The Radetzky March (29 page)

Now that they were sitting side by side, in such deep emotion, forgetting all the world around them but convinced they had been forgotten by all the world around them, the captain felt he could finally say, “Sell me your horse.”

“It’s yours as a gift,” said Trotta with great tenderness.

You can’t sell a present, even temporarily, the captain thought, and he said, “No, sell it to me.”

“Take it,” begged Trotta.

“I’m paying!” the captain insisted. They argued for several minutes. Finally the captain lurched to his feet, reeling slightly, and shouted, “I order you to sell it to me!”

“Yessir, Herr Captain,” said Trotta mechanically.

“But I don’t have any money,” the captain slurred, sitting back down and turning kind again.

“It doesn’t matter! I’m giving it to you.”

“No, absolutely not! And I don’ wanna buy it anymore. If only I had the money!”

“I can sell it to someone else!” said Trotta. He beamed joyfully at this unique inspiration.

“Wonderful!” cried the captain. “But who?”

“Chojnicki, for instance!”

“Wonderful!” the captain repeated. “I owe him five hundred crowns.”

“I’ll take over your debt,” said Trotta.

Because he was drunk, his heart was bursting with commiseration for the captain. This poor comrade had to be rescued. He was in great danger. Trotta was very close to him, very intimate with him—dear Captain Wagner. Besides, at this point the lieutenant felt it was necessary—indeed, unavoidable—to say a kind, comforting, perhaps even noble word and do some salutary deed. Friendship, magnanimity, and the need to appear very strong and helpful converged in his heart like three warm currents.

Trotta stands up. Day is dawning. Only a few lamps are still on, already dimming in the pale grayness of the day, which floods through the blinds. Aside from Herr Brodnitzer and his only waiter, no one is left in the place. Bleak and betrayed, the tables and chairs stand on the platform where the Mariahilf Nightingale hopped about during the night. All the surrounding desolation arouses terrible images of an abrupt departure that may have taken place here, as if the patrons, surprised by some danger, had abruptly stampeded out of the café. The floor is covered with short cigar stubs and heaps of long cardboard cigarette tips. Those are the remains of Russian papirossi, and they reveal that foreign guests have drunk and gambled with natives.

“Check!” shouts the captain. He embraces the lieutenant. He squeezes him long and poignantly. “God bless you!” he says, his eyes brimming with tears.

The full morning was already in the streets, the morning of a small East European town, redolent with chestnut candles, newly blossoming lilac, and the fresh, sourish black bread that the bakers carried out in large baskets. The birds made a racket; it was an unending sea of chirping, a noisy sea in the air. A transparent pale-blue heaven stretched low and smooth over the gray, crooked shingle roofs of the small houses. The tiny sluggish carts of the peasants trundled gently and drowsily along the dusty road, scattering straw, chaff, and dry wisps of last year’s hay on all sides. On the clear eastern horizon, the sun rose very swiftly. Lieutenant Trotta walked toward the sun, a bit sobered by the soft breeze heralding the day; he was filled with the proud intention of rescuing his comrade. It was not easy selling his horse without first asking the district captain’s permission. Still, he was doing it for his friend! Nor was it so easy—and what
would
have been easy for Lieutenant Trotta?—to offer the horse to Chojnicki. But the more difficult the enterprise sounded, the more vigorously and decisively Trotta marched toward it. The church tower was already striking. Trotta reached the entrance to the New Castle just as Chojnicki, booted and holding his riding crop, was about to step into his summer carriage. The count noticed the sham reddish freshness in the lieutenant’s
unshaven, haggard face: it was a drinker’s makeup. It lay over his real pallor like the reflection of a red lamp on a white table. He’s going to the dogs! thought Chojnicki.

“I wanted to make you a proposition,” said Trotta. “Would you like my horse?” He was terrified by his own question. Suddenly he was tongue-tied.

“You don’t enjoy riding, I know,” said the count. “And you did leave the cavalry. Oh, well, you simply don’t like tending the animal since you don’t care to use it. Oh, well, but you might regret it.”

“No,” said Trotta. He would lay his cards on the table. “I need money!”

The lieutenant felt ashamed. There was nothing dubious, dishonorable, disreputable about borrowing money from Chojnicki. And yet Carl Joseph felt that this first loan would be launching a new phase in his life and that he virtually needed his father’s permission. The lieutenant was ashamed. He said, “To come straight out with it: I co-signed a comrade’s IOU. A large sum. Then he lost a smaller sum last night. I don’t want him to be in debt to that café owner. But there is no way I can loan him that much. No,” the lieutenant repeated, “there is no way. The officer in question already owes you money.”

“But he’s no concern of yours!” said Chojnicki. “In this matter he’s no concern of yours. You’ll pay me back soon. It’s a trifle! Look, I’m rich, I’m what people call rich. I can’t relate to money. If you ask me for a drink, it’s exactly the same thing. Look at all this! Look!” And Chojnicki stretched his hand toward the horizon, marking a semicircle. “All these forests belong to me. It’s quite unimportant—simply to spare you pangs of conscience. I’m grateful to anyone who takes something off my hands. No, ridiculous, it doesn’t matter—too bad we’re wasting so many words. Let me make a suggestion: I’ll buy your horse and leave it with you for a year. After a year, it belongs to me.”

Chojnicki was clearly losing patience. Besides, the battalion would soon have to march out. The sun was relentlessly climbing higher. The full day was here.

Trotta hurried toward the barracks. In half an hour the battalion would turn out. He had no time to shave. Major
Zoglauer was due around eleven hundred hours. (The major did not care for unshaven platoon leaders. All he had learned to heed over his years of serving on the border were “cleanliness and service dress while on duty.”) Well, it was too late! Trotta dashed toward the barracks. At least he had sobered up. He met Captain Wagner in front of the assembled company. “Yes, it’s settled,” Trotta said hastily and stood in front of his platoon. And he ordered, “Double file, right face! Forward march!” The sabers glittered. The bugles blared. The battalion marched out.

Today Captain Wagner paid for the so-called “refreshment” at the border tavern. They had thirty minutes to drink two or three 180 Proofs. Captain Wagner knew quite well that he was gaining mastery over his luck. He was solely in charge of it. This afternoon, two thousand five hundred crowns! He would give back fifteen hundred immediately and sit down at the baccarat table, quite calmly, quite carefree, quite like a rich man! He would take over the bank! He would shuffle the cards himself! And with his left hand! Perhaps he would pay back only a thousand for now and sit down at the game with all of fifteen hundred, quite calmly, quite carefree, quite like a rich man: five hundred for the roulette and a thousand for the baccarat. That would be even better. “Put it on Captain Wagner’s tab!” he called over to the bar. And they stood up. The halt was over, and the “field exercises” were to start.

Fortunately Major Zoglauer left today after half an hour. Captain Wagner handed over his command to First Lieutenant Zander and rode as fast as he could to the Hotel Brodnitzer. He inquired whether he might count on other players that afternoon, toward four. Yes indeed, without a doubt! Everything was off to a marvelous start. Even the “house spirits,” those invisible familiars that Captain Wagner could sense wherever people gambled, that he sometimes inaudibly conversed with—and even then in a gobbledygook he had concocted over the years—today those ghosts were chock-full of sheer benevolence for Wagner. To improve their mood even further or at least prevent them from changing their minds, Wagner decided to lunch at the Cafe Brodnitzer for a change and not stir from his seat until Trotta arrived. He remained. Around 3
P.M.
, the first players
showed up. Captain Wagner began to tremble. What if Trotta stood him up and didn’t bring the money until tomorrow? By then his luck could desert him. A man might never again have such a good day! The gods were in a fine mood, and it was a Thursday. But Friday! Appealing to luck on a Friday was like expecting a medical officer to drill a company. The more time passed, the more grimly Captain Wagner thought about the tardy Lieutenant Trotta. He wasn’t coming, the young scoundrel! And yet Captain Wagner had gone to so much trouble, cutting the drill short, skipping his normal lunch at the train station, arduously haggling with the house spirits, and, as it were, stretching out the favorable Thursday! And now he was being stood up. The hands on the wall clock inched on tirelessly, but Trotta did not come, did not come, did not come!

Wrong! He’s coming! The door opens, and Wagner’s eyes light up. He doesn’t even shake Trotta’s hand. His fingers tremble. His fingers all resemble jittery highwaymen. A moment later, they are already squeezing a splendid crackling envelope.

“Sit!” the captain ordered. “You’ll see me again within half an hour at the latest!” And he vanished behind the green curtain.

The half hour wore by, then another hour and another. It was already evening, the lights were burning. Captain Wagner slowly approached. He could be recognized at most by his uniform, and even it had changed. It was unbuttoned, the black rubber neckband stuck out, the saber hilt was under the tunic, the pockets gaped, and cigar ashes were strewn on the blouse. The hairs along the demolished brown part curled on the captain’s head, and his lips were open under the disheveled moustache. The captain wheezed, “Everything!” and sat down.

They had nothing more to say to each other. A couple of times, Trotta attempted to ask a question. With an outstretched hand and virtually outstretched eyes, Wagner requested silence. Then he stood up. He adjusted his uniform. He realized his life was pointless. He now went to put an end to it. “Farewell,” he said solemnly—and left.

But outside he was fanned by a gentle summery evening with a hundred thousand stars and a hundred fragrances. After all, it was easier to stop gambling than stop living. And he swore to
himself that he would never gamble again. He would rather die than touch another card. Never again! Never was a long time; it was shortened. He told himself, Until August 31, no gambling! Then we’ll see. So, word of honor, Captain Wagner!

And with a squeaky-clean conscience, proud of his steadfastness, and cheery about the life he has just saved, Captain Wagner goes to Chojnicki. The count is standing in the doorway. He has known the captain long enough to see at first glance that he has lost a huge sum and has once more resolved never to gamble again. And the count calls out, “Where did you leave Trotta?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Everything?”

The captain’s head sinks; he peers at the tips of his boots and says, “I’ve given my word of honor.”

“Excellent!” says Chojnicki. “It’s about time!”

He is determined to rescue Lieutenant Trotta from his friendship with the insane captain. Send him away! thinks Chojnicki. For now, give him a few days’ furlough—with Vally! And he drives to town.

“Yes,” says Trotta without hesitating. He is afraid of Vienna and of traveling with a woman. But he has to go. He now feels that very specific anguish that has regularly assailed him before every change in his life. He senses that a new danger is threatening him, the greatest danger of all—namely, one that he himself has yearned for. He doesn’t have the nerve to ask who the woman is. Many faces of unknown women—blue, brown, and black eyes, blond hair, black hair, hips, breasts, and legs, women he may once have brushed up against, as a boy, as an adolescent—they all sweep past him, all of them at once: a marvelous, tender storm of women. He smells the fragrance of these strangers; he feels the cool, hard tenderness of their knees; the sweet yoke of naked arms is already around his throat and the bolt of intertwined arms lies in back of his neck.

There is a fear of voluptuousness that is itself voluptuous, just as a certain fear of death can itself be deadly. Lieutenant Trotta is now filled with that fear of voluptuousness.

F
RAU VON
T
AUSSIG
was beautiful and no longer young. The daughter of a stationmaster, the widow of a rittmaster named Eichberg who had died young, she had married the freshly ennobled Herr von Taussig several years ago. A rich and sick manufacturer, he had a light case of so-called circular insanity. His attacks recurred every six months. For weeks ahead of time, he would feel one coming. And so he went to that institution on Lake Constance where spoiled, wealthy madmen underwent careful and expensive treatments, and the attendants were as nurturing as midwives. Shortly before an attack and at the advice of one of those mundane and feather-brained physicians who prescribe “spiritual emotions” just as frivolously as old-fashioned family doctors prescribed rhubarb and castor oil, Herr von Taussig had married the widow of his friend Eichberg. Taussig did experience a “spiritual emotion,” but his attacks also came faster and more violently.

During her brief marriage to Herr von Eichberg, his wife had made many friends, and after his death she had rejected a few ardent marriage proposals. Out of pure esteem, people ignored her adulteries. That was a stern time, as we know. But it recognized exceptions and even liked them. It was one of the rare aristocratic principles, such as that mere commoners were second-class human beings yet certain middle-class officers became personal adjutants to the Kaiser; that Jews could claim no higher distinctions yet certain Jews were knighted and became friends with archdukes; that women had to observe a traditional morality yet certain women could philander like a cavalry officer. (Those were principles that would be labeled “hypocritical” today because we are so much more relentless: relentless, honest, and humorless.)