Solferino, just as the Hero of Solferino had had to save the Kaiser’s life. That’s how easy it was to make a plea. For the first time, Herr von Trotta’s heart was filled with contempt, with true contempt, and the contempt was almost as great as his pride. He took his leave. And he said in his old voice, the arrogantly nasal voice of an official, “Good day, Herr von Winternigg!” He went on foot, upright, slow, shimmering in his full silvery dignity, walking along the lengthy avenue that ran from Winternigg’s villa to the town. The avenue was deserted, the sparrows hopped
across it, and the blackbirds whistled, and the old green chestnut trees flanked the Herr District Captain’s route.

At home, he waved the silver handbell for the first time in a long while. Its tinkly voice raced through the entire house. “Madam,” said Herr von Trotta to Fräulein Hirschwitz, “I would like my trunk packed within thirty minutes. My uniform with my cocked hat and my sword, the tuxedo and the white tie, please! In thirty minutes.” He drew out his watch, and the lid audibly clapped open. He sat down in the armchair and closed his eyes.

His dress uniform hung in the closet, on five hooks: coat, waistcoat, trousers, cocked hat, and sword. Piece by piece the uniform emerged from the closet as if on its own, not so much carried as merely accompanied by the housekeeper’s cautious hands. The district captain’s huge trunk in its protective envelope of brown linen opened its maw, lined with rustling tissue paper, and took in the uniform, piece by piece. The sword obediently entered its leather sheath. The white bow tie wrapped itself up in a tender paper veil. The white gloves bedded themselves in the lining of the waistcoat. Then the trunk closed. Fräulein Hirschwitz came and reported that everything was ready.