“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.
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 youn
g 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.