The Radetzky March (42 page)

And so the Herr District Captain went to Vienna.

He arrived late in the evening. But he knew where to find the men he needed. He knew the houses they lived in, the restaurants they ate in. And Government Councilor Smekal and Privy Councilor Pollak and Chief Imperial Audit Councilor Pollitzer and Chief City Councilor Busch and District Councilor Les-chnigg and Police Councilor Fuchs: all of them and several others as well saw the peculiar Herr von Trotta walk in that evening, and although he was just as old as they, each of them was nevertheless disturbed at seeing how old the district captain had grown. For he was much older than any of them. Why, he actually struck them as venerable, and they almost had qualms about addressing him by his first name. He was seen in many places that evening, popping up almost simultaneously in all of them, and he looked like a ghost, a ghost of the old times and the old Hapsburg monarchy: the shadow of history. And strange as
his enterprise may have sounded—namely, to secure a private audience with the Kaiser in two days—he looked far stranger himself, Herr von Trotta did, prematurely old and virtually old since birth; and little by little they found his plan to be perfectly fair and natural.

In Court Comptroller Montenuovo’s office sat that lucky stiff Gustl, whom they all envied, even though they knew his glory would come to a wretched end when the Old Man died and Franz Ferdinand mounted the throne. They were already waiting. Meanwhile, he had married—and married a Fugger at that: he, a commoner, whom they all knew, from the third row, left-hand corner, whom they had all prompted whenever he was tested, and whose “luck” had been accompanied by their bitter comments for thirty years now. Gustl had been knighted and given a place in the Office of the Court Comptroller. His name was no longer Hasselbrunner, it was now
von
Hasselbrunner. His job was simple, a sinecure, while all of them, the others, had to take care of unendurable and highly intricate matters. Hasselbrunner! He was the only one who could help.

And so by nine the next morning the district captain was stationed outside Hasselbrunner’s door in the Office of the Court Comptroller. He learned that Hasselbrunner was out of town but might return that afternoon. By coincidence along came Smetana, whom the district captain had been unable to locate yesterday. And Smetana, swiftly clued in and quick-witted as ever, was full of ideas. Hasselbrunner might be out of town, but Lang was sitting next door. And Lang was a nice fellow. And so the indefatigable district captain began his odyssey from office to office.

He knew nothing of the secret laws governing the Imperial and Royal authorities in Vienna. But now he got to know them. Obeying these laws, the office receptionists were surly until he produced his card; whereupon, recognizing his rank, they bowed and scraped. Every last higher official greeted him with the tenderest respect. During the first quarter hour each of them, without exception, seemed more than willing to risk his career and even his life for the district captain. It was only during the next quarter hour that their eyes dimmed, their faces fell.
Infinite grief crept into their hearts, crippling their willingness, and each of them said, “Ah, if only things were different, I’d be delighted! But as things stand, dear, dear Baron Trotta—even for someone in my position; well, I don’t have to tell you!” And in such and similar terms their apologies glanced off the unshakable Herr von Trotta.

He walked through cloisters and patios, up to the third floor, the fourth, back to the first, then the ground floor. And then he decided to wait for Hasselbrunner. He waited till afternoon, when he learned that Hasselbrunner was not really out of town; he had merely stayed home. And the undaunted champion of the honor of the Trottas forced his way into Hasselbrunner’s presence. Here at last he found a faint glint of hope. They drove from person to person, Hasselbrunner and old Herr von Trotta. Their goal was to forge all the way to Montenuovo. And finally, around 6
P.M.
, they succeeding in tracking down a friend of Montenuovo’s in that renowned patisserie where the empire’s lighthearted, sweet-toothed dignitaries occasionally dropped by in the afternoon. For the fifteenth time that day the district captain was told that his plan was impossible. But he remained unshakable. And the silvery dignity of his years and the slightly bizarre and somewhat crazy determination with which he spoke about his son and the danger threatening his name, the solemnity with which he called his forgotten father “the Hero of Solferino” and nothing else, with which he called the Kaiser “His Majesty” and nothing else—all these things struck such deep chords in the listeners that they gradually found Herr von Trotta’s plan to be perfectly fair and natural.

If all else failed, said this district captain from W, he, an old servant of His Majesty and the son of the Hero of Solferino, would throw himself like an ordinary market worker in front of the carriage that His Majesty rode every afternoon from Schönbrunn Castle to the palace. He, District Captain Franz von Trotta, had to settle the entire matter. And he was so enthusiastic about his plan to enlist the Kaiser’s help in saving the honor of the Trottas that he felt as if his long life had finally been given proper meaning by his son’s accident, as he privately called the whole affair. Yes, this alone had given it its meaning.

It was hard to flout protocol. They told him so fifteen times. He replied that his father, the Hero of Solferino, had also flouted protocol. “He grabbed His Majesty’s shoulders like this, with his hands, and shoved him down!” said the district captain. He, who cringed slightly at anyone’s vehement or superfluous movement, rose to his feet, clutched the shoulders of the man to whom he was describing the scene, and tried to reenact the historic rescue then and there. And no one smiled. And they cast about for a way of circumventing protocol.

He entered a stationery shop, bought a sheet of official foolscap, a vial of ink, and a steel pen with an Adler point, the only kind he could write with. And with a fleet hand but in his usual penmanship, which rigidly observed the finest laws of calligraphy, he indited the regulation petition to his Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty; and he did not doubt for even an instant—that is, allow himself to doubt for even an instant—that his petition would be dealt with “favorably.” He was ready to wake up Montenuovo himself in the middle of the night. In the course of that day, Herr von Trotta had come to believe that his son’s concern was now the Hero of Solferino’s concern and thereby the Kaiser’s—to some extent, the Fatherland’s concern.

He had barely eaten since leaving W. He looked gaunter than usual, reminding his friend Hasselbrunner of the exotic birds at the Schönbrunn Zoo—creatures that constitute Nature’s attempt to replicate the Hapsburg physiognomy within the animal kingdom. Indeed, the district captain reminded anyone who had seen the Kaiser of Franz Joseph himself. These gentlemen in Vienna were utterly unaccustomed to the degree of resoluteness demonstrated by the district captain. They were used to tackling far more difficult government matters with bubbly bon mots devised in the coffeehouses of the capital. And so Herr von Trotta seemed like some character from a province that was historically rather than geographically remote, like a ghost from the Fatherland’s past, the embodied pang of a patriotic conscience.

Their eternally ready wit, which so assiduously greeted all signs of their own imminent doom, faded for the length of an hour, and the name “Solferino” aroused their dread and awe: the battle that had first heralded the end of the Imperial and
Royal monarchy. Indeed, the appearance and the words of this strange district captain made them shudder. Perhaps they already felt the breath of Death, who was to grab them all a few months later—grab them by the throat! And they felt Death breathing icily down their necks.

Altogether Herr von Trotta had three days. And within a single night of not sleeping, not eating, not drinking, he succeeded in smashing through the iron and golden law of court etiquette. Just as the name of the Hero of Solferino could no longer be found in the history books or the readers for Austrian elementary and high schools, so too was the name of the son of the Hero of Solferino missing from Montenuovo’s archives. Aside from Montenuovo himself and Franz Joseph’s recently deceased valet, no one in the world knows that District Captain Franz, Baron von Trotta, was received one morning by the Kaiser—in fact, just before the Emperor’s departure for Ischl.

It was a wonderful morning. The district captain had been trying his dress uniform on all night long. He left the window open. It was a bright summer night. From time to time he went over to the window. He would then hear the sounds of the slumbering city and the crowing of roosters in distant farmyards. He smelled the breath of summer; he saw the stars in the patch of nocturnal sky, he heard the even footfalls of the policeman on his beat. He waited for morning. For the tenth time he stood at the mirror, adjusted the bow of his white tie over the corners of the stand-up collar, ran his white cambric handkerchief once again over the gold buttons on his coat, polished the gold pommel of his sword, brushed his shoes, combed out his whiskers, and forced down the few wisps on his bald pate even though they kept sticking up and curling, and he once again brushed the swallow tails of his coat. He took the cocked hat in his hand. He stood in front of the mirror and rehearsed: “Your Majesty, I beg for clemency for my son!” He saw his whiskers moving in the mirror and considered that inappropriate, and he began pronouncing the sentence in such a way that his whiskers did not stir even though the words were distinct and audible.

He did not feel the slightest fatigue. He stepped back to the window like a man on a far shore. And he yearned for morning
the way that man looks forward to a ship that will carry him home. Yes, he was homesick for the Kaiser. He stood at the window until the gray shimmer of dawn brightened the sky, the morning star died, and the confused voices of birds announced the rising of the sun. Then he switched out the lights in the room. He rang the bell by the door. He sent for the barber. He slipped off his coat. He sat down. He had himself shaved. “Twice,” he told the groggy young man, “and against the grain!” Now his chin glistened bluish between his silvery whiskers. The alum tingled, the powder cooled his throat. His audience was scheduled for eight-thirty. Once again he brushed his black-and-green coat. He repeated in front of the mirror, “Your Majesty, I beg for clemency for my son!” Then he closed the door behind him.

He walked down the stairs. The rest of the hotel was still asleep. He tugged at the white gloves, smoothed the fingers, stroked down the kid, and paused for a moment at the large staircase mirror between the second and first floors, trying to catch a glimpse of his profile. Then, with only his toes touching the red carpet on the steps, he cautiously descended, emanating silvery dignity, the fragrance of powder and cologne, and the pungent smell of shoe polish. The doorman bowed low. The two-horse carriage drew up at the revolving door. The district captain dusted the upholstered seat with his handkerchief and settled in. “Schönbrunn!” he ordered. And he sat bolt upright in the fiacre for the remainder of the drive. The horses’ hooves cheerfully struck against the freshly sprayed streets, and the hurrying white bakery boys stopped and peered after the fiacre as if watching a parade. Herr von Trotta rolled toward the Kaiser like the pièce de résistance of a procession.

He ordered the cabby to halt at what seemed like a suitable distance. And with his dazzling gloves on both sides of his black-and-green coat, he walked up the straight road to Schönbrunn Castle, cautiously placing one foot before the other in order to protect his glossy boots against the dust of the tree-lined avenue. The morning birds exulted overhead. He was dazed by the scent of lilac and jasmine. Wafting over from the white chestnut candles, a petal or two alighted on his shoulders. He flicked
them away with two fingers. Slowly he mounted the flat, radiant steps, which already lay white in the morning sun. The guard presented arms, District Captain von Trotta entered the palace.

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.