The Radetzky March (36 page)

“How is your family?” asked Herr von Trotta.

“Thank you, they’re doing just fine,” said the kapellmeister.

“How is Frau Nechwal?”

“Very well!”

“And the children?”—for the district captain still did not know whether Herr Nechwal had sons or daughters, which was why for twenty years now he had been cautiously asking about the “children.”

“My eldest boy has made lieutenant!” replied Nechwal.

“Infantry, naturally?” Herr von Trotta asked out of habit, then promptly remembered that his own son was now serving with the riflemen and not the cavalry.

“Yessir, infantry!” said Nechwal. “He’ll be visiting us soon. I hope you will permit me to present him to you.”

“Please, by all means, I’d be delighted!” said the district captain.

One day young Nechwal called on him. He was serving with the German Masters (an infantry regiment), had received his commission a year earlier, and looked, in Herr von Trotta’s opinion, like a “fiddler.”

“You take after your father,” said the district captain, “his spit ‘n’ image,” although young Nechwal actually resembled his mother more than the kapellmeister. “Like a fiddler”: the district captain was referring to a very specific carefree dash in the lieutenant’s face, the tiny, blond, twirled-up moustache that lay like a curling horizontal bracket under the short broad nose, and the well-shaped, symmetrical, doll-like little ears that seemed made of porcelain, and the neat sunny hair parted down the middle.

“A jolly-looking boy!” said Herr von Trotta to Herr Nechwal. “Are you content?” he then asked the boy.

“Frankly, Herr District Captain,” the kapellmeister’s son replied, “it’s a little boring.”

“Boring?” asked Herr von Trotta. “In Vienna?”

“Yes,” said young Nechwal, “boring! You know, Herr District Captain, if you’re stationed in a small garrison, you never even realize you don’t have money!”

The district captain was offended. He felt it was not proper to talk about money, and he was afraid that young Nechwal was alluding to Carl Joseph’s better financial position.

“My son
is
serving on the border,” said Herr von Trotta, “but he has always managed well. Even in the cavalry.” He stressed that last word. This was the first time he felt embarrassed that Carl Joseph had left the lancers. People like Nechwal certainly did not turn up in the cavalry! And the sheer thought that this bandmaster’s son imagined he resembled young Trotta in any way caused the district captain almost physical pain. He decided to nail this “fiddler.” He downright smelled treason in this boy, whose nose looked Czech.

“Do you like serving in the army?” asked the district captain.

“Frankly,” said Lieutenant Nechwal, “I could imagine a better profession.”

“What do you mean, a better one?”

“A more practical one,” said young Nechwal.

“Isn’t it practical to fight for your country?” asked Herr von Trotta. “Assuming, of course, that a man has a practical mind.”

It was clear that he put an ironical stress on the word “practical.”

“But we don’t fight,” retorted the lieutenant. “And if ever we
did
fight, it might not be all that practical.”

“Why not?” asked the district captain.

“Because we’re sure to lose the war,” said Nechwal the lieutenant. “This is a different era,” he added—and not without malice, or so it sounded to Herr von Trotta. The lieutenant narrowed his small eyes so they vanished almost entirely, and in a way that seemed quite unendurable to the district captain, his upper lip bared his gum, his moustache touched his nose, which, in Herr von Trotta’s opinion resembled the broad nostrils of some animal.

A thoroughly repulsive fellow, the district captain thought.

“A new era,” young Nechwal repeated. “All these ethnic groups won’t be hanging together for long!”

“I see,” said the district captain. “And how do you know all this, Herr Lieutenant?” And the district captain simultaneously knew that his scorn was pointless, and he felt like an old soldier flashing his harmless, powerless sword against a foe.

“Everyone knows,” said the boy, “and they say so too!”

“Say so?” Herr von Trotta repeated. “Do your comrades say so?”

“Yes, they say so!”

The district captain lapsed into silence. All at once he felt he was standing on a high mountain facing Lieutenant Nechwal, who was down in a deep valley. Lieutenant Nechwal was very tiny! But even though he was tiny and far below, he was right all the same. And the world was no longer the old world. It was about to end. And it was quite in order that an hour before its end the valleys should prove the mountains wrong, the young the old, the stupid the sensible. The district captain remained silent. It was a Sunday afternoon in summer. The yellow blinds filtered golden sunlight into the study. The clock ticked. The flies buzzed. The district captain remembered that summer day when his son, Carl Joseph, had arrived in the uniform of a cavalry lieutenant. How much time had passed since that day? A few years. But during those years, the district captain felt, events had been piling up fast and thick. It was as if the sun had risen twice a day and set twice a day; as if every week had had two Sundays and every month sixty days and the years had been double years. And yet Herr von Trotta felt cheated by time even though it had given him twice as much; it was as if eternity had offered him double pseudo-years instead of single genuine ones. And while he despised the lieutenant who stood opposite him, deep down in his vale of tears, he distrusted the mountain on which he himself stood. Oh! It was all so unjust! Unjust, unjust! For the first time in his life the district captain felt like a victim of injustice.

He yearned for Dr. Skowronnek, the man he had been playing chess with every afternoon for several months now. For even the regular chess game was one of the changes in the district captain’s life. He had known Dr. Skowronnek a long time, just as he knew the other café patrons, no more and no less. One afternoon they were sitting across from one another, each half-covered by an unfolded, outspread newspaper. As if at a command, they both put down their newspapers, and their eyes met. Instantly and simultaneously they realized they had been reading the same item. It was a report on a summer festival in Hietzing, where a butcher named Alois Schinagl had won the rib-eating competition by dint of his preternatural gluttony and
been awarded the Gold Medal of the Food Contest Association of Hietzing. And the eyes of the two men said in unison: We like meat too, but awarding a gold medal for this kind of thing is really a newfangled crackpot notion! Whether there is love at first sight is rightfully questioned by experts. But there is no question about friendship at first sight, a friendship between elderly men. Dr. Skowronnek peered at the district captain over the rimless oval lenses of his spectacles, and at the same moment the district captain took off his pince-nez. He raised it. And Dr. Skowronnek stepped over to the district captain’s table.

“Do you play chess?” asked Dr. Skowronnek.

“Gladly!” said the district captain.

They did not have to make appointments. They met every afternoon at the same time. They arrived simultaneously. Their daily habits seemed governed by a harmonious accord. While playing they barely exchanged a word. Nor did they need to converse. On the small chessboard their gaunt fingers sometimes bumped into one another like people in a small square, jerked back, and returned home. But however casual these touches, their fingers virtually had eyes and ears, perceiving everything about one another and about the men they belonged to. And after their hands had bumped into one another several times, both the district captain and Dr. Skowronnek felt as if they had known each other for years and had no secrets from each other. And so one day gentle conversation began to surround their games, and their remarks about weather and world, politics and people floated over their hands, which were long since intimate. An estimable man! the district captain thought about Dr. Skowronnek. An extraordinarily fine man! Dr. Skowronnek thought about the district captain.

Most of the year Dr. Skowronnek had nothing to do. He worked only four months out of the twelve as a spa physician in Frantiskovy Lazne, and his entire knowledge of the world was based on the confessions of his female patients. For these women told him everything that preyed on their minds, and there was nothing in the world that did not prey on their minds. Their health suffered from their husbands’ professions as well as from their lack of attention, from the “overall agony of the times,”
from the rising cost of living, from the political crises, from the constant threat of war, from the newspapers their husbands subscribed to, from having nothing to do, from the unfaithfulness of lovers, the indifference of men, but also from their jealousy. In this way, Dr. Skowronnek got to know the various classes of people and their home life, their kitchens and bedrooms, their passions, propensities, and stupidities. And since he did not believe everything he heard from the women, accepting only three-fourths of what they told him, he eventually acquired an excellent knowledge of the world, a knowledge more valuable than his medical science. Even when he spoke with men, the skeptical yet obliging smile of a man who is ready to hear anything hovered on his lips. A sort of aloof kindness shone from his small puckered face. And, in fact, he liked people as much as he looked down on them.

Did Herr von Trotta’s simple soul have any inkling of Dr. Skowronnek’s warm slyness? In any case the physician was the first person for whom the district captain began to feel esteem and trust since his boyhood friend Moser.

“Have you been living in our town for a long time, Herr Doctor?” he asked.

“Since my birth,” said Skowronnek.

“Too bad, too bad,” said the district captain, “that we’ve met so belatedly.”

“I’ve known you for a long time, Herr District Captain,” said Skowronnek.

“I’ve occasionally seen you,” replied Herr von Trotta.

“Your son was here once,” said Skowronnek. “That was a few years ago.”

“Yes, yes, I remember!” said the district captain.

He thought about the afternoon when Carl Joseph had come with the letters of Frau Slama, who was dead. It was summer. It had rained. The boy had ordered a bad cognac at the counter.

“He got himself transferred,” said Herr von Trotta. “He’s now serving with the riflemen on the border, in B.”

“And he’s a great source of pride for you?” asked Skowronnek. But he wanted to say “problems.”

“Yes, he really is! Certainly! Yes!” the district captain replied. He stood up very swiftly and left Dr. Skowronnek.

He had long been toying with the idea of telling Dr. Skowronnek about all the problems. He was growing old; he needed a good listener. Every afternoon the district captain again resolved to talk to Dr. Skowronnek. But he did not come out with the right words for initiating an intimate conversation. Dr. Skowronnek looked forward to it daily. He sensed that the time had come for the district captain to open up.

For several weeks now the district captain had been carrying a letter from his son in his breast pocket. Herr von Trotta had to answer it, but he couldn’t. Meanwhile the letter grew heavier and heavier, almost a burden. Soon the district captain felt as if he were carrying the letter on his old heart. For Carl Joseph had written that he was thinking of leaving the army. Indeed, the very first sentence of his letter read,
I am toying with the idea of quitting the military
. Upon reading that sentence, the district captain broke off and glanced at the signature to make certain that no one but Carl Joseph had written the letter. Then Herr von Trotta put away the pince-nez he used for reading, and the letter as well. He leaned back in his chair. He sat in his office. The official correspondence had not yet been opened. It might have contained important matters, issues to be addressed without delay, but things concerning his work seemed to have been taken care of in the most unsatisfactory way by Carl Joseph’s words. For the first time in his life the district captain subordinated his official duties to his personal experiences. And however modest, nay, humble a state servant he may have been, his son’s thoughts of leaving the army affected Herr von Trotta as profoundly as if he had been notified that the entire Imperial and Royal Army had made up its mind to disband. Everything, everything in the world seemed meaningless. The end of the world was nigh! And when the district captain nevertheless decided to read the official mail, he felt he was performing a futile and anonymous act of heroism, like, say, the radio operator on a sinking ship.

It was only more than an hour later that he went on reading his son’s letter. Carl Joseph was requesting his approval. And the district captain replied as follows:

My Dear Son,

Your letter has shaken me to the core. I must wait a bit before informing you of my final decision.

Your Father

Carl Joseph did not respond to this letter. In fact, his regular series of standard reports broke off, so that the district captain did not hear from him for a long time. The old man waited every morning, knowing all the while that he was waiting in vain. And it was not that the expected letter failed to arrive every morning but that the expected and dreaded silence came every morning. The son kept silent. But the father heard his silence. It was as if the son were once again terminating his obedience to the old man every day. And the more time dragged by without Carl Joseph’s reports, the harder it was for the district captain to write the promised letter. While he had at first taken it for granted that he would simply prohibit the boy from leaving the army, Herr von Trotta now gradually started believing that he no longer had a right to prohibit anything.

He was quite despondent, the Herr District Captain. His whiskers grew more and more silvery. His temples were already completely white. His head sometimes drooped to his chest, and his chin and his whiskers lay on his starched shirt. Thus he suddenly fell asleep in his chair, jumped up after a few minutes, and imagined he had slept an eternity. He had lost his meticulous sense of the passing of time ever since he had given up several old habits. For after all, the hours and the days were meant precisely to maintain those habits, and now the hours and the days resembled empty vessels that could no longer be filled and that need not be bothered with anymore. The only thing the district captain showed up for punctually was the afternoon chess game with Dr. Skowronnek.