The Radetzky March (50 page)

He closed his eyes. But after a while he reopened them and saw the plain silver cross and, on the table, the blinding candles waiting for the priest. And now he knew that the priest would be coming soon. And he moved his lips and began reciting what he had been taught as a boy:

“In contrition and humility I confess my sins!”

But that too went unheard. Besides, he instantly saw that the Capuchin was already here.

“I’ve had to wait a long time!” he said. Then he thought about his sins. “Pride” occurred to him. “I was proud!” he said.

He went through sin after sin, as listed in the catechism. I was emperor for too long! he mused. But he thought he had said it aloud. “Everyone has to die. The Kaiser dies too.” And he felt as if at the same time, somewhere, far from here, that part of him that was imperial was dying. “War is also a sin!” he said aloud. But the priest didn’t hear him. Franz Joseph was again surprised. Every day brought casualty lists; the war had been raging since 1914. “Let it end!” said Franz Joseph. No one heard him. “If only I’d been killed at Solferino!” he said. No one heard him. Perhaps, he thought, I’m already dead and I’m talking as a dead man. That’s why they don’t understand me. And he fell asleep.

Outside, among the lower ranks, Herr von Trotta waited, the son of the Hero of Solferino, holding his hat, in the persistently trickling rain. The trees in Schönbrunn Park sighed and soughed; the rain whipped them, gentle, patient, lavish. The evening came. Curiosity-seekers came. The park filled up. The rain wouldn’t stop. The onlookers spelled one another; they came, they went. Herr von Trotta remained. The night set in, the steps were empty, the people went home to bed. Herr von Trotta pressed against the gate. He heard carriages draw up;
sometimes a window was unlatched over his head. Voices called. The gate was opened, the gate was closed. He was not seen. The rain trickled, gentle, relentless; the trees soughed and sighed.

At last the bells began to toll. The district captain walked away. He went down the flat steps, along the lane to the iron gate. It was open tonight. He walked the whole long way back to the city, bare-headed, clutching his hat; he encountered no one. He walked very slowly as if following a hearse. Day was dawning when he reached the hotel.

He went home. It was also raining in the district seat of W. Herr von Trotta sent for Fräulein Hirschwitz and said, “I’m going to bed, madam. I’m tired.” And for the first time in his life he went to bed during the day.

He couldn’t fall asleep. He sent for Dr. Skowronnek.

“Dear Dr. Skowronnek,” he said, “would you tell them to bring me the canary.” They brought the canary from old Jacques’s cottage. “Give it a piece of sugar!” said the district captain. And the canary got a piece of sugar.

“The dear creature!” said the district captain.

Dr. Skowronnek repeated, “A dear creature!”

“It will outlive us all,” said Trotta. “Thank goodness!”

Then the district captain said, “Send for the priest. But come back!”

Dr. Skowronnek waited for the priest. Then he came back. Old Herr von Trotta lay silently in the pillows. His eyes were half shut. He said, “Your hand, dear friend! Would you bring me the picture?”

Dr. Skowronnek went to the den, climbed on a chair, and unhooked the portrait of the Hero of Solferino. By the time he came back, holding the picture in both hands, Herr von Trotta was no longer able to see it. The rain drummed softly on the windows.

Dr. Skowronnek waited with the portrait of the Hero of Solferino on his lap. After a few minutes he stood up, took hold of Herr von Trotta’s hand, leaned over the district captain’s chest, breathed deeply, and shut the dead man’s eyes.

This was the day on which the Kaiser was buried in the Capuchin Vault. Three days later Herr von Trotta’s corpse was
lowered into the grave. The mayor of the town of W spoke. His funeral oration, like all speeches during that period, began with the war. The mayor went on to say that though the district captain had given his only son to the Kaiser he had nevertheless gone on living and serving. Meanwhile the tireless rain washed over all the bared heads of the mourners gathered at the grave, and it sighed and soughed all around from the wet shrubs, wreaths, and flowers. Dr. Skowronnek, in a uniform that was unfamiliar to him, that of a home reserve medical corporal, did his best to stand at attention with a very military bearing, although he by no means considered that a crucial expression of piety, civilian that he was. After all, death is no staff surgeon! thought Dr. Skowronnek.

He then was one of the first to approach the grave. He waved off the spade offered him by a gravedigger; instead he bent down and broke off a clod of wet soil and crumbled it in his left hand and his right hand tossed the individual crumbs upon the coffin. Then he stepped back. It occurred to him that it was afternoon, chess time was approaching. He had no one to play with now; but he decided to go to the café anyhow.

When they left the graveyard, the mayor invited him into his carriage. Dr. Skowronnek got in.

“I would like to have added,” said the mayor, “that Herr von Trotta could not outlive the Kaiser. Don’t you agree, Herr Doctor?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Skowronnek replied. “I don’t think either of them could have outlived Austria.”

Dr. Skowronnek told the coachman to drop him off at the café. He went to his usual table as on any other day. The chessboard lay there as if the district captain hadn’t died. The waiter came to clear it away, but Skowronnek said, “Leave it!” And he played a game against himself, smirking, occasionally looking at the empty chair across the table, his ears filled with the gentle noise of the autumn rain, which was still running tirelessly down the panes.